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Authors: Jason Goodwin
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suggested, in the course of a consultation with the sultan himself, that with five hundred oka of the cheapest horseflesh and five ounces of arsenic, the sultan could rid his metropolitan subjects of an interminable nuisance, the whole race of mangy dogs—dogs, as he understood it, whom Muslims regarded as unclean animals; and the sultan, cocking his head sharply to register his surprise, had replied that he supposed the dogs, too, were a part of God’s creation. “You would think it very barbaric, would you not, if I were to order all the English doctors in Istanbul rounded up and fed with poisoned meat? It is the same with the dogs.”
Dr. Millingen could think of several arguments in reply, but he could not argue with the sultan’s tone.
Advancing at a brisk pace along the street, he swung his cane from side to side and glared suspiciously at the yellow dogs; while they merely yawned, or scratched their fleas, and pretended not to notice Dr. Millingen.
22
V ENICE and Istanbul: the client and the source. For centuries, the two cities were locked together in trade and war, jockeying for advantage in the eastern Mediterranean. Istanbul had many faces, but one, like Venice’s, was turned to the sea. Like Venice, too, the greatest thoroughfares of Istanbul were waterways; people were forever passing from the city to Üsküdar, from Üsküdar to Pera, and from Pera to the city again, across the Golden Horn. The famous gondolas of Venice were no more central to life in the lagoon than caïques to the people of Istanbul, and while the Venetian gondola had its champions, most people would have agreed that the caïque was superior in point of elegance and speed. Even after dark, the caïques swarmed around the landing stages like water beetles.
“Forget the ship’s boat,” Lefèvre said quietly. “It’s better that I leave from here unnoticed. Galata is all eyes.”
They left Yashim’s lodging after dark, moving quietly on foot through the deserted streets. Lefèvre shouldered the satchel, which apparently contained everything he possessed. The narrow streets of the Fener were silent and dark, but Yashim led his companion through them by instinct, now and again pausing to feel for a corner stone or to put his hand gently on the other man’s shoulder. Once, a big dog growled out of the darkness, but it wasn’t until they reached the landing stage that they met with any other sign of life: the city could have been uninhabited.
Down by the stage, Pera twinkled out across the black water of the Golden Horn. Lamps bobbed gently on the stems of the caïques drawn up against the quay, where a handful of Greek boatmen sat among the coils of rope, the creels and nets, murmuring together and smoking pipes that glowed red in the dark. Lower down the Horn a few ships rode at anchor, with lanterns at their prows. The water slapped darkly against the pilings where the caïques were moored.
A boatman uncoiled himself with catlike ease and stepped forward.
“The Ca d’Oro ? I know the ship. She’s moored off the point. Both of you?”
Yashim explained it was just one passenger, and fixed a price. He shook hands with Lefèvre and watched him settle himself into the bottom of the caïque, the satchel on his knees. Then the boatman tapped out his pipe, stepped into the caïque’s stern, and pushed off with a practiced flick of the wrist, which sent the frail craft skimming out into the darkness.
Yashim raised a hand in farewell, certain that the Frenchman would see him framed against the low lights of the landing stage. He thought of his friend Palewski: he’d be pleased by the story. Better pleased by the reflection that neither of them would ever have to see Lefèvre again.
He smiled to himself. The light of the caïque had blended into the darkness, so he dropped his hand and turned and went home.
23
F ROZEN at an angle just wide enough to admit a visitor on foot, the carriage gates of the Polish ambassador’s
Dr. Millingen could think of several arguments in reply, but he could not argue with the sultan’s tone.
Advancing at a brisk pace along the street, he swung his cane from side to side and glared suspiciously at the yellow dogs; while they merely yawned, or scratched their fleas, and pretended not to notice Dr. Millingen.
22
V ENICE and Istanbul: the client and the source. For centuries, the two cities were locked together in trade and war, jockeying for advantage in the eastern Mediterranean. Istanbul had many faces, but one, like Venice’s, was turned to the sea. Like Venice, too, the greatest thoroughfares of Istanbul were waterways; people were forever passing from the city to Üsküdar, from Üsküdar to Pera, and from Pera to the city again, across the Golden Horn. The famous gondolas of Venice were no more central to life in the lagoon than caïques to the people of Istanbul, and while the Venetian gondola had its champions, most people would have agreed that the caïque was superior in point of elegance and speed. Even after dark, the caïques swarmed around the landing stages like water beetles.
“Forget the ship’s boat,” Lefèvre said quietly. “It’s better that I leave from here unnoticed. Galata is all eyes.”
They left Yashim’s lodging after dark, moving quietly on foot through the deserted streets. Lefèvre shouldered the satchel, which apparently contained everything he possessed. The narrow streets of the Fener were silent and dark, but Yashim led his companion through them by instinct, now and again pausing to feel for a corner stone or to put his hand gently on the other man’s shoulder. Once, a big dog growled out of the darkness, but it wasn’t until they reached the landing stage that they met with any other sign of life: the city could have been uninhabited.
Down by the stage, Pera twinkled out across the black water of the Golden Horn. Lamps bobbed gently on the stems of the caïques drawn up against the quay, where a handful of Greek boatmen sat among the coils of rope, the creels and nets, murmuring together and smoking pipes that glowed red in the dark. Lower down the Horn a few ships rode at anchor, with lanterns at their prows. The water slapped darkly against the pilings where the caïques were moored.
A boatman uncoiled himself with catlike ease and stepped forward.
“The Ca d’Oro ? I know the ship. She’s moored off the point. Both of you?”
Yashim explained it was just one passenger, and fixed a price. He shook hands with Lefèvre and watched him settle himself into the bottom of the caïque, the satchel on his knees. Then the boatman tapped out his pipe, stepped into the caïque’s stern, and pushed off with a practiced flick of the wrist, which sent the frail craft skimming out into the darkness.
Yashim raised a hand in farewell, certain that the Frenchman would see him framed against the low lights of the landing stage. He thought of his friend Palewski: he’d be pleased by the story. Better pleased by the reflection that neither of them would ever have to see Lefèvre again.
He smiled to himself. The light of the caïque had blended into the darkness, so he dropped his hand and turned and went home.
23
F ROZEN at an angle just wide enough to admit a visitor on foot, the carriage gates of the Polish ambassador’s
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