Balthasar's Odyssey (5 page)

Habib and Jaber were against any delay, and I think I'd have gone down in their esteem if I'd weakened. Besides, I didn't for a moment feel inclined to give in. I simply weighed the pros and cons, as a sensible man should, before giving a firm refusal. Then the fellow said he was going to come with us in the morning: he wanted to make sure the runaway wasn't waiting for us in some nearby hamlet along the way. My nephews and my clerk were all outraged at this, and my sister even more so, but I made them see reason.

“The road belongs to everyone! If he wants to travel in the same direction as us, we can't stop him,” I said loudly and clearly, so that the fellow should understand that he might follow the same route as us, but he wouldn't be travelling
with
us.

I'm probably overestimating his sensibility, and we certainly can't count on his manners. But there are four of us and he's on his own. His tagging along annoys me rather than worries me. Heaven grant we don't have to deal with any more formidable threats on our journey than this bewhiskered braggart!

The village of Anfé , 24 August 1665

The country round Gibelet is not very safe in the half-light, so we waited till daybreak to pass through the gate of the town. Rasmi was there waiting for us, tugging at the bridle of his mule to make it stay quiet. He seems to have picked a very skittish mount for the journey; I hope it will soon make him tired of trying to keep up with us.

As soon as we reached the coast road, he turned off and rode to the top of a headland, whence he gazed around the landscape, smoothing his moustache.

Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I wondered for the first time what could have become of the unfortunate Marta. And I was suddenly ashamed of myself for, up till now, thinking only of the trouble her disappearance had caused me. It was her fate I ought to have been worrying about. Might she have done something desperate? Perhaps her body would one day be washed up on the beach. The whispering would stop
then.
A few tears would be shed. Then oblivion.

And I — would I mourn the woman who almost became mine? I found her attractive, I wanted her, I used to watch out for her smiles, the way her hips moved when she walked, the way she tossed her hair, the tinkling of her bracelets — I might have loved her dearly, clasped her to me every night. I might have grown fond of her, her voice, her step, her hands. She might have been with me this morning when I left. She, too, might have wept, like my sister Pleasance, and tried to make me give up the journey.

My mind, distracted by the jolting of my mount, wandered further and further afield. I could now see the woman I hadn't really looked at for years. Once again she flashed me the playful glances that were hers in the blessed days when she was still only the barber's daughter. I upbraided myself for not having desired her enough to love her. For having let her marry her misfortune.

Her valiant brother-in-law had ridden up several more of the hills that border the road. He gazed in all directions, and once he even called out: “Marta! Come out! I saw you!” But there was nothing there. His moustache is bigger than his brain!

The four of us rode forward at the same pace, pretending not to notice his gallops, his stopping and starting, or the clapping of his legs against the flanks of his mule. But at noon, when Hatem prepared some food — only local flat bread stuffed with local cheese, seasoned with oil and oregano — I invited the intruder to share our meal. Neither my nephews nor my clerk approved of my generosity and, given the ill-mannered oaf's behaviour, I must say they were right. For he grabbed what we offered him, took it to the other side of the road, and devoured it all alone like a brute beast, with his back to us. Too uncouth to eat with us, but not proud enough to go hungry. What a pathetic wretch!

We are going to spend this first night at Anfé, a village on the coast. A fisherman has offered us food and shelter. When I went to open my purse to give him a token of thanks, he declined, then took me aside and asked me instead to tell him what I knew about the rumours concerning next year. I spoke in as learned a manner as I could to reassure him. They are only empty rumours, I told him — the kind that always circulate when men lose courage. Don't be taken in by them! Does it not say in the Scriptures, “Ye know neither the day nor the hour”?

My host was so comforted by these words that, not content with having offered us hospitality, he took my hand and kissed it. I blushed with shame. If the good fellow only knew the absurd reason for my journey! And there I was pretending to dispense wisdom!

