Yashim suppressed the urge to turn around. “Alone?”
“He’s with a man. A Frank. Older, short. Smoking a little cigar.”
Yashim exhaled slowly through his teeth. Onstage, a drowsy cobra was rising slowly from a basket while an Indian blew at it through a little pipe. The snake turned its head to follow the music. The Indian danced gravely around the basket. Yashim turned in his chair and saw Alexander Mavrogordato and Maximilien Lefevre, ne Meyer, watching the performance without speaking.
Lefevre’s eyes slid toward him.
The cobra’s head was now lifted high out of the basket, swaying on its thick, undulating body. Behind its head, the hood flattened and widened.
Lefevre and Yashim looked at one another. Without smiling, the Frenchman nodded and made a slight gesture of salute with his cigar.
Yashim shook his head. Then he blinked and turned his attention to the stage.
The charmer and the snake were now moving together; as the Indian swayed backward, the cobra leaned out toward him, its little tongue flicking in and out. The Indian slowly put out his hand, palm down, until the tips of his fingers were just below the cobra’s throat. Very gradually, to the soft notes of the pipe, the cobra laid his head on the man’s fingers.
Yashim watched in disgust as the man’s hand turned slowly black: the cobra was rippling forward onto the man’s wrist, its hood over his hand, slowly advancing out of its basket and up the extended arm, oozing upward from the basket to the charmer’s shoulder. The Indian continued to play his pipe with one hand, keeping his arm very still until the entire snake had ranged itself along the thickness of his arm. He turned and faced the crowd. There was a gasp as the snake’s head appeared over the charmer’s head and reared up, spreading its hood like a pagan crown.
The man and his snake did a little tour of the stage, bowing together; then the man reached up and took hold of the cobra by its head and slipped it back into the basket, clapping on the lid. The audience broke into applause.
“Come on, Yashim,” Preen said, nudging him with her elbow. “It’s only a snake. You look as though you’d seen a ghost.”
124
The ship’s bell clanked, and a squad of smartly dressed sailors stood to attention on the foredeck, apparently none the worse for their foray into Pera the night before. A belch of black soot drifted from the single stack; it drifted up through the furled shrouds and spars of the main-mast, and slowly vanished into the blue sky.
A fat coachman brought an elegant black-lacquered barouche to a stop on the cobbles. He held the reins firmly in his hand and turned his head to look at the Ulysse. No one got out.
At the foot of the gangplank a uniformed sailor exchanged glances with two other men, in singlets, waiting on deck.
Amelie Lefevre put out her hand. “Goodbye, ambassador.”
Palewski took her hand and stooped over it. “Goodbye, madame.” He nodded to Lefevre. “Doctor.”
Now she was looking at Yashim. There was a strange, almost dull, look in her eyes. The sun was in her hair, turning her ringlets to fire. She did not offer him her hand; instead, she placed it on her heart.
“The sultan, Yashim,” she said. “And the poet. I shan’t forget.”
Yashim smiled sadly. “Perhaps.”
Lefevre, he noticed, was glancing nervously around the quay. The gangplank screeched as the Ulysse rolled lightly in the current.
“I will remember your courage,” Yashim added.
“My courage,” Amelie repeated tonelessly. “But I believed in the relics, you see. I thought the myth was real.”
Dr. Lefevre took her elbow. He leaned slightly forward to catch Yashim’s eye; then he raised his cheroot and pointed it at him. “Pah!” He made a soft explosive sound with his lips and smiled crookedly. It seemed like a private joke.
Yashim stepped back and frowned.
Palewski raised his eyebrows and glanced at Yashim.
The uniformed sailor put out a protective arm to usher the couple onto the gangplank.
“Faites attention, monsieur ’dame,” he murmured.
Halfway up the gangplank, Amelie had not looked back. Lefevre was slightly ahead of her, his hand beneath her elbow, turning a little, when it all happened.
Perhaps it was the movement of the ship, perhaps the slippers-the slippers that Millingen had bought for her, with their pointed ends. Amelie stumbled. She pitched sideways, stretching out her arms, clutching at her husband for support.
By then it was already too late. With a sudden cry of alarm, Dr. Lefevre flailed his arms through the air, and then he was gone.
Yashim sprang forward. For a second he saw it all frozen, like a tableau at the theater: Amelie on her knees on the gangplank, staring down; the officer on the quay turning, almost crouched, with horror; the two sailors on the deck leaning over the rail, their heads together.
Then he heard Amelie’s sob, and the officer was at her side; one of the sailors was shouting something over his shoulder and the other was dropping a rope into the narrow gap between the ship and the quay.
Yashim glanced down. Palewski was at his shoulder, and Yashim heard him murmur: “I just don’t believe it.”
He raised his head. The officer was helping Amelie to her feet, urging her gently up the gangplank. A band of sailors with crowbars in their hands were at the top, waiting to come down.
“Please, madame! Please, just come this way!”
The sailors streamed down the gangplank. They set their muscled arms against the wooden walls of the ship, planted their feet on the quay, and began to heave.
“Loose the stern warps! Give us room!” There were shouts, more orders; other sailors appeared. A man began to slide down a rope with bare feet.
Amelie, sagging on the officer’s arm, passed the ship’s rail and turned her head. Yashim felt her glance sweep over him to fix on something farther away, and he was about to glance around when Amelie gave a curious little jerk of her head. She was standing against the sun; he blinked, dazzled: for a moment it had looked as though she had smiled. When he next saw clearly, the officer was coaxing her onto the ship and in a few seconds she had disappeared from sight.
Yashim heard a sharp crack behind him, and turned to see the barouche start off. He thought he recognized a face at the window, the face of a woman with strong, dark brows; but it was only a fleeting glimpse, and he could not be sure.
Palewski took him by the elbow. “How did it happen?” he said, aghast.
Yashim began walking slowly in the carriage’s wake. After a few moments he raised his head and spoke to the air.
“Madame Lefevre thought the myth was real,” he said. Then he nodded sadly and turned to his friend. “Until she discovered that the reality was a myth.”
Palewski looked searchingly into Yashim’s face. “It wasn’t an accident, was it? She pushed him in.”
Yashim bit his lip. “Let’s just say that Madame Lefevre was a very determined woman.”
And he began to walk again, uphill through the dusty streets of Pera.
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