De Potter's Grand Tour (24 page)

Oh, one last thing: the little bronze Bacchus once held a drinking bowl, just like the original in Ikaria. Of course he was thirsty, for he'd been standing there for nearly two thousand years! Yes, he'd been standing there for a long, long while … which meant that this piece, though a Roman copy, was an authentic antiquity, worth a little something after all. Maybe it would be useful to Mr. de Potter, who might want to get rid of his collection of forgeries and start a new collection from scratch.

*   *   *

After Hilprecht left the café, Armand wrapped up the bronze Bacchus, which was certain to be the last antiquity he would ever collect. He hurried to meet his group and lead them to the next stop on their itinerary, the palace of the Seraglio. He had written in advance, as he always did, to Sultan Abdul Hamid requesting permission to take his party to see the treasury in the palace. Entrance into the palace's second court was forbidden without a special visitor's permit from the sultan himself. And everyone knew that the sultan granted permits only to select parties—parties such as the one led by Prof. de Potter.

On the day the
Regele Carol
arrived in Piraeus, June 11, 1905, the
Chicago Tribune
ran an article about Sultan Abdul Hamid. According to the writer, the sultan had feared for his life ever since King Alexander of Serbia was assassinated. He mistrusted his relatives, his courtiers and servants. He issued a proclamation prohibiting Turkish army officers from visiting restaurants and cafés frequented by Europeans, to prevent the officers from being corrupted by European ideas. “He smells poison in every dish, regards every group of persons engaged in conversations as conspirators against his power, and sees an assassin in his own shadow.” He was convinced that his brother was plotting to assassinate him, so Abdul Hamid had his brother assassinated first. Prince Ahmed Kemal Eddin was strangled in his bedroom by three Armenian soldiers and then buried in one of the courtyards in the palace.

By June 8, the day Armand met Hilprecht, the news about the assassination of the sultan's brother was just beginning to filter out to the public. But Armand was unaware of it when he took his party to visit the palace. He led them through the gardens of the palace and to the entrance of the second courtyard, where he presented the guardsman with the permit from the sultan. When the guardsman took the permit and handed it to an officer, and when the officer, after quickly studying the permit, ripped it to pieces in front of the horrified Americans, Armand had no idea that the palace was closed because Prince Ahmed Kemal Eddin had been murdered. He could only assume that the sultan had denied the party entrance to the second courtyard because he had heard from Hamdi Bey, who had heard from Hilprecht, that Armand de Potter was a fraud.

*   *   *

Somehow he managed to lead the Americans to the carriages waiting at the Adrianople Gate. Back in Pera, he succeeded in directing them to their reserved table at the Splendide, where they were treated to sweet tea and Turkish delight. Then, because they had a schedule to keep, he ushered the party out of the café. But where were they supposed to go? Left, no, right, around the corner. Oh, how his head was throbbing, but he dared not admit it. He had to give the impression that others could count on him to make things right.

Come along, this way, if only, I thought, but where—

Are we lost, Professor?

How could they be lost when there was a mosaic to be seen on the side of that building? And look there on the terrace: three Turks sharing a narghile. Consider the clouds. Let's talk about the weather. Let's talk about Jaffa, Hilprecht, the sultan, and the tricks of a clever counterfeiter.

We are … perhaps … or else …

Why, they were on the Grande Rue according to the sign, and up ahead at the convent a sheikh had just concluded his hymn to the glory of God and the trumpeter was calling the dervishes to whirl.

What a relief. Here was something reliable, a spectacle De Potter parties had been treated to dozens of times before. It wasn't on the schedule for the day, but it was a sight worth seeing, everyone would have to agree.

Gather round, friends, and watch as the dervishes rise from their sheepskin mats, balance on the bare heels of their right feet, and commence to revolve. See how the right arm of each extends toward the sky, palm raised, the left hand tilts toward the earth, they narrow their eyes and spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster to the beat of the tambourines, turning circles inside circles, their long, white skirts billowing but never tangling, never even grazing.

You always give us a memory to cherish, Professor de Potter. How happy you've made us.

Was it possible to be too happy? his wife had asked him not long ago. He couldn't remember what he'd said in response and wouldn't know what to say now. He didn't know much about anything. At least he could tell you the value of his paid-up life insurance policy. Also, he knew about the dervishes. Turning and turning. Vanishing into a blur of white. Where did they go? Perhaps the molten silver dripping on his brain had blinded him. Oh, they made him dizzy, these dervishes. Yet from start to finish they never tripped over their robes or bumped into one another, for in their apparent abandon they were governed by the strictest precision.

Will they whirl again? It must be tiring, what they do. They need a rest, surely. And us? Where to next, Professor? What does it say on the itinerary? Such a disappointment back at the palace. But the dervishes more than made up for it. Shall we move on? You do have a plan in mind, don't you?

Of course he has a plan. He wouldn't be without one. There he goes, with a deliberate click of his walking stick. We'd better hurry if we're going to keep up with him.

 

PART SEVEN

 

At Sea

A
CROSS THE CLEAR NIGHT SKY
over the
Regele Carol
he draws the line from star to star to define the curved tail of the Scorpion. He traces the legs of Hercules and locates the glittering cluster that makes up the heads of Cerberus. Sending a puff of pipe smoke toward the darkness, he pictures it re-forming into a new shape. He imagines following the smoke into the sky and taking his place among the constellations—a fate that would be far more welcome than the one he has devised for himself.

