4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight (16 page)

“Ah, I see, he gets in trouble.”

Manuel nodded vigorously. “He gets us both in trouble. He acts before he thinks, while I like to think things through.”

As I smiled at Manuel’s unassuming assessment, the boy surprised me by drawing a square of folded cream-colored paper out of his woolen waistcoat. “Before I forget, we stopped at the Post. This letter is addressed to you.”

I immediately saw that Benito had forwarded another missive from Alessandro. My pulse quickened. Why was my brother writing again so soon? He had closed yesterday’s letter with the intention of boarding a ship for Varna. With the unexpected missive burning like a hot coal in my pocket, I endured the rest of the ride to the villa, then another extended rehearsal.

Karl was in a particularly dark mood. He dismissed the others and drilled me through all six of my solo arias. Try as I might, I didn’t seem to be able to produce the precise effects he intended. The more I taxed my throat, the more zealous his corrections. Threatening to recall me if he thought of anything further, he finally ended my torture and I was able to escape to my room. Gussie had not returned from his painting, but I could wait no longer. I tore into the letter.

Constantinople, 5th September 1740

My dear family,

Have I told you what a clever, sweet wife I have? Behind Zuhal’s beautiful black eyes lies a brain that sometimes astonishes even me. She sends her greetings, by the way. Especially to you, Annetta. We have both been worrying over your condition, so much so that Zuhal consulted a wise woman well-known in our district. From her, she obtained the recipe for a cordial said to raise the spirits of women laid low by childbirth. I copied it into Italian and will enclose it in these pages. We pray it brings the roses back to your cheeks.

And what besides recipes, you may ask, makes Zuhal such a prize among women? Simply that she has saved me no end of time and trouble. The day after my visit to The Red Tulip, she was helping me pack my case for a departure on the morning tide. Cursing the bargain I’d made with Sefa, I had arranged passage on a sloop bearing grain to the Balkans. So you can see how my wife proposed her splendid plan, I will recount the scene in its entirety.

Zuhal began by observing that I had not told Sefa about the Frankish man who appeared at the yali to collect the body of the other red-haired woman. “Did you think that Danika’s lover couldn’t bear the truth?” she asked, handing me a woolen scarf to wear onboard ship.

I confess I was nonplused for a moment, surprised that Zuhal knew of such relationships between women. When will I learn? Though they watch the world from behind the veil, these Turkish women know everything.

“I didn’t think that Sefa would believe me,” I answered. “She has little reason to trust the word of any man. She demands tangible proof.”

“The silver ring.”

“Either the ring or the name of Danika’s brother.”

“Surely it is not an expensive piece—this ring. Not worth stealing, I mean.”

“No, Yanus would never have allowed either of the women to keep anything of value. The ring is merely a trinket, probably more lead than silver. Sefa told me she’d scratched a crude drawing of entwined hearts into its soft metal.”

“Then…” Zuhal bent to unpack my case.

“Wait! What are you doing, woman?” I was annoyed, you see, in no mood for delay.

She straightened, smiling. “We both know where the ring must be, husband. Retrieve it and save yourself a journey into the wilds of the mountains.”

I stood astounded. Could my wife possibly mean what I thought? The ring likely encircled the finger of a rotting corpse sealed within the coffin beneath Grisella’s grave marker. Did Zuhal mean for me to dig it up?

“Why not?” she said. “All manner of grief could overtake you on this journey. The ship could encounter foul weather or pirates, and once you’ve reached Varna, you still have to cross mountains and forests filled with runaway peasants who would kill a man for a pair of boots, much less a good horse.”

“I’m not afraid. Before I met you, I traveled through worse places and lived to tell the tale.”

Zuhal came to my side and pressed her head onto my shoulder. “I know how brave you are, but I would die of worry if you took off to the Balkans by yourself. I suffer badly enough when you sail to Venice in a convoy protected by a military fleet.” She underscored her words with a fervent caress.

The rest of the evening would be of no interest to you. Let me just say that I eventually came to see the wisdom in Zuhal’s plan. Though the idea of opening the grave was distasteful, the sooner I delivered proof of Danika’s fate to Sefa, the sooner I would know what devilment Grisella and Chevrier had been up to. Happily, I had only one day to wait until the dark of the moon. Plenty of time to make the necessary arrangements.

