Yashim bit his lip. Last night he’d as good as murdered a man. And today—
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Palmuk put a hand to his chest and clawed at his shirt, crumpling the torn edges together.
“It was a new shirt, effendi.”
Yashim sighed.
“I’ll get you another. I’ll get you two. But first, tell me this. Did the Karagozi have a tekke at the Beyazit Fire Tower? Like the one here?”
Old Palmuk stared. “Tekke? The Beyazit Tower?” He began to wheeze. It took Yashim a moment to realise that he was laughing.
“What’s the joke?”
“A tekke at Beyazit, you said?” Old Pamuk rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand, sniggering. “There was a tekke there, all right. The whole tower was built on it.”
Yashim froze. “The Eski Serai?”
“It’s what I heard. Way back when, them Janissaries used to guard the old palace. It fell apart, didn’t it? But the Karagozi didn’t abandon the tekke. They found a way to keep it—protected, like. They got the whole fire-tower built atop of it, see?”
Yashim saw. “Another tekke, then. That’s what I need. The fourth.”
The fire-watcher cracked a smile. “There were dozens, effendi. Hundreds.”
“Yes. But for the fire-watchers? Was there…a special one?”
Old Palmuk wrestled himself upright. He swayed over his lap, shaking his head.
“I wish I knew, effendi. I wish I knew what you were on about. I don’t know who you think I am, but you’ve got the wrong man. I…I don’t know what you mean.”
He turned to look at Yashim, and his grey eyes were round.
“I used to be a gofer. On the docks.” He was nodding now, staring at Yashim as if for the first time. “Get this, effendi. I weren’t there.”
Yashim thought: it’s true.
I give the fellow money. I buy him shirts. And he really doesn’t know a thing.
[ 71 ]
Yashim found the Polish ambassador in a silken dressing gown, embroidered with lions and horses in tarnished gold thread, which Yashim supposed was Chinese. He was drinking tea and staring quietly at a boiled egg, but when Yashim came in he put up a hand to shield his eyes, turning his head this way and that like an anxious tortoise. The sunshine picked out motes of dust climbing slowly towards the long windows.
“Do you know what time it is?” Palewski said thickly. “Have tea.”
“Are you ill?”
“111. No. But suffering. Why couldn’t it be raining?”
Unable to think of an answer, Yashim curled up in an armchair and let Palewski pour him a cup with a shaking hand.
“Meze,” Yashim said. He glanced up. “Meze. Little snacks before the main dish.”
“Must we talk about food?”
“Meze are a way of calling people’s attention to the excellence of the feast to come. A lot of effort goes into their
