The Winter Thief

38

Vera backed against the bow of the boat, but her foot tangled in the fishing net and she stumbled and sprawled onto her back. The young fisherman approached and squatted before her. His hands, red and swollen from hard labor, hung between his knees like skinned animals, and he stank of sweat, and brine, and unwashed clothes. He’s not married, Vera thought out of the blue, or someone would have washed his shirt, which she could see was torn and crudely mended.

He must have noticed her glance. He pulled self-consciously at his thinly padded jacket. His eyes were round with awe, but she thought she saw a dawning glint of avarice. A woman on his boat. If something were to happen, no one would be the wiser.

She glanced around for a weapon but saw only rope and net and winches. Everything heavy was attached to the deck. When she looked back, the fisherman was gone. She heard sounds from the cabin. If Sosi were here, she’d be able to speak with him. Had she escaped? Vera hoped so. The girl could return to her family, she thought. At least Sosi had somewhere to go.

Quickly she disentangled herself and moved to the side of the boat nearest the shore. It didn’t seem impossibly far, but she had never learned to swim. The water was choppy and looked cold, the color of iron. She would have a better chance against the fisherman, she thought. She wondered if he could swim.

Just then he returned. In one hand he held a cup, in the other, a tinned copper bowl and a spoon. He extended them to her, not approaching.

Vera moved cautiously forward and took the cup. She gulped the water and returned the empty cup. The man put the beans down, took the cup, and disappeared inside the cabin. The moment he was gone, Vera grabbed the bowl and began to eat. The oily beans tasted better than anything she could have imagined.

The man returned with a full cup and watched while she ate and drank, the expression on his face that of a hunter sighting a fox and not wishing to scare it off. Vera kept her eye on him. He was around seventeen, with matted brown hair and hazel eyes, the outlines of a boy still visible beneath his weather-chapped face.

When she finished, she put the bowl and cup on the deck between them and said in her poor Turkish, “Thank you.”

The man looked startled, then a sweet smile dawned on his face. “You’re welcome.” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “You are lost?”

Vera stumbled into the doorway of Agopian Brothers Publishing House. Her feet were wrapped in makeshift boots that the fisherman had fashioned from sailcloth and bound to her feet with as much care as if she had been his sister. He had left her at Eminönü pier and she had made her way through the back alleys up the hill to Bab-i Ali. It was midmorning as she pushed open the entry door.

“No beggars,” the doorkeeper announced, flapping his hands at her.

She drew herself up and said in French. “I’m here to see Monsieur Agopian.”

Staring at her tattered clothes and filthy rag-bound feet, the doorkeeper asked her name.

“Lena Balian.”