extraordinary. Why treat them like rubble when the whole world reveres them? Think of the tourists and money they would attract if they were restored.”
Joseph appeared and stood next to Gustave’s blanket, glancing diffidently at the ground as he waited for a break in the conversation.
“It’s a marvel anything gets accomplished with the confusion of so many nations living cheek by jowl.”
“Speaking of confusion . . .” Max nipped into his tent and returned, holding an Ottoman calendar, its squares full of dizzying languages and symbols. Gustave had given up trying to decipher it. All he knew was that the Ottoman day began at sunset, making it nearly impossible to get times straight when meeting with officials of the empire outside major cities. “We will wake at sunrise,” Max announced. He consulted the calendar again. “Which is at six thirty-eight.” He went back inside.
“What is it, Joseph?” Gustave asked.
“A favor, effendi? A small favor?”
“Certainly. What can I do for you?
They’d hired Joseph based on a letter commending him as a reasonably reliable and honest man—high praise, the writer said, in a profession rife with scoundrels and swindlers. To date he had been a fine dragoman, never truculent, though often reserved. As he approached, Gustave inhaled the stink of aged sweat, sour ass, dirty hair, and other less identifiable bodily odors. He realized he had neverseen Joseph bathe or change clothes. In the morning, he passed a rag across his brow, sloshed water in his mouth, and spit. His complete toilette apparently.
“My new esposa is write,” he said, shyly pulling a packet of letters from his foul jacket. “She is young and bellissima, has not twenty years. She is been with French nuns.”
“It’s wonderful to receive a letter, isn’t it?”
“Ah, when she is write me.” Joseph raised his eyes to the sky.
The man reeked so bad that Gustave had to breathe through his mouth. Did he bathe at home with his young and beautiful wife? Surely the nuns had taught her good hygiene.
“Effendi,” Joseph began again, “you read them to me? She is write in français.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I didn’t realize.”
He opened the first letter and skimmed it. A demand for money. (“Send it immediately, I tell you.”) No salutation or valediction. Complete lack of courtesy and affection. The handwriting was faint, done in pencil. “She says she loves you very much.”
“And the other?” He handed it to him.
“Have you shown these to anyone else?”
“No, effendi. These sailors no read. And no privacy.”
“Here she is saying she misses you.” He touched the page with his finger. “And, again, she loves you.”
“You read fast, effendi. There is more?”
Telling the truth, he said, “She wants to buy a new frock.”
“I know this.” Joseph looked down at his hands.
The other six letters contained more shrill demands for money. She had run up bills with tradesmen. The dressmaker was insisting that she return a garment. The grocer was going to refuse her credit. (He threatens to cut off my balls, she’d written, parroting Joseph’s crudeness, or crude herself?) “She sounds lovely,” he said. He couldn’t wait to tell Max.
“She read,” Joseph said, smiling. “I love for that.” He frowned. “I no read, effendi. If I read, I no do this work, I join French Legion.”
• • •
Stretched on his blanket, Gustave marked time until everyone had bedded down. He enjoyed such perfect privacy in his study at Croisset that he could no longer so much as daydream if he thought someone were observing him.
Beyond the outline of his toes, the campfire crackled and glowed, while overhead, the stars inched through their celestial arcs. He located the Big Dipper, then connected the studs of Orion’s belt, which reminded him of Kuchuk Hanem’s extravagant jewelry. He liked the rhythm of her name—the little click like a snap of the fingers in the middle of it.
Joseph appeared and stood next to Gustave’s blanket, glancing diffidently at the ground as he waited for a break in the conversation.
“It’s a marvel anything gets accomplished with the confusion of so many nations living cheek by jowl.”
“Speaking of confusion . . .” Max nipped into his tent and returned, holding an Ottoman calendar, its squares full of dizzying languages and symbols. Gustave had given up trying to decipher it. All he knew was that the Ottoman day began at sunset, making it nearly impossible to get times straight when meeting with officials of the empire outside major cities. “We will wake at sunrise,” Max announced. He consulted the calendar again. “Which is at six thirty-eight.” He went back inside.
“What is it, Joseph?” Gustave asked.
“A favor, effendi? A small favor?”
“Certainly. What can I do for you?
They’d hired Joseph based on a letter commending him as a reasonably reliable and honest man—high praise, the writer said, in a profession rife with scoundrels and swindlers. To date he had been a fine dragoman, never truculent, though often reserved. As he approached, Gustave inhaled the stink of aged sweat, sour ass, dirty hair, and other less identifiable bodily odors. He realized he had neverseen Joseph bathe or change clothes. In the morning, he passed a rag across his brow, sloshed water in his mouth, and spit. His complete toilette apparently.
“My new esposa is write,” he said, shyly pulling a packet of letters from his foul jacket. “She is young and bellissima, has not twenty years. She is been with French nuns.”
“It’s wonderful to receive a letter, isn’t it?”
“Ah, when she is write me.” Joseph raised his eyes to the sky.
The man reeked so bad that Gustave had to breathe through his mouth. Did he bathe at home with his young and beautiful wife? Surely the nuns had taught her good hygiene.
“Effendi,” Joseph began again, “you read them to me? She is write in français.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I didn’t realize.”
He opened the first letter and skimmed it. A demand for money. (“Send it immediately, I tell you.”) No salutation or valediction. Complete lack of courtesy and affection. The handwriting was faint, done in pencil. “She says she loves you very much.”
“And the other?” He handed it to him.
“Have you shown these to anyone else?”
“No, effendi. These sailors no read. And no privacy.”
“Here she is saying she misses you.” He touched the page with his finger. “And, again, she loves you.”
“You read fast, effendi. There is more?”
Telling the truth, he said, “She wants to buy a new frock.”
“I know this.” Joseph looked down at his hands.
The other six letters contained more shrill demands for money. She had run up bills with tradesmen. The dressmaker was insisting that she return a garment. The grocer was going to refuse her credit. (He threatens to cut off my balls, she’d written, parroting Joseph’s crudeness, or crude herself?) “She sounds lovely,” he said. He couldn’t wait to tell Max.
“She read,” Joseph said, smiling. “I love for that.” He frowned. “I no read, effendi. If I read, I no do this work, I join French Legion.”
• • •
Stretched on his blanket, Gustave marked time until everyone had bedded down. He enjoyed such perfect privacy in his study at Croisset that he could no longer so much as daydream if he thought someone were observing him.
Beyond the outline of his toes, the campfire crackled and glowed, while overhead, the stars inched through their celestial arcs. He located the Big Dipper, then connected the studs of Orion’s belt, which reminded him of Kuchuk Hanem’s extravagant jewelry. He liked the rhythm of her name—the little click like a snap of the fingers in the middle of it.
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