Turkish Gambit (11 page)

'What you describe is some kind of phalanstery, and you make the Turkish husband sound like Charles Fourier’ Varya protested impatiently. 'Would it not be better to give women the chance to support themselves, rather than keeping them in the position of slaves?'

'The society of the East is sluggish and little disposed to change, Mademoiselle Barbara,' the Frenchman replied deferentially, pronouncing her name so sweetly in French that it was quite impossible to be angry with him. 'It has very few jobs, every one of which has to be fought for, and women would not survive in competition with the men. And in any case, a wife is by no means a slave. If a husband is not to her liking, she can always reclaim her freedom. All she need do is to make her husband's life so unbearable that he cries out angrily in the presence of witnesses: "You are no longer my wife!" You must agree that it is not very difficult to reduce a husband to such a state. After that, she can collect her things and go. Divorce in the East is not what it is in the West; it is simple. And at the same time, the man is solitary, while the women form a collective. Is it any wonder, therefore, that the real power lies with the harem and not with its master? The most important figures in the Ottoman Empire are not the sultan and the grand vizier, but the padishah's mother and his favourite wife. And also, of course, the kizlyar-agazi - the head eunuch of the harem.'

'And just how many wives is the sultan allowed to have?' Perepyolkin asked, with a guilty glance at Sobolev. 'I'm only asking as a matter of information, of course.'

'Four, like any true believer. But in addition to fully fledged wives, the padishah also has ikbal - something like his favourites - and very young gediklas - "maidens pleasing to the eye", who are aspirants to the role of the ikbal'

'Now that's a bit more like it,' said Lukan with a satisfied nod. Spotting Varya's scornful glance, he gave one side of his moustache a smart twirl.

Sobolev (another fine goose) asked in a voluptuous voice: 'But surely in addition to wives and concubines there are the slave girls?'

'All of the sultan's women are slaves, but only until a child is born. Then the mother immediately acquires the title of princess and all the privileges that go with it. For instance, the all-powerful Sultana Besma, mother of the late Abdul-Aziz, was once a simple bath-house attendant, but she lathered Mehmed II so successfully that first he took her as a concubine and then he made her his favourite wife. The career opportunities for women in Turkey are truly unlimited’

'But all the same, it must be devilishly tiring, having a crowd like that hanging round your neck,' one of the journalists mused. 'I'd say it's a bit too much.'

'Several sultans have also come to the same conclusion,' said Paladin with a smile. 'Ibrahim I, for instance, grew terribly weary of all his wives. It was easier for Ivan the Terrible or Henry VIII to deal with such a situation: send the old wife to the block or to a convent, and then you can take a new one. But what can you do if you have an entire harem?'

'Yes, what can you do?' inquired one of the listeners.

'The Turks, gentlemen, do not easily submit in the face of adversity. The padishah ordered all the women to be stuffed into sacks and drowned in the Bosporus. When morning came His Majesty was a bachelor again and he could acquire a new harem.'

The men chortled, but Varya exclaimed: 'You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, gentlemen. This is really quite appalling!'

'But almost a hundred years ago, Mademoiselle Varya, manners at the sultan's court were moderated substantially,' Paladin reassured her. 'And all thanks to one exceptional woman who just happens to be a compatriot of mine.'

'Then tell us about it,' said Varya.

'The story is as follows. One of the passengers on board a French ship sailing the Mediterranean was an exceptionally beautiful seventeen-year-old girl whose name was Aimee Dubucque de Riverie. She was born on the magical island of Martinique, which has given the world many legendary beauties, including Madame de Maintenon and Josephine Beauharnais. In fact our young Aimee knew the latter (at the time still plain Josephine de Taschery) very well; they were even friends. History has nothing to say on the subject of why this delightful Creole girl decided to set out on a voyage through seas teeming with pirates. All we do know is that off the coast of Sardinia the ship was seized by corsairs and Aimee found herself in the slave market of Algiers, where she was bought by the Dey of Algiers himself - the very one who, according to Monsieur Popritschine, had a lump under his nose. The dey was old and no longer susceptible to female beauty, but he was very interested in good relations with the Sublime Porte, so poor Aimee made the journey to Istanbul as a living gift to Sultan Abdul-Hamid I, the great-grandfather of the present-day Abdul-Hamid II. The padishah treated his captive gently, like a priceless treasure. He imposed no constraints on her and did not even oblige her to convert to Moham-edanism. And for the patience shown by the wise ruler, Aimee rewarded him with her love. In Turkey she is known by the name of Nashedil-sultan. She gave birth to Prince Mehmed, who later ascended the throne and is known to history as a great reformer. His mother taught him French and gave him a taste for French literature and French freethinking. Ever since then Turkey has looked towards the West.'

