The Baklava Club: A Novel (Investigator Yashim) by Jason Goodwin Page A

else about you, unknown in Istanbul. An independence, perhaps.”
    She gave him a mocking smile. “Independence? It’s not my most obvious quality.”
    “Oh, that. Ce n’est qu’une façon de vivre .” He dismissed it with a wave, as just a way of life. “In yourself, you’re independent. I daresay it’s the Baltic air.”
    “Our sea. Yours and mine.” She leaned her chin on her fist. “The Baltic seems a long way off. In experience, I suppose. Not miles.”
    They were silent then. Ever since the pasha’s invitation to shoot, Palewski had spoken to his father in dreams; sniffed the air of early morning; recalled the boy that was. He thought it was age but perhaps he was wrong: the distance was experience, as Birgit said.
    She turned from the wisteria and his heart thumped. Her eyes were blue like childhood seas. The sound in his chest was so loud that he leaned back and folded his arms; he was hardly surprised to see someone detach himself from the group around the fireplace.
    “Forgive me, Palewski. Your clerical friend confuses me.” It was Fabrizio: he glanced at Birgit. “Are you all right?”
    She smiled. “The ambassador needs champagne.” She took Palewski’s glass; her fingers brushed against his and his heart jumped.
    “Gentlemen,” he muttered, rising to his feet. “Some more champagne!”
    He felt boorish; his feet were heavy. He went to the door, opened it, and stepped onto the landing.
    Closing the door behind him, he paused, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed.
    “Kyrie? You look pale.” Marta stood with her hands crossed at the wrists.
    “Yes, Marta. I think I’ll go upstairs.” He turned, not to see the expression in her face.

 
    13
    T O Yashim’s surprise, Marta opened the door just as he was about to push the handle.
    “Yashim efendi! I’m so glad it’s you,” she said, wringing her hands. “Those Franks are in the drawing room, and the kyrie has gone to bed.”
    “To bed?”
    “He looked so pale, I am worried about him. There is a new visitor here, too, a priest of the kyrie’s church. The kyrie brought him home from the French embassy.”
    Yashim shook his head. “Perhaps I had better go home myself.”
    “Oh no, efendi, please! The men are drinking wine. The woman is there, also.”
    Yashim grasped Marta’s predicament. “Very well. I’ll talk to the kyrie, and then we’ll see.”
    “But he is asleep.”
    Yashim felt a flash of irritation with Palewski. “All the more reason, Marta. I’ll dig him out.”
    Marta still looked doubtful as he climbed the stairs. Passing the door to the drawing room, he paused to listen to an unfamiliar voice, a high, bluff voice that resounded through the thick panels.
    “You’ll not get me to admit that! You’ll not take me along on that line!”
    Yashim continued up the stairs, knocked at Palewski’s door, and went in without waiting.
    His friend was not asleep: instead, he leaped from the bed as the door opened.
    “Oh, it’s you!”
    Yashim looked at him curiously. “Marta told me you were looking pale.”
    Palewski ran a hand through his hair. “Yes. Poor Marta. I felt—I felt odd. Are they still here?”
    Yashim came into the room and closed the door. “You’re ill?”
    Palewski sank down onto the bed and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know. I had—well, a sort of shock. A surprise.” His hand dropped and he looked up at Yashim. “I think I fell in love.”
    Yashim leaned his back against the door. “Go on.”
    Palewski gave a weak laugh. “I’m trying to recover, Yash. She’s half my age, and spoken for. I had to get away.”
    “Shall I encourage them to leave?”
    “No—yes, that would be best.”
    “I’ll say you’re feeling unwell.”
    “Don’t—that is, don’t put it like that. Tell them I’ve got something—an appointment.”
    “At this hour?”
    He left Palewski sitting on the bed, his face buried in his hands. Downstairs he found the Italians in the drawing room, and the