The Baklava Club: A Novel (Investigator Yashim) (7 page)

She gave him a mocking smile. “Independence? It’s not my most obvious quality.”

“Oh, that.
Ce n’est qu’une façon de vivre
.” He dismissed it with a wave, as just a way of life. “In yourself, you’re independent. I daresay it’s the Baltic air.”

“Our sea. Yours and mine.” She leaned her chin on her fist. “The Baltic seems a long way off. In experience, I suppose. Not miles.”

They were silent then. Ever since the pasha’s invitation to shoot, Palewski had spoken to his father in dreams; sniffed the air of early morning; recalled the boy that was. He thought it was age but perhaps he was wrong: the distance was experience, as Birgit said.

She turned from the wisteria and his heart thumped. Her eyes were blue like childhood seas. The sound in his chest was so loud that he leaned back and folded his arms; he was hardly surprised to see someone detach himself from the group around the fireplace.

“Forgive me, Palewski. Your clerical friend confuses me.” It was Fabrizio: he glanced at Birgit. “Are you all right?”

She smiled. “The ambassador needs champagne.” She took Palewski’s glass; her fingers brushed against his and his heart jumped.

“Gentlemen,” he muttered, rising to his feet. “Some more champagne!”

He felt boorish; his feet were heavy. He went to the door, opened it, and stepped onto the landing.

Closing the door behind him, he paused, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed.

“Kyrie? You look pale.” Marta stood with her hands crossed at the wrists.

“Yes, Marta. I think I’ll go upstairs.” He turned, not to see the expression in her face.

13

T
O
Yashim’s surprise, Marta opened the door just as he was about to push the handle.

“Yashim efendi! I’m so glad it’s you,” she said, wringing her hands. “Those Franks are in the drawing room, and the kyrie has gone to bed.”

“To bed?”

“He looked so pale, I am worried about him. There is a new visitor here, too, a priest of the kyrie’s church. The kyrie brought him home from the French embassy.”

Yashim shook his head. “Perhaps I had better go home myself.”

“Oh no, efendi, please! The men are drinking wine. The woman is there, also.”

Yashim grasped Marta’s predicament. “Very well. I’ll talk to the kyrie, and then we’ll see.”

“But he is asleep.”

Yashim felt a flash of irritation with Palewski. “All the more reason, Marta. I’ll dig him out.”

Marta still looked doubtful as he climbed the stairs. Passing the door to the drawing room, he paused to listen to an unfamiliar voice, a high, bluff voice that resounded through the thick panels.

“You’ll not get me to admit that! You’ll not take me along on that line!”

Yashim continued up the stairs, knocked at Palewski’s door, and went in without waiting.

His friend was not asleep: instead, he leaped from the bed as the door opened.

“Oh, it’s you!”

Yashim looked at him curiously. “Marta told me you were looking pale.”

Palewski ran a hand through his hair. “Yes. Poor Marta. I felt—I felt odd. Are they still here?”

Yashim came into the room and closed the door. “You’re ill?”

Palewski sank down onto the bed and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know. I had—well, a sort of shock. A surprise.” His hand dropped and he looked up at Yashim. “I think I fell in love.”

Yashim leaned his back against the door. “Go on.”

Palewski gave a weak laugh. “I’m trying to recover, Yash. She’s half my age, and spoken for. I had to get away.”

“Shall I encourage them to leave?”

“No—yes, that would be best.”

“I’ll say you’re feeling unwell.”

“Don’t—that is, don’t put it like that. Tell them I’ve got something—an appointment.”

“At this hour?”

He left Palewski sitting on the bed, his face buried in his hands. Downstairs he found the Italians in the drawing room, and the priest scribbling at Palewski’s escritoire.

“Signor Yashim!”

There were several empty bottles on the sideboard, and one had rolled close to the window seat where Birgit still sat with her hands folded and a slight smile on her face. Giancarlo was sitting beside her, Rafael at the bookshelves. Fabrizio was bent into an armchair, like a spring, cleaning his nails with a thin knife.

“My apologies, gentlemen, and mademoiselle. I’m afraid that I have detained the ambassador on some government business—he sends his apologies with mine.”

The priest got up from the desk. He bowed slightly and touched his forehead. “Father Doherty,” he said.

“Yashim. I’m an old friend of the ambassador’s.”

“A privilege. I’ve enjoyed Count Palewski’s company since mass today, and am delighted to make the acquaintance of any friend of his. I had an inkling that the ambassador was detained, so I have taken the liberty of writing him a note.” He gestured to the escritoire.

