British Embassy
Pera
Dear Sis,
. . . awfully jolly. Ask a great deal after you.
I am trying to write all my Impressions, just as you wanted me to, but there are so many I hardly know where to begin. Imagine you were trying to write a letter describing everything you ever saw in Grandmama’s china cabinets, you know the thing—Cups all piled up helter skelter, & little saucers, & Shepherdesses & Coffeepots & colored sugar Pots, with domed lids: that’s what the whole place seems like to me. Not to mention a blue riband of Water, on which the whole thing seems to rest—not the cabinet, I mean—Constantinople.
Fizerly says the Turks don’t give a thought for Yesterday or tomorrow—all Fatalists—he once went into the great church built by Justinian—Aya Sofia (in Greek, pls)—all disguised as a Mohammedan (Fizerly, I mean, not Justinian—whizz!) and says it’s just awful, with nothing but some dinner gongs hanging in the corners to show what Ali Ottoman has done there in the last 400 years. He’s a splendid fellow, Fizerly, and you should get to meet his Sister for he says, and I believe him, we shall be fast Friends.
On the same line, though, I have passed my first Great Test in Diplomacy. Fizerly’d hardly finished telling me the Turks live for the moment when one of them shambled up to the Embassy door—they all wear cloaks, you see, and look like Wizards—Turks not doors, I mean—and declared himself to be a historian! Fizerly spoke some Turkish to him and the chap replied in perfect French. Fizerly and I exchanged glances—I thought I would die of laughter—but the Turk v serious and wanted to investigate Janissary regiments &c. The Amb says Istanbul is much duller without the Janissaries, Fizerly tells me. Not too dull for
Yr loving bro.,
Frank
“Who are you working for?”
Frank Compston spoke French badly. Yashim wished he would go away and leave him to get on with the assessment. The Englishman seemed puzzled.
Yashim said, “Let us say I work for myself.”
“Oh. A freelance?”
Yashim rolled the unfamiliar word around his tongue. A free lance? He supposed he had: at least it was unencumbered by the plums that other men had gobbling at their groins.
“You are very perceptive,” he said, inclining his head.
The young man flushed. He felt certain that he was being laughed at but could not quite understand the exchange. Perhaps he’d better just shut up for a while. More diplomatic. He folded his arms and sat stiffly on the upholstered seat, watching the Turk scribbling down lists.
After a minute he said, “Jolly bad business about the Janissaries, was it?”
Yashim looked up in surprise.
“For the Janissaries, yes,” he observed drily.
The boy nodded vigorously, as if Yashim had just made a profound remark.
“Whew! Yes! Rotten for them.”
He shook his head and raised his eyebrows.
“Not much fun, being burned alive,” Yashim murmured. Pas trop amusant.
The boy goggled dutifully. “Not my idea of amusement, certainly!” He lowered his head and gave a big laugh. Yashim carried on writing.
“I say,” the boy chirped up. “What do chaps do for amusement here, in Istanbul?”
He was leaning forward now, his hands dangling between his knees, with a screwed-up look on his face.
Yashim narrowed his eyes. When he spoke it was almost a whisper. “Well, some men use a dead sheep.”
The boy startled. “A sheep?”
“They cut it and remove its—what do you say—its bladder.”
The boy’s face was frozen into an expression of horror.
“One of them, it’s usually the strongest, puts his lips to the urethra—”
“Oh quite. I—I see. Please, it’s not what I meant.”
Yashim put on a puzzled expression.
“But don’t you play football in your country, too?”
The boy stared at him, then sagged.
“I’m sorry, yes, of course. I—I—” He was quite red in the face. “I think I’ll just go and get a glass of water. Please excuse me.”
Yashim gave a short smile and went back to the books.
He had found what he needed. They were, he imagined, only estimates, but if the figures were even roughly correct, they made for sobering reading.
How many Janissaries had died in the events of June 1826? A thousand, possibly, at the barracks. Several hundred more accounted for in the hunt that followed—say, five hundred. There had been hangings and executions, but surprisingly few, mostly of known ringleaders.
The rest had been allowed to melt away. Three of them, maybe a few more, had found jobs at the Soup Makers’ Guild, as Yashim knew.
Which still left, if these figures were a guide, a lot of men unaccounted for. Living quiet, unobtrusive lives somewhere. Bringing up families. Working for a living. Well, that would be a shock to the system.
Yashim sat back on the chair and stared at his totals. A lot of rueful and regretful men.
About fifty thousand of them, in fact.