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Mavrogordato,” he added bullishly, as if he half expected Yashim to deny it.
    Yashim thought for a moment. “No. No, we didn’t discuss you at all. Should we have?”
    The young Mavrogordato gave him a suspicious look. “Are you being clever?”
    “I hope so, Monsieur Mavrogordato. But now, if you will excuse me—”
    The young man reached out and grabbed Yashim’s sleeve. “Why are you here, then?”
    Yashim looked down slowly at the hand on his sleeve and frowned. There was a pause, then Mavrogordato let go. Yashim brushed a hand across his sleeve.
    “Perhaps you might wish to discuss it with your mother. Please don’t detain me again.”
    He stepped around the young man. As he passed, he felt his breath on his face, sour like a tavern.

11
    H OLDING the lamp in one hand, Goulandris surveyed the shelves that lined his little cubbyhole in the Grand Bazaar. Now and then he reached out to knock the books into line and close the gaps. Satisfied, he returned to his stool, set the lamp on the desk, and blew out the flame.
    A shadow fell across the desk. Goulandris glanced up, without enthusiasm.
    “The shop is closed,” he said. He moved his head to see better, but the figure in the doorway stood against the light. “Come back tomorrow.”
    He turned his head again, hoping to identify the man at the door. If he came tomorrow, it would show that he was eager: Goulandris wanted to be able to recognize him again.
    “There was a book,” the man said slowly.
    The bookseller sighed. He opened the drawer and dropped the little account book into it. He closed the drawer with both hands.
    “There are many books,” he said querulously. “Tomorrow.”
    The shadows deepened: it was Goulandris’s impression that the man had taken a step closer, into the room. For him, with one eye, it was always hard to tell.
    But yes, the voice seemed closer now.
    “Not many books. Just one. A Latin book, no? I am sure you can remember.”
    Goulandris swallowed. He leaned away from the desk, allowing his hand to move toward a little bell that stood on a low shelf behind his stool.
    “Not now,” he said. “I am going home.”
    The man was near the desk. “Please, Monsieur Goulandris, don’t touch that bell.”
    Goulandris checked himself. He began to rise from his stool, leaning both hands on the desk.
    But the stranger, it seemed, didn’t want Goulandris to stand up ever again.

12
    A RAM Malakian fished out a bunch of keys in his long, slender fingers and fitted one to the lock.
    “Patience, patience,” he muttered with a smile. The lock broke and the metal gates of his shop swung back.
    “Enter, my friend. You must look and touch—and I have some new treasures I would like to show you. I do not ask you to buy them—today we will not speak of such a thing—but only to look and admire what workmanship existed in the past. Sit down, please. We will have a tea together, Yashim efendi.”
    Aram snapped his fingers and a little boy ran up to take his order.
    “No, no. Please let us not look there—this is for the people who know nothing at all. Blessed are the ignorant! I have some pieces which are interesting.”
    He picked up a linen pouch and slipped several coins onto the low table.
    “The English physician, Dr. Millingen, is a great collector of coinage. I think he will want these.”
    Yashim sighed. “Incredible. All the collectors come through your shop, don’t they?”
    The old Armenian wagged his head, neither yes nor no.
    “Lefèvre, for instance. A Frenchman.”
    “Monsieur Lefèvre. I know him, yes. He is an archaeologist of great erudition.”
    “What sort of things interest him?”
    Malakian picked up a sunflower seed and split it between his teeth. “Byzantine work. Silverware, mosaic, jewelry. Old icons. Incunabula and illuminated manuscripts.”
    “Incunabula?”
    “The first printed books. These things are of course very rare—unless one knows where to look. That is the first step.”
    Yashim waited