“Of course. I’ll see he gets it.”

“It’s been quite a day!” The priest’s eyes twinkled as he took his leave. “I’ve enjoyed our discussion, Giancarlo, all you young people … well, a pleasure. A very great pleasure.”

When he had gone, Giancarlo asked if Palewski would be coming back. “No? Then we should not disturb him any longer. Come on, boys and girls.”

“But I am comfortable,” Fabrizio protested. “The ambassador doesn’t mind.”

“I say we go.”

The girl at the window seat looked from one to the other, and arched her eyebrows.

“You go if you like,” Fabrizio retorted, lowering his eyelids. His face was slightly flushed. “I want to stay.”

“If it helps, I’m going, too,” Yashim said peaceably. “It’s dark already.”

Birgit got to her feet and picked up her shawl. Giancarlo and Rafael were at the door.

“We’re leaving.” Giancarlo stood looking at Fabrizio.

Fabrizio made a slight movement and something whirred through the air to strike the doorjamb with a soft thud. It happened so quickly that Yashim was not sure what it was.

Giancarlo was the first to move. “You bloody idiot,” he hissed. He reached out and yanked a small knife from the wood. “You could have killed someone.”

Fabrizio smiled. “I wasn’t aiming to kill anyone. It was only a joke.”

Giancarlo glanced at Yashim, awkwardly, his face set. He pressed the knife between his fingers and the blade disappeared; he slipped it into his pocket. “I’m sorry, Signor Yashim.” He lowered his voice. “Fabrizio can be like this when he’s had a bit too much to drink.”

Yashim responded with a murmur; Fabrizio got to his feet.

“Va bene.”

They stood aside to let him pass, then followed down the stairs.

At the door, Yashim gave a sigh of impatience. “I was meant to fetch some papers. You go on.”

They said their farewells. When they had gone, Yashim went upstairs to find Palewski already coming down.

“You got them to go? Thank you.”

“Father Doherty left you a note.”

Palewski took a glass of brandy to the escritoire, and picked up the note. “
Dear Palewski
, blah blah,
great pleasure
 … blah blah …
your young friends … unexpected treat … Father Doherty
. Hmm. Wonder why he bothered, really.”

“Feeling better?”

“Not so mad, at any rate. I suppose it’ll pass. It was just—such a jolt, Yashim. Must have been something in the air, God knows.”

“Hmm. Not the only thing in the air this evening.” Yashim told Palewski about the knife-throwing incident. “Your pretty Dane again, I suspect.”

Palewski took a sip of brandy. “Now you’re making me jealous. Girls like that shouldn’t be let out,” he added. “We should adopt Ottoman practice, keep ’em in the harem.”

Yashim laughed, thinking of Natasha Borisova with the valide at Topkapi. “We seem to have got it the wrong way around today. The beauties running around Istanbul, and the solemn ones in the harem.”

“What d’you mean?”

“A very solemn Russian girl arrived today as the valide’s guest. Natasha Borisova.”

Palewski almost choked on his brandy. “She what? Who?”

“The daughter of Borisov, the Decembrist. He’s in Siberian exile, but she’s elected to travel. While you’ve been drinking with priests and shooting duck with the pasha, I’ve been getting ready to escort Mademoiselle Borisova around the city. I thought I could bring her here, if you’d like.”

“Here?” Palewski glanced around. “Well, why not? Borisov was a good egg, poor fellow. What’s she like?”

Yashim shrugged. “Tired from the journey. She wasn’t very communicative.”

“Pah! Russians don’t tire easily. I expect she’s keeping her mouth shut and her eyes open. I don’t understand why she’s here.”

“She hopes the valide will persuade the sultan to intercede with the tsar on her father’s behalf. He’s been in Siberia for fifteen years or more.”

“That’s nothing.”

“She’s lived there most of her life.”

Palewski looked thoughtful. “It’s strange, her wanting a favor. Last year I’d almost given up on you Ottomans. You remember? Egypt biting your neck, the Russians acting like your big brother, France and England sharpening their knives. And now, it seems, everyone’s turning to the sultan for support.”

“It’s only one woman, hoping to save her father.”

“Of course. It’s only that.” Palewski took his glass to the sideboard. “Brandy?”

Yashim gave him a narrow-eyed look. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Palewski made a business of stooping to fetch the bottle from the cupboard. “A boyish infatuation,” he said, not looking around. “Perfectly absurd.”

