Balthasar's Odyssey (47 page)

For the moment, anyway, I shall stop writing about even the recent past, and concentrate on a journey still to come.

I've met Domenico again. He came to see his partner, and as Gregorio was out, it was I who sat with him. We started by going over shared memories — in particular, the January night when, trembling with cold and fear in the sack I'd been shut up in, I was hoisted aboard Domenico's ship, on which I was brought to Genoa.

Genoa. After the humiliation in Chios and instead of the death I expected, Genoa. And after the fire of London, Genoa. It's here I'm reborn every time, as in that game they play in Florence where the losers have to go back to the beginning.

As I was talking to Domenico, I had the feeling that this smuggler captain had a great admiration for me, though I don't think I deserve it. The reason is that I risked my life for the love of a woman, whereas he and his men, though they trifle with death on every voyage, do so only for gain.

He asked me whether I had any news of my beloved, if she was still a prisoner, and if I still hoped to get her back again. I swore to him that I thought of her day and night wherever I was, in Genoa, London or Paris, or at sea, and that I'd never give up trying to get her out of the clutches of her persecutor.

“How do you hope to do it?”

I answered without thinking.

“One day I'll set out with you, you'll drop me exactly where you picked me up before, and I'll manage somehow to get to speak to her.”

“I sail three days from now. If you're still of the same mind, you're welcome to come with me, and I'll do all I can to help you.”

As I started stammering my thanks, he did his best to play down his generosity.

“Oh well, if the Turks ever decide to get hold of me, I'll be impaled one day anyhow, because of all the mastic I've filched from them illegally in the last twenty years. It won't get me either a pardon or a worse punishment, whether I help you or not. They can't impale me twice.”

I was carried away by so much courage and magnanimity. I got up, shook him warmly by the hand, and embraced him like a brother.

We were still hugging one another when Gregorio came in.

“Well, Domenico,” he said, “are you coming or going?”

“It's a reunion!” replied the Calabrian.

They started talking business — florins, bales, cargoes, ships, storms, ports of call. I was so absorbed in my own thoughts that I no longer heard them.

26 October

Today I got drunker than I've ever been before, and all because Gregorio had just received six casks of
vernaccia
from his steward, produced in his own vineyards at Cinqueterre. He wanted to taste the wine straight away, and I was the only drinking companion handy.

When we were both very tipsy, Master Mangiavacca extracted a promise from me. He framed its terms, but I agreed to it with my hand on the Gospels. I undertake to go to Chios with Domenico. If I can't manage to get Marta away from her husband I give up trying to get her back. I then go back to Gibelet to sort out my affairs — to settle what needs to be settled, sell what needs to be sold, and hand my business over to my sister's children. Then, in the spring, I come back to live in Genoa, to marry Giacominetta in great style in Santa Croce, and work with Gregorio, who'll now really be my father-in-law.

So my future seems settled, for the coming months and for the rest of my life. But in addition to my name and that of Gregorio at the bottom of it, the agreement needs the signature of God!

27 October

Gregorio candidly admits that he got me drunk to make me promise; that makes him laugh. What's more, he managed to make me confirm my undertaking when I woke up and was sober.

Sober, but still very confused in my mind and queasy in my stomach.

What a stupid way to behave when I'm due to leave tomorrow!

How can I go aboard like this, as good as sea-sick already? I can hardly stand even on dry land!

Perhaps Gregorio was really trying to stop me going. With him, nothing would surprise me. But he won't get away with it. I shall go. And I shall see Marta again. And get to know my child.

I admit I love Genoa. But I can love it just as well from across the sea, as I've always done, and my ancestors before me.

At sea, Sunday, 31 October 1666

A strong north-east wind blew us off course to Sardinia; we'd been making for Calabria. As this ship, so the ship of my life.

When we berthed, the hull crashed into the quay and we feared the worst. But some divers went down to investigate, lit by the slanting morning sun, and when they surfaced again they told us the
Charybdis
was unscathed. So we're setting off again.