'You're a great spinner of tales, Paladin,' McLaughlin commented cantankerously. 'No doubt you stretched the truth and embroidered it a little as always.'

The Frenchman smiled mischievously without speaking and Zurov, who for some time had been showing clear signs of impatience, exclaimed in sudden inspiration: 'Yes indeed, gentlemen, why don't we lay out a little game? All this talk, talk, talk. Really and truly, it's just not natural somehow.'

Varya heard Fandorin give a dull groan.

'Erasmus, you're not invited,' the count added hastily. 'The devil himself deals your hands.'

'Your Excellency,' Perepyolkin protested, 'I hope you will not permit gambling in your presence?'

Sobolev brushed his objections aside like an annoying fly. 'Stop that, Captain. Don't be such a pain in the neck. It's all very well for you, in your operations section. You at least have some kind of work to do, but I'm rusting away from sheer idleness. I don't play myself, Count - I'm far too impetuous - but I will certainly watch.'

Varya saw Perepyolkin staring at the handsome general with the eyes of a beaten dog.

'Perhaps just for small stakes then?' Lukan drawled uncertainly. 'To reinforce the ties of soldierly comradeship.'

'To reinforce the ties, of course, and just for small stakes,' Zurov said with a nod, tipping several unopened decks of cards on to the table out of his sabretache. 'A hundred to be in. Who else, gentlemen?'

The bank was made up in a moment and soon the marquee rang to magical wordplay:

'There goes the old draggletail!'

'We'll beat her with our little sultan here, gentlemen!'

'L'as de carreau' - ace of diamonds. 'Ha-ha, that's beaten it!'

Varya moved closer to Erast Petrovich and asked: 'Why does he call you Erasmus?'

'It's just something that happened’ said the secretive Fandorin, avoiding the question.

'Hey-eh,' Sobolev sighed loudly. 'Kriedener's probably already advancing on Plevna, and I'm stuck in here like a low card in the discards.'

Perepyolkin stuck close to his idol, pretending that he was also interested in the game.

The angry McLaughlin, standing all alone with a chessboard under his arm, muttered something in English and then translated it into Russian himself: 'It used to be a press club, now it's a low gambling den.'

'Hey, my man, do you have any Shustov cognac? Bring it over!' cried the hussar, turning to the bartender. 'We might as well have some real fun while we're at it.'

The evening really was promising to turn out very cheerful.

The next day, however, the press club had changed beyond all recognition, with the Russians sitting there looking gloomy and depressed, while the correspondents were talking excitedly in low voices, and every now and then, when one of them learned some new details, he would go running to the telegraph office -what had happened was an absolutely huge sensation.

Already at lunchtime the dark rumours had begun to spread round the camp, and as Varya and Fandorin were walking back from the shooting range after five (the titular counsellor was teaching his assistant to use a Colt-system revolver), they had been met by a sullenly agitated Sobolev.

'A fine business,' he said, rubbing his hands together nervously. 'Have you heard?'

'Plevna?' Fandorin asked forlornly.

'A total rout. General Schilder-Schuldner went at it full pelt; he wanted to overtake Osman-pasha. We had seven thousand men, but the Turks had far more. Our columns attacked full on and were caught in a crossfire. Rosenbaum, the commander of the Arkhangelsk Regiment, was killed; Kleinhaus, the commander of the Kostroma Regiment, was fatally wounded and Major-General Knorring was brought back on a stretcher. A third of our men were killed. Absolute carnage. So much for three battalions. And the Turks were different too, not like before. They fought like devils.'

'What about Paladin?' Erast Petrovich asked rapidly.

