Balthasar's Odyssey (32 page)

This restored the confidence of the waverers. They forgot what they were seeing and clung on to what they were hoping, which seemed all the more foolish because the Grand Vizier intended to deal with this grave business himself. He'd been told what was being said among Sabbataï's disciples — that he'd come to Constantinople to have himself proclaimed king, and that the Sultan was going to prostrate himself before him. He'd also been told that the Jews had stopped working, the money-changers were treating every day as the Sabbath, and that all this was doing great harm to trade in the Empire. No one doubted that in the absence of the Sultan himself, who was in Adrianople, the Grand Vizier was going to take extremely harsh measures: the head of the so-called Messiah would be detached from his body without delay and exposed on a tall column, so that no one would ever dare to challenge the Ottoman dynasty again, and business could go on as usual.

But what had happened in Smyrna — I had witnessed it myself — now happened again in Constantinople. Sabbataï, brought before the most powerful person in the Empire after the Sultan himself, was not met with blows or remonstrances or threats of punishment. Make what you can of it, the Grand Vizier greeted him warmly, told the guards to loosen his bonds, offered him a seat, and conversed with him at length on various subjects. Some people swore they saw them laugh together, and heard them address one another as “my honoured friend”.

When the time came for sentence to be pronounced, it was neither death nor flogging, but a punishment so light it seemed almost a tribute: Sabbataï is currently held in a citadel where he's allowed to receive visits from his followers from morning till night, to pray and chant with them, preach sermons and give advice, and all without any let or hindrance from the guards. More incredible still, said Brother Egidio, the false Messiah sometimes asks the soldiers to take him to the seashore to perform his ritual ablutions, and they obey as if they were under his orders, take him wherever he chooses to go, and wait for him to finish before they bring him back. The Grand Vizier is even supposed to make him an allowance of fifty aspres, handed over to him every day in the prison, so that he shan't lack for anything.

What more can I say? Isn't this a great wonder, one that defies common sense? Wouldn't any sensible person be sceptical about such a tale? I myself would certainly have railed against human credulity if I hadn't been present at similar happenings in Smyrna last December. This time it's the Grand Vizier who's involved instead of a provincial judge, but that only makes the whole thing more incredible. But the wonder itself is the same, and I can't doubt it.

This evening, as I write in my bedroom by the light of a candle, I think of Maïmoun and wonder how he'd have reacted if he'd heard this story. Would he have ended up agreeing with his father and, like him, joining those who call themselves “believers” and other Jews “infidels”? No, I don't think so. He sees himself as a man of reason, and for him a wonder cannot take the place of a sound argument. If he'd been with us this evening, I imagine he'd have curled his lip and looked away, as I've often seen him do when the conversation made him uncomfortable.

I hope with all my being that he's right and I'm wrong! If only all these prodigies could turn out to be false! all these signs misleading! this year a year like any other and neither the end of past time nor the beginning of an unknown future! May Heaven not confound men of good sense, but grant that intelligence triumph over superstition!

I sometimes wonder what the Creator thinks of what men say. How I'd love to know whose side He in His benevolence would take! That of the people who predict that the world will come to a sudden end, or that of those who think it still has a long road to travel? Is He with those who rely on reason, or those who despise and demean it?

Before I shut this notebook for the night I ought to record under today's date that I've given Brother Egidio my two letters. He's soon leaving for the East, and he's promised to deliver them, if not in person then at least through another churchman.

11 April

Could Gregorio, my host and benefactor, be thinking of marrying me to his daughter?

She's the oldest of the three girls; her name's Giacominetta and she's thirteen. This evening, as we were walking in his garden, he spoke to me about her, saying she was very beautiful, and her soul was still even purer than her skin. Then he suddenly added that if I wanted to ask for her hand I'd do well not to wait too long, as such requests would soon be pouring in. He laughed heartily as he spoke, but I can tell the difference between what's a real laugh and what isn't. I'm sure he must have thought it over for a long while, and like any clever dealer he's already got a plan in mind. I'm not the young handsome match girls dream about, and my fortune is nothing in comparison with his. But I'm an Embriaco, and I'm sure he'd be very happy for his daughter to marry into that name. I suppose that for him it would be the culmination of a lifetime's effort to rise in society.

