The Bellini Card (Investigator Yashim) - Softcover

JASON GOODWIN is the Edgar Award–winning author of the Investigator Yashim series. The first five books―The Janissary Tree, The Snake Stone, The Bellini Card, An Evil Eye, and The Baklava Club―have been published to international acclaim, alongside Yashim Cooks Istanbul, a cookbook of Ottoman Turkish recipes inspired by the series. Goodwin studied Byzantine history at Cambridge and is the author of Lords of the Horizons: A History of the Ottoman Empire, among other award-winning nonfiction. He lives with his wife and children in England.

Com’era, dov’eraAs it was, where it wasVenetian motto § Never judge a painting or a woman by candlelightVenetian proverb I He sank slowly through the dark water, arms out, feet pointed: like a Christ, or a dervish, casting a benediction on the sea.The stone at his feet hit the mud with a soft explosion, his knees buckled, and in a moment he was bowing gracefully with the tide. He had always been graceful; pliant, too, when fixing a price; a man who traded and left something in the deal for the other fellow.Overhead, the killer turned his head from side to side, alert to the slightest motion in the darkness, feeling the rain on his face. He stood for a few minutes, waiting and watching, before he blinked, turned, and padded softly from the bridge, to be swallowed up by the night and the alleyways of the sleeping city.The tide ebbed. The water sucked at the green weed that lined the walls, gurgled around old pilings, and slipped and receded from worn stone steps. It sank, nudging the trader closer to the sea on which, in her days of glory, the city had made her fortune. Beneath Byzantine domes, dilapidated palaces and tethered boats the corpse was hustled noiselessly towards the sea, arms still flung wide in a gesture of vacant welcome.Yet some obstruction, a block of stone or loop of rotten rope, must have checked his passage for a time; for when dawn broke, and the tide slackened, the trader was still yards away from the deep waters of the Riva dei Schiavoni into which he would have otherwise sunk without further trace. IIThe sultan gave a high-pitched sneeze and patted his face with a silk handkerchief.‘The Queen of England has one,’ he said petulantly.Resid Pasha bowed his head. King William was dead, like Sultan Mahmut: now, he thought, England and the Ottoman Empire were being ruled by little girls.‘As the sultan says, may his days be lengthened.’‘The Hapsburgs have several galleries, I understand. In their dominions in Italy, whole palaces are stuffed with pictures.’ The sultan dabbed at his nose. ‘The Emperor of Austria knows what his grandfather’s grandfather was like by looking at his picture, Resid Pasha.’The young pasha folded his slender hands. What the sultan said was true, but perfectly ridiculous: the Hapsburgs were notoriously ugly, notoriously alike. They married their close relations, and the chins got bigger every generation. Whereas an Ottoman prince had none but lovely and accomplished women to share his bed.Resid Pasha tensed his shoulders. ‘The Austrian dogs always piss on the same spot,’ he said, with a jocular grunt. ‘Who would want to see that?’Even as he spoke, he knew he had made a mistake. Sultan Mahmut would have grinned at the remark; but Mahmut was dead.The sultan frowned. ‘We are not speaking of dogs now.’‘You are right, my padishah.’ Resid Pasha hung his head.‘I speak of the Conqueror,’ Abdulmecid said loftily. ‘Of the blood in these veins.’ He held out his wrists, and the young counsellor bowed, abashed.‘If the picture exists, I wish for it,’ the sultan continued. ‘I want to see it. Do you desire, Rasid Pasha, that the likeness of the Conqueror should be exposed to the infidel gaze—or that an unbeliever should possess it?’Resid Pasha sighed. ‘And yet, my sultan, we do not know where the painting might be. If, indeed, it exists at all.’The young Padishah sneezed again. While he examined his handkerchief, the Pasha pressed on: ‘For more than three centuries, nobody ever saw or heard about this— picture. Today we have a rumor, nothing more. Let us be cautious, my padishah. What does it matter if we wait another month? Another year? Truth is like musk, whose grateful odour can never be concealed.’The sultan nodded, but not in agreement. ‘There is a faster way,’ he said, in a voice treacled with mucus.‘Send for Yashim.’ III Close to the shoreline of the Golden Horn, on the Pera side, stood a fountain set up by an Ottoman princess as an act of generosity, on a spot where the boatmen used to linger and drop their fares. Hundreds of fountains existed in the streets and squares of Istanbul; but this one was particularly old and lovely, and Yashim had admired it many times as he passed. Sometimes, in hot weather, he would rinse his face in the trickle of clear water that splashed down onto the tiled basin.It was those tiles which now stopped him on the street, where he stood unnoticed and aghast in the stream of traffic passing along the shore: muleteers with their trains, porters under enormous sacks, two fully-veiled women attended by a black eunuch, a bashi-bazouk on horseback, his sash stuffed with pistols and swords. Neither Yashim, nor the ruined fountain, attracted anyone’s attention: the crowd flowed round him, a man standing alone in a brown cloak, a white turban on his head, watching stricken as a trio of workmen in overalls and dirty turbans attacked the fountain with their hammers.It was not that Yashim lacked presence. His only lack was of something more definite; but he was used to passing unnoticed. It was as though his presence were a quality he could chose to display, or to conceal; a quality which certain people would be unaware of until they found themselves mesmerised by his grey eyes, his low, musical voice, or by the truths he spoke. Until then, though, he might be almost invisible.The workmen did not look up as he approached; only when he spoke did one of them glance round, surprised.‘It’s the bridge, efendi. Once this has gone, then the tree, there’ll be a way through here, see? Got to have a way through, efendi.’Yashim’s heart sank. A bridge linking Pera to the main city of Istanbul had been talked about for years. Centuries, even: in the sultan’s archives in Topkapi Palace Yashim had once seen a sepia design for such a bridge, executed by an Italian engineer who wrote his letters back-to-front, as if they were written in a mirror. Now, it seemed, a bridge was about to be built: the new sultan’s gift to a grateful populace.‘Can’t this fountain just be moved aside?’The workman straightened his back and leaned on his sledgehammer. ‘What, this?’ He shrugged. ‘Too old. New one’d be better.’ His eyes slid along the shore. ‘Not but what it’s a shame about the tree.’The tree was a colossus, and a welcome patch of shade and shelter on the Pera shore. It had stood for centuries: in days it would be gone.Yashim winced as a sledgehammer cracked down hard into the basin of the fountain. A chunk of stone broke away, and Yashim put out a hand.‘Please. A tile or two...’He carried them away carefully, feeling the old mortar dry and brittle in his palm. The boatman who took him gliding across the Horn by caique spat on the water. ‘The bridge, it’ll kill us,’ he said, in Greek.Yashim felt a shadow across the sun. He did not risk a reply.Reaching home, he laid the tiles by the window and sat on the divan, contemplating the strong lines of the twining stems, the beautiful deep reds of the tulips, which had so often refreshed his eyes as the water of the fountain had refreshed his skin. Such flaming reds were unobtainable nowadays, he knew: centuries ago the potters of Iznik had fanned their talents to such heights that the river of knowledge had simply dried up. Blues there always were: lovely blues of Kayzeri and Iznik, but not the reds beloved of the heretics, who came from Iran and vanished in their turn.Yashim remembered how he had loved such tiles, where they decorated the inner sanctum of the sultan’s palace at Topkapi, a place forbidden to all ordinary men. In the harem itself, home to the sultan and his family alone, many women had admired those tiles; and many sultans, too.Yashim had seen them only because he was not an ordinary man.Yashim was a eunuch.He was still gazing at the tiles, remembering others like them in the cool corridors of the sultan’s harem, when a knock on the door announced the messenger. IVResid Pasha tapped his polished boot with a swizzle stick.‘The Sultan Mahmud, may he rest in peace, was pleased to order the construction of the bridge,’ he said evenly. He pointed his stick at the divan. ‘The old city and Pera have been too much apart. That is also the view of the Padishah.’‘Now Pera will come to Istanbul,’ Yashim said, ‘and we will know no peace.’Resid pursed his lips. ‘Or perhaps the other way round, Yashim efendi.’‘Yes, my pasha,’ Yashim said doubtfully. He took a seat, cross-legged, on the divan. ‘Perhaps.’He tried to picture Pera subsiding into dignified silence, as the sober pashas and the minarets and the cypresses of old Istanbul spread their leisurely influence across the bridge, stilling the perpetual scrimmage of touts, tea-boys, porters, bankers, shopkeepers and sailors that milled through the Pera streets. Where would the cypresses find space to grow, between the Belgian hatters and the Greek peddlers, the steam-presses and the foreign crowds? Old Ottoman gentlemen brought their families to Pera now and then, and led them in stately astonishment through crowds of every nationality and none, staring into the big glass w...