Balthasar's Odyssey (25 page)

“Stop!” he cried. “Do you want to be the death of me? Be off, and don't let me ever set eyes on you again!”

So we did go, taking our unspoken questions with us.

29 December 1665

Today, despite the scribe's objurgations, I went to see him again. Alone, this time. I wanted to understand why he'd acted as he did. I had no idea how he'd react when he saw me, and as I made my way from the merchants' quarter to the citadel I had a presentiment that I'd find his place empty. One doesn't usually remember presentiments, nor mention them unless they come true. In this case my presentiment was wrong. Abdellatif was there. An oldish woman was talking to him, and he signed to me to wait until he'd finished dealing with her. When she left he jotted down a few words in his notebook, then stood up and led me outside.

“If you're here to give back that 200 aspres you're wasting your time,” he said.

“No,” I replied. “I came just to thank you again for your kindness. Yesterday my friends made such a to-do I couldn't tell you how grateful I am. I've been trying for months to get somewhere in this business, and every time I've gone away cursing. But thanks to you I went away from here thanking God and the Porte, even though I wasn't much nearer my goal. It's very unusual these days to come across a man of integrity. I can understand my friends' exuberance, but it offended your modesty, and you asked them to stop.”

I hadn't actually asked the question that was on the tip of my tongue. The man smiled, sighed, and laid a hand on my shoulder.

“I wasn't being modest. I was being careful,” he said.

He paused, and seemed to be searching for words. Then he glanced round to make sure no one was watching.

“In a place where most people will take money improperly, anyone who refuses it is seen by the others as a threat, a possible informer. And they'll do anything they can to get rid of him. I've actually been warned: ‘If you want to keep a head on your shoulders, do as we do and don't act as if you're either better or worse than the rest of us.' So as I've no wish to die, though I don't want to sin and go to perdition either, I prefer to act as I did with you yesterday. Inside this place I sell myself, and outside it I redeem myself.”

What strange times we live in, when good must disguise itself in the tawdry rags of evil!

Maybe it's time the world came to an end.

30 December 1665

This morning Sabbataï left for Constantinople and an unknown fate. I'm told he sailed on a galley, together with three rabbis — one from Aleppo, one from Jerusalem, and one from Poland. There were three other people with them, including Maïmoun's father. My friend would have liked to go too, to be with his father, but the self-styled Messiah was against it.

The sea looks stormy, and there are dark clouds on the horizon, but all the passengers sang as they went on board, as if the presence of their leader did away with such things as storms and swells.

Even before they left, rumour was rife. Maïmoun told me of all the stories circulating in the upper part of the city, so that I might share in his anxiety and bewilderment. Sabbataï's supporters claim he's going to Constantinople to meet the Sultan, tell him the new era of Resurrection and Deliverance is come, and urge him to submit without offering any resistance. They also say that in the course of this interview the Almighty will manifest His will in the form of some great marvel, causing the terrified Sultan to fall on his knees and hand over his crown to the one who is to replace him as God's representative on earth.

Sabbataï's opponents, on the other hand, say he did not set out as a conqueror: it was the Ottoman authorities, through the cadi, who ordered him, within three days, to leave Smyrna for Constantinople, where he would be apprehended on landing. This is a plausible explanation — the only plausible one, in fact. What sane man could believe in a miraculous interview during which the most powerful monarch in the world would lay his crown at the feet of a caterwauling nobody with a red face? No, I don't believe that's possible, and Maïmoun is even more sceptical than I am. But this evening most people in the Jewish quarter do believe that version of what's happening. Those who have doubts hide them, and pretend to be preparing for the rejoicings.

Boumeh too seems to believe the world is on the point of collapse. I'd be surprised if he didn't. Whenever a choice is possible, he always opts for the most stupid alternative. But he can still argue and make us think; even give us pause.

“If the authorities mean to arrest Sabbataï as soon as he lands,” he says, “why did they let him leave freely, on the ship of his choice, instead of sending him straight to prison under escort? How can they be sure where he'll go ashore?”

