Balthasar's Odyssey (40 page)

One question was on the tip of my tongue: when they unloaded the cargo, had they searched the passengers' cabins too? I tried for some time to think of a way of asking that would satisfy my curiosity without arousing suspicion, but in the end I gave up. In the situation I was in, it was dangerous to be too impatient.

How often, in those long days of anxiety and inaction, I thought of Maïmoun, of all he'd told me about Amsterdam, and of all I used to say about it myself. The faraway city had become for us a kind of shared dream, a distant hope. We sometimes talked of going and living there together for a while. And it may even be that Maïmoun is here now, as he planned. As for me, I regret ever having set foot in the place. I regret having come to the country of free men as a prisoner, and having spent so many days and nights in Amsterdam without seeing anything but the wrong side of its walls.

Two weeks went by before they let us back on the
Sanctus Dionisius.
But we weren't allowed to set sail. We might be aboard our ship, but we were still not free, and there were soldiers on patrol all the time.

In order to keep a better watch on us, they confined us all to one part of the ship. My cabin was in the other part, and to avoid giving away my secret I made a point of not going there.

Even when the ship was under way at last, I still waited a while before going back to my former quarters: a squad of Dutchmen stayed on board until we left the Zuider Zee behind and emerged into the North Sea.

Not until today was I able to check that my treasure was still intact in its hiding-place. I've left it there, taking only my notebook and writing materials.

15 August

All the sailors on board are getting tipsy, and I myself have drunk a little.

Strangely enough I didn't get sea-sick this time after we'd left the harbour. And in spite of all my potations, I can walk about the deck quite steadily.

Maurizio, who's just as drunk as his elders, told me that when our ship was seized the captain said that only a third of our cargo was bound for London and the other two-thirds were going to a merchant in Amsterdam. Once ashore, he sent for this man, whom he knew very well, but as the friend was out of town he had to wait for his return. Then things moved fast. The merchant sized up the situation, saw his advantage, confirmed what Centurione had said, and took delivery of the goods. The Dutch authorities confiscated the other third of the cargo, then released the ship and the people on it.

Well, our captain seems sharp enough, though I still maintain he's crazy! Unless he's two different people alternately.

17 August

According to Maurizio, our captain has fooled the Dutch again. He made them think he was going back to Genoa, whereas in fact he's heading straight for London!

19 August

We're sailing up the Thames estuary, and I haven't any companions left on board — I mean anyone with whom I can have a proper conversation. Given that there's nothing else to do, I should get down to some writing. But my mind's a blank, and my hand is reluctant.

London. I never dreamed I'd see it, yet I'll soon be there.

Monday, 23 August 1666

We reached the landing-stage of the port of London at first light today. The English are so wary after their recent confrontations with the Dutch that we were intercepted three times as we came up the estuary.

As soon as we arrived, I left my meagre belongings at an inn by the river near the docks, and went in search of Cornelius Wheeler. I knew from what Pastor Coenen had said that his shop was near St Paul's Cathedral, and found my way to it by making inquiries of some other merchants.

Having asked to see Master Wheeler, I was shown upstairs by a young clerk and greeted by a very old man with a thin, sad countenance, who turned out to be Cornelius's father. His son was in Bristol, he told me, and wouldn't be back for two or three weeks. But if I needed a book or any information in the meantime, the old gentleman would be happy to help me.

I'd already introduced myself, but as my name didn't seem to mean anything to him, I explained that I was the Genoese friend to whom Cornelius had lent his house in Smyrna.

“I hope nothing went wrong?” said the old man anxiously.

No, he needn't worry, the house was quite all right. I hadn't come to London on that account, but to attend to business of my own. I chatted to him about it for a while, telling him of the books that sell well in my part of the world and those that are no longer in demand. He was bound to be interested since we're both in the same trade.

At one point I mentioned
The Hundredth Name,
hinting that I knew Cornelius had brought it back from Smyrna. The old man didn't actually start, but I caught a gleam of curiosity, perhaps not unmingled with mistrust, in his eye.