Christians have been buried in the cemetery behind the church of St. Anthony since the days of Byzantine rule, protected by an iron fence and a hedge of interlocking evergreens. It is fortunate that the Greek churches follow the practice of the Roman in leaving the transept open so their faithful can offer up prayers at any time they feel the need. Abusing their generosity made me feel like a scoundrel, but as our Aunt Carlotta used to say, “Needs do as needs must.”

So, one hour past midnight, stealing myself to the shame of idolatry and reciting the most beautiful names of Allah in my head, I entered a side chapel and made a show of kissing St. Anthony’s feet. I lit a candle and fell to my knees, straining my ears for the step of a priest or sacristan. I needn’t have bothered. The church was deserted and utterly quiet. After a few minutes I made my way through a back door, crossed to the cemetery gate, and undid the bolt. Yusuf Ali and several loyal workers from our warehouse awaited me, all clad in black robes.

The rest was a vile business. I had provided our party with sharp spades, but the ground was hard from the dry summer and the sexton had buried the coffin deep. Taking turns, the workers and I dug for what seemed like hours. Yusuf Ali kept watch in a sliver of light emitted by a lantern with a sliding shade. Just when I was coming to the conclusion that the grave must be empty after all, my spade clunked on wood.

At my muffled cackle of success, my father-in-law jumped down into the pit and opened the lantern’s shade to its fullest. He helped me scrape dirt from the coffin lid and then produced a hammer and chisel from beneath his robes. After working the blade beneath the lid, Yusuf Ali paused to question me with his loving gaze. “My son,” he asked, “are you prepared for whatever we may find?”

Covering my nose with the sleeve of my jacket, I urged him to proceed.

Nails ripped through wood, and a sickening miasma enveloped us. Dust to dust, the priests say, but this once lovely girl had yet to become one with the earth. Strands of rusty red hair surrounded a face that had melted into a nightmare mask of teeth, bone, and blackened hide. A shroud stained with the fluids of corruption covered what was left of the body. In truth, family, if it had been Grisella, I would never have recognized her.

Yusuf Ali discovered the ring that told the tale. As he tried to wrest it from the little finger of the corpse’s left hand, that appendage snapped like a dry twig. He handed it to me. With bile rising in my throat, I removed the slim circle and held it to the lantern. The metal was dull and dark, but the design inscribed on it was still visible: two overlapping hearts.

By the time I reached home, pink streaks shone in the eastern sky, and the crescent sails of fishing boats bobbed atop the waters of the Golden Horn. I thought I might never sleep again, certain I would see Danika’s grotesque skull whenever I closed my eyes, but I was wrong. I had barely told Zuhal all that had occurred when I sank into dreamless oblivion with my head in her lap. That night, refreshed in body and spirit, I set out for Pera. Without Calamaro.

Yanus raised his eyebrows when he found me sitting on his anteroom divan, but his surprise didn’t cripple his bargaining skills. To gain admittance to Sefa’s chamber, I had to give nearly twice what I’d paid before. The woman jumped up from her bed the minute I’d shut the door behind me.

“What are you doing here?” Trembling with anger, Sefa threw a shawl over her gauzy nightshift and faced me squarely. Her voice rose to a shriek. “You’re supposed to be on your way to Wallachia.”

Promising news, I insisted that she quiet down. As she scanned my solemn features, her anger quickly turned to fright. She seemed to steel herself for the worst.

I began by placing the ring in her hand. By the time I had finished recounting our foray to the cemetery, Sefa had stumbled backward to the bed and covered her face with her hands. Sobbing mightily, she asked me questions I couldn’t answer. How was Danika killed? Had she suffered?

I will never understand women. I wanted to help, I truly did. I tried to comfort Sefa with words, then produced a handkerchief and started to wipe her cheeks. She twisted angrily away. “Get out,” she cried. “Just go. I need to be alone.” In case I didn’t fully understand, she grabbed a candlestick from the bedside table and threw it at my head.

