The Wanderer (23 page)

“Allah is great,” I said bitterly. “Is this the recompense for all I have done—to be led once more by the nose into the unknown, like a ringed ox?”

Mustafa ben-Nakir was shocked. “How ungrateful you are, Michael el-Hakim! Another man would fall and kiss the ground at my feet in thankfulness. You cannot know that the most powerful men in the Ottoman Empire, from the Grand Vizier downward, are all slaves of the Sultan. Most of them were brought up in the Seraglio and have advanced, each according to his talents, to the most responsible positions. The very highest officials are subordinate to one or other of the Sultan’s slaves. To be a slave of his is therefore an aim worthy of the most ambitious; if he succeeds there is no limit to what he can do.”

“Many thanks!” I said with irony, though I had listened attentively to what he told me. “But I’m not in the least ambitious, and I feel that the higher a slave may climb toward the pinnacles of power, the more terrible will be his fall.”

“You’re right, Michael,” Mustafa admitted. “Yet even on a level floor a man may stumble. And climbing is difficult; it demands experience and practice. There’s more to it than merely scrambling upward. One must also shake off and kick away those who climb after—those who tug at one’s cloak and try in every way to drag one down. But climbing strengthens a man and forms part of that wise statecraft which the sultans inherited from the emperors of Byzantium. Remember that the Ottomans have always been ready to adopt whatever is useful and practical, from any nation. Only the shrewdest and most resourceful man can attain the heights of power in the Seraglio, where everyone spies on his neighbor and tries to trip him up. Yet the disadvantages of the system are outweighed by the element of chance. All advancement depends ultimately on the Sultan’s favor, which may be won as easily by the humblest woodcutter as by the most powerful vizier.”

A chill stole over me.

“Who and what are you, Mustafa ben-Nakir?” I asked.

an important part. The Grand Vizier has lost faith in the Sultan’s sea pashas; Khaireddin is the only true seaman. So the way is to be made smooth for him and only good is to be spoken of him in the Seraglio; his name and reputation must be exalted there, his victories painted in glowing colors, and any defeats explained away. Most important of all, Khaireddin must owe promotion solely to the Grand Vizier. You too must remember that in furthering Khaireddin’s cause with the cartographers, you serve Ibrahim. To him and to him only must you show gratitude, if ever you attain to a post of honor.”

“What you say is strange and disquieting,” I remarked. “Shall I not also be serving the Sultan?”
 

“Of course, of course,” returned Mustafa impatiently. “The Grand Vizier’s power derives from the Sultan, and anything that serves to strengthen
Ibrahim’s position must ultimately be of profit to the Sultan. But the Grand Vizier can’t fill the Seraglio with slaves of his own choosing, as this might give rise to base suspicions. Whereas if Khaireddin sends you and your brother and other useful slaves to the Seraglio, no one can suspect them of being secretly at Ibrahim’s orders. His power exposes him to envy, as you can understand, and for his own sake he must weave a stout net to catch him were he to fall, and toss him up again to even greater eminence.”
 

Mustafa ben-Nakir was silent for a little before continuing, “We’re weavers, Michael el-Hakim, weaving a huge carpet. Each of us has his own thread and his own part in the great pattern. The whole pattern—the world-picture—we do not see; but it is there. Single threads may snap, colors may be clouded, and the individual weaver may fail in his task; yet the great overseer has the great pattern ever before his eyes and corrects the petty errors. You, too, Michael, shall be a weaver; then all your thoughts and actions will have purpose. You’ll be fulfilling your task within the great framework, and your life, hitherto so empty, will be filled with meaning.”
 

“If you allude to Allah’s carpet of eternity,” I said, “then I’m already a weaver, whether I like it or not. But if you mean Grand Vizier Ibrahim’s carpet, woven on the Sultan’s behalf, then I fear it’s too bloodstained to appeal to a sensitive heart. I also fear that it will be very clumsily cobbled together, and prove useless.”
 

“Allah’s will be done,” returned Mustafa suavely. “Remember you’re a slave, Michael el-Hakim, and
must
weave, with or without your good will. Life is a game—a strange one—and once we realize this our task is easier to fulfill; for all games come to an end. The fairest flowers fade, the most melodious song must sooner or later die away. What matter, my friend, whether your beard grows long in the service of the Seraglio, or whether in the flower of youth you’ie gathered into the arms of eternal night?”
 

