Balthasar's Odyssey (23 page)

The Dutch minister says that every month travellers passing through Smyrna bring him letters to this effect from Holland, France, Sweden and especially England, where many people are on the look-out for strange events that might herald the end of the world and Christ's Second Coming. What's happening in Smyrna can only sharpen their expectations.

I told Coenen that I myself had been following these events with great interest, had seen the so-called Messiah twice with my own eyes, and was very troubled by it all. When I added that a Jewish friend of mine was highly sceptical, Coenen was anxious to meet him, and I promised to pass his invitation on to Maïmoun as soon as possible.

Going over the things that had worried me most in the last few days, I mentioned the to me inexplicable fact that the cadi had let Sabbataï go free last Sunday, and further that the authorities had so far done nothing to cut the current excesses short and get the people back to work. The pastor replied that according to reliable sources the judge had been given a large sum of money by certain wealthy Jewish merchants, supporters of Sabbataï, to leave the self-proclaimed Messiah alone.

“I don't know,” said I, “how corrupt the Ottoman officials may be, nor how much they are motivated by sheer greed. But what we see at present is utter chaos. And as soon as Constantinople finds out what's going on here, heads are going to roll. Do you really think the cadi would risk his own head for a handful of gold?”

“My young friend,” he answered, “if you think men always act sensibly it shows you have no idea how the world wags. Irrationality is the creative principle of History.”

In his opinion, he went on, the reason why the cadi had let Sabbataï go free was not only that he himself had been bribed, but also because he must have concluded that a man who came before him singing psalms must be a mere madman, a danger perhaps to his own community but no threat whatsoever to the power of the Sultan. Coenen must have been told this by a janissary responsible for the security of the Dutch merchants. And it's probably what the cadi himself hints at to his janissaries, to excuse his tolerance.

On a completely different plane, I saw today that my nephew Boumeh had let his hair and beard grow. I wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been wearing a loose white shirt that makes him look like a certain kind of dervish. He's out all day, and hardly opens his mouth when he comes back in the evening. Perhaps I ought to ask him why he's dressing up like that.

20 December

Maïmoun has come and sought refuge here. I welcomed him with open arms and put him in the last spare bedroom, which I'd intended for him all along. Though he declined my invitation before, something happened this morning to make him change his mind. He's still very shaken.

His father asked him to go with him to see Sabbataï. It wasn't the first time he'd been, but before he'd always managed to stay in the background, mingling with the crowd and observing from a distance the manifestations of allegiance and enthusiasm. But this time his father, now a “king”, insisted that he approach their benefactor and ask for his blessing. My friend did as he was asked, went forward with his eyes downcast, hurriedly kissed the “Messiah's” hand, and as soon as he could tried to step back to make way for others. But Sabbataï, holding him back by the sleeve and forcing him to look up, spoke to him in a friendly manner and asked him two or three questions. Then, suddenly, he raised his voice louder and asked Maïmoun, his father, and a couple of rabbis from Aleppo who were with them, to utter the Ineffable Name of God. The others obeyed, but Maïmoun, though he was the most pious of them all, hesitated. He might not invariably follow the precepts of the Faith to the letter, and sometimes, in the synagogue, he would mutter the prayers half-heartedly, as if his heart was not quite in harmony with what his lips professed. But between such backslidings and committing the sin now being asked of him there was an insuperable difference. So Maïmoun remained silent, hoping Sabbataï would be satisfied with being obeyed by the other three. Little did he know! The self-styled Messiah went on holding him by the sleeve, and started explaining to the assembled company that in this new age what was formerly forbidden is forbidden no longer, that those who believe in the emergence of the new era shouldn't be afraid of transgressing, and those who have faith in him, Sabbataï, should know he wouldn't ask them to do anything incompatible with the true will of the Most High, especially if it appears to contradict what only seems to be His will.

By now all eyes were on my friend, including those of his own father, who bade him trust “our king and Messiah” and do as he asked.

“I'd never have thought I'd live to see the day,” Maïmoun told me, “when my father, who'd brought me up to respect our law, would ask me to break it in the worst possible manner. For such a thing to happen, for piety to be confused with impiety in that way, the end of the world really must be at hand.”

He lapsed into thought and melancholy. I had to interrupt his reverie to make him finish the story.

“So what did you do?”

“I told Sabbataï that what he was asking of me was a serious matter, and I needed to pray first. Then, without asking leave, I withdrew. And as soon as got outside I came straight here.”

He swore that until “this madness” is over he won't set foot in the Jewish quarter again. I told him he was quite right, and that I was delighted to welcome him under my roof.

I went on to tell him about the visit of the Dutch pastor and Coenen's desire to meet him. He didn't refuse, but indicated that he'd rather put it off for a few days: for the moment he didn't feel like talking to a stranger about what had happened.

“My mind's still in a whirl. I'm confused. I don't want to say something I'll regret next day.”

I said there wasn't any hurry, and it would be best if we both distanced ourselves from all this bother.

Monday, 21 December 1665

Are there really some honest officials in the Ottoman Empire? I hardly dare say so. It's strange enough that I can even ask the question!

For some days Marta's been saying we ought to take up here the approaches we made in Constantinople, in the hope that they might meet with more success in Smyrna. So I went to see Abdellatif, the clerk at the local prison, who I'd been told kept a record of all the sentences passed in this part of Asia Minor and the Aegean islands. He let me set out my request, took notes, asked for a few more details, then said it would take him a week to look into the matter before he could give me a satisfactory answer. This, of course, brought back an unpleasant memory of the clerk in the Armoury of the Sultan's palace, who'd got one sum of money after another out of us on the pretext of having to consult a series of different ledgers. But I'd decided in advance that I'd pay up without making too much fuss, if only to show Marta I'd do anything for her. So I asked the man the usual question about “how much his informants would have to be paid”. My hand was already in my purse. But the man plainly signed to me to take it out again.