“I meant shooting duck with Midhat Pasha.”

Palewski set the bottle on the sideboard, and fiddled with the cork. After a moment he sighed. “All right, Yashim. But I can’t tell you much. Not yet, at least.”

Yashim dropped into Palewski’s comfortable armchair. “So it would seem. You don’t trust me?”

Palewski snorted. “It isn’t about trust. Forgive me—it’s something, I don’t know…” He hesitated, then poured himself a drink. “I’m sorry, Yash. Call it a superstition, if you like. Afraid if I put something into words, it won’t happen.”

“Something you want badly.”

“Badly.”

“Mime it.”

Palewski smiled. “No, it’s too complicated. Too exciting, maybe. It’s just—well, I’m expecting a visitor.”

Yashim waited for him to go on, and when he did not, he prompted: “Someone connected to these Italians?”

“The Italians?” Palewski looked surprised. “Good Lord, no. Rather a big wheel, in my world. Completely different. At least, a difference in scale.”

Yashim shook his head. “You’ve lost me. What scale?”

Palewski came and sat forward in the other armchair, dangling his glass between his knees. “I mean the scale of change, Yashim. The Italians—they want to shift things around in Italy. Good luck to them, I say—though Doherty’s right. They are just babes in arms, really. My business is bigger, and I’ve waited a long time. Keeping the faith, or something like that.”

“So—Poland?”

Palewski tilted his glass and stared for a few moments at the golden liquid. “Europe, perhaps. A feeling exists, Yashim, that the balance of power in Europe is too heavily weighted in one direction. We may have reached a moment that gives us the opportunity to, ah”—he proceeded slowly, choosing his words with elaborate circumlocution—“to attempt some sort of redress. Of the balance. There.”

“And the sultan?” Yashim stared at his friend. “Your big wheel is coming to see him?”

Palewski nodded. He did not need to urge Yashim to secrecy: the trust they had spoken of was absolute.

Yashim blinked. Any change to the balance of European power would have to involve Poland, if Palewski was involved. That affected Russia, and Prussia and the Austro-Hungarian Empire, three highly reactionary regimes that had taken their slice of Palewski’s homeland. He thought of Giancarlo and Rafael, railing against a pope who could not abide a railway line.

“But those boys aren’t involved?”

“Boys? What boys?”

“A moment ago they were your rivals in love. Those boys.”

Palewski started. “The baklava club? Good God, no. This isn’t politics for puppies, Yashim. God forbid they should ever get an inkling…”

“That’s a relief.” Yashim nodded. “As long as you haven’t mimed anything for them, at any rate. They’ve been in and out of here all week.”

Palewski glanced up and smiled uncertainly. “You’re right. They have been around too much. My fault. Reached a stage in life when I see only the people who invite themselves. I don’t mean you,” he added hastily. “The Baklava Club. I can’t seem to stop them.”

“Perhaps you should discourage them while you’re—busy.”

“You’re right. I must. I need some seclusion.”

He looked flustered. Yashim bit his lip, frowning. “You’ll call on me, if you need help?”

“Of course.”

Yashim nodded again: Palewski would not know he needed help until it was too late. Yashim rubbed his chin. He appeared to be on escort duty for some Russian girl, while larger business was afoot between Palewski and Midhat Pasha. He drew his feet up into the armchair to cover a stab of wounded pride. The management of secret affairs of state was his job, practically. He was the sultan’s ears and eyes, his
tebdil khasseky
, or confidential agent: his Varangian Guard, as he had almost explained to the beautiful Dane, Birgit.

There’d been a time when only Yashim—and a willowy librarian—had stood against a madman who meant to bring down the House of Osman. He once saved the valide’s life, and on another occasion he saved the young sultan from disgrace. He had thwarted plots against the empire and its rulers. But the palace had not called on him this time.

Of course, the affair involved Midhat Pasha, and there was history between them, not of Yashim’s own making. The Ottoman state was like any family, riven by unseen currents of friendship and patronage, sympathy and mistrust. Midhat Pasha had not chosen to call on him: well, it was no disgrace. But still it hurt, and he was anxious for Palewski.

“Mehmet the Conqueror,” he said, slowly, “was once asked where his army was headed, as they passed through the Edirne gate toward the Balkans. ‘If one hair of my beard knew our destination,’ he replied, ‘I would pluck it out.’”