say a mass, you may look at this. After that, the book does not exist.” He laid the cope across his shoulders and turned to Yashim. “The church has no part in this affair of yours.”
They stared at each other, the eunuch and the priest. Then Grigor was gone, and Yashim was left alone, clutching the book in both hands.
32
F OR the time it takes to say a mass. Yashim sat down. The book was written—assembled was a better word—by a Dr. Stephanitzes, late physician-in-ordinary to the Greek army of independence. It had been recently published in Athens, the capital of independent Greece. The paper was cheap; the gold-blocked title on the cover was blurred around the edges.
Yashim had never come across such a book before—a wild flinging together of prophecy, prejudice, false premise, and circular argument. It preached a story that began with the collapse of Byzantine power in 1453 and wound its way, over hundreds of pages and many false starts and irrelevant asides, to its eventual restoration under its last emperor, miraculously reborn.
Yashim discovered the oracles of an ancient patriarch, Tarasios, and of Leo the Wise; the prognostications of Methodios of Patara; the curiously prophetic epitaph on the tomb of Constantine the Great, who had founded the city fifteen hundred years before; all of them twisted and sugared up by the visions of one Agathangelos, who foresaw the city liberated by a great phalanx of blond northern giants, while the Turks themselves were to be chased away beyond the Red Apple Tree.
This, then, was the Great Idea. A farrago of blasphemies and wishful thinking—but heady stuff, Yashim had to admit. Like sticking your nose through the gateway to the Spice Bazaar. If you were a Greek, and you wanted to believe, then here was the sacred text, without a doubt.
33
I N the church of St. George, the archimandrite waved the censer again and filled the air with the grateful fragrance of sandalwood and frankincense. He intoned the words of the creed.
I believe in One God, Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth and of everything visible and invisible, he sang.
And in One Lord, Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, begotten of the Father before all ages.
Light of Light, True God of True God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father, through Whom all things were made.
He sang the words; his body trembled to the majestic statement of faith; but his mind was elsewhere. Had he, he wondered, already said too much?
I acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.
And then there was the book. The Ottoman authorities probably didn’t know that it existed. It was better that way.
I await the resurrection of the dead.
And the life of the ages to come.
That was the way it should be kept.
Amen.
34
Y ASHIM made his way into the Grand Bazaar. It was two days since Goulandris the bookseller had been killed, and still confidence had not returned: locked doors punctuated the frothy rows of booths, the vendors seemed subdued, the crowd less busy than usual.
Malakian was at his doorway, sitting quietly on a mat with his hands in his lap.
“Do you have news?”
Yashim inclined his head. “Lefèvre, the Frenchman we talked about? He was killed in Pera.”
Malakian sighed. “It is like I said. Lefèvre lived a dangerous life.”
“That’s not quite what you said, Malakian efendi. You said he did not always dig with a spade.”
“It is the same, my friend. In Istanbul, I think, it is better that the ground is not disturbed.”
“Lefèvre disturbed something.” Yashim squatted down beside the old man. “Or someone.”
“You will have a coffee with me,” Malakian said.
Yashim could tell he didn’t mean it. He declined. “The Hetira, efendi.”
The old Armenian paused before replying. “I think a man like Lefèvre would work where money is to be found. But sometimes in these places there are too many secrets, also, and so there is no trust. A negotiation is not
They stared at each other, the eunuch and the priest. Then Grigor was gone, and Yashim was left alone, clutching the book in both hands.
32
F OR the time it takes to say a mass. Yashim sat down. The book was written—assembled was a better word—by a Dr. Stephanitzes, late physician-in-ordinary to the Greek army of independence. It had been recently published in Athens, the capital of independent Greece. The paper was cheap; the gold-blocked title on the cover was blurred around the edges.
Yashim had never come across such a book before—a wild flinging together of prophecy, prejudice, false premise, and circular argument. It preached a story that began with the collapse of Byzantine power in 1453 and wound its way, over hundreds of pages and many false starts and irrelevant asides, to its eventual restoration under its last emperor, miraculously reborn.
Yashim discovered the oracles of an ancient patriarch, Tarasios, and of Leo the Wise; the prognostications of Methodios of Patara; the curiously prophetic epitaph on the tomb of Constantine the Great, who had founded the city fifteen hundred years before; all of them twisted and sugared up by the visions of one Agathangelos, who foresaw the city liberated by a great phalanx of blond northern giants, while the Turks themselves were to be chased away beyond the Red Apple Tree.
This, then, was the Great Idea. A farrago of blasphemies and wishful thinking—but heady stuff, Yashim had to admit. Like sticking your nose through the gateway to the Spice Bazaar. If you were a Greek, and you wanted to believe, then here was the sacred text, without a doubt.
33
I N the church of St. George, the archimandrite waved the censer again and filled the air with the grateful fragrance of sandalwood and frankincense. He intoned the words of the creed.
I believe in One God, Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth and of everything visible and invisible, he sang.
And in One Lord, Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, begotten of the Father before all ages.
Light of Light, True God of True God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father, through Whom all things were made.
He sang the words; his body trembled to the majestic statement of faith; but his mind was elsewhere. Had he, he wondered, already said too much?
I acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.
And then there was the book. The Ottoman authorities probably didn’t know that it existed. It was better that way.
I await the resurrection of the dead.
And the life of the ages to come.
That was the way it should be kept.
Amen.
34
Y ASHIM made his way into the Grand Bazaar. It was two days since Goulandris the bookseller had been killed, and still confidence had not returned: locked doors punctuated the frothy rows of booths, the vendors seemed subdued, the crowd less busy than usual.
Malakian was at his doorway, sitting quietly on a mat with his hands in his lap.
“Do you have news?”
Yashim inclined his head. “Lefèvre, the Frenchman we talked about? He was killed in Pera.”
Malakian sighed. “It is like I said. Lefèvre lived a dangerous life.”
“That’s not quite what you said, Malakian efendi. You said he did not always dig with a spade.”
“It is the same, my friend. In Istanbul, I think, it is better that the ground is not disturbed.”
“Lefèvre disturbed something.” Yashim squatted down beside the old man. “Or someone.”
“You will have a coffee with me,” Malakian said.
Yashim could tell he didn’t mean it. He declined. “The Hetira, efendi.”
The old Armenian paused before replying. “I think a man like Lefèvre would work where money is to be found. But sometimes in these places there are too many secrets, also, and so there is no trust. A negotiation is not
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