didn’t want tea, thanks, he’d made some in the shed – just as well, Hopkins thought – Beehernz appeared, wearing a tattered Regenhaut and a wide-brimmed hat. He was ready not only to go out, but to go away.
‘I shall accompany you.’
‘You didn’t say anything about this last night.’
‘I should like to hear that young woman sing again. She cannot have got any further than Iona.’
‘You sent her away.’
‘I have changed my mind. I should like to hear her sing again. You see, it is so long since I heard music.’
The Prescription
A fter Petros Zarifi’s wife died his shop began to make less and less money. His wife had acted as cashier. That was all over now. The shelves emptied gradually as the unpaid wholesalers refused to supply him with goods. In his tiny room at the back of the shop he had, like many Greek storekeepers, an oleograph in vivid colours of his patron saint, with the motto Embros – Forward! But he had now lost all ambition except in the matter of his son Alecco.
The shop was not too badly placed, on the very edge of the Phanar, where Zarifi should have been able to sell to both Greeks and Turks. One of his remaining customers, in fact, was an elderly Stamboullu who worked as dispenser to a prosperous doctor in the Beyazit district. Both old Yousuf and Dr Mehmet drank raki, which they regarded as permissible because it had not been invented in the days of the Prophet. One evening when he was refilling the bottles Zarifi asked Yousuf to speak for him to Mehmet Bey.
‘Ask him if he will take my son Alecco, who has just turned fourteen, into his employment.’
‘Can’t his own relatives provide for him?’ asked the old man.
‘Don’t give a father advice on this matter,’ said Zarifi. ‘What else does he think about when he lies awake at nights?’
Mehmet Bey took the virtue of compassion seriously. Once he had been told that Zarifi was a good Greek , who had won a reputation for honesty, and, possibly as a result, had been unfortunate, he sent word that he would see him.
‘Your son can clean my boots and run errands. That is all I have to offer. Don’t let him have ambitions. There are too many doctors in Stamboul, and above all, far too many Greeks.’
‘Good, well, I understand you, bey effendi , you may trust both my son and me.’
It was arranged that Alecco should work and sleep at the doctor’s house in Hayreddin Pasha Street. His room was not much larger than a cupboard, but then, neither had it been at home. Loneliness was his trouble, not discomfort. The doctor’s wife, Azizié Hanoum, kept to her quarters, and old Yousuf, who was a poor relation of hers, jealously guarded the dispensary, where the drugs must have been arranged on some kind of system since he was able, given time, to make up a prescription when called upon. As to Mehmet Bey himself, his hours were regular. After a sluggish evening visit to the coffee-houseto read the newspaper he would return and spend a few hours more than half asleep in the bosom of his family. But Alecco understood very well, or thought he understood, what it was that his father expected him to do.
Polishing the boots of the hakim bashi did not take up much of the day. Always obedient, he went about with the doctor as a servant, keeping several paces behind, carrying his bag and his stethoscope. Once a week Mehmet Bey, as a good Moslem, gave his services to the hospital for the poor on the waterfront, and Alecco learned in the wards to recognize the face of leprosy and of death itself. Then, because he was so quick, he began to help a little with the accounts, and from the ledgers he gathered in a few weeks how the practice was run and which were the commonest complaints and how much could be charged for them in each case – always excepting the bills of the very rich, which were presented by Mehmet Bey in person. The doctor, for his part, recognized that this boy was sharp, and did not much like it. A subject race, he
‘I shall accompany you.’
‘You didn’t say anything about this last night.’
‘I should like to hear that young woman sing again. She cannot have got any further than Iona.’
‘You sent her away.’
‘I have changed my mind. I should like to hear her sing again. You see, it is so long since I heard music.’
The Prescription
A fter Petros Zarifi’s wife died his shop began to make less and less money. His wife had acted as cashier. That was all over now. The shelves emptied gradually as the unpaid wholesalers refused to supply him with goods. In his tiny room at the back of the shop he had, like many Greek storekeepers, an oleograph in vivid colours of his patron saint, with the motto Embros – Forward! But he had now lost all ambition except in the matter of his son Alecco.
The shop was not too badly placed, on the very edge of the Phanar, where Zarifi should have been able to sell to both Greeks and Turks. One of his remaining customers, in fact, was an elderly Stamboullu who worked as dispenser to a prosperous doctor in the Beyazit district. Both old Yousuf and Dr Mehmet drank raki, which they regarded as permissible because it had not been invented in the days of the Prophet. One evening when he was refilling the bottles Zarifi asked Yousuf to speak for him to Mehmet Bey.
‘Ask him if he will take my son Alecco, who has just turned fourteen, into his employment.’
‘Can’t his own relatives provide for him?’ asked the old man.
‘Don’t give a father advice on this matter,’ said Zarifi. ‘What else does he think about when he lies awake at nights?’
Mehmet Bey took the virtue of compassion seriously. Once he had been told that Zarifi was a good Greek , who had won a reputation for honesty, and, possibly as a result, had been unfortunate, he sent word that he would see him.
‘Your son can clean my boots and run errands. That is all I have to offer. Don’t let him have ambitions. There are too many doctors in Stamboul, and above all, far too many Greeks.’
‘Good, well, I understand you, bey effendi , you may trust both my son and me.’
It was arranged that Alecco should work and sleep at the doctor’s house in Hayreddin Pasha Street. His room was not much larger than a cupboard, but then, neither had it been at home. Loneliness was his trouble, not discomfort. The doctor’s wife, Azizié Hanoum, kept to her quarters, and old Yousuf, who was a poor relation of hers, jealously guarded the dispensary, where the drugs must have been arranged on some kind of system since he was able, given time, to make up a prescription when called upon. As to Mehmet Bey himself, his hours were regular. After a sluggish evening visit to the coffee-houseto read the newspaper he would return and spend a few hours more than half asleep in the bosom of his family. But Alecco understood very well, or thought he understood, what it was that his father expected him to do.
Polishing the boots of the hakim bashi did not take up much of the day. Always obedient, he went about with the doctor as a servant, keeping several paces behind, carrying his bag and his stethoscope. Once a week Mehmet Bey, as a good Moslem, gave his services to the hospital for the poor on the waterfront, and Alecco learned in the wards to recognize the face of leprosy and of death itself. Then, because he was so quick, he began to help a little with the accounts, and from the ledgers he gathered in a few weeks how the practice was run and which were the commonest complaints and how much could be charged for them in each case – always excepting the bills of the very rich, which were presented by Mehmet Bey in person. The doctor, for his part, recognized that this boy was sharp, and did not much like it. A subject race, he
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