“Come,” she said.
She put her hands flat on the bed, behind her back. Yashim groaned softly and closed his eyes.
Five minutes later, Eugenia had discovered what Yashim meant by freelance.
“Better and better,” she said, and threw herself back against the pillows. She raised a slender knee.
“So take me, Turk!” she gasped.
[ 81 ]
Far away, in the first great court of the sultan’s palace at Topkapi, the carriages rolled away across the cobbles and through the high gate, to disappear towards the Hippodrome and the darkness of the city. Only one fine carriage still remained, its driver motionless on the box, whip in hand, two footmen standing behind like men of stone, impervious to the light drizzle. As the wind whipped the torches hung up along the inner wall the flare caught the glossy black shellac of the carriage door and lit up the royal arms of the Romanovs with its double-headed eagle: the symbol that so many centuries before had originated in this very city.
If all was ghostly still in the Russian ambassador’s carriage, in the boudoir of the Russian ambassador’s wife matters had reached a distinctly lively crisis.
With a heave of her shoulders, Eugenia let out a long, satisfied sigh.
Moments later, she was smiling lazily into Yashim’s ear.
“I may be vain, but I don’t suppose,” she whispered, “that this is why you came?”
Yashim propped himself up. His eyes were squeezed shut, as though he were in pain. Eugenia put out a hand and stroked his damp forehead. “I’m sorry,” she said, simply.
Yashim blew out, and opened his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he said: “The—map—in—the—vestibule. Where’s it got to?”
Eugenia laughed, but when she caught the look in his eye she whipped aside and knelt on the bed.
“Are you serious?”
“I need to look at that map,” he said. “Before your husband gets home.”
“Him?” A look of scorn crossed her face. “He won’t come in here.” She bounced off the bed and retrieved her peignoir, tying the sash with an angry tug.
“He has never forgiven me for marrying him. And you have no idea how
Yashim frowned. It was hard to believe that the prince could keep his hands off his wife for a moment. But there it was. Perhaps he, Yashim, was no better than those westerners who imagined the sultan in a scented paradise of houris.
“I’ve been here six months. I never go out. I change my dress three or four times a day—for what? For who? The sentries? Once a week my husband hosts a very dull dinner.”
She gathered her black curls in one hand and raised them to the back of her head. Then she let the curls fall.
“At home there’s a ball every night. I see my friends. I ride out in the snow. I—oh, I don’t know, I laugh, flirt, talk about literature and the arts, everything. I suppose that’s why I seized on you. You were the first Turk I ever had a chance to speak to. My first Turkish lover.”
Yashim lowered his eyes. Eugenia laughed again.
“I’ll show you the map. It’s just there.”
She pointed over his shoulder. He looked round and there it was, leaning against the wall, the familiar shape of the city like an animal’s snout, rootling the shores of Asia.
“I need to compare,” he explained, reaching for his cloak. He took out Palewski’s map, unfolded it, and crouched down by the Hontius map, smoothing Palewski’s against the glass.
“I just can’t imagine what you’re up to, but can I help?”
