A question for a question. Yashim took a side step: “Three years ago you burned his yali — as a warning.”
“I have good reason to remember that.” Galytsin smiled, showing a row of perfect teeth. “Try the jam, Yashim efendi. But no, believe it or not, that was his concubine.”
The tea burned Yashim’s tongue. Galytsin pushed the jam toward him. “It seems to me, Yashim efendi, that you know very little about the pasha.”
Yashim tried the jam. Galytsin leaned back and stuck his foot up on the next chair.
“Pervyal.” He twisted his hand in the air and a liveried footman stepped forward with a box. “Fevzi Ahmet bought a concubine on the Black Sea coast,” the prince remarked, selecting a cigar. “Smoke?”
Yashim shook his head.
“Pervyal,” Galytsin repeated, putting the cigar into his mouth. “She was beautiful, and clever, too, in the Circassian way.” The footman presented a match to the end of his cigar, but the prince ignored him. “More beautiful than his wife, naturally. In Istanbul, she would have fetched thousands-and the imperial harem would have taken her.”
Yashim put a smear of jam onto his croissant. “So how did he buy her?”
“A very good question, which Fevzi didn’t think to ask.”
The footman struck another match, and this time Galytsin presented the tip of his cigar to the flame. He drew on it, turning it fussily this way and that, until the flame was almost touching the man’s fingers.
“I imagine Fevzi Ahmet thought the dealer was doing him a favor. He brought her back, and installed her in his harem-he told her he would marry her when she produced a son. His wife had given birth to a daughter. Pervyal was very helpful. A very good second mother to the child.”
“So-?”
“Pervyal got pregnant. It was a boy. He was dead when she gave birth.”
“And Fevzi Ahmet-”
“Didn’t marry her, no. He wanted a live boy. But Fevzi Ahmet told her next time, it would be all right.” He blew a ring of smoke into the air. “She miscarried. She became-difficult. She spent a lot of time with the little girl, but the wife didn’t trust her.”
“I can understand.”
“Fevzi Ahmet became Kapudan pasha. Mahmut told him to build the bridge.” Galytsin dropped his hand toward his cup, and the footman reached forward with the teapot. “He was less often at home. Two women, a child, a eunuch attendant-you might say it was a combustible situation. And Pervyal had a flaw.”
“A flaw?”
Galytsin leaned forward with a look of amusement. “That’s what the dealer had recognized. I don’t know if you are a superstitious man, Yashim efendi, but some people would say Pervyal was a witch.”
Yashim shook his head. “I don’t understand-you talk about this woman as if you knew her.”
“Oh, yes.” He examined his cigar. “I am-or rather, I was-her employer. Her dealer, I should say. It was me who sold her, Yashim efendi.”
Yashim reached for his cup and drained it. “You sold her to Fevzi Ahmet?”
Galytsin chuckled. “I was rather better than that. I sold her to the sultan.”
Yashim stared.
“It’s good to see your face, Yashim efendi! I knew nothing about Pervyal myself, until she set fire to the yali. We had warships in the Bosphorus then, and she came to us. A very good-looking young woman, with subtle accomplishments. Not a virgin-but there are, apparently, ways of remedying that. We used them.” He waved a hand. “We restored her purity, and arranged her sale-at a distance, of course. Quite a coup, wouldn’t you think? But we overlooked one thing.”
“What?”
“The sultan’s harem is an enclosed world. Pervyal was supposed to report to us-we had arranged a drop-off at the bazaar. When she sent for anything, she was to give the eunuch who shopped for her a purse and he would leave it at the shop. The eunuch and the shopkeeper supposed she was sending money to her family. It was a perfect system, except that she never made a report.”
Yashim sat back, considering. “Once she was in the harem, she broke the connection?”
“Completely. She was an intelligent woman, and she’d got where she wanted. She used us, of course. We don’t even know her harem name.”
Yashim could not resist a smile at the irony of it. “But why are you telling me this?”
Galytsin drew on his cigar and then, with a curiously vulgar expression, sent a smoke ring wobbling across the table.
“I don’t like being used, Yashim efendi. But I am generous to my friends. I want you to consider it. Fevzi’s concubine tricked me, and you might say she is tricking you. Your people. You could take it as a tip.”
Yashim stood up. “Thank you for the breakfast. If I may ask-when you say ‘subtle accomplishments’?”
Galytsin spread his hands. “Well-trained. Elegant manners.”
Yashim smiled. “They all have elegant manners, your highness.”
133
Tulin stepped to the window and looked out over the gray leaded roofs and curving domes of Topkapi, here and there touched by pockets of melting snow.
Her face was grave; she had not slept well, visited by dreams in which the valide was dead, or trapped in a room engulfed in flames. She had woken from one such dream beating her hands on the quilt, surprised to find herself in a cold room, the morning already advanced.
Quickly she broke the ice on the washbasin, and splashed her face. With a grimace she let her shift slip to the floor, then stepped forward and cupped the water in her hands and dashed it over her neck and breasts.
She dried herself carefully with a towel and picked up the shift, which she folded and laid on the bed.
She rummaged in the bags hanging against the walls, finding a pretty patterned jacket she didn’t recognize. She held it up. When she tried it on, it fitted well; she smoothed her hands down the sides and wished she had a mirror.
After a while she grew bored of staring out over the Topkapi rooftops. It was only in one corner, beyond a dome, that she could discern the outline of the land beyond: the Galata Tower and the trees of Taksim, where they kept the water.
134
The wind had dropped. On the Bosphorus, the water ran black and smooth; the waters of the Golden Horn were oiled like old steel. Sultan’s weather, they called it, for the official opening ceremony of the bridge.
It had snowed before dawn, and by midmorning, when the sun came out, most of the alleys and thoroughfares of the city were a laced tangle of mud and standing ice; the air was clear, and the skyline of the seven hills was picked out sharply against a cold blue sky.
The bridge cast a crisp black shadow on the water. Its planks were swept, and glistened darkly in the frosty air; its parapets were entwined with glossy leaves, with here and there a spray of yellow flowers.
Crowds thronged the shoreline on the Pera side, and spilled through the gates that opened in Istanbul’s Byzantine walls, their appetite whetted by the scent of roasted chestnuts and corncobs grilling on little fires. A man with long mustaches raked stuffed mussels over a brazier. The simit seller wandered through the crowd, with his distinctive bread rings on a tray on his head. The sherbet seller followed him, clinking two glasses between finger and thumb, and the water man, with his tank on his back. Boys darted through the crowd with roasted chickpeas in paper bags, and the sahlep men pushed their trolleys along the waterfront, offering their concoction of sweet orchid root sprinkled with ginger and cinnamon.