“Unfortunately I don't read Arabic. I can tell you exactly what we have on our shelves in Italian, French, Latin and Greek, but for Arabic and Turkish you'll have to wait for Cornelius.”

I told him in detail what the book looked like — its dimensions, the concentric gold patterns on the green leather binding. Then the young clerk, who was hanging about listening to us, chipped in.

“Isn't that the book the chaplain came for?”

The old man looked daggers at him, but the damage was done and it was too late to try to cover it up.

“Yes, it must be. We sold it a few days ago. But look around — I'm sure you'll find something that interests you.

He asked the lad to bring various volumes, but I didn't even try to register their names. I didn't intend to let myself be thrown off the scent.

“I've come a long way to get that book,” I said, “and I'd be grateful if you'd tell me where I can find that chaplain so that I can try to buy it from him.”

“Excuse me — I'm not supposed to tell you who buys what, and especially not to reveal a customer's address.”

“But if your son trusts me enough to lend me his house and everything in it —”

I didn't have to go on.

“Very well,” said the old gentleman. “Jonas will take you there.”

On the way, no doubt misled by having heard me attempt a few words in English, the lad bestowed on me a flood of all but incomprehensible confidences. I just nodded from time to time as I observed the crush in the narrow streets. I did manage to make out that the man we were going to see had once been a chaplain in Cromwell's army. Jonas couldn't tell me his real name, and seemed not even to understand my question. He'd never heard him called anything but “chaplain”.

As the man who'd bought the book was a churchman, I thought we must be on the way to the nearby cathedral, or some church or presbytery. What was my surprise, then, when we stopped at a dubious, ramshackle place defined by a sign outside as an ale-house. Inside, we felt the glazed stare of a dozen pairs of eyes. The room was dark as twilight, though it wasn't yet noon. Conversation had dropped to a murmur, though I could tell I was its subject. They can't often see Genoese finery there. I gave a little nod, and Jonas asked the landlady — a tall plump woman with shiny hair and a half-naked bosom — if the chaplain was there. She merely pointed upwards. We went along a passage to a flight of creaky stairs, at the top of which the lad knocked on a closed door and, without waiting for an answer, opened it, calling out:

“Chaplain!”

He didn't look at all like a cleric to me. Well, perhaps I exaggerate. He did have a kind of natural solemnity. He was tall, too, and had a bushy beard, though this made him look more like an Orthodox priest than an English clergyman. Wearing a mitre and a chasuble and holding a crozier, he might have resembled a bishop addressing his congregation. As it was, he radiated neither piety, nor odour of sanctity, nor any kind of temperance. On the contrary, he struck me straight away as a heathen roisterer. There were three mugs of beer on the low table in front of him, two of them empty and one two-thirds full. He'd probably just taken a swig: there was some white froth on his moustache.

He smiled broadly and asked us to sit down. But Jonas said he had to go back to his master. I gave him a coin, and the chaplain asked him to order us a couple of pints as he went out. The landlady, very eager and respectful, soon brought them up to us, and the man of God thanked her with a slap on the behind — not a discreet tap, but a hearty, obvious one that seemed intended to shock me. I didn't try to hide the fact that I was embarrassed — I think they'd both have been very annoyed otherwise.

Before the landlady appeared, I'd introduced myself to the chaplain and told him I'd just arrived in London. I made a painful attempt to speak English, but to spare me further suffering my host answered me in Latin — a scholarly Latin that sounded very strange in those surroundings. I imagine he was trying to paraphrase Virgil or some other classical poet when he said:

“So, you have left a land watered by Grace to come to this country harrowed by Malediction!”

“What little I've seen of England so far hasn't given me that impression,” I replied. “On the contrary, I've noticed that the people here have a very liberal attitude and are strikingly cheerful.”

