Was it for this that Preen had died?
Yashim squeezed his hair.
And why was the assassin so determined to die?
What was there, apart from the threat of justice, that made a man decide to die rather than talk?
Yashim could think of only two things.
One was fear.
The other was faith: the martyr’s death.
He pulled back suddenly, gasping for breath, his eyes stinging.
Preen had died alone, for nothing, in the dark.
Wise and wayward, loving and forever doomed, she died because of him.
He had asked her to help.
It wasn’t that. Yashim whined, teeth bared, his eyes screwed up tight, knocking his head against the tiled wall.
He had never properly taught her to read.
[ 68 ]
The morning dawned bright. On the street, Stambouliots congratulated one another on the re- appearance of good weather, and expressed the hope that the gloom which had settled over the city in the last week might finally be lifted. Optimists declared that the spate of murders seemed to have come to an end, proving that the message from the imams had worked. Pessimists predicted more fog ahead. Only the fatalists, who in Istanbul number hundreds of thousands, merely shrugged their shoulders and said that, like fire and earthquake, God’s will would be done.
Yashim made his way down early to the cafe on Kara Davut. The proprietor noticed that he was limping, and without a word offered him a cushioned divan off the pavement where he could still enjoy watching the doings on the street. When he had brought the coffees, Yashim asked: “Is there anyone who could take a message for me, and fetch an answer? I’d ask your son, but it’s pretty far.”
He gave the address. The cafe proprietor frowned and turned down his mouth.
“It is time,” he said gruffly. “Mehmed can go. Eh, hey! Mehmed!”
A little boy of about eight or nine bounced out of the back of the shop at his father’s shout. He bowed solemnly and stood looking at Yashim with his big brown eyes, rubbing one foot against his other leg.
Yashim gave him a purse, and carefully explained where to go. He told him about the old lady behind the lattice. “You should knock. When she answers, present my compliments. Give her the money, and tell her these are… expenses—for the lady Preen, in room eight. Whatever she says, don’t be frightened. Remember what you are told.”
The boy nodded and darted through the door, where a small crowd had gathered to watch a dervish perform his dance on the street. Yashim saw the boy dive unhesitatingly between the folds of their cloaks, and so away, down the street. A funeral errand, he thought; the father would not be pleased.
“A good boy,” he said, guiltily. “You should be proud.”
The father gave a noncommittal wag of his head and started polishing glasses with a cloth.
Yashim took a sip of coffee and turned to watch the performance in the street.
The dervish danced in the space defined by a ring of bystanders, who every now and then had to stand aside to let someone in or out of the cafe, giving Yashim a glimpse of the performer. He wore a white tunic, white puttees, and a white cap, and he flexed his hands and legs in time to some inner melody, his eyes closed. But the dancer was not entranced: from what Yashim could see, it looked like one of the simpler dances of the seeker after truth, a stylised rendition of Ignorance searching for the Way.
