he could eat. The air was already spiced with the fragrance of roasting herbs; he could hear the sizzle of hot fat dripping on the coals. He lifted a cube of salty white bread from a stall as he passed by, and popped it in his mouth; and then, since no one had rebuked him, he stopped a moment to admire the arrangement of the spit, worked by a little dog scampering gamely round inside a wooden wheel. Nearby he saw out of the corner of his eye a man flipping meatballs with a flat knife. He drew a few meatballs to the side of the pan, and Eslek stepped forwards.
“Ready, then?”
The man cracked a smile and nodded.
“First customer Friday is always free.”
Murad grinned. He watched the man scatter a few pitta breads on the hot surface of the pan, press them down with the blade of his knife and flip them over. He pulled one towards him and opened it up with a quick arc of the point and a sliding motion with the flat side.
“Chilli sauce?”
Murad Eslek’s mouth watered. He nodded.
The man took a dab of sauce on the end of his knife, spread it inside the bread, scooped up two meatballs and stuffed them home with a generous handful of lettuce and a squeeze of lemon.
With the kebab in two hands, Eslek sauntered happily through the stalls, munching greedily.
He saw nothing to surprise him. Eventually he went down the alley by the walls and found the dark passageway Yashim had mentioned. He mounted the steps carefully, and made his way back to the tower. The door was still on its chain as Yashim had left it. He sat down on the parapet, swinging his legs, licking his fingers, and looked down through the cypress at the market below.
The sky had lightened, and it would soon be dawn.
[ 101 ]
When Yashim opened his eyes again it was still dark. The fire in the grate had died out. Wincing slightly, he eased himself upright and slipped his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet felt bruised and swollen, but he forced himself to stand upright. After he had hobbled up and down the room for a few minutes, he found the pain was bearable. He found his clothes by accident, putting out a hand in the darkness to steady himself. They were neatly piled on a table where Marta must have placed them.
He took his cloak from the hall and stepped out into the early morning air. His skin was tender, but his head was clear.
He walked swiftly down towards the Golden Horn. The lines of the Karagozi poem circled in his head to the rhythm of his footsteps.
Unknowing
And knowing nothing of unknowing,
They sleep.
He quickened his pace to reach the wharves. On the quayside he found a ferryman awake, huddled into his burnous against the dawn chill, and once across he took a sedan chair and ordered the bearers to the Kerkoporta market.
[ 102 ]
I saw you arrive,” Murad Eslek explained. He’d recognised Yashim immediately, and rushed to greet him before he disappeared into the crowd. Now that the day had broken there were plenty of people milling past the stalls, filling their baskets with fresh produce. “I’ve been looking about, like you said. Nothing unusual. A few performers I don’t know, that’s about it. Quiet, everything normal.”
“The tower?”
“Yep, I checked it out. The door you told me about, it’s still on the chain. I’ve been up there for an hour.”
“Hmmm. There’s another door, though, from the other side. On a lower floor. I’d better take a look. You stay here and keep your eyes open, but if I’m not back in half an hour, bring some of your lads and come after me.”
