The Janissary Tree (29 page)

The
Austrian was trying to catch his eye, dabbing a plump paw in the air like a
wounded seal. Derentsov turned on his heel and began to speak to his second
secretary.

The
British ambassador, without disturbing his conversation, allowed his eyes to
flicker now and then from his Austrian counterpart to Prince Derentsov. He
tugged at his lip to restrain a smile.

The
American ambassador said, "I'll be danged!" He wanted to walk right up and
shake Palewski by the hand, but he was new, not only to Istanbul but also to
the ways of diplomatic protocol. I'll talk to that fellow before the evening's
out, he thought.

The
French ambassador edged around slightly so that when Palewski moved into the
room he quite naturally gravitated into the Frenchman's little group.

And
the imperial bandmaster, Giacomo Donizetti, being Italian and highly romantic,
held a whispered discussion with the first violinist. His program of light
German occasional music drew to a discreet end and, after a moment of rustling
scores, the band launched into the latest Chopin polonaise. Some of the
cleverer people in the ballroom broke into applause. Prince Derentsov,
naturally, continued his conversation.

Sultan
Mahmut chose this moment to enter the room. He heard the applause and, feeling
his confidence revive--for he hated these international affairs--moved to speak
to the French ambassador.

Later
on he tried to explain it to his mother.

"I
thought he looked damn fine. So did Concordet, I suppose. I wish we could have
a regiment like that, all sash and color. He looked like one of us."

"That
much I understand," the valide sultan broke in crisply. "What I can't
understand is why you had to have him locked up."

The
sultan twisted his fingers.

"Don't
be ridiculous, Valide. Nobody was locked up. I merely had him escorted to a
side room. I--I interviewed him later. Same with the Russian, Derentsov, and it
was all his fault, suggesting the duel. Practically under my nose!

The
valide saw his point. It was on her advice, several years ago, that the sultan
had issued a formal decree, backed by the ulema, forbidding the practice of
duels within the empire. It was aimed principally at those stubborn Circassian
mountaineers whose distant feuds occasionally brought heartache and anxiety
into the sultan's harem and irritated the valide sultan, but it applied also to
the touchy foreigners of Galata.

"The
British ambassador brought Palewski within earshot of the Russian," the sultan
explained. "So it was his fault, too. I wasn't there, but Stratford Canning
apparently made some effort to catch Derentsov's attention and the Russian
swerved so abruptly that he elbowed Palewski's glass and ended up with
champagne all down his shirt. You know what they're like. Well, you can
imagine, anyway. Derentsov claimed he had been insulted. The Pole pulled out a
handkerchief and started to swab his chest-- hee hee hee!"

"Mahmut!"

"Well,
it was funny, Valide. The Russians have never once acknowledged Palewski's
existence. They always pretend they haven't seen him. But here was Derentsov
calling for pistols at dawn and the Polish ambassador dabbing at him with a
napkin!"

The
valide, too, gave herself up to the humor of the situation.

"But
what did the Pole say?"

Mahmut
rocked about, his eyes closed. "He said--hee hee hee--he said--Ali ha ha--"Well in
that case I accept the challenge and you can use your own handkerchief!" Hee
hee hee!"

The
valide sultan, who had not laughed for several years, or more, felt carried
along by her son's laughter. It was many years since she had been to a party,
but she knew how funny men could look together.

Sultan
Mahmut simmered down first, with an occasional snort of hilarity interrupting
his story.

"After
that, I had to separate them. The Pole came away very politely. I talked to him
and let him go. Derentsov was snarling by the time I got to him--jabbered about
infringement of his diplomatic rights and all that. I let him rant and then I
said my piece about duels and the law, just as I'd told the Polish ambassador. I
said that the mark of a civilized nation was its respect for the individual,
and the individual's respect for law, and that of course I understood that
other nations had different principles, but that within the empire that I
control, dueling is forbidden. This, I said, is why we have laws--and laws, I
added, that will be strengthened and clarified in a matter of days. In the
meantime, I asked only for his apology."

"And?"

"If
his release had been dependent on his apology, Valide, the Russian ambassador
might still be waiting in that room. I took some mumbled words--curses, I'm
sure--as a sign of contrition and told him so. Then I suggested he go home and
walked out."

"
"Flute,
mon brave
! You are very clever!"

The
valide took her son by the ears and gave him a kiss.

80

****************

BEFORE
Yashim could recover himself, Eugenia had pointed with an imperious finger. "You
could try under the bed."

Yashim
needed no second bidding. He fairly dived for the bed and wriggled beneath it. He
saw Eugenia approach the door in her bare feet; she plucked something from the
bed as she passed. A silk peignoir swished through the air and swirled around
her ankles.

There
was a knock on the door. Yashim strained to hear, but all he could make out was
Eugenia's
"nyet, nyet"
and a few murmured words. The door closed, and
the feet stood again by the edge of the bed. Then the peignoir slid to the
floor in a soft cloud, and the feet disappeared.

Eugenia
was sitting in bed, right on top of him. She was waiting for her Turk to emerge.
She wore a little smile and nothing else.

Feeling
ridiculous, Yashim scrambled to his feet and bowed.

"Forgive
me, Excellency," he said. "I lost my way. I had no idea--"

Eugenia
pouted. "
No
idea, Monsieur Ottomane? You disappoint me. Come."

She
ran her hand down between her breasts. By the jewels, Yashim thought, she is
lovely: lovelier than the girls in the sultans harem. Such white skin! And her
hair--black as shining ebony.