'He's all right. He turned bright green and kept babbling excuses. Kazanzaki's taken him away for interrogation . . . Well, now the real thing will start. Perhaps now they'll give me an assignment. Pere-pyolkin hinted that there might be a chance' - and the general set off towards the staff building with a spring in his step.

Varya had spent the time until evening in the hospital, helping to sterilise surgical instruments. So many wounded had been brought in that they had been obliged to set up another two temporary tents. The nurses were run off their feet. The air was filled with the smell of blood and suffering, and the screams and prayers of the wounded.

It was almost night before she was able to escape to the correspondents' marquee where, as has already been mentioned, the atmosphere was strikingly different from the day before.

The only place where life continued in full swing was at the card table, where the game was now in its second uninterrupted day. Pale-faced Zurov puffed on a cigar as he rapidly dealt out the cards. He had not eaten a thing, but he had been drinking incessantly without getting even slightly drunk. A tall heap of banknotes, golden coins and promissory notes had sprung up beside his elbow. Sitting opposite him, tousling his hair in insane frenzy, was Colonel Lukan. Some officer or other was sleeping beside him with his light-brown head of hair slumped on to his folded arms. The bartender fluttered around them like a fat moth, plucking the lucky hussar's wishes out of the air on the wing.

Fandorin was not in the club, nor was Paladin. McLaughlin was playing chess, while Sobolev, surrounded by officers, was poring over a three-vyerst map and had not even glanced at Varya.

Already regretting that she had come, she said: 'Count, are you not ashamed? So many people have been killed.'

'But we are still alive, mademoiselle,' Zurov replied absent-mindedly, tapping on a deck of cards with his finger. 'What's the point in burying yourself before your time has come? Oh, you're bluffing, Luke. I raise you two.'

Lukan tugged the diamond ring off his finger: 'I'll see you.' He reached out a trembling hand towards Zurov's cards lying casually face down on the table.

At that instant Varya saw Lieutenant-Colonel Kazanzaki glide soundlessly into the tent, looking hideously like a black raven that has caught the sweet smell of a putrid corpse. Remembering how the gendarme's previous appearance had ended, she shuddered.

'Mr Kazanzaki,' said McLaughlin, turning towards the new arrival, 'where is Paladin?'

The lieutenant-colonel paused portentously, waiting for the club to become quiet. He answered curtly: 'I have him. He is writing a statement.' He cleared his throat and added ominously. 'And then we'll make our minds up.'

The awkward silence that ensued was broken by Zurov's nonchalant light bass: 'So this is the famous gendarme Kozinikinaki? Greetings to you, Mister Split-Lip.' He waited, his eyes gleaming insolently as he stared expectantly at the lieutenant-colonel's flushed face.

'And I have heard about you, Mister Brawler,' Kazan-zaki replied unhurriedly, also staring hard at the hussar. 'A notorious character. Pray be so good as to hold your tongue, or I shall call the sentry and have you taken to the guardhouse for gambling in camp. And I shall arrest the bank.'

'There's no mistaking a serious man,' chuckled the count. 'Understood, I'll be as silent as the grave.'

Lukan finally turned over Zurov's cards, gave a protracted groan and clutched his head in his hands. The count inspected the ring he had won with a sceptical eye.

'No, Lieutenant-Colonel, no, there is no damned treason here!' Varya heard Sobolev say irritably. 'Perepyolkin's right. He's the brains on the staff. Osman simply covered the ground at a forced march, and our blustering sabre-rattlers weren't expecting that kind of vim from the Turks. We have a formidable enemy to fight now, and this war is going to be fought in earnest.'

Chapter Six

IN WHICH PLEVNA AND VARYA EACH WITHSTAND A SIEGE

Die Wiener Zeitung
(Vienna) 30(18) July 1877

Our correspondent reports from Shumen, where the headquarters of the Turkish Army of the Balkans is located. The fiasco at Plevna has left the Russians in an extremely stupid position. Their columns extend for tens and even hundreds of kilometres from the south to the north, their lines of communication are defenceless, their rear lines exposed. Osman-pasha's brilliant flanking manoeuvre has won the Turks time to regroup, and a little Bulgarian town has become a serious thorn in the shaggy side of the Russian bear. The atmosphere in circles close to the court in Constantinople is one of cautious optimism.