The Bellini Card by Jason Goodwin Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jason Goodwin
sense of idleness. He found the old Armenian cross-legged, as always, outsidethe tiny cubicle that held his queer and fascinating collection of antiques, impassively watching the crowds that swirled down the covered lane.
“You are well, Malakian efendi?”
“I did not expect to see you, Yashim efendi. I am well, thank you.” He patted an empty stool. “I have something for you. You will have coffee?”
When Yashim was sitting down, Malakian clapped his hands and sent a little boy running through the crowds.
Life was returning to the bazaar, Yashim noticed. The sultan’s death had cast a pall over the city, like an echo of the days when the death of a sultan stopped time in its tracks and the city waited to learn which of the sultan’s sons had won his way to the throne of Osman. But that was long ago, when the sons of sultans were trained to govern and to fight. This time there had been no contest.
The boy returned, a tray in his hands. Malakian took the coffee and handed a cup to Yashim. For a few minutes they talked about business.
“It dried up,” Malakian agreed. “Many of the caravans delayed their departure. But the bazaar, too, was empty, so I could neither buy nor sell.” He shrugged. “It was good to have a little quiet. But now they are come again.”
“The caravans?”
“You understand how it is, efendi. I have only this small shop—I do not have caravans at my command. But the drivers, they will pick up some little thing and bring it to me. Look. Two French pistols.” He opened a wooden box and brought out the guns. “From Egypt, I believe.”
Yashim turned them over in his hands. “Good quality. But old now.”
Malakian sighed. “Some things get better as they grow old. But guns? You are right. We make always newer ways to kill.”
He replaced the pistols in their box. “I will sell them to a Frenchman, so that he can say his father was with Napoleon. For you I found this.”
It was a small knife with a four-inch blade and a wooden handle bound with cord.
“A cook’s knife,” Yashim murmured. “Very comfortable.”
Malakian bent forward and pointed to the mottled blade. “Like me, you think it is not interesting. But then I saw this.”
Yashim turned the blade and noticed a faint inscription along the flat edge.
“Ammar made me
,” he read slowly, squinting. The Arabic was worn, almost smooth. “What’s this?”
Malakian wagged his head. “Damascus steel.”
“That’s unusual,” Yashim admitted.
“Unusual? Here is the soft steel—here, and here—to protect the edge. It rusts, of course. On either side, the soft steel—and between them, the true blade. You see how it shines? Even now bright. Such a plain knife, for cooking. Do you like it?”
Yashim grinned. The best steel in the world. A blade fit for a warrior—in the kitchen. Of course he liked it.
“It must have been made for a sultan’s kitchen,” he said.
“Of course. I hear you like to cook, so I make it a present. You can give me one asper.”
“One asper?”
“We say, Yashim efendi, that you cannot give a knife. But if you pay me a little coin, it is all right.”
Yashim dipped into his pocket. Everyone had his superstitions. “Thank you, Malakian efendi. I shall treasure it.”
“You should use it,” Malakian remarked. “Have it sharpened.”
Yashim nodded, touched by the old shopkeeper’s generosity. But then Aram Malakian was an extraordinary man. So much slid between his fingers—so much knowledge was stored in that enormous head.
“Do you know anything about an Italian painter, efendi? His name was Bellini. Centuries ago, he came to Istanbul and painted a portrait of the Conqueror.”
“Bellini, hmmm.” Malakian frowned and tugged at one of his enormous earlobes. “I hear of this name before. Bellini. I remember.”
“Four hundred years ago,” Yashim added.
Malakian gave a dry smile. “I do not remember this Bellini personally, Yashim efendi. But there is something
“You are well, Malakian efendi?”
“I did not expect to see you, Yashim efendi. I am well, thank you.” He patted an empty stool. “I have something for you. You will have coffee?”
When Yashim was sitting down, Malakian clapped his hands and sent a little boy running through the crowds.
Life was returning to the bazaar, Yashim noticed. The sultan’s death had cast a pall over the city, like an echo of the days when the death of a sultan stopped time in its tracks and the city waited to learn which of the sultan’s sons had won his way to the throne of Osman. But that was long ago, when the sons of sultans were trained to govern and to fight. This time there had been no contest.
The boy returned, a tray in his hands. Malakian took the coffee and handed a cup to Yashim. For a few minutes they talked about business.
“It dried up,” Malakian agreed. “Many of the caravans delayed their departure. But the bazaar, too, was empty, so I could neither buy nor sell.” He shrugged. “It was good to have a little quiet. But now they are come again.”
“The caravans?”
“You understand how it is, efendi. I have only this small shop—I do not have caravans at my command. But the drivers, they will pick up some little thing and bring it to me. Look. Two French pistols.” He opened a wooden box and brought out the guns. “From Egypt, I believe.”
Yashim turned them over in his hands. “Good quality. But old now.”
Malakian sighed. “Some things get better as they grow old. But guns? You are right. We make always newer ways to kill.”
He replaced the pistols in their box. “I will sell them to a Frenchman, so that he can say his father was with Napoleon. For you I found this.”
It was a small knife with a four-inch blade and a wooden handle bound with cord.
“A cook’s knife,” Yashim murmured. “Very comfortable.”
Malakian bent forward and pointed to the mottled blade. “Like me, you think it is not interesting. But then I saw this.”
Yashim turned the blade and noticed a faint inscription along the flat edge.
“Ammar made me
,” he read slowly, squinting. The Arabic was worn, almost smooth. “What’s this?”
Malakian wagged his head. “Damascus steel.”
“That’s unusual,” Yashim admitted.
“Unusual? Here is the soft steel—here, and here—to protect the edge. It rusts, of course. On either side, the soft steel—and between them, the true blade. You see how it shines? Even now bright. Such a plain knife, for cooking. Do you like it?”
Yashim grinned. The best steel in the world. A blade fit for a warrior—in the kitchen. Of course he liked it.
“It must have been made for a sultan’s kitchen,” he said.
“Of course. I hear you like to cook, so I make it a present. You can give me one asper.”
“One asper?”
“We say, Yashim efendi, that you cannot give a knife. But if you pay me a little coin, it is all right.”
Yashim dipped into his pocket. Everyone had his superstitions. “Thank you, Malakian efendi. I shall treasure it.”
“You should use it,” Malakian remarked. “Have it sharpened.”
Yashim nodded, touched by the old shopkeeper’s generosity. But then Aram Malakian was an extraordinary man. So much slid between his fingers—so much knowledge was stored in that enormous head.
“Do you know anything about an Italian painter, efendi? His name was Bellini. Centuries ago, he came to Istanbul and painted a portrait of the Conqueror.”
“Bellini, hmmm.” Malakian frowned and tugged at one of his enormous earlobes. “I hear of this name before. Bellini. I remember.”
“Four hundred years ago,” Yashim added.
Malakian gave a dry smile. “I do not remember this Bellini personally, Yashim efendi. But there is something