I hopped backward, dodging. “I can’t go,” I said firmly. “I’ve kept my part of our bargain, and you owe me some information. I won’t leave until I have it.”

Sefa pushed herself up on one hand. Her dark hair streamed over her shoulders, making a frame for the pale face harshened by grief. She answered in a guttural whisper. “Not now, damn you. Some other time.”

I’m not proud of my next words, but the prospect of returning to The Red Tulip turned my stomach. “I’ve paid for your time, and dearly, too. Do you want me to call Yanus and demand he return my money? Tell him you’re less than satisfactory?”

Sefa wasn’t a woman to be trifled with. She hissed like a cornered cat, then lay back and pulled the bedclothes over her head. I slowly counted to twenty, then clicked the door open and called for a servant. In low tones, I told the boy what I wanted.

A whisper escaped the satin quilt. “You bastard. Yanus will beat me until I can’t stand.”

I crossed the floor and jerked her cover off. “I ordered wine, but if you don’t start talking, Yanus will be next.”

Sefa called me every vile name the Turkish language contains, adding a few Arabic and Italian for good measure. She was starting on her stock of Greek curses when the wine arrived. Red-eyed and resentful, Sefa clutched her glass and drained it dry before she would consent to talk sensibly. Even then, the facts of the matter were liberally mixed with outbursts of grief-distraught anger. I will endeavor to summarize.

On her knees in the passage beside Yanus’ office, ear glued to the wall, Sefa had listened in on a conversation. She had risked sneaking away from her work because she had observed Yanus ushering in “a very tall Russian gentleman of military bearing.” Apparently, it was Yanus’ bowing and scraping that had aroused her curiosity. Sefa couldn’t remember when her owner and tormentor had bent his knee to anyone.

Yanus addressed the Russian only as Your Illustrious Highness. Over and over, the brothel owner begged his pardon for the necessity of arranging the meeting in such squalid conditions and apologized for being part of such an appalling business. For his part, the Russian replied in frosty tones and refused offers of food or drink as if Yanus were offering him the dog’s dinner. The Russian soon wearied of Yanus’ fawning and declared that he would depart if Chevrier was not brought to him immediately. This was followed by scurrying steps and a door opening and closing.

That part of the conversation was conducted in Turkish, but once Yanus had delivered Chevrier and departed, French became the order of the day. Sefa had only a smattering of that language, but she understood the most important point: Chevrier had come by the property of some very exalted person named Anna and was holding it for ransom. The Russian gentleman was furious, but willing to pay handsomely for its return.

Sefa believed that Grisella must have stolen a casket of fabulous jewels from this Anna and was using Chevrier as her middleman. I was beginning to form another idea.

I asked if anyone had uttered a word about gems or jewelry.

She admitted not.

Then I exhorted the unhappy woman to think back to anything that might help me piece the puzzle together.

Sefa’s swollen eyelids drooped. She drove her fingers along her scalp and pulled at her hair. “I’ve told you everything. Something was handed over.
Money was exchanged. I don’t know what it was for.”

“Did they mention a sum?”

“No. I heard clinking sounds, like coins pouring out on a hard surface and being gathered up again. Chevrier said, ‘We have a bargain.’ That’s when I slipped away. I’d been in the passage far too long.”

“Did you see the Russian leave?” I asked.

“Yes,” She replied with a drawn out sigh. “I was pretending to sweep the stairs. The gentleman couldn’t wait to get out of here. Yanus tried more flattering words, but he pushed him aside, grabbed his cloak and hat from the doorkeeper, and marched out without a backward glance.”

“Was the Russian carrying anything?”

“Like what?”

“A box or a bag.”

“Oh.” Sefa squeezed her eyes shut. “No. Whatever Chevrier sold him must have fit in a pocket.”

There was nothing else to be learned at The Red Tulip. I left Sefa to her grief, disappearing as fast as the Russian gentleman.

You have probably come to the same conclusion that I have, family. “This Anna” is undoubtedly Anna Ivanova, Empress of All the Russias, and the Russian gentleman is her consul in Constantinople. Grisella’s association with Count Paninovich must have embroiled her in some very nasty business indeed.