Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [27]
Angelos looked at Mr. Emanetoglu, but did not speak. Mr. Emanetoglu said heavily, “I see. Yes, I do see. And I do not know what to do about all this, no more than you do.” He paused, lowering his head almost to his chest and then raising it again. He said, “I will not be collecting the rent today. Tomorrow, at two o’clock—will that suit all present?”
Everyone nodded without replying. Mr. Emanetoglu said, as brightly as he could, “Well, then—ta, all?” He could never keep the slang phrase—so jauntily British, so important—from coming out slightly questioning, but he did his best. Then all four men said, as he could not remember them ever saying to him together, “Ta, Mr. Emanetoglu.”
He went on home then, to the little courtyard in Haringey, greeted Ceylan—Ismail being in the neighborhood coffee shop with his best friends, as was his custom on Saturday—and waited for Ekrem to come home from playing football in the street with older boys, who always trampled him, but never made him cry. When he could, Mr. Emanetoglu helped Ekrem clean off the worst of the game before his mother noticed the blood and the bruises. Mr. Emanetoglu worried sometimes about the fact that he considered his five-year-old nephew his own best friend; but then he would remind himself that in only a few years the boy would have no time for him. Which would undoubtedly be as it should—Mr. Emanetoglu knew that.
When Ekrem did arrive, Mr. Emanetoglu took him aside as soon as Ceylan had scolded and released him, and asked him earnestly, “Nephew, would you say that the hodja would know how to deal with ghosts? Think carefully before you answer.”
Superfluous advice: Ekrem always thought things through with great precision. He replied, “How many ghosts, Uncle?”
Mr. Emanetoglu had no idea, and said so. “Maybe a lot—maybe only one. I suppose we had better assume there would be a good many.”
Ekrem shook his head decidedly. “Then no. Not for a lot of ghosts, not the hodja. I am sorry.” He read the disappointment in his uncle’s face and brightened suddenly. “But the hodja has a hodja himself, did you know that? I think the old hodja would know all about ghosts.”
“The hodja’s hodja?” Mr. Emanetoglu felt as though he had not laughed in years. Ekrem himself laughed delightedly at his amusement, very proud of himself for causing it. Mr. Emanetoglu said, “Tell me, boy, where does the old hodja live, then?”
“I will take you there right away.” Ekrem scratched his head solemnly. “You know, Uncle, maybe it would be a good idea for you to bring them both to see the ghosts. Two hodjas . . . they could surely fight all the ghosts in London, couldn’t they?” He spread his arms as wide as he could. “All the ghosts in England!”
“I will be happy if they can help me get rid of all the spirits in your father’s house. One or a thousand, however many there may be.” Mr. Emanetoglu patted his nephew’s shoulder. “Thank you, Ekrem. I knew you would find a way.”
So it came about that Mr. Emanetoglu, dressed, not in English clothing but in his finest summer mintan and salvar trousers, was standing on the doorstep of the Geraldine Row house at two o’clock the next afternoon. Behind him, folded hands hidden in the sleeves of their long robes, stood two bearded old men, one notably older and taller than the other. The second man, on the other hand, was notably plumper, and still had a scattering of black in his chest-long gray beard, while the first man’s beard was closer trimmed, and as white as his hair. Both hodjas had an air of scholarly command about them, but each wore it lightly, as though they had no reason to parade overweening knowledge or virtue. They were looking, not at the front door, nor at Mr. Emanetoglu, but at each other, their hands already weaving empty cat’s cradles in the air, as though they were trying to capture the soft, wild grieving that all three men had heard all the way up the street. Mr. Emanetoglu wanted badly to cover his ears with his own hands, but in the presence of the hodjas he dared not.
The old