Pascali's Island (15 page)

I glanced at Mahmoud Pasha and Izzet. It was obvious that neither of them was at all interested in what the Englishman was saying. This lump of marble must have come as a distinct anticlimax.

'It is Pendelic marble,' Mister Bowles said, 'and you know what that means, of course. Then there is this. This is quite a different kind of object.' His hand was in his bag again. His voice, I noticed now, was calmer, more deliberate in falsehood than in the blurts of his everyday speech. 'Less interesting perhaps than the head,' he said.

He laid on the table, alongside the head, a thick circlet of metal, in which were set blue stones. The metal had a yellowish gleam. 'Roughly the same period, I should say,' he said. 'I have a theory about these things, actually.'

'He says it belongs to the same period,' I said, abetting Mister Bowles in the absurd pretence that Izzet and the Pasha were interested in the historical aspect. The circlet I had not seen before.

Mahmoud Pasha picked it up, looked at it against the light, weighed it in his palm. 'Alti' he said. 'It is gold.' His voice sounded changed to me, everything seemed changed, voices, light, above all Mister Bowles, standing upright before the desk – by 'upright' I am describing only his posture, Excellency, not his character as I now viewed it.

'The Vali remarks that it is gold,' I said.

'Oh, yes, it's gold all right,' Mister Bowles said, with studious seriousness as if this mere utterance of avarice on the Pasha's part had been a contribution to the discussion about the date. 'Yes, that is quite true, and I take your point that gold was not mined here, but the workmanship, you will notice, is Greek. These islands were importing gold from Africa in the third century. The stones, of course, are turquoises.'

Clever of him to produce this valuable object only second, showing that his interests were scholarly, not grossly material; thus maintaining at these culminating moments the pose that had deceived us all.

Izzet Effendi leaned forward, passing a thin hand over his mouth and jaw. 'Gold?' he said.

Mahmoud Pasha passed the circlet over to him and he peered closely at it for several moments with various exclamations of piety – his religious feelings roused by the sight of such wealth. He was making as if to pass it back to his overlord, but Mister Bowles politely intercepted it, laid it back on the table, alongside the head. 'Then there are these few things,' he said, ferreting once more in his bag. He placed on the table various shards of pottery and a small terracotta jar with a broken handle. 'They were all together in the one place,' he said. 'Red-figured, the fragments. Corinthian, by the look of it.'

This said, he returned quietly to his seat. There ensued a heavy silence among the four of us in that room. Mister Bowles looked politely at the window. Izzet and the Pasha looked at each other and at him. They were handicapped, of course, fatally handicapped from the start. A prospect of great wealth was being opened out before them, with dazing suddenness – if the Englishman were the mooncalf he seemed. And he was, he must be. Who but a mooncalf would have been willing to pay so much for the lease? And now, declaring his finds in this way… You begin to see, Excellency, the beauty of the conception?

'How did you find these objects?' Izzet wanted to know. He peered at Mister Bowles as if scenting carrion.

Mister Bowles explained, with my assistance, that he had been exploring the remains of the Roman villa up there, that he had in his scrambling happened to dislodge some loose stones and rubble immediately below the arch of the doorway – there was only this one arch left standing. Perhaps they did not know, he said in parenthesis, that the Virgin Mary was said to have spent her last days here, after the death of Christ? He did not think this could be so, the villa being of too early a date, though it was possible, certainly it was possible. He had gone head over heels himself, he said. When he picked himself up he saw that the fall of stone had revealed a cavity in the hillside which narrowed into what looked like a vertical shaft, or perhaps part of another house, built lower down. He had not been able to explore this because of the danger of further landslips. But he had found the objects in question just inside the opening, lying all together.

'My theory is,' said Mister Bowles, 'that the villa was built on or near the site of an earlier house, by that time in ruins. They probably used the same foundations, without looking at what was underneath. There was a sanctuary to Artemis there from very early times. That argues a certain population. I think these objects are part of a collection formed by the owner of the earlier house, probably sometime during the period of the Attalids. Someone very wealthy. Perhaps from Ephesus or Pergamum.'

'And the rest of the collection?' Izzet said.

