The Sultan's seal

24

They turn into a narrow alley, Kamil leading the way. It is dark, but a faded moon sheds some light. The day has been rainy and unseasonably cold. Yellow mud has congealed into viscous waves and troughs. Bernie slips and Kamil catches his arm. A faint tendril of music snakes through the alleys. They follow it like the lost children in one of Karanfil’s tales. Kamil ducks through a low doorway into a smoky room lit by oil lamps. The proprietor hurries over and welcomes him effusively. He motions a young man to take their coats, then leads them to a table at the front of the room. Kamil whispers in his ear and the man bows his head and leads them instead to a small alcove at the back where they can converse undisturbed, but which still affords a view of the performance. A young male soprano is singing an Italian canto, accompanied by a mixture of European and Oriental instruments that add an air of lamentation to the song.

Two glasses of raki and small dishes of hummus, stuffed vegetables, yoghurt sauces, spiced fried liver, and bread appear magically on the table before them. As the evening wears on, empty dishes disappear, to be replaced by new and different delicacies. Empty glasses are refilled. Kamil and Bernie engage in spirited discussions on Italian opera and the role of folk songs in classical music.

“I must say,” Bernie comments, stretching his legs contentedly, “people here certainly know how to have a good time.” He nods at the plates spread across the table before them.

“We call it keyif. A feeling of well-being.” Kamil tilts his chin toward the sweating musicians and the tables buzzing with conversation and laughter. “In the presence of friends, fine food, and a pleasant setting.”

Very late, they stumble out of the low doorway, this time Bernie supporting Kamil. They head toward the Grande Rue de Pera, where carriages await customers until late into the night. Behind them, the compact shape of a man glides through the darkness, moving from one doorway to another. Suddenly an enormous black object hurtles forward and jumps on Bernie’s chest, its weight throwing him backward. Kamil reaches for his dagger. The kangal dog’s massive jaws struggle toward Bernie’s throat, kept only centimeters away by Kamil’s grip on the dog’s neck. A sharp blast, then a high-pitched scream, and the kangal falls heavily to the ground.

Kamil shields Bernie, who is doubled over and gasping for breath, a small silver pistol dangling from his left hand. A tavern door opens for a moment as a patron peers curiously into the street. The light spilling from inside illuminates the face of a man pressed against the wall, watching intently. His eyes meet Bernie’s before he slips around the corner into the alley.

“What in damnation was that?” Bernie coughs out.

“A kangal dog. They’re bred to guard villages. One rarely sees them in the city.”

Kamil puts his arm around Bernie, feels a sticky wetness on his shirt.

“Where are you hurt?” he asks anxiously.

Bernie stands up straight and pats himself, then brings his hands closer to his face.

“I think that’s from the dog, but my hands are pretty darned banged up. Jesus,” he whistles. “That was a close call.” He looks down at the dog and nudges it with his foot. “It’s good and dead.”

“Come on.” Kamil puts his arm around his friend, completely sober now. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Do all Americans carry a firearm?”

Bernie attempts a weak grin. “Even in the bath, buddy. Even in the bath.”