At sea, 9 November

The sea is rough all the time, and I'm constantly ill. Many old sailors are suffering just as much as I am, if that's any consolation.

Every evening, between bouts of sickness, I pray that Nature may be kinder to us, and now Domenico tells me he prays for the opposite. His prayers are clearly heard more sympathetically than mine. And now that he's explained his reasons I'll probably follow his example.

“So long as the sea is rough,” he says, “we're safe. Even if the coastguards saw us, they wouldn't risk trying to come after us. That's why I prefer to go to sea in winter. Then I have only one enemy, the sea — and that's not the one I fear the most. Even if it decided to take my life, that wouldn't be such a misfortune — it would save me from being impaled, which is what I'm in for if I'm ever arrested. But death at sea is just a human fate, like death in battle. Whereas impalement makes a man curse the woman who gave him birth.”

This speech so reconciled me with the swell that I went and leaned on the rail, letting the spray blow in my face and enjoying the taste of salt on my tongue. It's the taste of life, of the beer in London's taverns, and of women's lips.

I breathe deeply, and am steady on my legs.

At sea, 17 November

Several times in recent days I've opened this journal only to shut it again. Partly because I've been suffering from dizziness since I left Genoa, and that saps my energy, and partly because my mind is restless and I can't concentrate.

I've tried to open
The Hundredth Name,
too, thinking it mightn't rebuff me this time, and then I'd be able to make some headway. But every time my eyes went dark straight away, and I've shut it up again, vowing that I shan't try to read it at all unless it opens for me of its own accord!

Since then I've spent my time walking on deck and talking to Domenico and his men, who tell me about their favourite narrow squeaks and teach me, as if I were a lad, about masts and yards and rigging.

I take all my meals with them, laugh at their jokes even if I only half understand them, and when they drink I pretend to drink too. But I only pretend — ever since Gregorio got me drunk on his casks of wine I feel very fragile, and so close to actual nausea I'm sure one sip would tip the balance.

What's more, that
vernaccia
was pure ambrosia, whereas the wine we get on the ship is a kind of syrupy vinegar diluted with sea-water.

At sea, 27 November

We're approaching the coast of Chios like a hunter stalking his prey. The sails are furled, the mast has been lowered quietly, and the sailors keep their voices lower than usual, as if they could be heard from the island.

Unfortunately it's a fine day. A leaden sun hangs in the sky over Asia Minor, and the wind has dropped. Only a trace of cold air from last night reminds us that it will soon be winter. Domenico has decided not to move till tonight.

He has told me how he means to proceed. Two men, Yannis and Demetrios, will row to the island under cover of darkness: they're both Greek, but from Sicily. When they get to the village of Katarraktis, they'll contact their local supplier, who'll have the goods ready for them. If all goes according to plan — with the mastic ready and packed up, the customs men “persuaded” to turn a blind eye — and no traps are suspected, the two scouts will send Domenico a signal: a white cloth spread out on a patch of high ground at noon. Then the ship will get ready to come in close, but only after dark and only briefly. The cargo will be loaded and paid for, and the
Charybdis
will be off before first light. If by some mischance the white cloth didn't appear, the ship would stay where it was, waiting for the Greeks to return. If they weren't in sight by first light, the rest of the crew would sail without them, praying for their lost souls. That's the usual arrangement.

But this time it's to be modified because of me. Domenico's plan is —

No, I mustn't talk about it, I mustn't even think of it until my hopes are fulfilled, and fulfilled without harm to my friends. Until then, I'll just cross my fingers and spit in the sea, like Domenico. And muttering, like him, “By my ancestors!”

28 November

I can't remember any other Sunday when I've prayed so fervently.

Yannis and Demetrios's boat was launched during the night, and all the crew watched it until it vanished into the dark. We could still hear the slap of the oars, and Domenico was worried because everything was so quiet.