'I think it is there,' Mister Bowles said, without a tremor. 'There, underneath the villa, you know.'

There was another, longish pause. Then Mister Bowles said, 'Tell them I will double the money, if they will agree to let me excavate the site.'

I put this offer to the Pasha, who rested for a full minute in profound immobility. Then he said, 'I wish to confer with my land-agent. Will you wait outside for a little while?'

Mister Bowles sauntered casually to the table and slipped the circlet into his pocket. The other things he left there. Then we obediently filed out. We left them there together, Excellency. Mahmoud Pasha obese and torpid, Izzet delicate and peering. Turk and Arab – physically they could not have been more dissimilar; but the contrast was only superficial: they were two men in the toils of an identical dream.

They did not keep us waiting long. Standing at his desk the Pasha delivered the answer that I – and I am sure Mister Bowles too – had expected.

'We cannot extend the lease,' he said.

'Amend,' I said. 'Not extend.'

It was my care for words that led me to the foolishness of thus correcting him. He looked at me steadily and without expression for some moments. I felt a chill in the region of the spine. My superior vocabulary will not help me, if once I fall into his hands.

'Neither,' Izzet said. 'We can agree to neither. These objects are the property of the government.'

Mister Bowles rose and moved with apparent casualness towards the desk. 'I am aware of that,' he said. 'And I intend to see that they are handed over to the proper authorities in Constantinople.' Without haste, watching Izzet and Mahmoud steadily, he returned the objects to the depths of his bag, adding to them the circlet from his pocket. He used only his left hand for this. The right remained by his side. 'I shall see to it personally,' he said. 'As I am sure you know, a collection is currently being formed by the Ministry at Gulhane, as the nucleus of a National Museum.'

I translated these remarks to them, watching as I did so Mister Bowles take up the bag, again using only his left hand. The right remained by his side, hanging loosely, fingers open. I glanced round the room for places of cover, but saw none.

'Has he told anyone else of this?' Izzet said. No, it appeared that he hadn't.

'And the papers, has he them with him?' Izzet looked quickly at his master. 'Perhaps,' he said, 'if we could see the papers…'

Mister Bowles's blue gaze was expectantly on me. I felt the perspiration break out on my body. If once they got their hands on the papers it would be all up with us.

'They want to know if you have the documents with you,' I said. 'For God's sake, say no.'

'You can tell them,' he said, very coldly, 'that the contract, and the receipt, are deposited under seal, with instructions for forwarding, in the event of my non-return, to the British Consul at Smyrna. Together with a note setting out the circumstances.'

I should have known, of course, that he would not fall into such a trap. Not the man before me, with his hand ready by his side. The trouble was that I was still seeing him partly as the victim, the dupe – so strong had been that earlier impression of his simplicity.

'He will never get a permit,' Izzet said. 'It would need a firman, from Constantinople. That would take longer than three weeks. The lease will have expired.'

'In that case, I will simply have to report my discoveries to the Ministry,' Mister Bowles said. 'They will do the excavating, I suppose. A pity, because I should have liked my name to be associated with the discoveries, especially if they turn out, and I think they will, to be of first importance.'

'The lease must revert to us,' Izzet said. His eyes were moist with rage.

'But it has three weeks to run,' I said. In spite of my fear some relish at their discomfiture must have showed in my voice, because Izzet looked at me with sudden intensity. 'You,' he said, 'I advise you to be careful.'

'The land is my property,' the Pasha said, and his voice was thick with contempt for the foreigner, contempt for all restriction, law and limit. 'My property,' he repeated. He raised one heavy hand and loosened his tunic at the neck. A vein had become prominent at his temple.

Still holding the bag in his left hand, Mister Bowles moved towards the door, keeping them both within his sight. I rose with alacrity and followed. He was at the door when Izzet spoke.

'We will buy it back,' Izzet said. 'We will buy back the lease from you.'

'They say they will buy it.' I translated quite mechanically -past all astonishment now.

'Buy it?' Mister Bowles paused, as if this was quite a new idea. 'I dare say they want to see their names associated with the exhibits when they appear in the new museum at Gulhane,' he said. 'Well, it's natural, I suppose.'

I translated this.