For me too such a marriage could only be attractive — if it weren't for Marta and the child she's carrying!

So do I forbid myself to marry out of fidelity to a woman from whom life has already parted me, and who is still the wife of another before God and man?

Put like that, my attitude is unreasonable, I know. But I also know that this is what my heart tells me, and it would be unreasonable to go against that.

12 April

All day Gregorio was unusually gloomy, depressed and taciturn. So much so that I was afraid I'd annoyed him by the lack of enthusiasm with which I'd reacted when he spoke to me yesterday evening about his daughter. But it wasn't that at all. What was worrying him were rumours originating in Marseilles that a huge battle was imminent between the French and Dutch fleets on the one hand and the British navy on the other.

I'd learned when I got to Genoa that in January the King of France had declared war on England, but it was said he'd done so reluctantly, in obedience to a treaty, and no one here seemed to think it would really come to a confrontation. But now the auguries are different, and there's talk of a real war and dozens of ships converging on the North Sea with thousands of soldiers on board. No one is more worried about it than Gregorio: he thinks that seven or eight of his ships must be thereabouts — some of them had even left Lisbon and were on the way to Bruges, Antwerp, Amsterdam or London — and that all of them could be stopped for inspection or destroyed. He broached the subject this evening, and I watched as he scribbled down dates and names and figures, as downcast as in other circumstances he might have been exultant.

At one point in the evening he asked me, without looking up:

“Do you think God is punishing me for not keeping Lent?”

“Do you mean to say the King of France might have sent his fleet against England because Signor Gregorio Mangiavacca hasn't mortified the flesh for Lent? I should think the greatest historians of the future will ponder over that crucial question.”

He was taken aback for a moment, then burst out laughing.

“You Embriaci have never been very religious, yet Heaven hasn't abandoned you!”

My host was more cheerful now, but not reassured. If he were really to lose his ships and their cargoes it would mean his lucky star had deserted him.

13 April

Rumour is mixed up with news, tidings of war with reports about the expected apocalypse. Genoa goes about its business glumly, halfheartedly, as in a time of plague. Spring is at the gates of the city, waiting for Lent to be over. Flowers are still few and far between, the nights are clammy, laughter is stifled. Am I seeing my own anxiety reflected back at me in the mirror of the world? Or is it the other way round?

Gregorio has spoken to me again about his daughter. To say that, for him, whoever marries her will be a son rather than a son-in-law. The son that Heaven never granted him. Even if he had had a son, muscle and boldness would have been the only advantages the youth had over his sisters. For subtlety of mind and moral courage, not to mention filial affection and piety, Giacominetta left him no room for regret. All in all, he was quite satisfied with what Providence had decreed, provided that the lack of a son was made up to him when his daughters got married.

I listened in a friendly manner, filling each pause with conventional good wishes, not saying anything that might commit me in any way, but not betraying any reluctance or embarrassment either. While he didn't press me further about my intentions, I've no doubt he'll revert to the subject.

Should I consider running away?

I know that sounds disagreeable and ungrateful. Gregorio is my benefactor. I was in dire straits when he came into my life, and he transformed everything by turning humiliation into honour and exile into homecoming. If I believe at all in signs sent by Providence, Gregorio must be one of them. Heaven sent him my way not only to snatch me out of the clutches of the world but also to save me from my own vagaries. Yes, that's what he did, and that's what I'm blaming him for. He wants to lead me out of a blind alley, a pointless quest. In short, he offers me a chance to discard the tattered old clothes of my former life and put on a set of fine new ones. A new house, a spotless young wife, a position in my new-found mother country, where I should no longer be a foreigner and an infidel. It's the most sensible and generous proposition a man could hope to have. I ought to rush to the nearest church and give thanks to God. And while I'm kneeling in prayer, whisper to my father, whose soul is never far away, that I'm finally going to marry a girl from Genoa as he always wanted me to. Instead of which I jib, I feel persecuted, I claim I'm embarrassed, I plan to run away. Where to, and to do what? To try to get a criminal to give me his own lawful wife?

