until it gleamed, and stuck it back into his belt. “Fair-haired, uncircumcised. Not more than forty-maybe a lot younger. Fit, too. A big man.”
The concern on the mullah’s face faded slightly. “I am happy to accept your judgment, Yashim efendi. At prayers, I can tell the believers, and the hubbub will die down.” He turned to the monk. “I am glad, for all our sakes.”
At the gate Brother Palamedes peered through the peephole.
“There are still some men outside, mullah.”
“I will speak to them, then.” Mullah Dede stepped out into the sunshine.
“I’ll trouble you for a drink of water,” Yashim said.
In the kitchens, lit by high windows, the monks were preparing the evening meal. They looked at Yashim curiously, but said nothing. Brother Palamedes fetched him a beaker and filled it from a jug with a long spout.
Yashim accepted the beaker, then hesitated. “Not the same well?”
The monk shook his head, unsmiling. “This is from the inner well, efendi.”
Yashim drank. “There is one thing I do not understand, Brother Palamedes. May we speak, privately?”
The monk hesitated. “I can take you to my cell, efendi.”
The cells were built in two rows facing a narrow, sunless courtyard: as soon as he saw them Yashim recalled the apartments set aside for eunuchs in the imperial harem. Brother Palamedes’s cell contained a narrow bed, a desk, and a wooden stool. On the desk lay a thick book bound in cracked leather, with a flimsy notebook beside it. Beside the notebook lay a quill pen. A bottle of ink stood at the far corner of the desk, beside an earthenware jug and an empty glass. On the wall above the bed hung a crucifix mounted on wood, with a small plaque beneath it. There was nothing written on the plaque. The tiled floor glowed a dusky pink, worn into hollows by the passage of feet over many centuries.
“Who was he?”
The monk spread his hands. “Then xero.” I do not know.
“An utter stranger.”
“We live a secluded life, Yashim efendi, but of course this island is our home. The dead man is not a priest, nor a monk. He is not a Muslim or a Jew, as you have established. We know of no one of the faith-I mean, our faith-missing on the island, or indeed on any of the islands.”
“How did you bring him out of the well?”
“We made a sling of canvas. Brother Andrew guided the man’s body into the sling, and then we drew him up. And we put him where he is now.”
“Someone examined the body?”
Brother Palamedes puffed out his cheeks. “Examined? We could see he was dead.”
“We?”
“Brother Andrew and I laid the body on the floor.”
“And since then? Who else has seen the body?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, efendi. We sent to the governor, that’s all. We haven’t had a reply.”
“I understand. You laid the body on the floor, and since then no one has opened the door, until I came?”
“The body of a man is not a spectacle,” the monk replied, stiffly. “No one knew him.”
Yashim nodded, slowly. “You have not answered my question.”
The monk blinked. “Efendi?”
“Who saw the body, apart from you and Brother Andrew?”
Brother Palamedes wetted his lips. “I–I do not understand.”
“Your head may be weak-or not. But I think you have a strong stomach, brother.”
The monk was still.
“You cut a small patch off the man’s skin, from under his arm.”
Brother Palamedes sat down abruptly on the little bed. “I wanted-only-to avoid a scene,” he said in a small voice, folding his hands on his lap.
“A tattoo, perhaps?”
“Something like that.”
“Show me. Please.”
The monk shook his head. “I threw it away.”
Yashim bit his lip. His mouth felt dry. He reached for the earthenware jug.
Brother Palamedes snatched at the jug. “I will fetch some more water.”
But Yashim had already gripped the handle, and as the monk lunged he pulled away. Water slopped out of the mouth of the jug and splashed his wrist.
He splayed his fingers and tipped the jug upside down. The water cascaded onto the tiled floor.
When Yashim set the jug down, he was holding the flap of skin in his hand.
13
Brother Palamedes put his fingers across his face.
“Someone came to us, a week ago, maybe longer. Asking about a friend who had gone missing. I thought- perhaps…”
He trailed off.
Yashim said: “Someone? Ortodox?” He meant someone of the Orthodox faith, the usual description for a Greek: the empire recognized people by their confession, not their race.
The hesitation was momentary. “A type of Ortodox, yes.”
Yashim widened his eyes. “A type of Orthodox,” he echoed. It could mean Armenian, or Serbian. A glance at the monk’s face told him it was none of those. “Russian,” he said.
Brother Palamedes clasped his hands together. “Please, Yashim efendi. At Hristos we are men of the church. We do not seek the friendship of the Russians. Believe me. We welcome the friendship of all men but-we must be careful.”
Yashim glanced at the pale slip of skin lying on the table, and shuddered. For years, Russia had been stirring up the Greeks, encouraging them to rebellion, disturbing their age-old compact with the Ottoman state.
“Who did you intend to tell?”
The monk twisted his fingers in his lap. “No one. That is-we want no trouble, Yashim efendi. These days anything may be taken amiss. You understand.”
Yashim grunted. He picked up the monk’s pen and pushed the skin flat against the tabletop.
“It’s not a tattoo.”
“No, efendi. I do not know what it is. But a mark, of some kind.”
14
Yashim found Palewski fast asleep, with Pan Tadeusz across his face.
“I can’t believe it, Yash,” Palewski said at last. “You seem to have prevented a sectarian riot, identified a corpse, and thrown suspicion on the Russians, all while I was drinking my pear syrup. Incredible.”
Yashim unwrapped his handkerchief. “Do you know what this is?”
Palewski raised his eyes to Yashim’s. “No. But after all that, you’re going to tell me that it is a piece of human skin.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Oh, Christ,” Palewski said. He sagged back against the cushion. “I’m sorry, Yashim. That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”
“It was taken from the man’s underarm. It shows something, I’m not sure what. A scar, maybe.”
Palewski was silent for a while. “Or a brand.”
