Seymour.
The three men left together.
Seymour looked round the room. It was small and dark and dirty and there were various bits of clothing scattered around. A dressing room, Seymour supposed.
‘It is not nice here,’ said Mukhtar, wrinkling his nose. ‘Let us go somewhere else.’
As they were leaving the theatre, a small, harassed-looking man interrupted them.
‘Can I use it?’ he asked. ‘The room, I mean?’
The terjiman nodded.
‘I’ve finished here for the time being,’ he said.
‘This is terrible!’ said the little man.
Mukhtar didn’t say anything.
The little man seemed compelled to offer an explanation for wanting to use the room.
‘It’s the performance this evening. I mean, we’ve got to go on. And there are points when we need all the changing rooms.’
‘If you’re going on the way you have done,’ said Mukhtar sternly, ‘you’re asking for trouble!’
The little man, who seemed to be the theatre manager, hung his head.
‘There are only two of them,’ he said. ‘Now that Lalagé’s gone.’
‘Yes, well, they may not be so keen to continue now that they’ve seen what happened to Miss Kassim. However, that’s not my business. I’m only interested in Miss Kassim.’
‘I don’t want you to think,’ said the little manager, with sudden dignity, ‘that I’m not.’
He stepped aside and they went on out. The crowd was still gathered at the foot of the steps.
‘They’re back,’ Seymour heard someone say. ‘The Fleshmakers.’
‘They’ve never really gone,’ someone else said.
The terjiman led Seymour down one of the dark alleyways. To his surprise they came out on the Galata Bridge. He hadn’t realized it was so close. They went down some steps off to one side. Below the bridge was a large floating quay covered with stalls and booths. Some of the stalls, selling materials of various kinds, had spread their wares over the space between the shops. They seemed to cover every inch of the quay. From somewhere further along came the smell of frying fish.
Mukhtar stepped over the cloth and led him through a space between two of the stalls, so narrow that if you hadn’t known it was there you would have missed it. At the end there was an area fenced off by four-feet high walls of carpet. Inside, there were low tables and at one end there were braziers on which a turbaned man was making coffee. They went to a table at the side. There were no chairs; they sat on the floor, and when Seymour did, he was conscious of the floor moving. The man at the end served them coffee in tiny cups, pouring from a tall copper pot with a long spout.
‘I am sorry, Mr Seymour,’ said Mukhtar, ‘that you should, so soon after coming here, see the bad side of Istanbul.’
He spoke English well, although slightly over-correctly.
‘It is what brought me here,’ said Seymour.
Mukhtar nodded.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘And you will understand that it is not all like this.’
He sipped his coffee.
‘And now to Miss Kassim. You were coming to see her, you said?’
‘Yes. We had met yesterday evening. At the theatre. She came to our box at a point when she was not onstage.’
‘And you arranged to meet her this evening?’
‘After the performance, yes.’
‘May I ask why? We are colleagues, Mr Seymour, and you can be frank.’
Seymour smiled.
‘I was just hoping to talk to her,’ he said. ‘And I was not expecting, if that is what you are thinking, that it would lead to other things.’
‘Forgive me. It was a possibility. May I ask what you were going to talk to her about?’
‘Cunningham.’
‘Ah, Cunningham.’
‘She knew Cunningham, it appears.’
‘Yes.’ It did not seem to come as a surprise to him. ‘And what, exactly, were you hoping that Miss Kassim could tell you about Cunningham?’
‘I was hoping,’ Seymour said, ‘that she could give me a more rounded picture of him. All I have got so far is the Embassy side.’
The terjiman smiled.
‘And
The three men left together.
Seymour looked round the room. It was small and dark and dirty and there were various bits of clothing scattered around. A dressing room, Seymour supposed.
‘It is not nice here,’ said Mukhtar, wrinkling his nose. ‘Let us go somewhere else.’
As they were leaving the theatre, a small, harassed-looking man interrupted them.
‘Can I use it?’ he asked. ‘The room, I mean?’
The terjiman nodded.
‘I’ve finished here for the time being,’ he said.
‘This is terrible!’ said the little man.
Mukhtar didn’t say anything.
The little man seemed compelled to offer an explanation for wanting to use the room.
‘It’s the performance this evening. I mean, we’ve got to go on. And there are points when we need all the changing rooms.’
‘If you’re going on the way you have done,’ said Mukhtar sternly, ‘you’re asking for trouble!’
The little man, who seemed to be the theatre manager, hung his head.
‘There are only two of them,’ he said. ‘Now that Lalagé’s gone.’
‘Yes, well, they may not be so keen to continue now that they’ve seen what happened to Miss Kassim. However, that’s not my business. I’m only interested in Miss Kassim.’
‘I don’t want you to think,’ said the little manager, with sudden dignity, ‘that I’m not.’
He stepped aside and they went on out. The crowd was still gathered at the foot of the steps.
‘They’re back,’ Seymour heard someone say. ‘The Fleshmakers.’
‘They’ve never really gone,’ someone else said.
The terjiman led Seymour down one of the dark alleyways. To his surprise they came out on the Galata Bridge. He hadn’t realized it was so close. They went down some steps off to one side. Below the bridge was a large floating quay covered with stalls and booths. Some of the stalls, selling materials of various kinds, had spread their wares over the space between the shops. They seemed to cover every inch of the quay. From somewhere further along came the smell of frying fish.
Mukhtar stepped over the cloth and led him through a space between two of the stalls, so narrow that if you hadn’t known it was there you would have missed it. At the end there was an area fenced off by four-feet high walls of carpet. Inside, there were low tables and at one end there were braziers on which a turbaned man was making coffee. They went to a table at the side. There were no chairs; they sat on the floor, and when Seymour did, he was conscious of the floor moving. The man at the end served them coffee in tiny cups, pouring from a tall copper pot with a long spout.
‘I am sorry, Mr Seymour,’ said Mukhtar, ‘that you should, so soon after coming here, see the bad side of Istanbul.’
He spoke English well, although slightly over-correctly.
‘It is what brought me here,’ said Seymour.
Mukhtar nodded.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘And you will understand that it is not all like this.’
He sipped his coffee.
‘And now to Miss Kassim. You were coming to see her, you said?’
‘Yes. We had met yesterday evening. At the theatre. She came to our box at a point when she was not onstage.’
‘And you arranged to meet her this evening?’
‘After the performance, yes.’
‘May I ask why? We are colleagues, Mr Seymour, and you can be frank.’
Seymour smiled.
‘I was just hoping to talk to her,’ he said. ‘And I was not expecting, if that is what you are thinking, that it would lead to other things.’
‘Forgive me. It was a possibility. May I ask what you were going to talk to her about?’
‘Cunningham.’
‘Ah, Cunningham.’
‘She knew Cunningham, it appears.’
‘Yes.’ It did not seem to come as a surprise to him. ‘And what, exactly, were you hoping that Miss Kassim could tell you about Cunningham?’
‘I was hoping,’ Seymour said, ‘that she could give me a more rounded picture of him. All I have got so far is the Embassy side.’
The terjiman smiled.
‘And
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