Balthasar's Odyssey (24 page)

“You must have a better eye than I have for this sort of thing. What's special about it?”

The pastor didn't seem particularly interested in what I was saying. He listened to me and asked a few questions out of politeness, no doubt thinking my reactions were quite commonplace in a man really devoted to his profession, and just waiting for me to resume my tour of inspection so that he could get back to the only subject that concerned him today: Sabbataï. So I went over to him, carefully carrying “the two lovers”.

“What's special about this statuette is that it consists, as you see, of two figures accidentally rusted together. It's a very rare phenomenon, and I'd recognise it anywhere. And I can tell you with absolute certainty that four months ago it was in my own shop in Gibelet. I gave it for nothing to the Chevalier de Marmontel, the envoy of the King of France, who'd just bought a rare book from me for a very large sum of money. He set sail from Tripoli, taking the statuette with him, but was shipwrecked before reaching Constantinople. And now I find my statuette here on this shelf.”

Coenen could remain seated no longer. He was as pale as if I'd accused him of theft or murder.

“I warned Wheeler against those bandits disguised as beggars who go round peddling valuable objects. They're out-and-out scoundrels, all of them. And now I feel as if I were their accomplice, a receiver of stolen goods! My house is defiled! May God punish you, Wheeler!”

I did my best to reassure him, saying neither he nor the Englishman was to blame: they didn't know where the things had come from. At the same time I questioned him discreetly about what else the peddler had with him besides my “lovers”. Of course I was anxious to find out if
The Hundredth Name
had survived too. Hadn't it been taken on the same ship, among the same baggage? I know a book is more perishable than a metal statuette, and the wreckers who caused the loss of the ship and murdered the men on it to get hold of its cargo, are likely to have kept statuettes covered in gold leaf and tossed a mere book overboard.

“Cornelius bought a lot of things from that fellow.”

“Any books?”

“Yes, one.”

I didn't dream I'd get such a plain answer!

“A book in Arabic that seemed to astonish him.”

As long as the peddler was still there, Coenen told me, his friend hadn't seemed to attach any importance to the book. But as soon as he left, very pleased with himself at having got rid of so many of his wares, the Englishman's enthusiasm knew no bounds. He kept examining the book from every angle and reading and re-reading the first page.

“He seemed so pleased with it that when I asked him a question about the age of the statuettes, he gave them to me there and then. He would take no denial, and told his clerk to wrap them up and deliver them to my house.”

“Did he say anything about the book?”

“Not much. That it was rare, and that for years a lot of his customers had been asking him to find them a copy, imagining it would put them in possession of some kind of magic power and afford them divine protection. It was a sort of talisman. I remember telling him a true believer didn't need such devices: to win Heaven's favour it was enough to do good and say the prayers Our Saviour taught us. Wheeler agreed, and said he didn't believe in such nonsense himself, but as a dealer he was glad to have acquired a much sought-after item that he could sell at a good price.”

Coenen then resumed his lamentations, wondering if God would forgive him for having in an unguarded moment accepted a present he suspected of being of doubtful provenance. As for me, I found — and still find — myself back in a number of dilemmas I'd thought were things of the past. If
The Hundredth Name
still exists, shouldn't I start looking for it again? The book's a kind of siren — no one who's heard her song can ever forget her. And I've done more than hear the song. I've held the siren in my arms, stroked her, possessed her briefly, before she escaped and headed for the open sea. She sank beneath the waves, and I thought she was swallowed up for ever, but a siren cannot drown. And scarcely had I begun to forget her than she rises up before me to remind me of my duties as a bewitched lover.

“So where is the book now?”

“Wheeler's never mentioned it to me again. I don't know if he took it with him to England or left it in his house in Smyrna.”

In Smyrna? In his house? In other words, in mine?

Can anyone blame me if I'm trembling and can hardly speak?

24 December

Nothing I did today was a crime, but no doubt I
am
guilty of abusing Mr Wheeler's hospitality. Searching from top to bottom a house I've been lent, as if it were the den of a receiver of stolen goods! I trust my Englishman will forgive me. I had no choice. I had to try to find the book that made me set out on my travels. Not with any very high hopes of success. I'd have been greatly surprised if my colleague, knowing how important the book is, had left it behind. I wouldn't go so far as to suppose it's because of
The Hundredth Name
that he suddenly decided to go away, leaving his house and possessions to be looked after by a stranger. But I can't rule out the possibility altogether.

Coenen says Cornelius Wheeler belongs to a family of booksellers who for a long time have had a shop in the old St Paul's market in London. I've never actually been either to London or to the market, but both must seem familiar to anyone who trades in antique books. Just as the name of the house of Embriaco, in Gibelet, must be familiar to some booksellers and collectors in London and Oxford — or so I like to think. It's as if all those who love the same things were linked together across the seas by an invisible thread. And in my merchant's heart I believe the world would be a better and more cordial place if there were many such threads, woven into an ever thicker and stronger fabric.

At present, however, it gives me no pleasure to know that someone on the other side of the world wants to get hold of the same book as I do, and that the book itself is on a ship bound for England. Will he be shipwrecked, like the unfortunate Marmontel? I don't wish that, as God's my witness. But I would have liked the book, through some inexplicable spell, to be still in this house. But it hasn't turned up yet, and though I can't say I've looked in every single nook and cranny, I'm sure I shan't find it.

