Pascali's Island

But why do they delay? Why do they deal so delicately with us? It is not the Vali's usual method. Are they so afraid of repercussions from the British Consul on Mytilene? Mytilene is far, Constantinople is even farther. By the time an investigation was ordered, they could have plundered the site, without witnesses. Then who is to say what was found and what wasn't? (There is nothing there, of course, but they do not know that.) Perhaps they are hoping to catch Mister Bowles in flagrante delicto, so they can proceed with an appearance of legality. No, this too could be easily fabricated. They must have some other reason for their unwillingness to risk an enquiry, something that Mister Bowles himself knows nothing about. My mind returns to that red quadrilateral on the map in Mahmoud's office. Odd that the doctor should mention maps. A primitive kind of map, he suggested, of the sort made by the old explorers. Or navigators, of course. What other people make maps like that? People who want to indicate where treasure is buried. We are back to Mister Bowles again. What possible co

The news from Constantinople worries me the more I think about it. It is not only the doctor who says that your throne is toppling; one hears the same thing on every hand. They say that you keep yourself locked away in your palace at Yildiz, for fear of assassins; that you never emerge, not even for the Friday visit to the mosque; that your troops in Macedonia and the northern provinces are openly in revolt and preparing to march on the capital; that you are without support except for your women and eunuchs, and the palace guard, who are themselves in arrears with their pay, and probably disaffected; in short, Excellency, that the whole edifice of your administration is about to collapse. Even there are rumours that you are already deposed, already dead.

I must not, will not, believe this, Excellency. I need so desperately the continued splendour of your existence. To whom, other than you, can I address my reports and my prayers, surrounded as I am by enemies, with no word of acknowledgement from your officials? You are my only hope. It makes no difference whether I send this report or not. It is your existence that matters. If you cease to exist now, Excellency, I am extinguished with you.

How well I remember your accession, though I was no more than a boy then. All day the streets were crowded with people waiting. They came from many parts to see you. The rich came in coaches, black eunuchs riding with drawn swords alongside. All day the people squatted in the street, waiting, smoking. When the sun rose and it grew hot the sellers of sherbet and melon did a great trade. My mother bought me lukumi wrapped in painted paper. I remember still the blue and red designs, the sweetness dissolving in my mouth, the thirst following. Everyone was happy. Then the soldiers marching through the streets, to take up their positions in the courtyard of the mosque, the Albanians in their plumed hats, the Spahis in silver and blue, the Bostangis most resplendent of all in scarlet and gold. You came to Eyub on a white horse, the green ba

I have decided to go up there, tomorrow morning. Up into the hills. I must find out what is happening. I made up my mind this evening in the café – I went to the café on the square, after my meeting with Izzet. The one that is opposite the hotel. I sat there an hour, watching the entrance, but he did not come. I knew he would not. I sat there, looking sometimes across at the entrance, sometimes down at my inert thighs in their crumpled white, my plump but delicate hands. As if looking for evidence of something – of my existence, perhaps. Nobody joined me at my table, but old Panos the waiter talked to me from time to time, and he smiled. He did not stay near me, but he spoke, on three occasions we exchanged words, and these interchanges made me more aware, not less, of the hush always around me these days. At the centre of this hush, there is my mind, noting things, framing words. Flowers on the stall, people passing, Ya

It is afternoon, about the third hour. Light outside still, but my shutters closed, lamplight on the paper before me. The white sheets and my words on them clear in the soft light. I have a sensation of lightness, almost of floating – I am not heavy enough in my chair. Perhaps due to hunger. I have eaten very little today. Strange this lightness, this insufficiently anchored feeling, because my body should be tired, should be exhausted, after the exertions of the day. What could better illustrate the dualism of soul and body?

Excellency, I know now why he delays.

I left early, at sunrise, dressed as I had been on that earlier occasion when I watched them among the rocks. I am not used to walking, and progress was slow, once I had gone up from the shore into the foothills. The sun was high over the sea when I reached the side of the gorge, and fiercely hot on my back as I climbed. This gorge, narrow and very deep, lies at a right angle to the line of the shore. It rises higher on the far side, then tilts down in a long gradual line to form the promontory. The ruins that Mister Bowles is so interested in lie beyond this, on the reverse slope. To reach them from here it was necessary to work round the neck of the gorge through tangles of rock and scrub. I had calculated that this route would bring me out more or less directly above the ruins. If I proceeded cautiously I should be able to approach without attracting the attention of anyone already there.

It was intensely hot. The pulsing of the cicadas was almost intolerably loud, drowning all other sounds. Wavering clouds of tortoiseshell butterflies rose around me, disturbed from their feeding on the origen flowers. Already I was feeling exhausted. I was paying the penalty for years of sedentary living. My legs ached, I was perspiring freely. Thoughts of serpents and scorpions came unbidden to my mind. Once I stumbled and fell, bruising my shin. Nevertheless I persisted. I took off my jacket and slung it over my shoulder. I pushed back the headcloth from my sweating brow. The desire to have my uncertainties removed increased with every step. In fact, so totally was I prey to this ardour that my physical discomforts ceased to trouble me, rather they began to be welcomed as a sort of earnest of success. Suffering, too, is a kind of portent. (Let me take this opportunity of saying that I have always wished to suffer, all my life – though it is only recently that I have fully realised this. That is why Mehmet Bey found such a willing instrument in me: not because I wanted to betray, but because I wanted to suffer. That is why I became a writer of reports, Excellency. Otherwise why would I wrestle with words, go on wrestling, when every bout ends with me thudding to the canvas? Easier to stay down, make the submission sign. I see I have used the same word as Mister Bowles. Instrument. An odd word for him to use.)