deflowered! They wished to discover the art of love, without any unfortunate consequences. They called him Dell’alba, the man of the dawn. The same as the fisherman who always takes his boat out first after the storm, to test the wind.”
Giancarlo laughed. “But the other men—why didn’t they kill Dell’alba?”
Fabrizio gave him a look of exaggerated surprise. “Kill him? They asked for his advice ever after—does she squeal? Is she clean? He knew every girl in Catania.”
Giancarlo leaned forward. “So when he was crushed—this accident. He lost his balls but he kept, you know, the other part?”
“Certainly. Just not in his trousers!”
Everyone laughed. Birgit chuckled and stood up. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “Don’t overdo it.” She stretched and yawned. “That Yashim—he’s a man, anyway.”
“Should I be jealous?” Giancarlo let her hand go.
“That depends,” she said lazily. “On how long you mean to stay up. Good night, all.”
She waved, and they chorused their good nights, and sat about smiling, like good friends.
5
Y ASHIM and Palewski dined together on Thursdays.
Yashim heard a tread on the stairs as he was dusting the pilaf with pepper and a sprinkling of finely chopped coriander.
“You’ve come alone?”
He had spent the afternoon preparing their ritual supper almost without thinking, like a participant at mass.
At the beginning, when Palewski had suggested that they take turns on Thursdays, Yashim had arrived at the residency to discover Marta exhausted and almost in tears, while the mahogany table in Palewski’s sepulchral dining room was spread with a feast fit for a conclave of Byzantine despots.
After that, by tacit agreement, Palewski came to Yashim.
Yashim enjoyed the preparations. On Thursdays he went early to market, and bought the finest ingredients his friend George could bring to his stall: tiny eggplants, peppers as long and curled as Turkish slippers, fresh white onions, okra, beans. Later, Palewski would come into the room, sniffing the air, surprising Yashim by his knack for guessing what he’d made for dinner. A chicken, perhaps, Persian style with walnuts and pomegranate juice; mackerel stuffed with nuts and fruits, and grilled; a succession of little mezes, soups, dolmas, or aromatic rice. Once he had brought a Frenchman to dine with them, too, and as a consequence a man had died—and Stanislaw Palewski had saved Yashim’s life.
“Alone?” Palewski echoed. He put a bottle of champagne on the table in Yashim’s tiny kitchen. “Certainly. Youth’s all right, but it never knows when to stop. Salvaged this one from the wreckage.”
“I assumed they would stay late.”
“In the end I went to bed. Marta tells me they were still at it in the small hours. I rather think she encouraged them to go.”
“Marta?”
“She doesn’t mind my reading at all hours, thinks it goes with being a kyrie. Noisy boys are another matter. Marta doesn’t like Birgit much, either.”
“She’s not Italian, like the others.”
“She’s a Dane. A beautiful, sleepy Dane, Yashim. Something of a rarity in these parts.”
He twisted the wire off the bottle; Yashim slid two tea glasses toward him.
“Of course, I was much the same in Cracow at their age. Up all night talking about revolution, emancipating the serfs, giving power to the people, all that old stuff. In my day it was Saint Simon and Locke. Now it’s some Jew in London, Marx, good journalist—and Owen.” The cork popped and Palewski poured the wine. “The boys raised a row loud enough to get them kicked out of the Papal States. Or maybe they just took a warning and ran. Papal agents lurking in every café and hiding in boudoirs. It’s a rotten little country, and the Pope’s just as bad as they say. Fiercely reactionary, like all of Metternich’s creatures.”
“The Habsburg minister? He’s behind the Pope?” Yashim thought: we Ottomans allow ourselves to get out of
Giancarlo laughed. “But the other men—why didn’t they kill Dell’alba?”
Fabrizio gave him a look of exaggerated surprise. “Kill him? They asked for his advice ever after—does she squeal? Is she clean? He knew every girl in Catania.”
Giancarlo leaned forward. “So when he was crushed—this accident. He lost his balls but he kept, you know, the other part?”
“Certainly. Just not in his trousers!”
Everyone laughed. Birgit chuckled and stood up. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “Don’t overdo it.” She stretched and yawned. “That Yashim—he’s a man, anyway.”
“Should I be jealous?” Giancarlo let her hand go.
“That depends,” she said lazily. “On how long you mean to stay up. Good night, all.”
She waved, and they chorused their good nights, and sat about smiling, like good friends.
5
Y ASHIM and Palewski dined together on Thursdays.
Yashim heard a tread on the stairs as he was dusting the pilaf with pepper and a sprinkling of finely chopped coriander.
“You’ve come alone?”
He had spent the afternoon preparing their ritual supper almost without thinking, like a participant at mass.
At the beginning, when Palewski had suggested that they take turns on Thursdays, Yashim had arrived at the residency to discover Marta exhausted and almost in tears, while the mahogany table in Palewski’s sepulchral dining room was spread with a feast fit for a conclave of Byzantine despots.
After that, by tacit agreement, Palewski came to Yashim.
Yashim enjoyed the preparations. On Thursdays he went early to market, and bought the finest ingredients his friend George could bring to his stall: tiny eggplants, peppers as long and curled as Turkish slippers, fresh white onions, okra, beans. Later, Palewski would come into the room, sniffing the air, surprising Yashim by his knack for guessing what he’d made for dinner. A chicken, perhaps, Persian style with walnuts and pomegranate juice; mackerel stuffed with nuts and fruits, and grilled; a succession of little mezes, soups, dolmas, or aromatic rice. Once he had brought a Frenchman to dine with them, too, and as a consequence a man had died—and Stanislaw Palewski had saved Yashim’s life.
“Alone?” Palewski echoed. He put a bottle of champagne on the table in Yashim’s tiny kitchen. “Certainly. Youth’s all right, but it never knows when to stop. Salvaged this one from the wreckage.”
“I assumed they would stay late.”
“In the end I went to bed. Marta tells me they were still at it in the small hours. I rather think she encouraged them to go.”
“Marta?”
“She doesn’t mind my reading at all hours, thinks it goes with being a kyrie. Noisy boys are another matter. Marta doesn’t like Birgit much, either.”
“She’s not Italian, like the others.”
“She’s a Dane. A beautiful, sleepy Dane, Yashim. Something of a rarity in these parts.”
He twisted the wire off the bottle; Yashim slid two tea glasses toward him.
“Of course, I was much the same in Cracow at their age. Up all night talking about revolution, emancipating the serfs, giving power to the people, all that old stuff. In my day it was Saint Simon and Locke. Now it’s some Jew in London, Marx, good journalist—and Owen.” The cork popped and Palewski poured the wine. “The boys raised a row loud enough to get them kicked out of the Papal States. Or maybe they just took a warning and ran. Papal agents lurking in every café and hiding in boudoirs. It’s a rotten little country, and the Pope’s just as bad as they say. Fiercely reactionary, like all of Metternich’s creatures.”
“The Habsburg minister? He’s behind the Pope?” Yashim thought: we Ottomans allow ourselves to get out of
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