[ 82 ]
The master of the soup-makers’ guild took the ends of his moustache in either hand and tugged on them thoughtfully.
Then he picked up the ancient key which the guard had just returned and slipped it back onto the big ring.
He knew that the investigator from the palace had to be right: only the night watchmen could have organised the theft. But why? It had to be some foolish prank, he supposed. Maybe some sentimental ritual of their own. When he explained that one of the cauldrons had gone missing he had expected them to look shifty and ashamed. He had expected them to confess. Confide. He had hoped they would have confidence in him.
Only they stared at him blankly, instead. Denied it all. The soup master had been disappointed.
The soup master began again. “I am not looking for punishment. Perhaps the cauldron will be returned, and perhaps we need say no more about it. But—” he raised a heavy finger, “I am troubled. The guild is one family. We have difficulties, and we sort them out. I sort them out. It is what I do, I am the head of this family. So when some outsider comes to tell me about problems I know nothing about, I am worried. And also ashamed.”
He paused.
“A snooping fellow, from the palace, comes to tell me something that has happened in my own house. Ah—I’m getting through now, am I?”
He had detected a flicker of interest—but it hadn’t developed.
The soup master pulled at his moustaches again. The meeting disturbed him. The men weren’t exactly insolent, but they were cold. The soup master felt that he had run a risk for their sakes, giving them work when they were desperate; but there had been no answering gratitude on this occasion.
He stopped short of dismissing them, with an uneasy feeling that a wordless threat had been issued. That he should mind his own business—as if the theft of a pot, and the subsequent denials, weren’t his business entirely! But he could not simply dismiss them now. If they suffered, he might suffer. He could be accused of aiding and abetting the enemies of the Porte.
He crammed his massive hands together, kneading his fingers.
Was there no way of paying them back for their disloyalty? He thought of the eunuch.
The eunuch had some status in the palace.
The soup master wondered how he could become better acquainted with that man.
[ 83 ]
Yashim spent the morning visiting the three sites he had identified from the old map the night before. He hoped that something would strike him if he searched with an open mind.
A tekke did not have to be large, but a big space might provide a clue. A tekke did not, of itself, have to conform to any particular shape, yet a small dome might suggest a place of worship. So would, perhaps, a stoup for holy water, or a redundant niche, or a forgotten inscription over a doorway, in a corridor—little signs which might seem insignificant in themselves, but taken together would help to point him in the right direction.
Failing that, he could always ask.
The first street he visited was only gradually recovering from the effects of a fire which had burned so fiercely that the few stone buildings had finally exploded. Large, broken blocks still lay embedded in the ash that drifted listlessly up and down the charred-out street. Some men were poking in the ash with sticks; Yashim supposed they were householders, searching for their savings. They answered him slowly, as if their thoughts were still far away. None of them knew about a tekke.
The second place turned out to be a small, irregularly shaped square jTist within the city walls. It was a working- class district, with a fair number of Armenians and Greeks among the Turkish shopkeepers whose little booths were gathered along its eastern edge. The buildings were in poor repair. It was almost impossible to guess their age. In a poor district buildings tended to be repaired and recycled beyond their normal life-expectancy. Come a fire, and people built afresh in the same style as their fathers and grandfathers.
Across from the shops stood a small but sedate and clean mosque, and behind it a little whitewashed house where the imam lived. He came to the door himself, leaning on a stick, an old, very bent man with a straggling white beard and thick spectacles. He was rather deaf, and seemed confused and even irritated when Yashim asked him about the Karagozi.
“We are all orthodox Muslims here,” he kept saying in a reedy voice. “Eh? I can’t understand you. Aren’t you a Muslim? Well, then. I don’t see what—We are all good Muslims here.”