'Yes, yes,' Izzet said eagerly. 'That is the reason.'

'Well, now,' Mister Bowles said. 'This puts a new slant on things, you know. Naturally, in view of the inconvenience, the disruption to my research and so on, I should have to ask rather more than I gave. I think seven hundred liras would be a fair figure.'

Seven hundred liras, Excellency. That is a good sum of money, even in these days. It is considerably more than my yearly income. I saw Izzet's eyelids fluttering.

'They have till noon tomorrow,' Mister Bowles said. 'I will wait at my hotel.'

We left them sitting there. No move was made to hinder our departure, no sound came after us. In the fiacre, on the way back, neither of us said much. Once or twice, at the beginning, Mister Bowles breathed deeply and audibly, the only sign of tension that he showed. Once I saw a smile on his face. I myself was silent. Vistas were opening before me, a way at last of breaking out. I was content to wait, plan my tactics. I have him in the hollow of my hand, Excellency.

I have slept, woken, slept again – both sleep and waking filled with the wondrous events of yesterday. Early still – the dawn prayer has just sounded. Hot already, and absolutely still. The imbat which has been troubling us lately has dropped. Striations of light across the sea, paling with distance, continuing into the long motionless plumes of cloud on the horizon. The verge so ethereal that cloud above seems denser, like further masses of land. Then the true land, the shapes of islands, glimpsed beyond. Layer upon layer, zone upon zone. Most beautiful and bewildering – liquid and solid, reality and illusion, form and light all confounded.

Through these soft distances, as it were through the hems of light, I hear the cries of sheep. The slaughter has begun. Today is the tenth day of Zilhijje. Throughout your possessions, Excellency, wherever the green flag of the Prophet is flown, they will be sharpening their knives. Thousands upon thousands of beasts bleeding their lives into the earth, their heads held towards Mecca. Killed soberly, in the Turkish fashion.

Today too – and now I am making Your Excellency privy to my criminal projects – today I intend to extort money from Mister Bowles. Did I not say at the outset that I would hide nothing from you? I must have money, my life is impossible here. I must get to Constantinople, make full enquiry into the neglect of my reports…

When I saw him lay the head on the desk, after the first shock at his perfidy, my real, my overwhelming feeling was one of identity with him. No, more intimate than that, an effect of fusion. I remember again Herr Gesing's hands locked together.

Eng verbunden. Artist and trickster. I know he despises me, has done so from the very start. But it is the me in him that he despises. Adepts both at the partial lie, blends of reality and illusion. Now I understand better my distress when I saw him sporting with Lydia. Mister Bowles produced a real head in an imaginary setting. What more can art do?

Think of the beauty of the idea, Excellency. Everything he has done, everything he has said, has been essential to his effect. No gesture has been superfluous. No doubt afar off he got wind of things here, a whiff of the pickings, so to speak. He must have arrived with the project already formed in his mind-with some room for improvisation, of course. Never was there wolf in better tailored sheep's clothing. Touch by touch he created himself for us, allowed us to create him, an image of forthright-ness and simple decency. The disapproval with which he greeted my chatter about my poor mother; the crashing rectitude of the sentiments he expressed to Herr Gesing about morality in politics; his ethical approach to painting: – all part of his design.

Seeing so quickly the use he could make of me was perhaps the most brilliant part of his whole campaign. He had recognised my corruption at once-seen himself in me, Excellency, though despising it. It was a faiblesse that made me the perfect agent for dealing with people like Izzet and Mahmoud Pasha. Subtle enough, crooked enough, to convince men so dishonest of his total honesty.

And they, what can they do? Publicity of any kind would be the death of their hopes. They dare not leave him long on the site. They can neither act against him, nor wait. All they can do is pay.

Excellency, since I wrote those last words, not more than three hours ago, I have got on to a new footing with Mister Bowles, our relationship has changed greatly. I am now, up to a point, his partner in this enterprise. One hundred and fifty liras is promised me, more money than I have ever had in my possession. I shall save my skin, get off the island. Not only that. The money will be sufficient for me to stay in Constantinople, find out – at last – what has been happening to my reports. It is many years since I felt such joy, Excellency, such pure joy.