A bit later in the night, when I was already in bed, there were dozens of flashes of lightning in succession. They seemed to be coming from the north — and from a long way away, because we didn't hear the sound of the thunder.

Everyone on board has spent all day waiting. In the morning, waiting to spot the white cloth. Since then, waiting for dark so that we can draw in to the coast.

I share in everyone else's suspense, and I also have tensions of my own. My mind is full of them all the time, but I daren't write anything about them.

I do hope that…

29 November

Last night our boat anchored for a while in an inlet near the village of Katarraktis. Domenico has told me it's exactly the same spot as the one where, nearly ten months ago, he took delivery of the sack I was tied up in. Then I could hear all kinds of noises around me but couldn't see anything. Last night I could make out shapes coming and going, bustling about and waving their arms, both on the boat and on the beach. And all the sounds that had been unintelligible to me in January — now I could recognise them. The casting of the gangway; the mastic being set down, checked, loaded; the supplier — a man named Salih, a Turk or perhaps a renegade Greek — coming on board for a drink and to be paid. Perhaps at this point I ought to repeat that Chios is almost the only place in the world that produces mastic, but the authorities make the peasants hand all of it over to them for the Sultan's harems. The state fixes the price to suit itself, and pays when it feels like it. Sometimes the peasants have to wait several years to get what they're owed: which forces them into debt in the interval. Domenico buys their mastic from them at twice, three times or even five times the official price, and hands over the full amount on delivery. According to him, he contributes much more than the Ottoman government to the island's prosperity!

Need I add that for the authorities this devil of a Calabrian is an enemy, to be captured and hanged or impaled? While for the peasants on the island, and everyone else who profits from this trade, Domenico is a godsend, manna from heaven. On nights like last night, they wait for him more eagerly than for Christmas. But they're frightened, too, for if the smuggler or his suppliers were intercepted the entire harvest would be lost and whole families reduced to want.

The whole operation didn't last more that two or three hours at most. And when I saw Salih embrace Domenico and, with the aid of a helping hand, totter down the gangway, I thought we were about to set sail, and couldn't help asking one of the sailors if this was so. He answered laconically that Demetrios wasn't back yet and we would wait for him.

Before long I saw a lamp on the beach and three men approaching in single file. The first was Demetrios. The second was carrying the light, so I could see his face fairly clearly; but I didn't know him. The third was Marta's husband.

Domenico had told me to stay out of sight and not show any sign of my presence until he called me by name. He'd stationed me behind a partition, where I could hear every word of their conversation, which was conducted in a mixture of Italian and Greek.

I should say, by way of introduction to what follows, that it was obvious from the outset that Sayyaf knew perfectly well who Domenico was. And he addressed him with respect if not fear. As a village priest might address a visiting bishop. I suppose that's rather an irreligious comparison. I only meant that there's just as clear a sense of hierarchy in the underworld as in the most venerable institutions. When a village brigand meets the boldest smuggler in the Mediterranean, he takes care not to behave disrespectfully. And the other takes care not to treat him as an equal.

The tone was set straight away, when Marta's husband, after waiting in vain for his host to tell him why he'd been summoned, finally said himself, in what sounded to me a hesitant voice:

“Your man Demetrios told me you had a cargo of cloth, coffee and pepper that you were ready to sell cheap ...”

Silence from Domenico. A sigh. Then, as one tosses a damaged coin to a beggar:

“If he said so it must be true!”

The conversation collapsed again. Sayyaf was obliged to bend down and pick it up.

“Demetrios said I could pay a third today and the rest at Easter.”

Domenico, after a pause:

“If he said so it must be true!”

The other, eagerly: “He mentioned ten bags of coffee and two kegs of pepper. I'll take the lot. But I need to see the cloth before I decide about that.”

Domenico: “It's too dark. You can see everything tomorrow in the daylight!”

The other: “I can't come back tomorrow. And even for you, it would be dangerous to wait.”