“And Abdulmecid?” Yashim watched his friend in silence for a moment. He saw the way his friend was thinking. “He won’t drop you.”

“I can’t agree,” Palewski said stiffly. “Mahmut was old and fierce. He was pleased to think that the Ottomans were the only people in Europe who still recognized the Polish Republic. Abdulmecid is young and probably nervous of stepping out of line. The assembled corps diplomatique are watching to see if he drinks champagne from the wrong sort of glass.”

Yashim frowned. “Are you guessing, or has someone spoken to you about it?”

Palewski dismissed the question with a wave. “Of course not. No one ever will. In case you’re wondering, they haven’t stopped my stipend yet, either. It doesn’t mean a thing. They’ll probably go on paying that until I drop down dead. It’s the Ottoman way, Yashim. Polite and indirect. You know that.”

Yashim had been tracing a pattern in the carpet with his finger. “I could try to speak to someone, if you like.”

Palewski blew out his cheeks. “Decent of you, Yashim. Just don’t think it would sway the balance.”

Yashim drew a long breath. “I could find out if you’re invited?”

“It’s a bit late, actually. I saw the Sardinian consul yesterday in the street. Grinning like an organ grinder and all ready to move up to his hovel in Karakoy. Had the wretched invitation in his pocket. The Sardinian consul, Yash! Wouldn’t surprise me if the sultan asked that French tailor in Pera to come along. It’s not an exclusive affair.”

Yashim sighed.

“I’m in a difficult position at the palace, too.”

He told Palewski about Resid’s warning and the sultan’s interest in an old painting.

When he had finished he took a sip of lemonade.

“Very weak,” Palewski explained grimly, as Yashim choked. “Low-grade stuff, too. I wouldn’t use bison grass.” He lay on his side, his chin cupped in his hand. “Ask yourself: What if the Bellini does exist?”