She
drew one knee up and the silk sheet rode up, exposing a long, slender thigh.

She
wants me, Yashim thought.
And I want her.
Her skin: he longed to reach
out and stroke it. He longed to inhale her strange, foreign fragrance, figure
her curves with his hands, touch her dark lips against his own.

Forbidden.
This is the path of passion and regret.

This
is where you cannot go. Not if you value your sanity.

"You
don't understand," said Yashim desperately. "I'm a--a--" What was that word the
English boy had used? It came back: "I'm a freelance."

Eugenia
looked puzzled.

"You
want me to pay?" She laughed incredulously and shook her curls. Not only her
curls. "What if I don't?"

Yashim
was confused. She saw the confusion on his face and held up her hands.

"Come,"
she said.

She
put her hands flat on the bed, behind her back. Yashim groaned softly and
closed his eyes.

Five
minutes later, Eugenia had discovered what Yashim meant by freelance.

"Better
and better," she said and threw herself back against the pillows. She raised a
slender knee.

"So
take me, Turk!" she gasped.

81

***********

Far
away, in the first great court of the sultan's palace at Topkapi, the carriages
rolled away across the cobbles and through the high gate, to disappear toward
the Hippodrome and the darkness of the city. Just one fine carriage still
remained, its driver motionless on the box, whip in hand, two footmen standing
behind like men of stone, impervious to the light drizzle. As the wind whipped
the torches hung up along the inner wall, the flare caught the glossy black
shellac of the carriage door and lit up the royal arms of the Romanovs with its
double-headed eagle: the symbol that so many centuries before had originated in
this very city.

If
all was ghostly still in the Russian ambassador's carriage, in the boudoir of
the Russian ambassador's wife matters had reached a distinctly lively crisis.

With
a heave of her shoulders, Eugenia let out a long, satisfied sigh.

Moments
later, she was smiling lazily into Yashim's ear.

"I
may be vain, but I don't suppose," she whispered, "that this is why you came?

Yashim
propped himself up. His eyes were squeezed shut, as though he were in pain. Eugenia
put out a hand and stroked his damp forehead. "I'm sorry," she said, simply.

Yashim
blew out and opened his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he said,
"The--map--in--the--vestibule. Where's it got to?"

Eugenia
laughed, but when she caught the look in his eye she whipped aside and knelt on
the bed.

"Are
you serious?"

"I
need to look at that map," he said. "Before your husband gets home."

"Him?"
A look of scorn crossed her face. "He won't come in here." She bounced off the
bed and retrieved her peignoir, tying the sash with an angry tug.

"He
has never forgiven me for marrying him. And you have no idea how
bored
I am."

Yashim
frowned. It was hard to believe that the prince could keep his hands off his
wife for a moment. But there it was. Perhaps he, Yashim, was no better than
those Westerners who imagined the sultan in a scented paradise of houris.

"I've
been here six months. I never go out. I change my dress three or four times a
day--for what? For who? The sentries? Once a week my husband hosts a very dull
dinner."

She
gathered her black curls in one hand and raised them to the back of her head. Then
she let the curls fall.

"At
home there's a ball every night. I see my friends. I ride out in the snow. I--oh,
I don't know, I laugh, flirt, talk about literature and the arts, everything. I
suppose that's why I seized on you. You were the first Turk I ever had a chance
to speak to. My first Turkish lover."

Yashim
lowered his eyes. Eugenia laughed again.

"I'll
show you the map. It's just there."

She
pointed over his shoulder. He looked around and there it was, leaning against
the wall, the familiar shape of the city like an animal's snout, rootling the
shores of Asia.

"I
need to compare," he explained, reaching for his cloak. He took out Palewski's
map, unfolded it, and crouched down by the Lorich map, smoothing Palewski's
against the glass.

"I
just can't imagine what you're up to, but can I help?" She laid a hand on his
shoulder.

Yashim
explained. "On this map, we have all the religious buildings in Istanbul as
they stood about thirty years ago. The ones I'm interested in are the Karagozi
tekkes--the symbol seems to be an Arabic letter
B,
like this."

"They're
awfully difficult to make out," Eugenia said, pouting. "It's a complete forest
of Arabic squiggles."

Yashim's
eye swept the map. "Originally I was looking for a fire tower, but I've had to
change my mind. The old map, this one of yours, shows us all the buildings that
were standing in 1599. By comparing the two we should be able to work out where
the oldest Karagozi tekkes were."

"You
mean if something shows up on both maps, it was built before 1599."

Eugenia
bit her lip.

"You'd
do best to split the city into several strips, north-south, say, so that you
know where you are and don't leave anything out."

"That,"
Yashim said, "is a very clever idea. Let's do it."

Eugenia
took Palewski's map and folded it into four pleats. Then she turned the first
pleat over, and they began to plot the tekkes.

After
twenty minutes they had covered the first quarter of the city and dismissed
about a dozen tekkes as being too modern. Yashim struck them off. They were
left with two possibles.

"Next
strip," Eugenia said.

They
worked on.

"Some
people might think this was an odd way to spend time with a half-naked Russian
girl in the middle of the night."

"Yes.
I am sorry."

"I
like it." Eugenia's eyes crackled. She hugged her knees. "All the same, you
might take me back to bed quite soon."

They
completed the second leaf. A possible candidate had popped up by the city
walls, but this time it was the newer map that sowed the confusion, making it
hard to say exactly which building had been the tekke.

"Halfway
now," Yashim reminded her.

"More
than," she said. "The city gets progressively thinner from here on, until it
reaches SeragUo Point."