River of The Dead by Barbara Nadel

İstanbullus are, we know you always want to take over’? If so, then it was probably best to let it just go over his head. After all, what did a country bumpkin like Taner know about him? She might be wearing a smart suit and expensive make-up, but that didn’t stop her being merely a big fish in a very small pool. He said he’d like to observe the raid just as the next course, ribs of lamb that appeared to be stuffed with rice, appeared. It was then that Taner’s mobile telephone rang.
    She looked down at the instrument and said, ‘I have to take this.’ Then, without another word, she got up and left the table.
    ‘You’ll want to wait for her, I suppose,’ the old woman, who was still standing by the table waiting to serve them, said. ‘To eat?’
    ‘Oh, er, yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I will, thank you.’
    ‘As you wish.’ There was a slight foreign tinge to her voice. But then a lot of people in this part of the country did not speak Turkish as their first language. Maybe the old black-clad woman was an Arab? Perhaps that was the language he had heard Rafik speaking earlier?
    She was just about to leave when Süleyman, his curiosity piqued by this place he knew absolutely nothing about, said, ‘What is this building? Can you tell me?’
    The woman, who was small and he could see now was very angular, almost like one of those pictures of witches one sometimes saw in books of European fairy stories, stopped. ‘You want to see the Zeytounian house?’ she said.
    Süleyman instantly recognised the name as one of Armenian origin. The old woman, who did not give him her own name at any point, led him up the stairs to the first floor of the building. Just to the left of the stairs was a large doorway surmounted by a very ornate stained glass fanlight. The door was ajar and Süleyman could just make out that the interior was lit by a flickering flame, possibly candlelight.
    ‘The house was built by Dzeron Zeytounian in the nineteenth century,’ the old woman said. ‘The Zeytounians were rich, educated people.’
    She pushed the door open and he found himself looking into another world. The old woman quite clearly knew this, because what she said next indicated that she had, perhaps, read Süleyman’s mind.
    ‘These rooms belong to the Cobweb World,’ she said. ‘They exist in a time not even I can remember.’
    He could see three rooms, all with worn but still beautiful parquet floors. Curtains faded almost to white hung at the few windows, and the rooms were indeed lit by four large collections of flickering candles. Although the furniture was sparse, Süleyman could see that it was both old and very good. Two sagging but still regal armchairs graced one room, their once bright brocade covers nibbled by vermin. In another room, on top of a small bamboo and teak table was a radio almost as big as a modern TV set, the international stations on its dial given in French: Londres, Maroc, Allemagne.
    But it was not the furniture or even the fabulous floors that really held his attention. The walls and the ceilings, which were panelled in ornate cream-painted wood, were also covered with paintings. Great fluffy clouds above his head barely concealed cherubs casually leaning upon golden harps. At picture rail level, large arched hunting scenes predominated: illustrations that looked as if they would be more appropriate for the country house of an English gentleman than the mansion of a wealthy Armenian. Finally, between panels painted with a Grecian urn motif and cupboards fronted with delicate wooden filigree, there were portraits. The women, unveiled and wearing clothing typical of nineteenth-century Europe, stared out solemnly from hooded oriental eyes. The men wore fezzes, their faces also solemn but this time in some cases recognisable.
    ‘That is Dzeron Zeytounian,’ the old woman said as she pointed to a particularly severe-looking portrait. ‘This one here is Midhat Paşa.’
    Midhat Paşa Süleyman knew.