“And his mother, too. Don’t forget her,” Palewski added.

Lefevre turned to the ambassador. “Saint Helena, of course. She came to the city, and unearthed a portion of the True Cross.”

“They should make her patron saint of archaeologists, Lefevre.”

The Frenchman blinked. “All the holy relics of the Christian faith were brought to the city,” he added. “Relics of the earliest saints. The nails that fixed Jesus to the cross. The goblet and plate that Jesus used at the Last Supper. The holy of holies, gentlemen.”

He held up his hand, fingers outspread.

“Two centuries later, Emperor Justinian builds the church of churches. Aya Sofia, the eighth wonder of the world. She has come a long way from the fishergirl, Byzance.” He paused. “What to say? The centuries of wealth, monsieur. The perfection of Byzantine art. Ceremony, bloodshed, the emperor as the regent of God Almighty.”

Palewski nodded. “Until the crusaders arrive.”

Lefevre closed his eyes and nodded. “Ah. Ah, 1204, yes, the shame of Europe. I would call it a rape, monsieur: the rape of the city by the brutal soldiers of Western Europe. Her diadem flung into the dust. It is pain for us to speak of this time.”

He selected a delicacy from the tray.

“And yet she is a woman: she recovers. She is a shadow of herself, but she still has charm. So she seeks a new protector. In 1453: the Turkish Conquest. Let me say: she becomes Istanbul. Mehmed’s whore.”

It was Yashim’s turn to blink.

“The Turks—they love her. And so, like a woman, she becomes again beautiful. Is it not so?”

Lefevre peered into a silence. “But perhaps my little analogy displeases you? Alors, it can be changed.” He spread out his hands, like a conjurer. “Istanbul is also a serpent, which sheds its skin.”

“And you collect those discarded skins.”

“I try to learn from them, Excellency.”

Palewski was studying the tray, a scowl now plainly on his face. “Good meze, Yashim,” he said.

“All dolma—” Yashim began; he meant to explain the theory behind his selections, but Lefevre leaned forward and tapped Palewski on his knee.

“I have traveled, Excellency, and I can say that all street food is good in the Levant, from Albania to the Caucasus,” he remarked.

Palewski glanced up. Later, he told Yashim that the sight of his face at that moment had brought him the first pleasure of the evening.

Lefevre licked his fingers and wiped them on a napkin. “The singular contribution of the Turks—I believe this is correct—to the degustation of civilized Europe—you’ll forgive me, monsieur, I am merely quoting—is the aromatic juice of the Arabian bean: in short, coffee.” He gave a laugh.

“I shouldn’t believe everything you read in books,” Palewski said, with another glance at his friend.

“But I do. I believe everything I read.” Lefevre wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue. “A professional habit, perhaps. Letters. Diaries. Travelers’ memoirs. I choose my literature carefully. Trivial information can sometimes turn out to be very useful, wouldn’t you agree, monsieur?”

Yashim nodded slowly. “Certainly. But for every useful scrap of information, you must reject a hundred more.”

“Ah, yes, perhaps you are right.” He leaned back, touching his thumbs together. “Have you ever heard of Troy?”

Yashim nodded. “Sultan Mehmet once laid claim to Trojan ancestry,” he said. “He presented the fall of Constantinople as a revenge on the Greeks.”

“How interesting.” The Frenchman pinched his lower lip. “I was about to suggest that one day we will uncover the ruins of the city that Agamemnon sacked.”

“You believe it exists?”

Lefevre laughed softly. “More than that. I think it will be found exactly where legend has always placed it. Scarcely a hundred kilometers from where we sit—in the Troad.”

“Are you to dig for it yourself?”

“I would, if I could get permission here. But for that—and everything else—one needs money.” He smiled pleasantly and spread his hands.

A breath of air stirred the curtains, and a ring chinked softly on the rail.

“Of course,” Lefevre continued, “sometimes these things may just drop into your lap, if you read carefully and learn where to look.”

He took a sip of champagne. Palewski got up and opened the second bottle with a pop.

“I’m afraid you must find us very careless with the past,” Yashim said. “We don’t always look after things as we should.”

“Yes and no, monsieur. I do not complain. Carelessness of that sort may be a godsend to the archaeologist. One has only to go to your Atmeydan—the ancient Hippodrome of the Byzantines—to see that all its monuments remain intact. With the exception of the Serpent Column, of course. The column has lost its heads, which is no fault of the Turks.”

Palewski suddenly picked up his glass and drained it.

Вы читаете The Snake Stone: A Novel
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