Before going to bed I made myself write these few paragraphs, by the light of a rank-smelling candle. I'm not sure I've selected what's important. It's not going to be easy to distinguish the essential from the trivial every day, the significant from the incidental, the true paths from the blind alleys. But I mean to go forward with my eyes open.

Tripoli, 25 August

We seem to have shaken off our unwelcome fellow-traveller. Only to meet with other troubles.

This morning Rasmi was waiting for us outside the house where we'd spent the night, moustache bristling, ready to go. He must have slept in another house in the village, I suppose — some brigand of his acquaintance. When we set out he followed us for a few minutes, then rode to the top of a headland, as he had done yesterday, to scan the landscape. Then he turned back and went off in the direction of Gibelet. My companions are still wondering if it wasn't a ruse, and if he won't try to surprise us further on. But I don't think so. I don't think we shall see him again.

We reached Tripoli at noon. This must be the twentieth time I've been there, but I never pass through the city gates without emotion. It is here that my ancestors first set foot in the Levant, more than 500 years ago. In those days the Crusaders were besieging the town, unsuccessfully. Ansaldo Embriaco, one of my ancestors, helped them build a citadel designed to overcome the resistance of the beleaguered defenders, and offered the aid of his ships to blockade the harbour. In return he was given the seigniory of Gibelet.

The domain remained in my family for a good 200 years. And even when the last Frankish state in the Levant was destroyed, the Embriaci managed to persuade the victorious Mamelukes to let them hold on to their fief for a few more years. We had been among the first Crusaders to arrive, and we were the last to leave. We didn't quite go even then. Am I not the living proof of that?

When the reprieve was over and we had to abandon our domain of Gibelet to the Muslims, what remained of the family decided to return to Genoa. “Return” is not the right word: they had all been born in the Levant, and most of them had never set foot in the city their forefathers came from. However, once back in Genoa, Bartolomeo, my ancestor at the time, soon fell into a state of depression. For a while, at the time of the first Crusades, the Embriaci had been one of the city's most prominent families, with their own private mansion in their own quarter of the town, their own followers and supporters, a tower named after them, and the biggest fortune in all Genoa; they had now been supplanted by other families: the Dorias, the Spinolas, the Grimaldis and the Fieschis had all become more eminent than they. My ancestor felt degraded, exiled even. He might be a Genoese — he
was
one, in his speech, his dress, his way of life — but he was only a Genoese from the East!

So my people went to sea again, and weighed anchor in various ports — Haifa, Alexandria, Chios — until Ugo, my great-grandfather, had the idea of going back to Gibelet, where in return for services rendered the authorities gave him back a plot of land in what had once been his family fief. We had to abandon our seignorial pretensions and go back to commerce, our original occupation; but the memory of our days of glory survived. According to documents still in my possession, I am the eighteenth descendant in the direct male line of the man who conquered Tripoli.

So when I go to the booksellers' district, how can I fail to feast my eyes on the Citadel, where once fluttered the banner of the Embriaci? When they see me coming, the merchants make fun of me and start to call to one another, “Watch out, the Genoese is here to take the Citadel again — don't let him by!” They come out of their booths and really do stop me, but only to embrace me rowdily and offer me coffee and cordials at every step. They are naturally a hospitable people, but I must say I'm a sympathetic colleague too, and an extremely good customer. If I don't come to them, they send me any items they think might interest me but which are not in their line — that is to say, mostly relics, icons and old books relating to Christianity. They themselves are for the most part Muslims or Jews, and their customers are chiefly their co-religionists, mainly concerned with their own faith.

