An Evil Eye Read Online Free PDF Page B

will always know where to look.”
    “The monk cut it out, Palewski. Either because he wanted the body to remain unidentified, or—”
    “Or the opposite. I don’t suppose he put it in his water jug to improve the taste.”
    “He meant to preserve it.” Yashim frowned. “I should go back to Istanbul. Perhaps I can identify the mark.”
    They sauntered down the avenue of limes and arrived at the quayside just in time to see the Istanbul ferry pull out.
    Yashim kicked the ground.
    “A couple of hours won’t make any difference,” Palewski said equably. “Let’s take a stroll and look for something to eat.”
    They wandered off along the track that lined the shore, overhung with Judas trees. Small fishing boats with painted eyes were drawn up on the beach, watching them as they passed. On the rocks, fishermen sat mending their nets or cleaning the day’s catch.
    Yashim sniffed the air.
    “That smells good, my friends!”
    A group of fishermen were sitting around a fire and dipping bread into a cauldron. “You are very welcome, kyrie. Join us. Take some bread, and have a little wine.”
    An older man, with a fine crop of white curls, grinned and winked at Palewski. “For the Frankish kyrie, the wine is good.”
    Yashim squatted gravely by the fire. Palewski settled like a cormorant on a rock. A boy was sent to the sea with a couple of tin plates. He presented them, clean and fresh, to the newcomers. The old fisherman ladled out some stew, and someone passed them a loaf of round bread, from which they broke pieces.
    Palewski held his thimble of yellow wine to the light. “To your hospitality.” He drank; the men murmured their approval; his glass appeared refreshed.
    Yashim was curious to taste the fishermen’s stew . He took several mouthfuls: it was strong, flavored with the wild thyme that grew farther up the shore, beyond the track.
    “Tomato!” he exclaimed.
    One of the younger men nodded. “I’ve seen them growing it, kyrie. It grows like a weed, when you know how, and it tastes good. Even raw.”
    The old fisherman put up a stubby finger. “Raw, it’s no good.” He passed his hand across his belly. “It lies here, very cold. And gives my wife headache.”
    “She always has headache.”
    “Not like this.”
    “What do you think, kyrie?”
    “I think tomato is good to eat.” Yashim picked out a little mass of bones with his fingers, and cast them toward the sea. “But like an eggplant, it is dangerous raw.”
    The old man nodded. Palewski said, in his workmanlike Greek, “I have read that it is safe to eat it raw, but you should not eat the … the little seeds.”
    “The pips, that’s right. That’s where the trouble lies.”
    The younger man shrugged amiably. “I eat it, pips and all.” He touched the knuckle of his thumb to his belly. “I feel good.”
    “Why not? You’re young.”
    Yashim smiled and buried his head in his plate. Greeks always had some opinion, and they adored novelty. Their conversation never flagged.
    “You grow the tomatoes yourself?”
    The young man laughed. “It is better to have friends, kyrie. My cousin works in the pasha’s konak , his mansion on the island. As a gardener.”
    The old man frowned. “Enough. You talk too much.”
    “The pasha?”
    The young man scratched his chest. “He’s gone away,” he said vaguely. “It’s not a crime, when he’s away.”
    “Eh, time to mend.” The old man slapped his thighs. “Then a rest.”
    “You’ll go out again later?” Palewski was curious.
    “Best time for us, early evening. It’s the light,” the young man said.
    “I don’t know about that,” another man countered. “My old man always swore by the tide.”
    Later, as they walked back along the track to the quayside, Palewski gestured to the fishing boats.
    “The Greeks were painting eyes on their ships in Homer’s time,” he said. “I’ve read somewhere that the practice is universal. Even in China. I wonder what we should make of