“He owes you six hundred piastres!”
“Is that what they told you, efendi?” Baradossa swung the door wide open and peered out.
Yashim felt the surge of goodwill that had followed him from the kebab shop evaporate.
“There never was a debt, was there?” It was a statement, not a question. There had been a trick. At least he’d saved Marta’s little hoard. “Forgive me, efendi.”
He took a last look around the room. At the doorway Baradossa’s eye wandered to the table, then back to Yashim’s face. Yashim glanced down. It had been there all the time. A sheet of paper, on which was written in a neat Arabic hand the name Xani, and the sum of 600 piastres. Below the rubric, in red ink, a date in the Jewish calendar and the words: Paid In Full.
“The month of Tammuz,” Yashim said dully. “It’s just begun.”
Baradossa merely raised an eyebrow.
“So Xani came and paid it off?”
“Who else?”
It was Yashim’s turn to shrug. “Yes,” he echoed. “Who else?”
The courtyard seemed bright after the dimness of Baradossa’s cell. He picked his way downhill through the crooked streets, toward the Golden Horn.
“Who else?” he muttered to himself. A little breeze touched his cheeks; it came off the water. He didn’t feel it.
Xani had paid off his debt, out of the blue. And then, almost immediately, he disappeared. It didn’t make sense: the waterman should be enjoying his newfound freedom.
Yashim stopped in the street. Enver Xani, he thought, had disappeared for good.
54
“I don’t know who they were, Yashim efendi. I wouldn’t have let them go up if I’d known. There’s never been anything like this here, and I’ve been here for fifty years next April.”
Widow Matalya closed her eyes and shook her head. She was not a woman to give way to hysterics. Yashim stood patiently in the dark hallway, where she had been waiting for him, his head bowed.
“I’m sure you’re right, Matalya hatun. Can you tell me what exactly has happened?”
“Two men, my efendi. I heard the door go while I was cleaning. I always do my cleaning in the afternoons. You know that, don’t you, my dear efendi? In the afternoons.”
Yes, and in the mornings, too, Yashim thought. He resisted the urge to hurry. Widow Matalya had had a shock, and she was getting around it in her own way.
“There was a lot that needed dusting, too. Not that I neglect my dusting, efendi, I wouldn’t have you think that. But the carpets pick it up, have you noticed? I was thinking it was a good day for beating the carpets, with the sun shining in the yard, and the carpets getting a bit dusty—it must’ve been ages since they were taken out, I thought, at least not this year. How could I, with all that rain we had in the spring?”
“Much too wet, yes,” Yashim murmured. “And these two men—?”
“I was coming to that, my all-forgiving efendi. It’s like I said, I wouldn’t have let them in if I’d known. I saw you go out earlier, and that’s what I told them. They said they’d wait. Friends of yours, they said.” She clamped her gums together. “I wouldn’t go up there now, efendi. I’ll try to make a bit of sense first, that’s best. Now that you know, that is.”
“Thank you. You’ve done everything right,” Yashim reassured her. “But there’s really no need to worry. Please. You just go and sit down, and have a glass of tea.”
He kept talking until he had steered the old lady back into her apartment. He put the kettle on the stove and saw her to the sofa. “The men—were they Greek?”
“Greek? Maybe, I don’t know. They could not have been Muslims, my only efendi. Like animals,” she added, as he closed the door.
Yashim took the stairs two by two. The door at the top of the stairs was closed. He pushed it back with his fingertips, and watched as it swung slowly open onto a scene of desecration.
55
“SUELA, will you tell your mother something? Tell her that my name is Yashim. I am a
A guardian: he hoped that Mrs. Xani would understand. The ordinary eunuchs of Istanbul, the
The girl nodded as if she understood, but when she spoke in Albanian her mother shook her head hopelessly.
“Tell her that I want to find your father.”