Today, arriving in the city at noon, I went at once to see Abdessamad, a Muslim friend of mine. He was sitting at the door of his shop, surrounded by his brothers and a few other booksellers from the same street. But when, following the usual elaborate exchange of courtesies, and after I'd introduced my nephews to those who didn't already know them, I was asked what brought me here, I was tongue-tied. Something told me it would be best not to say: it was the voice of reason speaking, and I should have listened to it. Surrounded by these respectable characters, who all had a high opinion of me and regarded me rather as the most senior member of our group, if not because of my age and erudition then at least because of my fame and fortune, I realised it would be unwise to reveal the real reason for my visit. Though at the same time another, less prudent voice was urging me to take a different course. After all, if old Idriss in his hovel had had a copy of this coveted work, why shouldn't the booksellers in Tripoli have one too? Theirs might be no less of a forgery than his, but it could save me having to go all the way to Constantinople!

After some seconds of reflection, during which all eyes rested weightily on mine, I finally said:

“I suppose one of you wouldn't happen to have a copy of that treatise by Mazandarani that people are talking about these days —
The Hundredth Name?”

I'd spoken in as light, detached and ironic a tone as I could manage. But an immediate silence fell on the small company — and, it seemed to me, on the whole city. All eyes now turned on my friend Abdessamad. He was no longer looking at me, either.

He cleared his throat as if about to speak, but instead he let out a forced, staccato laugh, which he suddenly cut short, to take a sip of water. Then he said to me:

“We're always glad to see you!”

This meant that my present visit was over. I stood up sheepishly and said a word of farewell to those closest to me; the rest had already scattered.

Stunned, I began to walk back to the hostelry where we were to spend the night. Hatem came and told me he was going to buy some provisions. Habib whispered that he was off for a stroll by the harbour. I let them both go without comment. Only jaber stayed with me, but I didn't speak to him either. What could I have said? “A plague on you, Boumeh — It's your fault I've been humiliated!” His fault, and Evdokim's, and Idriss's, and Marmontel's, and the fault of many others, but most of all it's mine. And It's first and foremost up to me to preserve my reason, my reputation and my dignity.

I wonder, though, why those booksellers reacted as they did. Their attitude was very cold and curt toward someone who's always found them friendly and prudent. I expected amused smiles at most. Not such hostility. And I framed my question so carefully! I don't understand. I simply don't understand.

Writing these lines has calmed me down. But that incident put me in a bad humour for the rest of the day. I went for Hatem because he didn't buy what I meant him to buy. Then I scolded Habib for not coming back from his excursion till after dark.

To Boumeh, the main cause of my discomfiture, I couldn't think what to say.

On the road, 26 August

How could I have been so naive?

It was staring me in the face and I didn't see it!

When I woke up this morning, Habib wasn't there. He'd risen early and whispered to Hatem that he had to go and buy something in the Citadel market and would meet us afterwards near the Bassatine gate to the north-east of the city.

“I just hope he gets there before we do,” I exclaimed, “because I shan't wait for him! Not a single minute!” And I gave the order for us to leave at once.

The gate isn't far from the hostelry so we were soon there. I looked around. No Habib in sight.

“Give him time,” pleaded my clerk, who has always had a soft spot for the boy.

“I shan't wait long!” I replied, tapping my foot impatiently. But I had to wait for him. What else could I do? We were setting out on a long journey — I couldn't very well abandon my nephew on the way!

After an hour, by which time the sun was high in the sky, Hatem, pretending to be all excited, called out to me: “Here comes Habib, running and waving his arms! He's a good lad really, God save him! Always smiling and affectionate. The main thing, master, is that he hasn't come to any harm.”

All this, obviously, to try to spare him a trouncing! But I wouldn't be mollified. An hour we'd been waiting! There was no question of my greeting him or smiling at him; I wouldn't even look in the direction he was coming from. I just waited another minute, long enough for him to come up with us, and then I stalked off towards the city gate.

Habib was now behind me: I could feel his presence and hear his breathing. But I kept my back turned on him. I'll start talking to him again, I thought, when he's kissed my hand respectfully and promised not to stay away again without my permission! If we're to continue this journey together I need to know all the time where my nephews are!

When we reached the officer keeping the gate, I greeted him formally, told him who I was, and slipped him a suitable coin.