Balthasar's Odyssey (26 page)

The subject of the work the bookseller brought me today is the Turkish poet, Yunus Emre, who died in the eighth century of the Hegira, the fourteenth century of our own era. I just skimmed through some pages, enough to see it wasn't simply a collection of poems but a mixture of poems, commentaries and biographical anecdotes. I looked especially closely at the binding, and passed my hand over it several times to make sure it had been damascened properly and the surface was quite smooth. And of course I bought it. After all I'd said, and with all those people watching, I had no alternative. The man who sold it to me for six piastres made a good bargain. But so did I. For six piastres I learned a lesson worth my own weight in gold: never to mention
The Hundredth Name
in Ottoman country again!

Tuesday, 5 January 1666

Yesterday evening, just before going to sleep, I read a few passages from the book I bought yesterday. I'd occasionally heard Yunus Emre spoken of before, but never read anything by him until now. For decades I've been reading the works of poets from all over the world, sometimes learning their verses by heart, but I've never read anything like this before. I wouldn't like to say it's the greatest I've come across, but for me it's the most surprising.

While I was glad, when I awoke, to have discovered this book, it had come to me during the night that I oughtn't to keep it, but instead to make a present of it to someone who deserved it and would enjoy the language it was written in better than I: Abdellatif, the honest scribe. I had a debt to him that I'd be glad to pay off, without quite knowing how to manage it. I couldn't give him jewellery or some expensive fabric — his principles would have made him refuse them. And a Muslim wouldn't care to accept an illuminated Koran from a Genoese. But what could be better, thought I, than a secular book that made pleasurable reading and that would remind him of my gratitude whenever he dipped into it?

So in the morning I set off for the citadel, my gift under my arm. At first he looked astonished. I even sensed that he was somewhat suspicious, as if he were afraid I might ask for some favour in return that would trouble his conscience. He scrutinised me at such length that I began to regret my impulse. But then he relaxed, embraced me and called me his friend, telling a fellow sitting by the door to bring us some coffee.

When, after some minutes, I rose to leave, he took my arm and led me out. He still seemed quite overcome by my completely unexpected gesture. Before I left him he asked me for the first time where I usually lived, where I was staying in Smyrna, and why I was interested in the fate of Marta's husband. I explained straight out that he'd abandoned her years ago, that she'd had no news of him, and so didn't know whether she was still married to him or not. This made him regret all the more that he'd been able to do nothing to remove her uncertainty.

On my way home I started reconsidering the suggestion Hateb made a few weeks ago — to get Marta a false death certificate for her husband. But if ever I did have to resort to such methods, I thought, I couldn't go to this new and upright friend of mine for help.

Up till now I've tried to explore less hazardous approaches. But how much longer must we wait? How many more scribes and judges and janissaries must I question and bribe utterly in vain? It's not the expense that bothers me: God has provided amply for me. But I'm going to have to return to Gibelet before too long, and then I'm going to need some document or other that will give “the widow” back her liberty. There's no question of her putting herself at the mercy of her in-laws again!

Back “home”, my head still buzzing, and finding everyone waiting for me to arrive before they sat down to dinner, I was tempted for a moment to ask each of them if he or she thought the time had come for us to go back to Gibelet. But looking around at them, I decided to remain silent. Maïmoun sat on my right, Marta on my left. If I suggested going home to her, it would be as if I were deserting her, or worse — handing her over defenceless to her persecutors. And how could I say to him, who was now living under my roof, that the time had come for me to leave Smyrna? It would be as if I was tired of being his host and wanted to turn him out.

I was just thinking that I was right to say nothing, and that if I'd spoken unthinkingly I'd have regretted it to my dying day, when Boumeh turned to me and said suddenly:

“It's London we ought to go to — that's where the book we're looking for is.”

I was startled. First, because my nephew had looked at me as if he'd heard, and was answering, the question I'd bitten back. It was only a feeling, I know — a false and far-fetched impression. There was no way that crazy youth could have divined my thoughts! But there was a mixture of assurance and irony in his voice and expression that made me uneasy. There was also a second reason for my surprise: I'd made all the others promise to say nothing to Boumeh about the finding of the statuette and the fact that Wheeler might have the book by Mazandarani. Who could have told the secret? Habib, of course. I looked at him, and he looked straight back at me, impudently, defiantly. I should have been prepared for it. After what happened the day after Christmas, when I boxed his ears and dismissed the maid, I ought to have expected him to seek revenge!

Turning to Boumeh, I told him angrily that I had no intention of following his advice again, and that when I left Smyrna it would be to go back home to Gibelet and nowhere else. “Not to London, nor Venice, nor Peru, nor China, nor to the land of the Bulgars!” I thundered.

No one around the table risked contradicting me. Everyone, Habib included, sat with their eyes meekly cast down. But it would have been a mistake to conclude that the discussion was closed. Now he knows where the book is, Boumeh will go on harassing me as only he knows how.

7 January

It has been raining all day — tiny cold drops that sting like pin-pricks. I didn't venture outside once, and indoors I stayed close to the fire. I have a pain in my chest, perhaps because of the cold, though it went away when I got a bit warmer. I haven't mentioned it to anyone, not even Marta. No point in worrying her.

Since Tuesday nothing more has been said about going home, nor about where else we might go from here. But Boumeh brought the subject up again this evening. He said that since we came on this long journey to find
The Hundredth Name,
it would not make sense to go back to Gibelet without it and spend the rest of the year of calamities moping and trembling. I almost replied as angrily as the day before yesterday, but this evening the atmosphere was more relaxed, and not suited to laying down the law. So instead I asked everyone else what they thought.

