Yashim settled on the hard chair.
Galytsin hesitated. “I am at your disposal, monsieur.”
Yashim inclined his head. “I come from the grand vizier, your highness. Two days ago, at the monastery of Hristos on the island of Chalki, the monks discovered the body of a man. It is possible that he was a Russian. Fair- haired, big, early middle age, with a long scar on his face between the mouth and the ear. Someone disposed of him in the monastery well, where he was found. He may have been in the well for some weeks. His neck was broken, although the condition of the body makes it impossible to tell if he was dead before he was thrown into the well.”
The prince’s expression was impassive. “What makes you believe he was a Russian?”
“There were other signs, your highness.”
“I should hope so.” Galytsin waved a hand. “What you have told me is hardly conclusive. Fair hair? A scar? Why, it covers half the world.”
Yashim reached into his waistcoat and brought out a silk handkerchief.
“This is perhaps more specific,” he said. He dangled the handkerchief over the desk, and something dropped onto the prince’s blotter.
Only Galytsin’s eyes moved. “What is this?”
“The man had a brand, on his inner arm,” Yashim explained. “Something you might recognize.”
Galytsin touched the withered skin with the tip of his letter knife, and glanced up at Yashim.
“Well?”
“A… Totenkopf. ” Yashim frowned with the effort of remembering the unfamiliar word. He spoke many languages, but German was not among them. “A death’s-head.”
Galytsin skewered the flap of skin with his knife. “If, as you say, the man was a Russian,” he began, lifting the blade, “the circumstances are peculiar.”
The flap of skin trembled on the tip of the knife.
“I do not think that Greek monks make a habit of murdering Russians.”
“That was my impression,” Yashim agreed. “But you are in contact with the monastery?”
Galytsin smiled. “The tsar naturally feels sympathy for our coreligionists, the orthodox faithful, wherever they may be,” he said drily.
He leaned aside and dropped the flap of skin into the wastepaper basket.
“Thank the grand vizier for advising me of the unfortunate occurrence. Perhaps you will do me the favor of keeping me informed?”
Yashim got to his feet, and bowed. “I am sure the grand vizier would wish it.”
Galytsin flipped a hand carelessly. When Yashim had gone, he summoned his secretary.
“I want Yashim watched. If Akunin and Shishkin fail me again, I will have them cashiered and sent to Siberia. Make quite sure they understand.”
He sat for a few moments longer, his pale hands folded neatly on the desk.
Galytsin was not a man given to endure disappointment for long. Smaller minds could be frustrated by little setbacks like these; but Galytsin took the longer view.
When you were playing for empires, even a setback could be an opportunity.
22
For Yashim, too, the interview provided an opportunity, for as his caique returned him to Istanbul, it overhauled a fishing boat bringing in the morning’s catch. Back at his apartment, Yashim laid two mackerel on the board. He liked all fish, but mackerel was best: he always liked a mackerel sandwich off the boats that drew up along the Golden Horn in the evening, grilling their fish on shallow braziers along the shore.
Today, he had more elaborate plans.
Taking the sharp kitchen knife an Armenian friend had given him, he made a tiny incision below the gills of each fish. Through the narrow opening he drew out the guts, taking care not to widen the little cuts any further, then he rinsed the fish and laid them back on the board.
He dropped a handful of currants into a bowl and covered them with warm water from the kettle.
With a rolling pin he rolled and bashed the mackerel from the gills to the tail. He snapped the backbones two or three times along their length, pinching the fish between his fingers until the skin was loose. Carefully he began to empty the skin, squeezing the flesh and the bones through the tiny openings.
He picked up the two skins, each still attached to its head and tail, and rinsed them out.
He dried his hands, and peeled and chopped a few shallots. While they softened in the pan, he crushed peeled almonds and walnuts with the rolling pin, chopped them fine with the knife, and stirred them into the shallots with a handful of pine nuts. As they colored he added the currants and a handful of chopped dried apricots. He put cinnamon, allspice berries, and a pinch of cloves into his grinder and ground them over the nuts, adding a dash of kirmizi biber, or black charred chili flakes.
He scraped the flesh from the fish bones and tossed it into the pan with a pinch of sugar.
He chopped parsley and dill, split a lemon, and squeezed it over the stuffing.
It smelled good already. He took a nibble, sprinkled the mix with a pinch of salt and black pepper, then stirred it and took it off the heat.
When it was cool, he stuffed the mixture back into the mackerel skins, squeezing and patting them to restore their shape.
He laid a wire grill over the coals, scattered the fish with flour and oil from his fingers, and laid them on the wire, turning them as they spat and sizzled.
Meanwhile, he sharpened his knife on a stone.
When the mackerel skin was bubbling and lightly browned, he took the fish from the heat and sliced them thickly on the board. Very carefully, he slid the fish onto a plate.
23
In the palace Elif bowed her head and gently touched the strings of her violin, straining to hear their tiny hum. Her face was rapt; it was also very beautiful. All the orchestra girls were beautiful-it went without saying, for they played, and lived, for the pleasure and delight of God’s felicity on earth, Sultan Abdulmecid.
They were dressed almost jauntily a la Franca, their shining hair drawn back and pinned beneath exquisite bejeweled shakos, in green tunics and black trousers. They carried European instruments to match their costume, as was the fashion, though at a word they could have reassembled with traditional tanburs, ouds, and neys, for each of the girls was an adept in either form.
Elif glanced up to where Melda was tuning her mandolin, her ear cocked to the belly of the instrument.
The two girls exchanged smiles.
Smiles were the baksheesh of the harem, of course, like frowns and enthusiasm, frostiness and barbed remarks. A smile or a stamped foot-the harem girls passed them back and forth as minor articles of trade. Behind every gesture lay the desire to be noticed. Behind the desire to be noticed lay the hope of preferment: up the ranks of the harem girls, closer and closer to the body of the man whose life, in a way, these girls were destined to curate.
But the smile that passed between Elif and Melda was a smile of sheer complicity.
Four hundred sequins in silver money, from the room they had sequestered. Two necklaces, one of onyx, one of jasper. A gilded coffeepot, three silk shawls, and a jade mouthpiece that Elif thought was more valuable than she let on.
She turned a peg a fraction and laid a finger to the string, watching the Kislar aga advance steady-paced into the great chamber. Behind him came a crocodile file of elderly women, visiting from Eski Saray-the Ceremony of the Birth was an outing they would relish. The lady Talfa, with her personal black slave, let the older women settle,
