“How soon can you make your report, Dr. Millingen?” He hoped it sounded casual.
Millingen smiled. “Between you and me, it could be tomorrow. But the ambassador’s given me a week.” He glanced down at the coin on his desk. “I wish you luck, Yashim efendi. These sort of crimes are the hardest to resolve.”
Yashim nodded. He liked Millingen’s air of detachment: it was a professional air. The manner of a man trained to notice things. “Dr. Millingen, you’ve been among the Greeks. You have some experience of their-ambitions.”
Millingen frowned. “I know many Greeks, of course. But their ambitions? I’m afraid I don’t quite-”
“No, forgive me,” Yashim said. “There’s a society, a secret society, I’ve learned a bit about recently. The Hetira. I wondered if you’d heard of it?”
“Umm.” Millingen reached forward and picked up the Morean coin. “Secret societies.” He shook his head and chuckled. “The Greeks are a very charming people. But…I got to know many of them years ago, in the Morea. They were all involved in the struggle for Greek independence, of course-I went to Missilonghi with Lord Byron.
“What was it that Lord Byron used to say? The Greeks don’t know a problem from a poker. The truth is, they’d intrigue over a potato-and when I say they were involved in the struggle, I don’t mean they went out to win it. Most of the time they fought each other. Very disappointing. Byron wanted them to be like classical Greeks, full of the Platonic virtues; and they aren’t. Nobody is. They’re a good people, but they’re like children. A Greek can laugh, cry, forget, and want to kill his best friend all in the space of an afternoon!” He leaned back and smiled. “When I was a boy, we used to make ourselves dens in the bushes. We’d have Bonaparte marching through the garden, and we’d be ready to take him on-and his army. That’s the Greeks all through. They make themselves secret worlds. It’s politics, if you like-but it’s play, too.”
He held the coin between finger and thumb and flicked it so that it spun round.
“A Greek’s a brave fighter on the battlefield-the battlefield that exists in his own head. He slaughters Albanians, routs the Turks, and battles Mehmed Ali to the very gates of Cairo! He’ll take on the world, like Alexander the Great-except that afterward he smokes his pipe, drinks a coffee, forgets, and sits like an old Turk. It’s what you call kif, isn’t it? A state of contented contemplation. The Greeks pretend they don’t have it, and to look at them sometimes you’d believe it-but they’ve got the kif habit worse than anyone.” He closed his eyes and let his head drift slowly; then he snapped awake and chuckled again. “But do you know why he doesn’t fight? I’ll tell you this for nothing. A Greek can never obey another Greek. They’re all in factions, and every faction has a single member.”
Yashim laughed. What Dr. Millingen said was unanswerable: the Greeks were quixotic. No one could deny that the little kingdom of Greece had been founded largely in spite of the Greeks’ own efforts. Eleven years ago, in 1828, an Anglo-French fleet had destroyed the Ottomans at Navarino, and dictated the terms of Greek independence to end a civil war that had been dragging on for years.
“A secret society, doctor?”
Dr. Millingen had begun to let the coin run across the back of his hand, weaving it in and out between his fingers.
“In my experience, there are many Greek secret societies. It’s in the blood. Some are for trade. Some for family. In the kingdom of Greece, so I’ve heard, some agitate for a republic, or socialism.”
“Yes, I see. And the Hetira?”
“I’ve heard of them. You are a friend of Malakian’s, so I’ll tell you what I know: it’s not to be repeated, if you understand me. The Hetira are anti-Ottoman, in a fairly subdued way. Most secret societies are, or they wouldn’t exist. But the Hetira really despise the kingdom of Greece. They believe that the kingdom was constructed by secret negotiation between the Ottoman Empire and the European powers, to keep Greeks in the Ottoman lands quiet.”
“A conspiracy?”
“Between a cunning sultan and compliant foreign ambassadors. For the likes of the Hetira, Greece is nothing more than a sop to European opinion. In the meantime, they indulge a dream. They want a new empire. Greeks don’t live in Greece alone. Trabzon, Izmir, Constantinople: they’re full of Greeks, aren’t they?”
Yashim watched in fascination as the angelus rippled between Millingen’s knuckles. “But also Turks. And Armenians, Jews. What of them?”
The doctor turned his wrist, and his fingers closed around the coin. When he opened his hand, it had gone.
Yashim smiled and stood up. “That’s a pretty trick,” he said.
“Missilonghi was a very long drawn-out affair.” Dr. Millingen laughed. “As I say, we had time on our hands. But interesting company.”
He flexed his fingers.
The ancient coin winked in his palm.
36
“Who is it now? Any more builders, and I swear I’ll scream. You’re quite fat enough, Anuk, put that pastry away. Read this, Mina sweetie. Tell me if it’s spelled properly. If it’s not a builder we’ll see him.” She opened her arms. “Yashim!”
Preen went into a mock swoon. Nobody in the room paid the slightest attention except Mina, who looked up and smiled. Preen snapped out of her swoon and threw her arms around Yashim’s neck. “I thought you were a builder! I might not have recognized you anyway. It’s been months.”
Yashim grinned. Preen’s sense of time had always been elastic, stretching or shrinking according to her mood; but she lived in a world that was more vivid and extravagant than his, where the boundaries between reality and make-believe were fluid. Long ago, as a boy, Preen had been trained as a kocek dancer, as sultry and provocative as any of the kocek “girls” who danced at weddings and parties and reunions in the great city of Istanbul. No one knew exactly how or when the kocek traditions had evolved: perhaps they had danced for the emperors of Byzantium, perhaps they had come with the Turks from the steppe; but they were, like the dogs or the gypsies, as much a part of the city as the sunshine or the damp.
Preen had not lost her zest, nor her sense of humor, when she set aside her wigs and bustiers in favor of a bristled scalp and loose pajamas. There was gray in the bristle now, and her face bore no trace of makeup beyond a little rouge, some antimony, and a touch of the eyebrow pencil and the kohl. She was wearing an embroidered scarlet waistcoat. Two of the fingers of her right hand were permanently crooked, the result of an accident involving an assassin and a tricky flight of stairs.
“Months, Preen? More like a week.”
“A week for me-it’s a month! I don’t have time to sleep, Yashim, honestly.” Her fingers fluttered to her eyes. “Do I look tired?” She sounded chirpy, but Yashim was familiar with Preen’s methods, her underlying anxieties.
“Tired? You’re crackling with energy, I can feel it. You look like a new-”
“I am a new woman, Yashim.”
They both laughed.
“It’s true-that accident was the best thing that could have happened to me. It made me think. Face it, Yashim, I was getting too old to dance every night.”
“You were dancing as well as ever.”
Preen smiled. “I’ve seen too many dancers grow old, Yashim. The theater will be something different.” She pronounced it tay-atre, the French way Yashim had used when he first explained the idea. “I’ve got jobs for three of the older girls when we open, selling tickets and sherbet and coffee.”
Yashim had been astonished by Preen’s talent for organization. Gone was the dancer who worked for tips from clients, who fretted about her vanishing good looks, who slept and danced and whiled away whole days in the hammam. As soon as she had grasped the idea of a theater she had set about it with enthusiasm. She tracked down good premises in Pera, found a team of builders and bent them to her will, planned the bill and organized the decor-all in the space of a few months. Preen had an unexpected streak of steel. She took no nonsense, brooked no contradictions. But she lavished praise where it was due.
She lavished it on him, of course. Yashim only hoped that he was right: that Pera could support a theater. It
