The Sultan of Byzantium Read Online Free Page A

and it became clear that I would have to cancel my plans for Asmara. On the purple sheet of paper that fell out of it was a mysterious invitation:
    Distinguished Sir:
    I was a friend of your grandfather, may he rest in peace. I would be pleased to see you at the Four Seasons Hotel in Sultanahmet tomorrow at 14:00. Please bring with you that Christophoro de Bondelmontibus map you have at home, but don’t take it from its frame. I have no interest in the Constantinople map. The other item is much more important, and I have excellent news for you.
    One of my assistants will meet you in the lobby.
    With the hope that our meeting will remain confidential between us, and
    My deepest respect,
    Nikos Askaris
    It was handwritten in black ink; I read it twice. The first irritating point was the exaggeratedly respectful final sentence of this friend of my grandfather. It seemed forced to me and perhaps an early warning of an oncoming burden. As I dusted off the framed map drawn in 1422 by the Florentine priest Bondelmontibus and laid it on my desk, I wondered about this Askaris, who had not omitted the diacritical mark in my name. On the engraving under the glass my eye took in Galata. The walls that besieged the city from the north and the west seemed to be dancing the
halay
in a circle around the Tower. The Byzantine remnants inside the city walls appeared as timid as pawns on a chessboard. I phoned the hotel and asked for Nikos Askaris. To the man who answered in a high-pitched voice I said, ‘I’m calling to hear you say that you’re not making an illegal proposal.’ When Askaris replied in accent-free Turkish and pronounced the second syllable of my name correctly as well I felt somewhat relieved. I wrapped up the little map with care and prepared for the meeting. Suddenly, I was wondering about the nature of a potential burden. I changed my mind and decided not to call Madame Olga. All of a sudden I had a craving for George Seferis. I took
The Complete Works
from the shelf and opened it at random:
    What are you hunting, old friend?
    After so many years
    Under foreign skies
    Far from your own land
    You’ve come home from exile
    Hanging on to all those memories.
     
    *
    Whenever I go to Sultanahmet Square I seem to step back into different eras from the past. This time I found myself in the festive atmosphere of the Byzantine hippodrome. The shouts of the fanatical spectators followed me all the way to Sultanahmet Mosque …
    At the other end of the square the Four Seasons Hotel stood like a sentinel. Constructed originally as a government building to house public services, the building had a dark history as a prison for so-called thought criminals. As I entered the calm lobby, a large man with a beard materialized before me.
    In almost perfect Turkish he said, ‘Welcome, sir, I’m Theo Pappas and I’m here to take you to Mr Askaris, if you will allow.’ As I fell in behind this apple-cheeked man who appeared no older than forty, I was thinking how he looked simultaneously like a priest and the head of security. The prim and proper courtyard we were crossing must once have been the prison’s exercise area.
    ‘Mr Askaris’s suite was once the prison warden’s office,’ said Theo with a smile.
    Nikos Askaris was a small ugly man in his sixties, with a thin beard; he wore his face like a mask. I wondered what sort of plusses he owned to offset this outlook. Another man in the spacious room with a red beard and glasses was Askaris’s other assistant, Kalligas. The three had two features in common: they were all bearded and wore suits. I would have bet they worked for a church or a charity organization. On the table lay two packages. I laid the bag with the map requested in the letter next to them and asked for white wine from the minibar. Askaris took mineral water for himself and beckoned me to the table. Papas and Kalligas seated themselves on chairs immediately behind him. Kalligas, who looked about thirty-five, also