“Of course. But don’t forget the girl. Melda.”
“I won’t.”
Yashim shook his head. He wanted to say he was sorry for being short with her that morning; that Tulin could have told the valide the news about Hyacinth, after all. But they had an understanding now, and there was no need to say anything.
105
Palewski glanced around a little furtively, then draped himself over the parapet of the new bridge and inhaled the scent of grilling fish.
It wasn’t bad; not bad at all. The convenience of it! And a little restaurant underneath, too, to sit out in the spring sunshine and watch the boats go by.
He glanced up and down. He wasn’t the only person admiring the new bridge. It was as if the whole of Istanbul had chosen that afternoon to inspect this novel adornment to the city. It wasn’t beautiful. At best, with its sturdy pontoons and hefty plankwork, it was impressively functional.
And its function, Palewski had to admit, was almost sublime. He had thought of it, when it was being built, as a dreary commonplace, a purely commercial affair to allow the passage of goods and men between Istanbul and Pera. People tramping back and forth, muddying the distinction between the two: French hatters opening shops in the bazaar, perhaps; imams sallying forth to wag a finger at the more scurrilous delights of Pera.
And yet-a bridge!
He looked up and, seeing a familiar figure approaching him across the planks, he raised a finger in the frosty air. “You see, Kadri,” he announced. “This bridge is already performing its essential function.”
Kadri looked surprised. He bowed. “I am very pleased to meet you here, Palewski efendi.” After a moment’s hesitation he added: “Its essential function?”
“Yes. I was thinking, a bridge is a forced marriage, if you like. Istanbul and Pera clapped together. Pompous groom. Reluctant bride.”
“But which is which?”
Palewski shook his head. “It’s not altogether like that, Kadri. I see it now. Not a marriage at all. The bridge,” he added, with an air of serious triumph, “is a trysting place.”
Kadri looked expectantly at the older man, and said nothing.
“A trysting place, Kadri. Where the lovers meet.”
“I see,” the boy said doubtfully.
“Not lovers in the literal sense, of course.” He waved his hand. “Air of license. Ladies out for a walk. Pashas saluting. Hobbling Sufis and swaggering tars. Jolly fellows all about. Everyone cheerful and bright-eyed, somehow. You know what it reminds me of? You should know.”
Kadri looked round pensively. “The theater?”
“Intelligent boy. Forget your ragged crew, all that paint and declamation. This is the real theater in Istanbul. Long may it last!”
Kadri raised his arm and pointed. “Here comes Yashim efendi!”
106
The man with the knife stood in the low doorway of the caravansary, rubbing his chest.
He had hoped the welt would fade; it was less than a scratch, after all, the skin scarcely broken, and there had been no blood. But it did not fade. It felt hot, instead, and around it the skin was flushed. In the mornings, when he moved his arms, the welt was sore.
The guardian of the caravansary received him doubtfully. He was not a merchant, with goods to protect; nor did men wander at this time of year, looking for work.
“Three days,” he said reluctantly. “Three days, then you’ll move on, see?”
For a day and a night the man slept, feverishly. On the second day he showed the guardian his wound.
A doctor was fetched. He frowned at the scratch, and prepared a hot poultice to draw the poison out.
But the man knew what happened when a mad dog bit you and drew blood. It could be weeks, or months, but in the end you went mad, too, and died.
The pasha’s life hung by a tiny thread.
He had so very little time.
107
Yashim walked with his head down, lost in the crowd and oblivious to the great stream of humanity that swirled around him as he descended to the shore of the Golden Horn.
“Fine times, efendim! It’s our work, every inch-and every inch will get you closer! Bring the ladies! All safe, all sound!”
Beside him, men were shouting and laughing.
Yashim heard their words and saw their happy faces, but he made nothing of it. He could not rid himself of the possibility that Hyacinth had taken his own life. He may have slipped on the ice and overbalanced. He was an old man, after all. But he had asked, “Is it true?” Yashim had said that yes, he believed it to be true: the valide would be moving to Besiktas. And Hyacinth might not be going.
The memory turned like the wheels of the cart that Yashim was following at a cautious distance, to avoid the splash as it lurched into a puddle of dirty water freckled with recent snow. The cartwheels bounced, and began to drum as if they were running over the deck of a ship.
The traffic was busier than usual: he’d never seen or heard so many carts and porters scurrying about here on a winter’s evening.
He hunched his shoulders against the wind, and looked up for a caique.
Hyacinth fell, he repeated to himself. Hyacinth fell against the palace balustrade, in the snow.
He blinked and looked around. He saw a balustrade beside him: higher, perhaps, and made of wood.
“Try it, efendim! No charge-Pera to Istanbul!”
Happy men were standing in a knot, urging people on with their arms.
Yashim took a step forward. He glanced down, astonished to see his feet planted on wooden planks. All around him was a seething mass of people, laughing and pointing, dodging the carts that thundered across the planks.
He stopped. An old man was coming toward him, planting his stick carefully on the boards, grinning and nodding.
“See that, efendi! See that! Don’t be afraid. I did it with my stick-seventy years I’ve waited for this day! Never left Stamboul before. Free! It’s free!”
A ragged-looking man with a shock of corkscrew hair shot through the crowd. He was barefoot, and intent, and he carried a small bag in his fist.
The crowd parted automatically to let him through, and through the gap Yashim recognized two familiar faces.
They swept him up, arm in arm.
“I was just telling our young friend, Yashim, that the bridge is a splendid piece of theater. Istanbul meets Pera-the old empire and the new Europe! Preen should mount a tableau.”
Yashim said nothing. Only when they had stepped onto land, and were at the bottom of the steps that led to the Galata Tower, did he stop and turn, looking back at the bridge. He shook his head. “Our navy,” he said at last.
