Balthasar's Odyssey (38 page)

Once more I contradicted him. But he may be right. Except that I wasn't so much looking round as looking up to Heaven, where my ancestors are supposed to be, God rest their souls.

I translated our exchange to “His Highness”, but I don't know if he understood. I suppose he must have done. Hasn't Persia got places of its own like Genoa and Venice, Florence and Siena, all full of schismatics and fanatics, as well as kingdoms and peoples squabbling all the time like our Englishmen and Spaniards and Portuguese?

The
Sanctus Dionisius
didn't sail till nightfall. If we'd known we could have spent last night between the comfortable sheets that Magalhaes offered us. What a lot of good that would have done us! But instead of speaking of regrets as I leave Tangiers, I should be thanking God for the unexpected meeting that made my stay there so significant. I only hope we gave our host as much pleasure as he gave us, and that our visit did something to lighten his melancholy. When the Portuguese owned Tangiers he was a highly respected citizen, but since the English took possession, he feels he's gone down in the world. But what could he do? he asked. At over sixty years old, he can't leave his house and land and go and start a new life somewhere else. And after all, the English are allies, not enemies — their queen is Catherine of Braganza.

“So I've become an exile without ever leaving my country.”

That's something a Genoese living abroad can understand, isn't it? God bless you, Sebastiao Magalhaes, and give you patience!

26 May

Perhaps after all there's some method in the captain's madness.

According to Girolamo, the reason why Centurione chose to avoid the ports on the Spanish coast and stop in Tangiers is that he's taking an important cargo to England and is afraid it might be seized. That's why he's making for Lisbon now instead of Cadiz or Seville.

I still haven't told Durrazzi — or anyone else — about the flying demons episode, but I suppose the captain could be pretending to be crazy in order to explain his erratic route.

I can't quite believe that, but I do hope it's true. I'd rather the ship was commanded by a schemer than by a raving lunatic.

Prince Ali invited Girolamo and me to eat with him today. I expected Father Angel to be there too, but our host explained that his intermediary had vowed to fast all day and devote himself to silent meditation. In my opinion he wants to avoid having to translate anything irreligious. So it fell to me to convert Italian into Arabic and vice versa. Of course I know both languages and have no trouble switching from one to the other, but I'd never before had to translate every word of a conversation lasting through a whole meal, and I found it exhausting. I couldn't enjoy either the cooking or the conversation.

On top of the effort of translating I had, like Father Angel, to cope with the embarrassment that Durrazzi does his best to cause.

He's the sort of person who must say whatever comes into his head. So he couldn't help bringing up the subject of the King of France's plans for making war on the Sultan, and the Sophy's alleged undertaking to take the Ottomans from the rear. He wanted our host to tell him if such an alliance really had been concluded. I tried to stop him from asking such a delicate question, but he insisted almost rudely on my translating it word for word. Out of politeness or weakness I did so and, as I expected, the prince curtly declined to answer. Worse still, he said he suddenly felt tired, so we were obliged to get up from the table too.

I feel humiliated, and as if I'd lost two friends with one stone.

This evening I wonder if my father wasn't right after all to hate the Venetians. He used to say they were arrogant and deceitful, adding — especially when he had other Italian guests — that it was when they wore their masks that they dissembled least!

27 May

When I opened my eyes this morning, one of Prince Ali's “wild beasts” was standing over me. I must have gasped with fright, but he didn't move. Just waited for me to sit up and rub my eyes, and then handed me a note from his master, asking me to go and have coffee with him.

I hoped he'd talk about
The Hundredth Name
again, but soon realised he only wanted to do away with the impression I might have been given yesterday when he practically threw us out.

By inviting me on my own, without Girolamo, he wanted to show he differentiated between us.

I shan't try to bring them together any more.

1 June

I've just remembered Sabbataï's prediction that the age of Resurrection would begin in the month of June, which starts this morning. But which day? I don't know. It was Brother Egidio who told me about the prophecy and I don't think he specified the date.

