position, it belonged to another age, before Poland had been wiped from the map by the hostile maneuverings of Russia, Austria, and Prussia. Palewski had arrived in Istanbul twenty-five years before, as the representative of a vanished country. Elsewhere, in other capitals of Europe, the Polish ambassador was only a diplomatic memory; but the Turks, the old enemy, had received him with good grace.
Which was, he thought with a frown, in the days before Istanbul became positively overrun with mountebanks, schemers, and dealers of every nationality, and none. Before visiting Frenchmen buttonholed you and invited themselves along to dinner.
But also before he had come to know Yashim.
How they had become friends was still a matter of debate, for Yashim’s memory of the event differed in emphasis from Palewski’s; it involved more broken glass, and less enunciated French. But they had been firm friends ever since. “Together,” Palewski had once declared, weeping over a blade of pickled bison grass, “we make a man, you and I. For you are a man without balls, and I am a man without a country.”
It was an appeal of friendship that Palewski now threw Yashim as Lefevre advanced past him into the room, flinging out his hand.
“
It was not Yashim’s habit to shake hands, but he took Lefevre’s and squeezed it politely. Palewski opened his mouth to speak when the Frenchman added:
“I was quite unprepared for such a generous invitation.”
He was a small, stoop-shouldered man, delicately built, with a few days’ growth of white stubble and a voice that was soft and sibilant, close to lisping.
“But I am delighted, monsieur—”
“Lefevre,” Palewski cut in finally. “Dr. Lefevre is an archaeologist, Yashim. He’s French. I—I felt sure you wouldn’t mind.”
“But no, of course not. It’s an honor.” Yashim’s eyes lit up. A Frenchman for dinner! Now that was a decent challenge.
Palewski set his portmanteau on the table and clicked it open. “Champagne,” he announced, drawing out two green bottles. “It comes from the Belgian at Pera. He assures me that it belongs to a consignment originally destined for Sultan Mahmut’s table, so it’s probably filth.”
“I am sure it will be excellent.” Lefevre smirked at Yashim.
The ambassador looked at him coolly. “I rather think the sultan’s illness speaks for itself, Lefevre. It defeats all the best doctors.”
“Ah, yes. The Englishman, Dr. Millingen.” Lefevre’s hands fluttered toward his head. “Whom I consulted recently. Headache.”
“Cured?”
Lefevre raised his eyebrows. “One lives in hope,” he said sadly.
Palewski nodded. “Millingen’s not too bad for a doctor. Though he killed Byron, of course.”
Yashim said: “Byron?”
“Lord Byron, Yash. A celebrated English poet.” He reached into his bag. “If the champagne’s no good, I have this,” he added, drawing out a slimmer and paler bottle, which Yashim immediately recognized. “Byron was an enthusiast for Greek independence,” he went on. “Never lived to fire a gun in anger, as far as I know. He died trying to organize the Greek rebels in ’24, at the siege of Missilonghi. Caught a fever. Millingen was his doctor.”
They drank the champagne from Yashim’s sherbet flutes.
“It sparkles,” said Lefevre.
“Not for very long,” Yashim added, peering into the glass. “Dr. Lefevre, I welcome you to Istanbul.”
“The city ordained by Nature to be the capital of the world.” Lefevre fixed his dark eyes on Yashim. “She calls me like a siren, monsieur. I cannot resist her lure.” He drained his glass and set it down silently in the palm of his other hand.
Yashim brought out a tray on which he had set a selection of meze—the crisped skin of a mackerel rolled loose from its flesh, then stuffed with nuts and spices; uskumru dolmasi; some tiny boreks stuffed with white cheese and chopped dill; mussel shells folded over a mixture of pine nuts; karniyarik, tiny eggplants filled with spiced lamb; and a little dish of kabak cicegi dolmasi, or stuffed zucchini flowers. They were all dolma—that is, their outsides gave no hint as to the treasures that lay within, and all made to recipes perfected in the sultan’s kitchens.
Palewski was brooding over his champagne. Lefevre picked up a zucchini flower and popped it into his mouth.
“How shall I explain?” Lefevre began. “To me, this city is like a woman. In the morning she is Byzantium. You know, I am sure, what is Byzantium? It is nothing, a Greek village. Byzance is young, artless, very simple. Does she know who she is? That she stands between Asia and Europe? Scarcely. Alexander came and went. But Byzance: she remembers nothing.”
His hand hovered above the tray.
“One man appreciates her beauty, nonetheless. Master of Jerusalem and Rome.”
Palewski buried his face in his glass.
“Constantine, the Caesar, falls in love. What is it—375 A.D.? Byzance is his—she suits him well. And he raises her to the imperial purple, gives her his name—Constantinople, the city of Constantine. The new heart of the Roman Empire. Nothing is too good for her. Constantine plunders the ancient world like a man who showers his mistress with jewels. He brings her the four bronze horses of Lysippos, which now stand above the Piazza San Marco in Venice. He brings her the Serpent Column from Delphi. He brings her the tribute of the known world, from the Pillars of Hercules to the deserts of Arabia.”
