than İkmen – something that had little to do with exposure to the Turkish sun over so many years. Max was just dark – in several different ways.
‘Hello, Çetin,’ Max said as he bent down in order to catch the smaller man in his embrace. ‘How are you?’
İkmen replied that he was well, smiling as he observed Max go into his usual evening routine of feeding small and succulent pieces of fish and meat to his many feline fans at Simurg.
‘I wondered if I could take you for a coffee?’ İkmen said once the last cat had been fully satisfied.
Max’s large green eyes lit up. ‘What a great euphemism that is!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Coffee! When you want a chat – coffee! Sex – coffee! Or, as I suspect in this case, information – coffee!’
‘Well, not exactly information, Max,’ İkmen said. ‘Expertise is really more the word, I think.’
‘Oh, spooky stuff.’
‘Yes.’
‘OK.’
They went to the Pia café on Bekar Sokak, a low-key haunt of artists and writers that İkmen knew Max liked. They took a table outside and ordered two cappuccinos. After greeting several men İkmen thought looked like 1960s beatniks, Max lit up a long, thin cigar. İkmen took a Polaroid photograph out of his jacket pocket and laid it out in front of his companion.
‘Do you have any idea what this is, Max?’
The Englishman squinted down at the image.
‘I took it myself,’ İkmen said, ‘which is why it’s not very good, I’m afraid. Can you make out what it is?’
‘It looks like the Goat of Mendes to me,’ Max said, ‘although I’ve only ever seen him depicted with either one or two penises before. There have to be—’
‘There are thirteen,’ İkmen cut in, ‘all with women ecstatically impaled.’
‘How fascinating!’ Max looked up. ‘Where’s the original?’
İkmen sighed. ‘On the wall of the Church of the Panaghia in Fener. You know Hulya and Berekiah are renovating a place up there. They came across one of the monks, very distressed. He told them about it and then took them to see it. At first I thought it might be kids . . .’
‘Who knows these days?’ Max shook his head, his thin face bookish in its concentration. ‘But this is definitely the Goat who, as I’m sure an educated man like you will know, is an aspect, a very sexual manifestation, of Satan. It’s a very . . . Christian, a Western motif. Goya represented the Goat with witches and hags throwing themselves around him in an orgy of sexual desire. How long has it been there?’
‘I don’t know, but I think it must be very recent.’
Max leaned back in his chair just as the waitress came with the cappuccinos. At her approach, İkmen quickly stuffed the photograph back into his pocket.
When the girl had gone, Max said, ‘And so the question is, I suppose, what is it doing there? And further, what might it mean?’
‘Brother Constantine has interpreted it as an attack. An act of desecration.’
Max took a sip from his cup before continuing. As he lifted it to his lips, İkmen noticed that his hand shook. ‘So someone got to the church, drew it, probably at night, and then buggered off. But why and what its purpose might be . . . ?’ He shrugged. ‘I’m afraid that I can’t tell you, old chap.’
‘So there aren’t any . . .’ İkmen searched for the right word, but Max beat him to it.
‘Satanists in residence?’ he smiled. ‘There is, or rather was, a small group of very bored and boring English and American ex-pats over on the Asian side. I came across them a few months ago, or rather, they contacted me. Some gruesome Yank wanted me to replicate Aleister Crowley and raise the god Pan.’
‘Aleister Crowley?’
‘An early twentieth-century English magician,’ Max explained, ‘into heroin and fallen women. He tried to raise the god Pan in Paris and got into a bit of bother.’
‘Ah.’
‘So as you can imagine, I’ve never been keen to give Pan a go myself. A most destructive
‘Hello, Çetin,’ Max said as he bent down in order to catch the smaller man in his embrace. ‘How are you?’
İkmen replied that he was well, smiling as he observed Max go into his usual evening routine of feeding small and succulent pieces of fish and meat to his many feline fans at Simurg.
‘I wondered if I could take you for a coffee?’ İkmen said once the last cat had been fully satisfied.
Max’s large green eyes lit up. ‘What a great euphemism that is!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Coffee! When you want a chat – coffee! Sex – coffee! Or, as I suspect in this case, information – coffee!’
‘Well, not exactly information, Max,’ İkmen said. ‘Expertise is really more the word, I think.’
‘Oh, spooky stuff.’
‘Yes.’
‘OK.’
They went to the Pia café on Bekar Sokak, a low-key haunt of artists and writers that İkmen knew Max liked. They took a table outside and ordered two cappuccinos. After greeting several men İkmen thought looked like 1960s beatniks, Max lit up a long, thin cigar. İkmen took a Polaroid photograph out of his jacket pocket and laid it out in front of his companion.
‘Do you have any idea what this is, Max?’
The Englishman squinted down at the image.
‘I took it myself,’ İkmen said, ‘which is why it’s not very good, I’m afraid. Can you make out what it is?’
‘It looks like the Goat of Mendes to me,’ Max said, ‘although I’ve only ever seen him depicted with either one or two penises before. There have to be—’
‘There are thirteen,’ İkmen cut in, ‘all with women ecstatically impaled.’
‘How fascinating!’ Max looked up. ‘Where’s the original?’
İkmen sighed. ‘On the wall of the Church of the Panaghia in Fener. You know Hulya and Berekiah are renovating a place up there. They came across one of the monks, very distressed. He told them about it and then took them to see it. At first I thought it might be kids . . .’
‘Who knows these days?’ Max shook his head, his thin face bookish in its concentration. ‘But this is definitely the Goat who, as I’m sure an educated man like you will know, is an aspect, a very sexual manifestation, of Satan. It’s a very . . . Christian, a Western motif. Goya represented the Goat with witches and hags throwing themselves around him in an orgy of sexual desire. How long has it been there?’
‘I don’t know, but I think it must be very recent.’
Max leaned back in his chair just as the waitress came with the cappuccinos. At her approach, İkmen quickly stuffed the photograph back into his pocket.
When the girl had gone, Max said, ‘And so the question is, I suppose, what is it doing there? And further, what might it mean?’
‘Brother Constantine has interpreted it as an attack. An act of desecration.’
Max took a sip from his cup before continuing. As he lifted it to his lips, İkmen noticed that his hand shook. ‘So someone got to the church, drew it, probably at night, and then buggered off. But why and what its purpose might be . . . ?’ He shrugged. ‘I’m afraid that I can’t tell you, old chap.’
‘So there aren’t any . . .’ İkmen searched for the right word, but Max beat him to it.
‘Satanists in residence?’ he smiled. ‘There is, or rather was, a small group of very bored and boring English and American ex-pats over on the Asian side. I came across them a few months ago, or rather, they contacted me. Some gruesome Yank wanted me to replicate Aleister Crowley and raise the god Pan.’
‘Aleister Crowley?’
‘An early twentieth-century English magician,’ Max explained, ‘into heroin and fallen women. He tried to raise the god Pan in Paris and got into a bit of bother.’
‘Ah.’
‘So as you can imagine, I’ve never been keen to give Pan a go myself. A most destructive
Similar Books