The lovers on the upper deck go on kissing; Armand continues to wait. His thoughts wander to a story he heard years ago, about an English architect who designed a factory that collapsed, killing six workers. Soon afterward, the architect took a trip to France and went missing from a Channel ferry en route to Calais. Everyone concluded he had committed suicide.

Armand has taken measures to ensure that the same will not be said of him. He can't help but worry, though, that they are insufficient. He glances at the upper deck and realizes that he might do more. He could let the steward and the stewardess notice him standing at the rail. He could nod to them. He could even tip his hat in a friendly greeting before they go back to their berths. Then after Professor de Potter is discovered to be missing at sea, his two witnesses would be compelled to reveal that they'd seen him on deck, and he had seemed entirely at ease. Their testimony would be all the evidence Aimée would need to contradict the suspicion that her husband had gone overboard on purpose. A man seen tipping his hat was not the sort to throw himself into the sea that same evening. The likeliest explanation for his disappearance would be that he'd suffered a dizzy spell because of the silver plate in his head. The insurance company would have no basis to contest the claim, and the indemnity would be paid in full. And with Armand taken so tragically, Hilprecht would have to find another target for his malice.

It is an excellent revision to his plan. Armand has only to make sure that he catches the attention of the lovers when they finally stop kissing and come up for air.

He is not unfamiliar with the need for patience. A professional traveler has to get used to waiting. He must wait for his luggage to be delivered, shows to begin, members of his touring party to assemble in hotel lobbies. He must wait in long lines to buy tickets. He must wait for prospective customers to send their deposits. He must wait for ships to set sail and meals to be served. He must wait at countless stations for a train to transport him to his next destination.

He closes his eyes and imagines he is far away. He pictures himself at some provincial train station, say in Italy or Dalmatia. In the scene that he imagines, a pigeon pecks at crumbs outside the station bar, and a cat sleeps on the windowsill. The platform is deserted. He checks his watch and takes a seat on the bench. How often has it happened that he rushes to a station only to discover that the train is late? Trains are late more often than not. He knows to expect it. He can expect as well that, after realizing he'd been hurrying unnecessarily, he will be bothered by a sensation that is as inevitable as it is inconvenient and that tends to be especially urgent when he is waiting for a regional clunker that will not have a toilet on board.

The same unwelcome sensation comes to him now, on the deck of the
Regele Carol
. He tells himself that he has better things to think about. He always has better things to think about than the petty demands his body makes at the most inappropriate times. Is this why he was born? To eat and drink and then to relieve himself so he can eat and drink again? Put a God-fearing soul inside a skeleton, add blood and flesh, and this is all you get? He may be a knight of the Order of Melusine, he may have friends all over the world, some of whom have sent inquiries to him and are impatiently waiting for his reply. He may be tumbling from the peak of his success and on the verge of suffering the most dramatic disruption he could contrive for himself. But right now he is a man defined only by the basest need. Any minute, the stationmaster will ring the bell to announce the approach of a dingy little train that has no toilet.

At least he has the advantage of being skilled at certain strategies of deception. Like his noble ancestors, he is used to pretending that nature never calls him. He can slip quietly away from the foredeck to the public toilet, and before you can say
Jack, Jack, give in!
, he is back at the rail, breathing in the good smell of the sea, breathing it out again, staring into the dark.

All is as it was, except, as he discovers with a glance, the upper deck is empty. In the few minutes he was away from his post, the steward and the stewardess have gone back to their berths. He had hoped that they would keep on kissing for a long while. Now he's not sure whether they noticed him at all.

There's nothing to do but to pick up where he left off. There are no more changes to make in his plan. The end will follow as inevitably as if it had already occurred, with or without witnesses. So he begins to climb over the rail, lifting himself as he used to do long ago in the days when he was a gymnast, swinging onto the parallel bars, turning a somersault, kicking his feet over his head and then falling backward through the air after he'd overestimated his strength and lost his grip, watching the stars rise away from him, feeling his helplessness, like this, like this …

“Monsieur?”

Who is there?

“May I assist you, monsieur?”

The steward, the same one who had just been embracing his girl on the upper deck, is standing a short distance away, thrusting his hand out to grab Armand before he leaps and then stopping, evidently forcing himself to refrain from making any movement that might startle. Behind the steward, the stewardess, invisible in the shadows, catches a sob in her throat.

“Monsieur?” the steward says again, with urgency and yet infinite gentleness in his voice.

Earlier, the steward had struck Armand as shifty, but now he seems to have been put on this steamship to make an appearance at this crucial moment. Perhaps he is compelled to return the kindness Armand showed him earlier in the day, or maybe he is just doing his duty. Whatever his motive, his presence in the scene has the potential to change everything—or nothing. He could save Armand—or he could watch him drown. Has he arrived on the scene too late or too soon? Will he sound the alarm? Or might he be persuaded to refrain from interfering? He has offered Armand assistance. Does this mean that he might go on to testify that he'd seen him calmly smoking his pipe? Would he lie and say that Professor de Potter had even doffed his hat to him? And would the girl be willing to concur? All at once, there are too many unknowns—the black depths of the sea, the blank page of the future, the potential willingness of the steward and the stewardess to make up a story on his behalf.

 

Marseille to Red Hook

“L
IFE IS A BOOK
of which man has read only one page if he has seen only his native country” was the heading Armand had used to introduce his
Old World Guide
, and now his widow used the motto to define her purpose. Without a permanent home of her own and still unsure where she wanted to settle, she could think of nothing else to do but to keep reading the Book of Life straight through.