“What are you trying to tell us, Boumeh? That the Sultan is going to give in without more ado as soon as this fellow tells him to? You must have lost your reason too.”

“Reason has only another day to live. The new year is about to begin, the new era. What used to seem reasonable will soon seem ridiculous; what once seemed unreasonable will appear self-evident. Those who have left it till the last moment to open their eyes will be blinded by the light.”

Habib laughed, and I shrugged my shoulders and turned to Maïmoun, expecting him to share my opinion. But his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere — no doubt with his father, aged, ailing and misled. In his mind's eye he could see the old man going aboard the galley without a backward glance or a wave of farewell, and heading perhaps for humiliation or death. My friend didn't know what to think any more, or what to hope for. Or rather he did know, but it was not much comfort.

Since we've been living together I've talked to Maïmoun often enough to know exactly the dilemma he's in. If his father turned out to be right; if Sabbataï turned out to be the king and Messiah; if the expected miracle occurred; if the Sultan fell on his knees and recognised that former times are past, the kingdoms of this world are no more, that the powerful will be powerful no longer, the proud no longer proud, the meek no longer humiliated — if the whole mad dream could, by the will of Heaven, come true, how could Maïmoun fail to weep for joy? But that's not what is going to happen, he tells me. In my friend, Sabbataï inspires no trust; no reverence, no expectation, no joy whatsoever.

“We're still a long way from the Amsterdam of our hopes,” he says. Laughing so as not to weep.

31 December 1665

God — the last day!

I've been going round in circles since this morning, unable to eat, talk or think. I do nothing but mull over the reasons why I'm so nervous. Whether you believe in Sabbataï or not, there's no doubt that his appearing at this precise moment, on the eve of the fateful year, and in the city named by the apostle John as one of the seven churches primarily concerned by the message of the Apocalypse, can't be wholly due to a bunch of coincidences. Nor can what has happened to me in recent months be explained without reference to the approach of the new age — whether it's the age of the Beast or of Redemption — and to the signs that herald it. Do I need to go through these portents again?

While the rest of my household was taking a siesta, I sat down at my desk to write down the thoughts inspired in me by the events of the day. I thought I'd produce quite a long screed, but when I came to that question mark I found my hand pausing before beginning to list yet again the signs that have punctuated my life and the lives of my companions for the last few months. In the end I put away my writing things, wondering if I'd ever have a chance to dip my pen in the ink again. I went out and walked through the almost empty streets, then along the beach, which was just as deserted, and where I was soothed and even lulled by the sound of the waves and the wind.

Back home I lay down on my bed for a few minutes — almost sitting, really, because my head was propped up on so many pillows. I got up again in an excellent humour, resolved not to let my last day — if that's what it was — be frittered away in melancholy and fear.

I'd decided to take my whole family out to dinner at the French eating-house. But Maïmoun excused himself, saying he had to go to the Jewish quarter to meet a rabbi just arrived from Constantinople, who might be able to tell him what kind of a reception awaited Sabbataï and his crew. Boumeh said he was going to stay in his room, meditating until daybreak, as we all ought to do. And Habib, either mourning his loss or merely sulking, didn't want to go out either. I didn't let all these refusals get me down: I told Marta I hoped she'd come with me, and she didn't say no. She even seemed highly delighted, as if today's date didn't affect her in the least.

I asked Master Moineau to serve us quite simply the best he had — the dish he was most proud of as a cook, and the best wine in his cellar. As if it were our last dinner, I thought, though I didn't say so and wasn't unduly perturbed at the prospect. I think I've come to terms with it.

As everyone seemed to have gone to bed by the time we got home, I went straight to Marta's room and latched the door from inside. Then we vowed to sleep in one another's arms until the morning — or at least, thought I, half joking and half terrified, until whatever it was that took the place of morning in the year of the Beast. But after we'd made love, my companion went to sleep and I couldn't. I went on holding her close for a while, an hour perhaps, then laid her gently aside, got up, put on some clothes, and went back to my writing things.

