A Triple-headed Serpent. Marié Heese

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      Istanbul, A Meditation

      In a turbid dream

      I tear out the inside page of a book,

      the one on which the library’s date stamp is found.

      The book is about them, the ones who’ve died,

      the ones who are leaving, who often make

      an appearance in dreams, or in foreign cities

      look almost exactly like a local inhabitant,

      except for speaking a foreign language, looking up

      amazed and never returning a greeting, or who

      lie outstretched in a glass case in a museum,

      staring fixedly through sightless eyes. Their lives

      were on loan-lease. Never belonged to them.

      Those lives were merely a story; and the Author’s name

      in the colophon was found to be a pseudonym.

      That name is the one I have sought for ages.

      Tonight I read in that borrowed book’s pages

      about the lives of my friends, my father

      and everyone who happened to cross my path.

      About a life borrowed in the library of the Dead.

      Joan Hambidge

      Translated from Afrikaans by Charl JF Cilliers

      Prologue: A visit at dusk

      A chill breeze carried the bitter scent of ash. Still strong enough to mask the salt tang of the sea, it made the solitary pedestrian cough. No wonder, he thought, when almost a third of the city had been set to the torch. Swathed in a heavy woollen cloak with the hood drawn well over his head, he strode along the street, his authoritative boots asserting his right to be where he was. He was tall, and broad with it; armed, of course, with a short sword and a dagger, but he did not anticipate being set upon. Normally he would have been accompanied by an entourage, but his mission this night was one that he wished not to be witnessed.

      Around him in the deepening dusk lay the still smoking ruins that now disfigured Constantinople: the Baths of Zeuxippus, the Church of the Holy Wisdom, the Hospice of St Samson, the Church of Eirene, all reduced to blackened rubble. Jagged walls, broken arches, drunken pillars and defaced mosaics were all that remained of the great buildings, sacred and profane, that had been destroyed by the rebellious mob, aided and abetted by a wild wind from the north. Shattered statues littered the street. He stepped nimbly over a cracked head that still maintained a haughty stare with one remaining marble eye.

      But all was quiet now, the wind grown tame, the populace gone to earth, some men still nursing wounds and all of them shocked into submission by the radical violence of the two generals and their mercenaries. He had the street to himself. Even the beggars had not yet returned. The only sign of life besides himself was a rat that pattered past and darted into a crevice with a flick of its tail.

      He reached an alley between two shops with their fronts boarded up. This was where he had been told to go. Now he stepped more quietly: careful, alert. Reached the third door on the left, a heavy one with iron studs. Yes, this was it. He rapped on it. Stood a while, rocking on his heels. Rapped again, impatiently. Then a couple of bolts rattled, the door swung open and he went in.

      “The Kyria is expecting you,” said the servile eunuch who had let him in. “Follow me.” He led the way down a narrow passage to a room warmed by a brazier, scented with incense.

      A woman sat at a small round table draped in wine-red velvet, in a pool of light cast by an oil lamp. She sat upright, apparently staring down at her hands clasped in front of her. At first glance she looked young and lovely. A second look showed the first impression to be quite wrong: in fact, she was old, with white hair braided and pinned and thin shoulders draped in a grey shawl. But she had the strong clear bones of a beauty still, covered in almost transparent skin like pale porcelain, finely fissured by time. He stood wordless, made to feel huge and clumsy by her pale delicacy.

      She tilted her head up. “Good evening, Sir,” she said in a musical voice. “You should take a seat.”

      The eunuch offered a chair opposite hers. The man sat down heavily, throwing back the hood of his cloak to reveal the face of a man accustomed to dominating the company he found himself in. Fleshy lips, firmly clamped; a nose broken at least once, attesting to a violent youth; the broad flat cheekbones of marauding Slavic ancestors who rode the Steppes before coming to rest in a verdant Cappadocian valley; dark eyes with a guarded yet penetrating glare beneath wiry eyebrows.

      But she did not react to his striking appearance. Her eyes were milky pearls.

      “Evening,” he grunted. He felt out of place. He resented women he could not dominate or use.

      “I am Alicia,” she said. “Bring the gentleman some wine.”

      The eunuch trotted off.

      She sat quietly, waiting.

      He coughed. “I am John,” he said. “Known as the Cappadocian.”

      She nodded. “A man of considerable energy and power. Capable and ruthless. Huge appetites.”

      He chuckled, richly selfsatisfied. “That much anybody could have told you. Doesn’t need extraordinary divining skills.”

      She nodded again. “A man of overweening ambition.”

      “Fairly obvious.”

      “Who never knew a mother’s love.”

      He was silent for a few counts. Then: “A lucky guess,” he said.

      The eunuch brought wine in a crystal goblet.

      “Leave us,” she said. “When I need you, I’ll ring the bell.”

      “Yes, Kyria.” He backed out.

      “Give me your hand, John,” she said.

      He put out a peasant’s hand, broad, with thick fingers and dark hair on the back. She took it in both of hers, fine-boned and cool to the touch. He looked down at her delicate, tapered fingers.

      She moved her fingertips across his palm as if reading something there by touch. “Ah. A long life, and an eventful one.”

      “Glad to hear it’ll be long,” he said. “First thing you couldn’t have already heard or guessed. But then, who’s to know if you turn out to be wrong?”

      “Riches. Yes, great riches.”