“That's what I said — a cursed place! You have to shut yourself away and drink all day if you want to feel free. If a jealous neighbour accuses you of blasphemy, you're publicly flogged. And if you look too healthy for your age you're suspected of witchcraft. I'd rather be taken prisoner by the Turks.”

“That only shows you've never seen the inside of the Sultan's jails!”

“Perhaps,” he admitted.

But the atmosphere relaxed after the landlady had come and gone, and despite my earlier moment of discomfiture, I felt sufficiently at ease to tell my host straight out why I'd come to see him. As soon as I mentioned
The Hundredth Name,
his face lit up and his lips twitched. Thinking he was going to tell me something about the book, I paused, my heart thumping. But he merely smiled more broadly and waved his wooden mug to encourage me to go on. So I went on, and told him exactly why I was interested. This was a risky thing to do. If the book really did contain the saving name, how could I ask him, a priest, to sell it to me, and for how much? A better bargainer would have spoken of the book and its contents in more moderate terms, but I felt instinctively that it would be wrong to try to outsmart him. I was seeking the book of salvation; how could I, under the eye of God, obtain it by deceit? Gould I ever outwit Providence?

So I made myself tell the chaplain quite plainly how much the text in question is worth. I told him all that the booksellers say about it, about the doubts entertained as to its authenticity, and the various speculations rife about its alleged virtues.

“And you?” he said. “What do you think about it?”

He always wore the same unvarying smile. I couldn't make it out, and was starting to find it annoying. But I tried not to let on.

“I've never quite decided. One day I think it's the most valuable thing in the world, and the next I'm ashamed of having been so gullible and superstitious.”

His smile had vanished. He raised his mug towards me like a censer, then emptied it in a single draught. This, said he, was as a tribute to my sincerity, which he had never expected.

“I thought you would tell me some typical merchant's tale and say you were trying to find the book for a collector, or that your father had told you about it on his deathbed. I don't know if you were being honest by nature or out of supreme cunning — I don't know you well enough to say — but I like your attitude.”

He paused, picked up his empty mug, put it down on the table again, then burst out:

“Open the curtain behind you! The book's there!”

I sat there for a moment, stunned, wondering if I'd understood aright. I'd got so used to traps, disappointments and unpleasant surprises that to be told quite simply that the book was there behind me took my breath away. I even wondered whether it mightn't be due to the beer I'd swallowed so thirstily.

Anyhow, I stood up and ceremoniously drew aside the dark and dusty curtain my host had indicated. The book was there.
The Hundredth Name.
I'd have expected to find it in some sort of casket with a candle on either side, or open on a lectern. But no, it was just lying on a shelf with a few other books, together with some pens, a couple of ink-wells, a stack of blank paper, a packet of pins, and a jumble of other odds and ends. I picked it up very gingerly and opened it at the title page, doing all I could to make sure it was the book which old Idriss had given me last year and which I'd thought lost for ever in the depths of the sea.

Was I surprised? Of course I was surprised. And understandably shaken. It was like a miracle! On my very first day in London, when I've scarcely got used to being on dry land, the book I've been trying to track down for a year has fallen into my hands! My host waited for me to recover, to drift slowly back to my chair clasping the book to my beating heart. Then he said — it wasn't a question:

“That's the one you were looking for ...”

I said it was. To tell the truth, the room was so dark I could scarcely see. But I'd glimpsed the title, and before that I'd recognised the title on the cover. I hadn't any doubt whatsoever.

“I suppose you can read Arabic perfectly.”

Yes, I said again.

“In that case I'd like to propose a bargain.”

I looked up, still clutching my new-found treasure. The chaplain looked extremely thoughtful: his head seemed more imposing than ever, and more massive, even without his greying beard and hair.

“Yes, a bargain,” he repeated, as if to gain a little more time for reflection. “You want to own this book, and I just want to understand what's in it. Read it to me from end to end, and then you can have it.”

Again, without a shadow of hesitation, I agreed.