I started with Maïmoun, who at first didn't want to interfere in what was really a family matter. But when I pressed him he politely advised my nephews to trust to my age and judgement. Could a respectful guest do otherwise? But Boumeh retorted: “Sometimes the son in a family behaves more sensibly than the father!” Maïmoun was taken aback for a moment, then burst out laughing. He patted my nephew on the shoulder, as if to show he understood the allusion, appreciated Boumeh's quick-wittedness, and wasn't offended. But he didn't say another word the whole evening.

I took advantage of this exchange to avoid another argument with Boumeh about England. The more so as the pain in my chest had come back, and I didn't want to lose my temper. Marta didn't express an opinion either. But when Habib told his brother, “If there's anything to be found, I somehow have a feeling it's here in Smyrna that we'll find it — we just need to be patient!”, she smiled her approval and commented, “God preserve you — you've said all that needed to be said!”

As for me, I grow more suspicious every day, and it seemed to me that Habib's attitude, as usual, was dictated by sentimental considerations. He was out all day today, and yesterday. He's stopped sulking. He must be hanging around some girl.

8 January

What I found out today will change the whole course of my life. Some people say that your life only changes course in order to take the path it was always fated for. No doubt…

I haven't said anything to anyone yet, and especially not to Marta, the person mainly concerned. I'll tell her about it in due course, naturally, but first I want to think it over on my own, and decide what ought to be done without being influenced.

When I was getting up this afternoon after my siesta, Hatem came and told me a young boy wanted to see me. He brought me a note from Abdellatif the scribe, asking if I could honour him with a visit: his son would show me the way to his house.

He lives not far from the Citadel, in a house less modest than I would have expected, but which I gather he shares with three of his brothers and their families. The place is full of children fighting, barefoot women running after them, and men shouting orders.

Once the courtesies were over, Abdellatif took me to a quieter room on the first floor, and invited me to sit on the floor beside him.

“I think I know where the man you're looking for is,” he said.

One of his nieces brought us cool drinks. He paused, and didn't go on until she'd left, shutting the door behind her.

He told me Sayyaf had indeed been arrested in Smyrna, for theft, five or six years ago, but was only in prison for a year. After that he went to live on the island of Chios in the Cyclades, where he's supposed to have managed to prosper, by some dubious means.

“If he hasn't been bothered by the police, it's because someone's protecting him. The local people are even said to be afraid of him.”

My friend was silent for a few moments, as if pausing for breath.

“I hesitated for a while before sending for you. I'm not supposed to give such information to a Genoese merchant. But I couldn't let a good man go on wasting more of his time and money looking for a scoundrel.”

I told him how grateful I was in all the Arabic and Turkish phrases I could think of, embraced him, and kissed his beard as if we were brothers. Then I bade him farewell without giving any sign of the disarray I was in because of his revelations. So what am I to do now? And what ought Marta to do? She embarked on this journey with the sole object of obtaining proof that her husband was dead. And now we find out that the opposite is the case. The fellow's still alive, and she's no longer a widow. Can we go on living under the same roof? Can we ever go back to Gibelet together? My head's in a whirl.

I came back from Abdellatif's about two hours ago, and pretended to the others, who were anxiously awaiting me, that he just wanted to show me a gold ewer that was in his family. Marta didn't look convinced by this explanation, but I don't yet feel ready to tell her the truth. I'll do so tomorrow, probably, or the day after tomorrow at the latest. Because she's sure to ask my opinion about what she should do, and at present I feel incapable of advising her. If she was tempted to go to Chios, ought I to dissuade her? And if she insisted on going there, ought I to go with her?

I wish Maïmoun had been here this evening: I'd have asked him for his advice, as I did in Tarsus and on many other occasions. But he promised to spend the Sabbath with the rabbi from Constantinople, and won't be back till late Saturday, or Sunday.

Hatem too is a sensible fellow and gives sound advice. I can see him pottering about on the other side of the room, waiting for me to finish writing so that he can speak to me. But he's my clerk and I'm his master, and I don't want him to see how undecided and distraught I am.

9 January

In the end I told Marta sooner than I'd meant to.

We'd gone to bed yesterday evening and I'd taken her in my arms. But when she snuggled up close to me from head to toe, I suddenly felt as if I was taking advantage of her. So I sat up, leaned back against the wall, got her to sit up too, and clasped her hands in mine.

“I found out something today, when I went to see the scribe, and I was waiting until we were alone to tell you about it.”

I tried to speak as neutrally as possible, in tones associated neither with good news nor condolences. It would have been unseemly to sound regretful when announcing that a man was not dead. A man whom she'd learned to hate, but who nonetheless was still her husband, who'd once been the love of her life, and who'd held her in his arms long before I did.

Marta showed neither surprise nor delight, neither disappointment nor confusion; nothing. She just sat absolutely still, like a pillar of salt. Silent. Scarcely breathing. Her hands were still in mine, but only because she'd forgotten them.

I too was motionless and speechless. Looking at her. Until she said, without emerging from her lethargy:

“What could I say to him?”

Instead of answering what was not a real question, I advised her to leave it for a night before taking any decision. She seemed not to hear, turned her back on me, and said no more until the morning.

When I woke up she was no longer in the bed. I was worried for a moment, but as soon as I went out of the bedroom I saw she was in the drawing-room, polishing the door handles and dusting the shelves. Some people haven't the strength to stand up when they're anxious; others have to keep busy and rush about until they drop. I'd thought last night that Marta must be one of the first group. Evidently I was wrong, and her torpor had been merely temporary.

Has she already made up her mind? I still don't know as I write this. I didn't ask her, for fear she might feel committed by what she'd said during the night. It seems to me that if she'd really decided to go she'd have started packing her things. She must still be hesitating.