An Evil Eye Read Online Free PDF

reply.”
    “I understand. You laid the body on the floor, and since then no one has opened the door, until I came?”
    “The body of a man is not a spectacle,” the monk replied, stiffly. “No one knew him.”
    Yashim nodded, slowly. “You have not answered my question.”
    The monk blinked. “Efendi?”
    “Who saw the body, apart from you and Brother Andrew?”
    Brother Palamedes wetted his lips. “I—I do not understand.”
    “Your head may be weak—or not. But I think you have a strong stomach, brother.”
    The monk was still.
    “You cut a small patch off the man’s skin, from under his arm.”
    Brother Palamedes sat down abruptly on the little bed. “I wanted—only—to avoid a scene,” he said in a small voice, folding his hands on his lap.
    “A tattoo, perhaps?”
    “Something like that.”
    “Show me. Please.”
    The monk shook his head. “I threw it away.”
    Yashim bit his lip. His mouth felt dry. He reached for the earthenware jug.
    Brother Palamedes snatched at the jug. “I will fetch some more water.”
    But Yashim had already gripped the handle, and as the monk lunged he pulled away. Water slopped out of the mouth of the jug and splashed his wrist.
    He splayed his fingers and tipped the jug upside down. The water cascaded onto the tiled floor.
    When Yashim set the jug down, he was holding the flap of skin in his hand.

13

    B ROTHER Palamedes put his fingers across his face.
    “Someone came to us, a week ago, maybe longer. Asking about a friend who had gone missing. I thought—perhaps …”
    He trailed off.
    Yashim said: “Someone? Ortodox ?” He meant someone of the Orthodox faith, the usual description for a Greek: the empire recognized people by their confession, not their race.
    The hesitation was momentary. “A type of Ortodox , yes.”
    Yashim widened his eyes. “A type of Orthodox,” he echoed. It could mean Armenian, or Serbian. A glance at the monk’s face told him it was none of those. “Russian,” he said.
    Brother Palamedes clasped his hands together. “Please, Yashim efendi. At Hristos we are men of the church. We do not seek the friendship of the Russians. Believe me. We welcome the friendship of all men but—we must be careful.”
    Yashim glanced at the pale slip of skin lying on the table, and shuddered. For years, Russia had been stirring up the Greeks, encouraging them to rebellion, disturbing their age-old compact with the Ottoman state.
    “Who did you intend to tell?”
    The monk twisted his fingers in his lap. “No one. That is—we want no trouble, Yashim efendi. These days anything may be taken amiss. You understand.”
    Yashim grunted. He picked up the monk’s pen and pushed the skin flat against the tabletop.
    “It’s not a tattoo.”
    “No, efendi. I do not know what it is. But a mark, of some kind.”

14

    Y ASHIM found Palewski fast asleep, with Pan Tadeusz across his face.
    “I can’t believe it, Yash,” Palewski said at last. “You seem to have prevented a sectarian riot, identified a corpse, and thrown suspicion on the Russians, all while I was drinking my pear syrup. Incredible.”
    Yashim unwrapped his handkerchief. “Do you know what this is?”
    Palewski raised his eyes to Yashim’s. “No. But after all that, you’re going to tell me that it is a piece of human skin.”
    “You don’t believe me?”
    “Oh, Christ,” Palewski said. He sagged back against the cushion. “I’m sorry, Yashim. That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”
    “It was taken from the man’s underarm. It shows something, I’m not sure what. A scar, maybe.”
    Palewski was silent for a while. “Or a brand.”
    “A brand?”
    “A jail brand. Either that, or Russian army—which comes to much the same thing. Regimental badge, so to speak. Germans go for facial scars. Your Janissaries—they carried tattoos, didn’t they? The Russians can be pretty crude, as I think I’ve mentioned.”
    “Under the arm?”
    “Why not? The right people