A Dead Man in Athens by Michael Pearce Page B

small, immediate result of Seymour’s interview with Abd-es-Salaam was that when he next went to see the eunuchs, the blank wall had been removed. No one could have been more helpful or more cooperative. They agreed at once to supply a list of the occasions on which the royal ladies had sought medical help. They thought they could work out the occasions on which medicines had passed into the harem. They even agreed to attempt to recover such medicines as they could.
    ‘Do it, if you can, without alerting the royal ladies. You might use the maids.’
    They thought they might.
    ‘Although, of course,’ Seymour said to the Acting-Vizier’s assistant afterwards, ‘the eunuchs themselves are not above suspicion. It might be better if some way could be found in which I myself could conduct a search.’
    In the harem? Orhan Eser was aghast. No, he said, shaking his head firmly, it definitely could not. Not all walls were dismountable.
    Seymour thought he was beginning to work Orhan Eser out now. He was a sort of personal secretary to the Acting-Vizier and so in a position of considerable power. He ‘had the ear’ of Abd-es-Salaam, as the Eastern world put it. It was through him that everyone had to approach the Acting-Vizier and through him that all instructions came outward. He was clearly a person to stay on the right side of.
    What Seymour could not work out, though, was what he was doing here. There was no future for an able, presumably ambitious, man at the court of an exiled Sultan. What induced him to stay? Loyalty? Some strong family bond? Or hope for something better, a change in circumstances, perhaps a return to Istanbul or power, where he could hope to benefit?
    Or was – and this was the point – his allegiance elsewhere? Ambitious men in Turkey these days were usually on the side of the new reforming Government. Could they have placed him here? To keep an eye on the Sultan? Or be in a position to act, should action, for some reason, become necessary.
    In the house he had had the feeling that all the windows were closed. They weren’t, of course: it was just that the shutters over the windows were closed. The windows were left open to allow what breeze there was to come through the slots. The effect of the shutters, though, was to make the house dark. In many of the rooms lamps were kept burning all the time, which reinforced the impression he always had when he was there that it was night. It seemed odd to have this impression when you were in bright, sunlit Athens. He wondered if the Greeks had the impression, too. Or did they do the same when they were in their own houses, shut out the sun and retreat into the shade and the cool? He had a feeling that if they did, the retreat would not be as total, that it would smack too much of the old Ottoman practices that they were so anxious to reject. He did feel, every time he entered the Sultan’s house, that he was entering a different world, slipping back in time: the Greeks would certainly see it like that.
    It was a relief, at the end of the morning, to come out into the sunshine. But by this time the heat had built up and as he walked down the drive he could hear the pine cones cracking open in the pine woods in which the house was set. The trees provided some relief from the sun and it was only when he stepped out of the drive that he experienced the full blast of the heat. In a moment his shirt was wringing wet and sweat was pouring down his face. e was wearing a suit and a collar and tie – a royal residence demanded it – and envied the people in their casual open shirts and easy trousers.
    Not that he saw many people as he walked back to his hotel. In the square people had deserted the tables and retreated inside. The carriages were seeking out shade for their drivers’ siestas. Shops were closing. In the back streets stallholders were creeping under their stalls. The smell of ripe fruit hung everywhere.
    At the hotel he found a message from Dr