Giulia who had been listening patiently, now rose and said, “At the baths I’ve heard women all shrieking at once until I couldn’t hear myself speak, but even their cackle had more sense in it than the big, empty words of men. Here you sit spinning phrases about weavers and rulers and Michael’s beard, while all the time the fowls are stewing to rags in the pot.”

She brought us the good food and filled Abu el-Kasim’s most valuable goblet with spiced wine, saying, “Your religion of course forbids you to drink, but after all the soul-shaking talk I need something reviving.”

The sight of her white arms made me quite limp, and the wound in my cheek was very painful, and so I begged her earnestly to pour wine for me, too, as I was not yet circumcised and therefore not wholly bound by the law. Mustafa ben-Nakir smiled mysteriously and declared that his sect also was untrammeled by the letter of the Koran.

When we had finished the sweetmeats and fruit that brought the meal to an end, we went on drinking until Giulia became slightly affected. A deeper red colored her cheeks, and as if by chance she laid an arm about my neck and stroked me with her soft finger tips.

“Mustafa ben-Nakir,” she said. “You know the art of poetry and perhaps also the secrets of women’s hearts better than Michael does. Tell me what I must do, for Michael has long desired me and I’m his defenseless slave. Hitherto I’ve resisted him because of a secret which I would not divulge. But wine has softened my heart and I beg you, Mustafa ben-Nakir, not to leave us alone together, but tell me what I must do to protect my innocence.”

Mustafa ben-Nakir replied, “I’ve not the least regard for your virtue, false Delilah, and feel only pity for poor, sick Michael; for you would never ask my advice unless you’d already made up your mind.”

He rose to leave us, but Giulia, genuinely troubled, caught him by the girdle and said, “Don’t go, Mustafa ben-Nakir! Help us to a reconciliation. My purpose was to make Michael too drunk even to see me, far less discover my secret. But it would have been better if he’d whipped me long ago, for then I might have given way to him even though I bore him ill will.”

With this she threw herself at my feet, crying aloud and weeping and imploring forgiveness. I suspected mischief, but I tried to lift her up and calm her. She wept the more bitterly until Mustafa ben-Nakir said impatiently, “Cease your howling, Delilah, for you have nothing in your heart but falsehood and deceit. What is more painful and pointless than these intimate revelations? The relationship between men and women would be incomparably happier if each party kept his own mistakes and secrets to himself.”

Giulia dried her eyes, raised her tear-stained face, and said, “Michael prefers it so, though perhaps he won’t admit it. And for some unknown reason I can’t lie to him with my body. Perhaps it is that I really love him; if so I love for the first time in my life, and so passionately that I’m afraid. What devil’s spell is it that has bound me to this foolish, credulous man, so that even to look into his trusting face makes me loathe myself? It’s like snatching a pretty toy from a child.”

I could hardly believe my ears; yet of all her words I heeded only those which told of her love for me, and I could not understand why she had always treated me so badly. I cried out to her to hold her peace. Ah, would that she had! But wine had clouded her judgment, and she said, “Michael, beloved Michael! Forgive me, but I’m not the innocent you suppose and I cannot think how you got such an idea into your head.”

“Oh, God help me! How came you to lose your virtue? Haven’t I always tried to shield you from assaults upon it?”

I felt as if I had been kicked on the jaw. Giulia twisted her slender fingers together and went on, “I’m not even as young as you think me; I was twenty-five some time ago—nearly as old as you. I’ve been married twice, though each time to an old man. The first time was by my mother’s wish; I was only fourteen, but my eyes so horrified my husband that he died of a stroke on our wedding night. My second husband also died so suddenly that I was compelled to sail for the Holy Land, meaning to take refuge with a distant relative in Acre and escape from the foul suspicions that were cast upon me. It was on that voyage that you met me, for I had bribed the captain to take me aboard without the knowledge of the Venetian authorities.”

All this came upon me so suddenly that I could not at first grasp the full implications of what she said, and I stammered, “But when we

met you gave me to understand that you were still innocent. Why?”

