Eden, back to back.
Which meant, of course, that Eden had a secret door that all the dancing feet and swirling skirts of Saint Petersburg could not entirely disguise: a door that dropped you suddenly to the lonely road, left you thousands of miles away in the howling blackness of a Siberian winter.
He took her arm, and they plunged into the spice bazaar.
Natasha’s eyes grew round as they made their way up the cavernous arcade. On either side, baskets and barrels were heaped with spices, mounds of every color—powders, leaves, twisted roots, long strings of dried vegetables, boxes of dates, of dried plums, raisins, figs. She stopped in front of a huge basket crammed with little black berries.
“Is this pepper?”
“Black pepper. There’s green there, and red. That’s white pepper.” Yashim spoke to the spice merchant. “It’s Sumatran. He says it’s the best quality. They bring it to the Red Sea and then overland, through Egypt. Most of these spices—”
He broke off. Natasha’s eyes were sparkling, and he realized she had tears standing in them.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” She tried to smile. “In Siberia—pepper! It’s like money. We carry it in little screws of paper.” She gestured to the piles of colored spice. “We know salt. Only salt, and some berries.”
Yashim nodded, and guided her onward. “Here you see the world under one roof. And we’re buying stuff for our picnic.”
She glanced at him inquiringly.
“Some Italians are coming—they are young, like you, and seem to be in some sort of exile themselves. The valide has given me her permission to invite you. For an awful moment I thought she meant to come along as well. I’d have had to hire elephants.”
Natasha laughed. “No elephants? You disappoint me. I thought every Ottoman picnic had at least one, to carry the musicians!”
“First I must go home to prepare the food,” Yashim said. He hesitated. “If you like, we could go home and cook together.”
“I can make soup. And pancakes.”
“I’ll cook. But I’d like your company.”
She pressed her hands together. “Oh, I’ll come! Just don’t tell me that you live in a palace, too.”
“I think, Natasha, you’re in for a shock. And now we will take a caïque, as I promised. It’s always cooler on the water.”
20
S HE untied the ribbons of her bonnet and reached up to take it off.
“This is where you live?”
She knelt on the divan, and looked out of the window. “I—I have never been so high up. In a house.”
The juice of the grated zucchini looked like jade in the bowl. He lit a fire in the grate, sprinkled it with charcoal, and set a pan to boil. With a sharp knife he peeled the celeriac, chopped it into small cubes, and dropped the pieces into the water, with the artichokes.
The pan was boiling: he skinned a dozen small onions and blanched them.
“I like to watch you work,” Natasha said.
He had almost forgotten her sitting on the divan.
“Tell me about Siberia. Tell me about your home.”
He worked while she talked. He put carrots, onions, artichokes, and celeriac into a bigger saucepan, with a sprig of thyme and a bay leaf, and covered them all with stock.
“We used to pretend we were in Saint Petersburg. Uncle Sergei had money—they didn’t confiscate his estates, I don’t know why—and he had the opera house built in Irkutsk. We sewed our own clothes, but we threw proper balls, with an orchestra. Everyone always wanted to believe that we would go home.”
Yashim broke two eggs into a bowl with a cup of flour and beat them together. He gave the zucchini a final squeeze and mixed them in. On the board he chopped onions with a handful of dill and parsley, and pounded some garlic in the mortar with a pinch of salt. He swept it all into the zucchini mixture and stirred it around. Finally he set an open pan on the heat, and threw in butter and olive oil.
“One by one, the families left. We used to give them a ball on
Which meant, of course, that Eden had a secret door that all the dancing feet and swirling skirts of Saint Petersburg could not entirely disguise: a door that dropped you suddenly to the lonely road, left you thousands of miles away in the howling blackness of a Siberian winter.
He took her arm, and they plunged into the spice bazaar.
Natasha’s eyes grew round as they made their way up the cavernous arcade. On either side, baskets and barrels were heaped with spices, mounds of every color—powders, leaves, twisted roots, long strings of dried vegetables, boxes of dates, of dried plums, raisins, figs. She stopped in front of a huge basket crammed with little black berries.
“Is this pepper?”
“Black pepper. There’s green there, and red. That’s white pepper.” Yashim spoke to the spice merchant. “It’s Sumatran. He says it’s the best quality. They bring it to the Red Sea and then overland, through Egypt. Most of these spices—”
He broke off. Natasha’s eyes were sparkling, and he realized she had tears standing in them.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” She tried to smile. “In Siberia—pepper! It’s like money. We carry it in little screws of paper.” She gestured to the piles of colored spice. “We know salt. Only salt, and some berries.”
Yashim nodded, and guided her onward. “Here you see the world under one roof. And we’re buying stuff for our picnic.”
She glanced at him inquiringly.
“Some Italians are coming—they are young, like you, and seem to be in some sort of exile themselves. The valide has given me her permission to invite you. For an awful moment I thought she meant to come along as well. I’d have had to hire elephants.”
Natasha laughed. “No elephants? You disappoint me. I thought every Ottoman picnic had at least one, to carry the musicians!”
“First I must go home to prepare the food,” Yashim said. He hesitated. “If you like, we could go home and cook together.”
“I can make soup. And pancakes.”
“I’ll cook. But I’d like your company.”
She pressed her hands together. “Oh, I’ll come! Just don’t tell me that you live in a palace, too.”
“I think, Natasha, you’re in for a shock. And now we will take a caïque, as I promised. It’s always cooler on the water.”
20
S HE untied the ribbons of her bonnet and reached up to take it off.
“This is where you live?”
She knelt on the divan, and looked out of the window. “I—I have never been so high up. In a house.”
The juice of the grated zucchini looked like jade in the bowl. He lit a fire in the grate, sprinkled it with charcoal, and set a pan to boil. With a sharp knife he peeled the celeriac, chopped it into small cubes, and dropped the pieces into the water, with the artichokes.
The pan was boiling: he skinned a dozen small onions and blanched them.
“I like to watch you work,” Natasha said.
He had almost forgotten her sitting on the divan.
“Tell me about Siberia. Tell me about your home.”
He worked while she talked. He put carrots, onions, artichokes, and celeriac into a bigger saucepan, with a sprig of thyme and a bay leaf, and covered them all with stock.
“We used to pretend we were in Saint Petersburg. Uncle Sergei had money—they didn’t confiscate his estates, I don’t know why—and he had the opera house built in Irkutsk. We sewed our own clothes, but we threw proper balls, with an orchestra. Everyone always wanted to believe that we would go home.”
Yashim broke two eggs into a bowl with a cup of flour and beat them together. He gave the zucchini a final squeeze and mixed them in. On the board he chopped onions with a handful of dill and parsley, and pounded some garlic in the mortar with a pinch of salt. He swept it all into the zucchini mixture and stirred it around. Finally he set an open pan on the heat, and threw in butter and olive oil.
“One by one, the families left. We used to give them a ball on
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