I've just re-read the page in question, dated the 10th of April, and I see I didn't mention the prediction. But I remember hearing about it. Perhaps it was on another day, though.

Now I remember that it was in Smyrna, soon after I got there. Yes, that was it, I'm sure. Even if I haven't got that notebook any more and can't check.

Durrazzi hasn't heard anything about the end of the world starting in June. He laughs at that idea, just as he does as the Muscovite fanatics and their 1st of September.

“For me the end of the world will be if I fall into the sea,” he says irreverently.

Again I wonder if it's wisdom or blindness.

Lisbon, 3 June

After a week at sea the
Sanctus Dionisius
dropped anchor at noon today in Lisbon harbour. And hardly had we arrived than I had to deal with a serious disappointment that nearly turned into a disaster. I hadn't done anything wrong — I was merely unaware of something that other people knew. But ignorance is no excuse.

Just before we were due to go ashore, while I was thinking that the first thing I must do was deliver to Master Cristoforo Gabbiano the letter Gregorio asked me to bring him, Esfahani sent me a note in his beautiful writing asking me to go and see him in his apartments. He was angry with Father Angel, accusing him of being disrespectful, narrow-minded and ungrateful. Not long afterwards, I saw the priest coming out of his own quarters, carrying his belongings and looking equally cross. The two men had quarrelled because the prince wanted to go and see a Portuguese Jesuit, Father Vieira, whom Esfahani had told me about in the course of the voyage: he's said to have made certain prophecies about the end of the world, and others foretelling the imminent collapse of the Ottoman Empire. Ever since hearing of this priest a few months ago, the prince had vowed to meet him and ask him for more details about his predictions if ever he himself was in Lisbon. But when he asked Father Angel to go with him as his interpreter, he refused, saying that the Jesuit was a blasphemous heretic who'd committed the sin of pride when he claimed to know the future. He, Father Angel, did not wish to meet him. He wouldn't change his mind, and the prince hoped I might replace him. I saw no reason why not. On the contrary, I was as interested as the prince in what the Jesuit might say, both about the end of the world and about the fate of the empire where I live. So I agreed, and took advantage of Esfahani's delight to make him promise not to be too hard on Father Angel, who had to obey the laws of his religion and keep his vows. His attitude should be seen as proof of fidelity rather than as treachery.

As soon as we were ashore, the prince, his “wild animals” and I made our way to a large church near the harbour. Outside it, I asked a young seminarist if by any chance he knew Father Vieira and could tell me where he lived. His face fell slightly, but he asked me to go with him to the presbytery. I did so, leaving the prince and his men waiting outside.

Once in the house, the seminarist asked me to sit down while he went to find a superior who might be able to give me more information. After a few minutes he came back and told me “the vicar” was on his way. I waited and waited, and then I started getting impatient, the more so as the prince was still there outside. At one point I got up and opened the door through which the young man had left the room. And there he was, spying on me through the crack, and when he saw me he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Perhaps I've come at an inconvenient moment,” I said politely. “I can come back tomorrow if you wish. Our ship has just got in, and we'll be in Lisbon until Sunday.”

“Are you friends of Father Vieira's?”

“No — we haven't met him yet, but we've heard of his writings.”

“Have you read them?”

“Not yet, unfortunately.”

“Do you know where he's living at the moment?”

I was starting to get annoyed, and to think I must be saddled with a simpleton.

“If I knew that I wouldn't have come and asked you!”

“He's in prison, on the orders of the Holy Office!”

He started telling me why the Jesuit had been incarcerated by the Inquisition, but I said I was in a hurry and left as fast as I could, collecting the prince and his men and telling them to walk fast and not look back. I couldn't say exactly what I was afraid of. I knew I'd done nothing wrong, but I still didn't want, on the very day I arrived here, to be hauled before some vicar or bishop or judge, or any other representative of authority. Especially not the Holy Office!