“Why should your honour pay?” he asked. “You haven't got anything yet.”

Not wanting to annoy him by insisting, I withdrew, saying I'd come back in a week, and that I prayed Heaven would reward him as he deserved. No honest man could object to that.

Marta and Hatem had been waiting for me outside in the shade of a walnut tree. I told them what had happened, word for word. Marta said she was sure everything would be all right: perhaps Providence was about to look favourably on her cause at last. My clerk was more sceptical: in his view, when the powers-that-be are kind it's only a sign that some worse disaster is on the way.

We shall see. Normally I'd agree with him, but today I'm not entirely without hope. So many incredible things are happening. A wind of strangeness is sweeping through the world. I don't think anything will ever surprise me again.

23 December 1665

I'm trembling. I can hardly speak.

Shall I be able to tell what happened as if it had happened to someone else, without shrieking at every line and talking all the time about signs and wonders?

Perhaps I ought to have waited for my emotions to settle down inside me, in the depths of my soul, like grounds in a cup of coffee. To have let a couple of days go by, or even a week. But when today's events have cooled, others will have come along, still boiling hot.

So as long as I can I'd better stick to my decision to write down every day the evil thereof. To every date its own self-contained account. Without reading over what I've written; just turning each last page as I finish it so that the one that follows is ready to record the next batch of astonishments. Until the day comes when the page will remain blank — the end, my own end, or the end of the world.

But let me go back to the beginning as far as today is concerned.

This afternoon, having managed to overcome Maïmoun's reservations, I took him to see Pastor Coenen. He welcomed us warmly, served us some delicious Turkish sweetmeats with our coffee, then started talking in moderate terms about Sabbataï, observing my friend's reactions out of the corner of his eye. First he repeated some highly laudatory references to Jesus on the part of the alleged Messiah: Christ's soul, he said, was indissolubly linked to his own. “I'll see that he now takes his place among the prophets,” he's supposed to have said before witnesses. Maïmoun confirmed that Sabbataï always referred to Jesus in respectful and affectionate terms, and often spoke sadly of the sufferings inflicted upon him.

The pastor said he was both surprised and delighted to hear this, but regretted that Sabbataï was not equally exemplary when speaking of women.

“Has he not promised to make them equal to their husbands and free them from the curse of Eve? That's what I've heard from a reliable source. According to him, women ought in future to live just as they please, without having to obey any man.”

He looked inquiringly at Maïmoun, who with some reluctance confirmed that this was so.

“He's even supposed to have said,” the pastor went on, “that men and women ought not to be kept separate any more, either at home or in the synagogue, and that soon, in the kingdom he wants to create, everyone will be able to go with anyone he desires, without restriction or shame.”

“I've never heard
that,”
said Maïmoun firmly, “or anything like it.”

He shot me a glance that seemed to ask why on earth I'd got him into this.

I stood up.

“You have some splendid things here,” I said. “Would you allow me, as a colleague, to have a look round?”

“Of course!”

I was hoping my friend would stand up too, and make use of the diversion I'd created to change an embarrassing subject and interrupt what was turning into a cross-examination. But to avoid offending our host he stayed where he was. Admittedly, if we'd both leaped up at the same time our attempt at evasion would have been obvious and rather uncouth. So the conversation went on without me, though I listened to every word and took in very little of the furniture, books and curios I was supposed to be inspecting.

Behind me, Maïmoun was explaining to Coenen that most rabbis didn't believe in Sabbataï, but they didn't dare say so openly because the whole populace was on his side. Anyone who refused to recognise him as king and Messiah had to hide or even leave the city, or risk being attacked in the street.

“Is it true Sabbataï said he was going to Constantinople in a few days' time to take possession of the Sultan's crown and sit in his place on the throne?”

Maïmoun sounded horrified at this, and his voice rose.

“Do you set much store by what I tell you?” he asked.

“Of course!” The pastor seemed rather taken aback. “Of all the good people I've questioned, you're the most sensible, the most accurate and the most observant...”

“Believe me, then, when I tell you Sabbataï has never at any time made any such claims.”

“Yet the person who told about them is very close to him.”

Coenen lowered his voice and spoke a name I couldn't catch. I did hear Maïmoun's angry reply.

“That rabbi's crazy! Anyone who says such things is crazy, whether they're Sabbataï's supporters, who think the world belongs to them already, or his enemies, who'd do anything to destroy him. If such foolishness ever comes to the ears of the Sultan, all the Jews will be slaughtered, together with all the other inhabitants of Smyrna!”

Coenen agreed, and started on another tack.

“Is is true that there was a letter from Egypt… ?”

But I didn't hear what followed. I was gazing at something on a low shelf, half-hidden behind a table from Zealand. A statuette that looked familiar.
My
statuette! My statuette of the two lovers, miraculously preserved! I bent down, then crouched to take hold of it, stroking it and turning it this way and that in my hands. No doubt about it! Those two conical heads covered with gold leaf, the strange kind of rustjoining the two hands together, uniting them beyond death. There's nothing else like it in the whole world!

I waited a few seconds, swallowing two or three times lest my voice betray me.

“Your honour, where did this come from?”

“Those statuettes? Wheeler gave them to me.”

“Did he tell you if he dug them up himself?” I asked disingenuously.

“No. I was visiting him one day and a man came knocking at the door trying to sell him some things from a cart. Cornelius bought almost everything he had, and as I'd shown an interest in those votive statuettes, which probably come from some ancient temple, he insisted on making me a present of them. But for an important dealer in curios like you, such things must be two a penny.”

“Yes, some
have
passed through my hands. But this one is different from all the others.”