“Never, never did I claim to be a virgin. But when on the island of Cerigo you first saw my eyes you were so shocked that you dared not touch me. No deeper insult can be offered to a woman than this, and I tried to persuade my wounded vanity that you were only sparing my virtue. And so I began to see myself with your eyes, Michael, and since then I’ve been as chaste as a virgin—” Here she faltered, looked away, and added, “Almost.”

Enraged I seized her by the hair, shook her head and hissed, “Why do you stammer and look away ? Have you deceived me with Moslems, too, you false and shameless woman?”

She raised her hands and declared, “As God sees me, no Moslem has touched me save Captain Torgut and Sinan the Jew, into whose hands I fell as a helpless slave. But here in Algiers I’ve lived almost chastely for your sake, dearest Michael. If a few wanton women have caressed me a little at the baths, it was only to please them and comply with the customs of the country. I took no pleasure in it myself.”

As it dawned upon me how shamelessly she had deceived me my grasp slackened and tears ran down my cheeks. She put out her hand as if to wipe them away, but she dared not touch me, and looked appealingly at Mustafa ben-Nakir for help. But even Mustafa, who paid little heed to moral laws, had been startled by her confession. It was some time before he hit upon the right words.

“Remember that Allah is merciful and gracious, Michael el-Hakim! This woman undoubtedly loves you with a strong and passionate love, or she would never have laid bare to you her worthlessness. For your peace of mind it would have been better if she’d made you drunk, so that next morning you would have had no notion of what had taken place. But Allah willed it otherwise. All you can do now is to resign yourself and look upon Giulia as a young and undeniably beautiful widow; the main thing is that at last she surrenders herself to you.”

His clear thinking helped me to recover my own scattered wits and I realized that it would be petty to make too much of Giulia’s former life. I myself had committed the most grievous sin in denying my Christian faith and taking the turban. Giulia, whatever her faults, had at least remained a Christian and so was less guilty than I. The consciousness of this caused me bitter pangs and I had not felt so contemptible since the day when in mortal terror I first called upon the name of Allah the Compassionate. My own rottenness forbade me to condemn Giulia, and it was but just that for my sins I should be saddled with this false and depraved woman. I said, “Be it so, then. I am not without sin; how should I cast a stone? But I still cannot understand why you feigned innocence.”

Giulia, seeing my rage melt into resigned dejection, summoned fresh courage and her eyes glistened with tears as she replied, “It was for your own sake, beloved Michael. And then people believed in my for- tunetelling only because I was, as they thought, a virgin. If I’d betrayed my secret earlier you would have seduced me and then wearied of me, as others have done. I wanted to make sure; and now that you’ve grown accustomed to my eyes you must admit that from now on you could find no delight in ordinary women and their cheap love. Henceforth we will trust one another and have no secrets. And God help you if you so much as glance at another woman, now that I’ve consented to be yours.”

Mustafa ben-Nakir burst into loud laughter, though I could not imagine why, for Giulia’s eyes rested tenderly on me. I had never hoped that she could look upon me with such desire. And so I humbled my heart and said, “I forgive you, Giulia, and I shall strive to see you as you really are. It’s true that for me you’ve been transformed from a golden chalice to a cracked earthenware pot, but the hard crust of truth is more wholesome than the freshest wheaten loaf. Let us share this crust together.”

Giulia answered readily, “Ah, Michael, how deeply I love you when you speak and feel like this! But you have yet to learn how sweet a drink may be contained in a cracked earthenware pot. I think we need no further help from Mustafa ben-Nakir, who must have a great deal to attend to at the palace, so let us detain him no longer.”

She tried to thrust him forth, but he drew out his Persian book with the intention, no doubt, of declaiming an edifying nuptial poem. But Giulia drove him out at last, slammed the grille, locked it, and drew the heavy curtain. Her face glowed with passion as she turned to me, her eyes shone like contrasting jewels, and she was so breathtaking in her beauty that I could not but recall the disappointments she had caused me. I clenched my teeth and slapped her hard upon the cheek. She was so staggered at my action that she sank down powerless at my feet. Overwhelmed, I caught her head in my hands and kissed her—kissed her passionately and without ceasing—and we lay and loved all night.