All my people took part in the treasure hunt except Boumeh, who has been out all day. He's often been out lately, but I was careful not to criticise him for it today. I was glad he didn't know we were looking for Mazandarani's book, and I especially didn't want him to learn the present whereabouts of something he wants more than any of us. He's quite capable of dragging us to England after it! I made all the rest of the household promise not to breathe a word to him about it all, threatening dire punishment if they disobeyed.

In the afternoon, while we were all slumped in the sitting room, as worn out with disappointment as with effort, Habib said: “Well, there's one Christmas present we shan't be getting!” We laughed, and I thought that it really would have been a wonderful present for us all on this Christmas Eve.

We were still laughing when there was a knock on the door. It was Coenen's servant, bringing us the statuette of the two lovers, wrapped in a crimson scarf. There was a note with it, saying, “After what I learned yesterday I couldn't keep it under my roof.”

The pastor wasn't intending to give us a Christmas present, I presume, but that's what it seemed like to us. Nothing could have given me greater pleasure, except
The Hundredth Name.

But I had to hide the statuette straight away, and make the others keep quiet about that too. If my nephew saw it he'd guess everything.

How long shall I be able to keep the truth from him? Wouldn't it be better if I just learned to say no to him? I ought to have done that at the beginning, when he wanted me to come on this journey. Instead of setting out on this slippery slope with nothing to stop me sliding further and further. Except perhaps the buffer of the calendar. In a week's time the fateful Year will have begun.

27 December

A rather sordid incident has just occurred. I'm writing it down just to soothe my nerves, and then shall say no more about it.

I'd retired to my room early to do some accounts, and at one point got up to go and see if Boumeh was back: he's been out too much lately, and it's worrying, given his mood and that of the city.

Not finding him in his room, I thought he might have gone out into the garden to answer some nocturnal call of nature, so I went out too and started to stroll back and forth near the door. The night was mild, amazingly so for December, and you had to strain your ears to hear the waves, near as they were.

Suddenly there was a curious sound, like a groan or a stifled cry. It came from the direction of the roof, where the maid's room is. I went over, making no noise, and slowly climbed up the ladder. The groans continued.

“Who's there?” I asked.

No answer, and the sounds stopped.

I called out the maid's name: “Nasmé! Nasmé!”

But it was Habib's voice that answered.

“It's me, Uncle. It's all right. You can go back to bed!”

Go back to bed? If he'd put it differently I might have been more sympathetic. I might have turned a blind eye, not having been beyond reproach myself lately. But when he spoke to me like that, as if I were senile or simple-minded …

I rushed into the room. It was very small and dark, but I could make out the two shapes and gradually recognise them.

“You dare to tell
me
to go back to bed …!”

I treated him to a volley of Genoese oaths and gave him a good box on the ear. The ill-mannered lout! As for the maid, I've given her till the morning to pack up her things and go.

I've calmed down a bit now, and it strikes me it's my nephew who deserved to be punished rather than the wretched girl. I know how attractive he can be. But one hands out chastisement as one can, not as one would like. I know it's unfair to sack the maid and merely tell my nephew off. But what else can I do? Give the maid a box on the ear and turn my nephew out?

Too many things are happening in my house that wouldn't have happened if I'd behaved differently. It pains me to write this down, but perhaps it would hurt me more if I didn't. If I hadn't allowed myself to live as I pleased with a woman who isn't my wife, if I hadn't taken so many liberties with the laws of Heaven and of man, my nephew wouldn't have behaved as he did, and I wouldn't have had to hand out punishments.

What I've just written is true. But it's also true that if those laws hadn't been so harsh neither Marta nor I would have needed to get round them. In a world where everything is ruled by chance, why should I be the only one to feel guilty of sin? And why should I be the only one to suffer from remorse?

One day I must learn how to act unfairly and simply not worry about it.

Monday 28 December 1665

I went back to see Abdellatif, the Ottoman official, the scribe in the prison in Smyrna, and I now see I wasn't mistaken when I said he was honest. He's more honest than I could have imagined. I only hope the next few days won't prove me wrong!

I took Marta and Hatem with me, and a purse full enough to deal with the usual demands. He received me politely in the gloomy office he shares with three other officials, who were receiving their own “clients” when I arrived. He signed to me to come close, then told me very quietly that he'd looked in all the available records but been unable to find out anything about the man we were interested in. I thanked him for his trouble and asked him, with my hand on my purse, how much his researches had cost him. He raised his voice to answer.

“That'll be 200 aspres!”

That struck me as a pretty large sum, though neither completely unreasonable nor unexpected. In any case, I had no intention of arguing, and just put the coins into his hand. He thanked me in the usual phrases, and got up to show me out. That did surprise me. He hadn't bothered to stand when I came in, or asked me to sit down, so why should he now be taking me by the arm as if I were an old friend or a benefactor?

Once we were outside he handed back the money I'd just given him, folding my fingers round the coins and saying: “You don't owe me anything. I only consulted a ledger, and that's part of the work I'm paid for. Farewell, and may God protect you and help you find what you're looking for.”

I was dumbstruck. I wondered whether he was genuinely repentant or just playing another Turkish trick to try to get even more money out of me. Should I press him to take something, or merely leave with a word of thanks, as he seemed to be suggesting? But Marta and Hatem, who'd been watching all this, starting singing the man's praises as if they'd just witnessed a miracle.

“God bless you! You're a good man — the best of all our master the Sultan's servants! May the Almighty watch over you and yours!”