The Baklava Club: A Novel (Investigator Yashim) Read Free Page A

tried England,” Yashim pointed out. “As Voltaire did.”
    Giancarlo looked blank. “England? Why, yes…”
    Rafael butted in: “It’s just another system—”
    To Yashim’s surprise, Birgit spoke up from the window seat. “It’s too cold for them, Signor Yashim. If a cloud enters the sky their mothers make them wear a scarf!” She laughed, daring them to contradict her. “And none of the Italians in England have class. They are organ-grinders or dancing masters. They sell gelati,” she added, drawing out the word as if it appealed to her.
    Giancarlo flushed. “That’s not true, Birgit. We don’t care if a man is a crossing sweeper or a duke, as long as he’s with the people.”
    “Aha.” Birgit yawned lazily. “But I’m right about the weather.”
    “There are no spies here,” Giancarlo said, appealing to Yashim. “Nobody in Istanbul cares about the Pope. We breathe free air, beyond the reach of the Inquisition.”
    “And what will you do from here, to deal with the Inquisition?”
    Giancarlo caught a glance from Rafael, and returned him a dismissive shrug. “We have to change people’s ideas, and break through this—this crust of feudalism that has formed across the country. My country.”
    Birgit ambled across to the sofa and lay down.
    “And our voices have to be heard,” Rafael added. His eyes shone. “That’s why we have to stay free.”
    “It reminds me of that old joke,” Palewski put in. “The drunken man who searches for his wallet, under a lamppost.”
    They all looked at him, expectantly.
    “They ask him if he remembers dropping it here, and he says no, he dropped it somewhere farther down the road. So they ask him, ‘Why are you searching here?’ And he says, ‘Because the light is better under the lamppost.’”
    Everyone laughed. Only Birgit was silent. Her eyelashes fluttered and her chest gave a slight heave.
    She had fallen asleep.

 
    4
    T HEY made quite a row, of course, going back to their flat through the silent streets, waking up dogs, puzzling the night watchmen. Their landlord, Leandros Ghika, heard them banging up the stairs, and scowled.
    Fabrizio raised a fist. “That Palewski—he is one of us!”
    “A splendid fellow, Fabrizio, I heartily concur. He likes freedom.”
    “He likes champagne.”
    “Champagne is freedom! We should liberate it all!”
    They burst into the flat. Giancarlo flung himself onto the divan, Fabrizio plucked out a bottle, Rafael lit a lamp. Birgit settled down and let Giancarlo slide an arm around her shoulders.
    “And that Yashim—he’s what?” Rafael fiddled with his glasses and sat down on the only chair.
    Giancarlo laughed, showing his strong white teeth. “A man like Farinelli, Rafael. Without the voice.”
    “A castrato?” Rafael’s eyes were round.
    Fabrizio flicked up his hand as if it held a knife. “ Toc! They come in all kinds. Only our Pope likes the ones who sing too high.”
    “The Pope takes them young,” Giancarlo said. “He cuts off their balls to sing ‘Ave Maria’—in a sweet voice,” he added, falsetto. “Pah! He cuts off their balls to stop them becoming men. It’s symbolic, no?”
    “Of—?” Rafael looked stubborn.
    Giancarlo waved a hand. “Political emasculation. He turns men into women and so he rules. What chance do we men have in Italy?”
    “But Yashim doesn’t sound like a castrato.”
    Fabrizio grinned. “No. And I know a man from Catania who was just the same. When his house collapsed in an earthquake, he was crushed down there, like that. He had five children already but after the accident that was it. No more. Poor man.”
    “Poor man,” Giancarlo echoed.
    Fabrizio wagged a finger and laughed. “Not so poor, because you know what? His wife was happy ever after—and so were all the beautiful virgins of Catania!”
    “You mean he stopped pestering them?”
    “Pestering? Are you out of your mind? He had them all! One by one, these lovely virgins came to him to be