But she's the one I love!

May God and Gregorio and my father forgive me, she's the only one I love!

Marta. If only I could lie down beside her now and hold her in my arms, console her, and slowly stroke the belly that's carrying my child.

15 April

My host grows a little more insistent every day, and my stay in his house, which began under such favourable auspices, is beginning to be irksome.

Today's news from the north was bad, and Gregorio was feeling sorry for himself. He'd been told that the English had stopped and inspected ships bound to or from Dutch ports, and that the Dutch and the French were now doing the same to ships that frequented English ports.

“If it's true, I'm going to lose everything,” he said. “I should never have got involved in so many projects all at once. I'll never forgive myself — I was warned about the risks of war, but I wouldn't listen!”

I told him that if he wept over mere rumours he wouldn't have enough tears left when genuine bad news arrived. That was my way of cheering him up, and it elicited a brief smile and a word of affectionate admiration for the Embriaci's composure.

But he soon went back to his lamentations.

“If I was ruined, completely ruined,” he said, “would you withdraw your request for Giacominetta's hand?”

Now he was going too far. I don't know whether he was distracted with anxiety or taking advantage of the situation to extract a promise from me. Anyhow, he was talking as if my marrying his daughter was an understood thing, so that if I hesitated it would seem like a withdrawal, and that at the worst possible moment, like a rat leaving a sinking ship. I was outraged. Yes, I was seething inwardly. But what could I do? I'm living under his roof and indebted to him in other ways too, and he's in trouble. How could I do anything that would humiliate him? Moreover, he's not asking a favour — he's making me a present, or so he thinks, and my lack of enthusiasm so far is already almost an insult.

I responded with an attempt to comfort him a little without compromising myself.

“I'm sure that in a few days' time we'll have news that will blow all these clouds away.”

He evidently saw this as an evasion, and saw fit to counter it by sighing through those ginger nostrils and delivering what seemed to me an uncalled-for remark: “I wonder how many friends I'd have left if I really was ruined.”

I retorted with a sigh of my own.

“Do you want me to pray for the opportunity to demonstrate my gratitude?”

He didn't hesitate. “No need for that,” he said apologetically, taking my arm and heading for the garden, where we started to talk like friends again.

But I'm still annoyed, and it's probably time I thought about leaving. But where am I to go? To Smyrna, in case my people are still there? No, Gibelet would be better. Though in Smyrna, with the help of Abdellatif the scribe, I might try to do something for Marta. I think about it from time to time, and get some ideas …

I'm probably deluding myself. Deep down I know it's too late to save her. But isn't it also too soon to give up?

17 April

This morning I made inquiries about ships going to Smyrna. I found one that sails ten days from now, on the Tuesday after Easter. The date suits me. It will allow me to meet Gregorio's wife and children briefly, without getting drawn too far into the family reunion.

I haven't said anything to my host yet. I'll tell him tomorrow or the next day. There's no hurry, but it would be uncouth to leave it till just before my “desertion”.

18 April

Today is Palm Sunday, when people, without admitting it, start celebrating the approaching end of Lent, and my host is slightly more optimistic about the fate of his ships and their cargoes. He hasn't had better news — but he got up in a more cheerful mood this morning.

I seized the opportunity. Before broaching the subject of my departure, I gave him an account of my journey, with details I'd hitherto omitted or dressed up a bit. Of course, what happened to me could be revealed only to someone really close to me. What's more, whenever we were together, Gregorio monopolised the conversation and rarely let me get a word in. I now knew almost all there was to know about him, about his ancestors as well as mine, about his wife and daughters, and about his business. Sometimes his conversation was cheerful, sometimes gloomy, but it rarely stopped: if he asked me a question I'd scarcely begun to answer before he was in full spate again. I made no effort to restore the balance, still less to complain. I've never been very talkative. I've always preferred to listen and reflect, or rather pretend to, for to tell the truth I'm usually daydreaming, not thinking.