An Evil Eye Read Free Page B

headscarf who rolled along after her donkey, its panniers stuffed with reeds.
    Close to the gateway of the monastery, set back from the avenue, stood a small café.
    “Sherbet, Yash. They’ll do a pear syrup here, too,” Palewski suggested, steering his friend gently by the arm toward the café path.
    Two men swerved past them, running up the hill.
    “So hot,” Palewski murmured, raising an eyebrow.
    Cushions were scattered on carpets spread beneath the boughs of an enormous pine, whose resinous fragrance perfumed the air. A boy in a waistcoat took their orders: he seemed distracted, glancing now and then through the trees toward the avenue of limes.
    “Pear, not apple,” Yashim corrected him. “Pear for my friend, and coffee, medium sweet, for me.”
    The two friends lay in companionable silence, watching the sky through the boughs of the tree. Rooks cawed in the upper branches; farther off, Yashim could hear a murmur of indistinct voices like wind soughing in the pines.
    Palewski dipped into his pocket. He brought out a slim volume bound in soft red leather, which he opened and began to read.
    Yashim struggled for a few moments with the curiosity that comes over anyone when they watch someone else with their nose in a book. Then he gave up.
    “ Pan Tadeusz —again,” Palewski replied, with a smile.
    “The national epic,” Yashim murmured. “Of course.”
    “Really, I never tire of it,” Palewski said. “It is the Poland I represent. Poland in the old days.” He sighed. “I wrote to Mickiewicz, proposing a French translation.”
    “The poet? And did he reply?”
    Palewski nodded. “Of course, he could do it himself. He lives in Paris. But he said he’d be delighted if I’d like to try.”
    “And you’ve begun?”
    “Awfully hard, Yashim.” Palewski leaned back and closed his eyes. He flung up a hand toward the trees and began to recite:

“Litwo! Ojczyzno moja! Ty jeste jak zdrowie.
Ile ci trzeba ceni, , ten tylko si dowie,
Kto ci stracił. Dzi pi kno tw w całej ozdobie
Widz i opisuj , bo t skni po tobie.”

    Yashim could not understand the words; he had stopped listening. He could hear a sound like angry bees, buzzing farther up the avenue; now and again he heard shouts.
    “I’ve made a start, Yash, but it’s picking the words. And matching the rhyme—”
    Yashim bent forward and touched his knee. “Don’t go away,” he said.
    “But I haven’t given you my translation yet.”
    Yashim had scrambled to his feet. “I’ll listen later.”
    “Your coffee’s coming.”
    “I’ll be back.”
    He went to the avenue and turned up the hill. A few hundred yards ahead he could make out the wooden gate of the monastery. The gate was shut, and outside it a few dozen men were standing in a semicircle, their backs toward Yashim.
    “Unbelievers!”
    “Open the gate!”
    A man stooped and picked up a stone, which he threw against the wooden gate. Soon the whole crowd was hurling stones, which thunked against the heavy wooden planks.
    Yashim moved to the edge of the circle.
    “What are you doing?”
    The man beside him turned his head sharply. “The unbelievers, efendi. They have the body of a Muslim in there. They are hiding him.”
    Yashim frowned. “How do you know that?”
    “At night, they will feed him to the dogs!”
    Yashim put up a hand. “How can you know so much? Have you talked to them, inside? Have you seen this Muslim?”
    The man turned angrily. “Open this gate! We are Muslims!”
    Yashim glanced back. More men were surging up the avenue; some were shaking their fists.
    Ever since the Greeks of Athens had secured their independence, Greeks and Turks had been like flint and steel, striking sparks that threatened to set the empire alight. Husrev Pasha was right, these were uncertain times. The weather was too hot—and a man was dead.
    Yashim put his hands in the air and stepped out in front of the gathering crowd.
    “Listen to me.”
    The men paused, curious.
    “Listen to