functions.
Yet men had been gelded for service in the time of Darius and Alexander, too. Ever since the idea of dynasties arose, there had been eunuchs who commanded fleets, who generalled armies, who subtly set out the policies of states. Sometimes Yashim dimly saw himself enrolled into a strange fraternity, the shadow-world of the guardians: men who since time immemorial had held themselves apart, the better to watch and serve. It included the eunuchs of the ancient world, and of the Chinese emperor in Beijing, and the whole Catholic hierarchy in Europe, too, which had supplied the celibate priests who served the kings of Christendom. Didn’t the Pope in Rome himself serve man and God? The service of barren men, like their desires, began and ended with their death; but in life they watched over the churning anthills of humankind, inured from its preoccupation with lust, longevity and descent. Prey, at worst, to a fondness for trinkets and trivia, to a fascination with their own decline, a tendency to hysteria and petty jealousies. Yashim knew them well.
As for the harem, none of the women there could come or go at will, of course. So Yashim’s current business in there was, in that sense, a more private affair. Even time, Yashim reflected, ran differently on the inside: the harem could wait. Outside, as the Seraskier had warned, he had just nine ordinary days.
Brushing the crumbs of the borek from his lips, Yashim decided that he would visit first the Guild, and then pay his call on the Seraskier. Afterwards, depending on what he learned, he would go and question various people in the harem.
[ 13 ]
Mustafa the Albanian sniffed suspiciously at the bowl of tripe. There were, he knew, certain parties in the city who had embraced heretical doctrines. Daily, he was certain, they were extending their dangerous influence over the weaker, more impressionable members of society: young men, people from out of town, even students at the medreses who surely should know better, found it all to easy to succumb to the subtle blandishments of these rogues. Some of them, he was well aware, simply abused the authorities’ trust. Others— and who could say they were not encouraged by that baleful example?—recognised no authority at all. Well, he thought grimly, he was there to root them out.
He sniffed again. The colour of the soup was good: no obvious sign of innovation there. Mustafa was of the school that followed the saying of the Prophet, peace be on him: in change there is innovation, innovation leads to blasphemy, blasphemy leads to hell fire. The notion that a good tripe soup needed the addition of a pinch of pounded coriander was the kind of innovation which, if left unchecked, would gradually undermine the whole guild and destroy its ability to serve the city as it should. It made no difference whether the heretics charged extra for the spice, or not: the confusion would have entered men’s minds. Where there was a weakness to be exploited, there would greed find its encouragement.
Mustafa sniffed again. Lifting the horn spoon that hung around his neck as a symbol of his office, he dipped it into the bowl and turned the contents over. Tripe. Onions. Regularly shaped, faintly caramelised. He dug down to the bottom of the bowl and examined the spoon carefully in the light for any specks or impurities. Satisfied, he lifted the spoon to his lips and sucked noisily. Tripe soup. He smacked his lips, his immediate fears allayed. Whatever secrets this young apprentice held in the recesses of his heart he could definitely make the proper article on demand.
Two anxious pairs of eyes followed the spoon to the guild master’s lips. They saw the soup go in. They heard the soup flow about Mustafa’s palate. They watched anxiously as he held his hand close to his ear. And then they watched, delighted, as he nodded curtly. An apprenticeship redeemed. A new master soupier born.
“It is good. Keep an eye on the onions: never use them too large. The size of your fist is good, or smaller.” He brought up his own massive paw and curled the fingers. “Too big!” He shook the fist and laughed. The apprentice tittered.
They discussed arrangements for the apprentice’s formal induction into the guild, his prospects, the extent of his savings and the likelihood of his finding an opening within the next few years. Mustafa knew that this was the most dangerous moment. Newly fledged soupiers always wanted to start right away, whatever the circumstances. It took patience and humility to carry on working for an old master while you waited for a shop to come free.
Patience, yes. Impatience led to coriander and hell fire. Mustafa tugged at his moustache and squinted at the young man. Did he have patience? As for himself, he thought, patience was his second skin. How could he have lived his life, and not acquired patience in positively redemptive quantities?
[ 14 ]
It was a singular request, for what use could a man have for a play cauldron at this time of the year? Mustafa the Albanian seemed to hear a dangerous word whispered in his ear. Was it not an innovation, to let a stranger examine the store-rooms of the guild of soup-makers? It certainly seemed an insidious precedent.
Yashim blinked, smiled and opened his eyes wide. He thought he could guess exactly what was going through the old soup master’s mind.
“I’m known at the palace: the gate-keepers there could vouch for me, if that’s a help.”
The guild master’s frown remained firmly in place. His massive hands lay quietly folded over his paunch. Perhaps, Yashim thought, the palace card was the wrong one to try: every institution in the city had its pride. He decided on another throw.
“We live in strange times. I’m not so young that I can’t remember when things were…better ordered, in general, than they are today. Every day, right here in Istanbul, I see things I’d never have dreamed of seeing in my young days. Foreigners on horseback. Dogs literally starving to death on the streets. Beggars in from the countryside.