Again I intended to sum up the events of the last few months, listing the various signs and portents in the hope that the act of setting them down on paper would suddenly reveal their hidden meaning. But for the second time today I gave up. I just recorded the run-of-the-mill things I'd done this afternoon and evening, and now I shan't write anything more.

I wonder what time it is? I don't know. I shall slip back into bed beside Marta, taking care not to wake her, and hoping my thoughts will calm down enough to let me sleep.

Friday, 1 January 1666

The year of the Beast has begun, and it's a morning just like any other. The same light outside the shutters, the same noises. And I heard a cock crow not far away.

But Boumeh is not put out. He claims he never said the world was going to end from one day to the next. It's true he never said it in so many words, but even yesterday he was still behaving as if the gates of hell were on the point of opening up. He'd be well advised to drop that disdainful expression of his and admit he knows as little as the rest of us. But that wouldn't occur to him. He's still prophesying, in his own peculiar way.

“The new era will come in at its own pace,” proclaims my nephew the oracle.

It could take a day, or a week, or a month, or even the whole year: but what's certain, he says, is that it has started, the transformation of the world has begun, and everything will have been completed by the end of 1666. He and his brother now maintain that unlike me, their uncle, they were never afraid. Whereas in fact they could scarcely draw breath all day yesterday, and kept going round in circles looking as if devils were after them.

Maïmoun, who spent yesterday evening and today in the Jewish quarter, tells me that for the past few weeks their community in Constantinople has been hanging on the news from Smyrna, and that all of them, rich and poor, learned and ignorant, saints and sinners alike, with the exception of a few wiser heads, are awaiting Sabbataï's arrival with infinite hope. Houses and streets are being swept and garnished as if for a wedding, and rumour has it there, as in Smyrna and many other places apparently, that the Sultan is preparing to lay his turban and diadem at the feet of the Messiah-king in exchange for his life and a place in the coming Kingdom, the Kingdom of God upon Earth.

Sunday, 3 January 1666

In the Capuchins' church the preacher attacks those who predict the end of the world, those who juggle with figures, and anyone who is taken in by such mystifications. He says this new year will be just like any other, and he scorns the Messiah of Smyrna. The congregation smile at his sarcasms, but cross themselves in terror whenever he mentions the Beast or the Apocalypse.

4 January

At noon something happened because of me that might have led to the direst consequences. But I had the presence of mind, thank God, to right the boat before it sank.

I'd gone for a walk with Marta and Hatem, and we ended up near the new mosque, in the quarter where a number of booksellers ply their trade. As I looked at their stacks of volumes I suddenly felt the urge to question them about
The Hundredth Name.
My previous misadventures in Tripoli and Constantinople should have made me more careful, but my desire to own the book got the better of my prudence. I told myself that in the atmosphere currently reigning in Smyrna, even though things had been quieter since Sabbataï left, some things that were hitherto suspect or banned might now be tolerated. I further convinced myself that in any case my fears were exaggerated and probably even unnecessary.

I now know this was not the case. Scarcely had I uttered Mazandarani's name and the title of his book than the expressions of most of the people I spoke to became evasive, suspicious, or even downright threatening. No one said, still less did, anything definite: everything was veiled, elusive, impossible to pin down. But I'm certain now that the authorities have clearly warned the booksellers against the book and against anyone looking for it, in Smyrna, Constantinople, Tripoli, Aleppo, and all the other cities in the Empire.

I hastily changed my approach, for fear of being accused of belonging to some secret fraternity planning to overthrow the Sultan. I embarked on a minute and fanciful description of the binding of the book “as it had been described to me”, saying that it was merely this that interested me. I doubt if my interlocutors were taken in by my ruse. Nonetheless, one of them was a keen enough man of business to hurry to his stall and fetch me a tome with a binding not dissimilar to what I'd described. It was of damascened wood, with the title inlaid in mother-of-pearl and fine hinges like those used for boxes and caskets. I'd once had a book bound in this very unusual manner in my own shop, but of course it wasn't
The Hundredth Name.