Back on board, I told Durrazzi what had happened to us, and he said he knew all along that Vieira had been tried by the Inquisition and had been in prison since last year.

“You should have told me you wanted to meet him. I'd have warned you. If you talked as freely to me as I do to you, you'd have spared yourself the disappointment!”

No doubt he's right. But I'd probably have let myself in for other troubles.

Anyhow — to look on the brighter side of things for a moment — I found out this evening about where to eat in Lisbon, so that, after being unable to do so properly in Tangiers, I can invite my friends to dinner tomorrow evening. I've been told of a very good tavern where they cook fish dishes with spices from all corners of the globe. I had decided not to bring the Persian and the Venetian together again, but now the prince can tell the difference between Girolamo and me, and I shouldn't take any notice of my own whims and fancies. There aren't so many of us on board who are capable of carrying on a gentlemanly conversation!

At sea, 4 June 1666

This morning early I went to see Master Gabbiano. The visit should have been short, polite and perfectly ordinary. But in fact it has changed the whole course of my journey, and that of my fellow-travellers too.

I located him without any difficulty: his offices are quite near the harbour. His father was Milanese and his mother Portuguese, and he has lived in Lisbon for thirty years. As well as running his own business, he represents the interests of a number of other merchants from various different countries. Gregorio had conveyed the impression that Gabbiano was his agent, almost his clerk; but perhaps I misunderstood him. The man himself seems like a prosperous shipowner, and his offices occupy the whole of a four-storey building and employ about sixty people. Despite the earliness of the hour the heat was stifling, and Gabbiano was being fanned by a mulatto woman standing behind him. This apparently wasn't enough, for every so often he fanned himself with one of the sheets of paper he was reading.

Although he was already trying to deal with five other visitors, all talking at once, he seemed impressed when he heard my and Mangiavacca's names. He took the letter immediately, broke the seal, and read it in silence, frowning. Then he called his secretary, whispered something in his ear, and apologised to me for having to spend a moment dealing with the other people. The secretary returned after a few minutes, bringing with him about 2,000 florins.

I looked surprised. Gabbiano showed me the letter. Apart from the usual salutations, Gregorio just asked him to hand over the sum in question to me personally. I would pay him back in Genoa.

What was my would-be “father-in-law” up to? Was he trying to force me to go and see him again on my way back from London? I expect so. Just like him!

I tried to tell Gabbiano that I hesitated to carry so much money about with me, especially as I had no intention of passing through Genoa again. But he wouldn't listen. He owed Gregorio that amount, and since Gregorio was now asking for it back he couldn't do otherwise than send it. Anyhow, it was entirely up to me whether I went back to Genoa or had the money conveyed to Gregorio by some other means.

“But I haven't got a safe place to keep it in on the ship —”

He remained perfectly polite, but his smile betrayed a certain impatience as he indicated his petitioners, now growing rather insistent. He couldn't take on my problems as well as his own!

I stowed the heavy purse away in my canvas bag and stood up. As I did so I said, as if to myself, in a voice at once worried and resigned:

“To think I'll have to try to get it safely all the way to London!”

This last shaft, shot blindly, found its mark.

“London, did you say?” he cried. “You mustn't dream of such a thing! I've just heard on the best possible authority that several ships bound for England have been stopped by the Dutch. And there's a big naval battle taking place on your route. It would be sheer madness to sail now.”

“The captain intends to leave the day after tomorrow. Sunday.”

“That's much too soon! Tell him from me he shouldn't go. He'd be putting his ship in danger. Better still, tell him to come and see me this afternoon without fail, and I'll explain the situation to him. Who is he?”

“I think his name's Centurione. Captain Centurione.”

Gabbiano pursed his lips to show he didn't know him. I almost took him aside to tell him about the captain's strange behaviour, but decided against it. The other people were glaring at me and getting restive. It was too delicate a matter to explain in a hurry. And anyhow, if Gabbiano spoke to Centurione face to face he'd see the situation for himself.