The Wanderess (20 page)

We talked and drank. Saskia was moved to emotion by
the red wine and our solemn waiter. After he took our order, he
returned to the patio where we could see him drinking spirits and
smoking the thin, generic cigarillos that the waiters along the quai
smoke. After a while, the chef appeared from the kitchen and
called to the patio, “Guido? Eh, Guido?…” But our waiter didn’t
seem to hear him. The chef proceeded to our table carrying two
plates of pasta. Halfway to our table, he stopped and stood still,
and stared at me. I looked at the chef and at our plates of pasta
expectantly. A minute passed before the dumbfounded chef
approached us finally and set the plates down in front of us; he
said…

“Sir, I’m sorry… I couldn’t stop staring at you just now.”
“I noticed. Why?”

“I mean, I’m not sure we’ve met before. Or, rather… Have
you come to our restaurant before? No, I’m sure that you haven’t.
Where have I seen you before?”

I told the chef that I had never been to his restaurant
before tonight, and that it was unlikely we’d met anywhere
considering I was new in Paris.

“It must have been a picture of you I’ve seen somewhere…
published in the press, in some journal if you’ll forgive me saying.
Yes, I’m intruding. It’s just that your face is unmistakable.”

“Well, never mind,” I said and waved my hand, “our dinner
will get cold.”
“Yes, excuse me please, sir. And you, madame. Bon
appétit.”
“Merci.”
Once he left, Saskia turned to me with fascination in her
eyes… “Saul! What are they saying about you in the press?”
“How would I know? I don’t read the press.”
“Huh, that’s true,” she said, “Neither of us read that
rubbish. Though, I wonder what they’re saying about you.”

“How do you know it’s not about
us
?” I laughed, “You
know your boy, Andrea, he certainly has our relationship covered
in the press.”

Saskia smiled at this. “No, no, no! I think it’s about you,
and only about you… I bet they’re saying fantastic things in the
press about you.”

I didn’t know then that Saskia’s guess was right. I didn’t
give any thought to what she said at the restaurant, not knowing
how serious things would become later. Later, when she and I
were apart from each other, I grew convinced that she had known
all along about those articles in the press… that she knew about
them that night we dined at Lefèvre’s restaurant in Paris. You will
see in time what I mean.

“You have your pasta and wine now,” Saskia went on,
“…wine always puts you in a mood to talk. Our waiter is away on
the patio drinking and smoking. The place is vacant, we have the
whole restaurant to ourselves. I think you should tell me about
your parents and your childhood. That will solve everything.
Then I will know where you grew up and where your father was
born, and then I can tell you my fortune. That will help us find
Adélaïse… then we can go to Florence!”

“Tell me your fortune right now, I will know why you
latched onto me in Barcelona, and that will explain everything!
No need to know about my childhood…”

“But
who
did I latch onto in Barcelona?!” Saskia
demanded. She then went as far as to punch the restaurant table
with her little fist. “I don’t even know
who you are!
Here I’ve told
you all about my childhood, about losing my parents, I made the
confession about my uncle and showed you all my vulnerabilities,
and you won’t even tell me which damned country you grew up
in! You’re tremendously selfish, Saul. You watch me give away all
my secrets, while your own life you shroud in all this mystery…”

“Good girl, you’re right,” I said, and I took her fist in my
hand. And she was right. Why was my life top-secret?, when she
opened hers up to me with the loving trust that I wasn’t going to
ruin it? Was I not being a child?, puffed-up with his own selfimportance, by hiding my life story? Perhaps it was because as a
child I was taught to be secretive about my family and my origins,
perhaps it was because I wanted to know why she so lovingly
abducted me in Spain… In any case, Saskia was right about wine
inspiring me to talk. To whom does wine not give the inspiration
to talk? I drained my glass again and called our solemn waiter
over to get another bottle in the queue and take our orders for the
next course. When I finished with Guido, I looked over at Saskia
and saw she was furtively writing on a piece of paper. I ask her
what she was writing and she jumped as if startled; she then
handed me a piece of paper…

“This much of my fortune I’ll show you,” she said, “It’s the
first few lines…” Then she handed me the paper that read simply:
“You are a Wanderer searching for something, or ‘someone’ rather.
You were raised by the people of the north, but you are not one of
them, as you belong to no people and have no country.”

I laughed to myself, and asked her if I could keep the paper.
Saskia was so sensitive this night, I didn’t dare make fun of her
garden-woman clairvoyant, although it seemed that she was a
fraud. Obviously Saskia was a wanderer from the north. She
spoke French with a Dutch accent, in phrases littered with
Englishisms.”

“I know these first few lines of my fortune are obvious,”
she said, “but you would be shocked if you knew the rest—the
things it says about my life!” She then went on to say that if I
knew then, at this dinner table, the rest of her fortune in its
entirety, I would bet my sanity as well as my life on its “mystical
authenticity.”

To this, I couldn’t help myself. I roared with laughter… “I
would
bet my sanity on its mystical authenticity!
That is too
much!” and my laughter filled the empty restaurant. I calmed
myself down as quickly as possible to not hurt Saskia too much.
She sat silent, blushing red to her ears with embarrassment.
“I know I sound stupid,” she said.

“No, no! It’s just the wine we’ve drunk. And… I’m very
happy that we’re sharing things together tonight.”

She looked so sensitive, this wounded creature sitting near
me in the restaurant on this night, with a pitcher full of water
ready to come storming from her eyes should I laugh again. I felt
great pity for her then, my solitary wayfaring girl with no country,
who belonged to no people, who grew up without knowing where
she was going or why. I imagined the scene that spring day in
London when, as a child of twelve, she lost everything in her
world in a single moment of confusion. Now here in Paris, the
only two things in her life, me aside, were her search for Adélaïse,
and that mysterious fortune which I had just laughed at. I told
her again I only laughed because I was happy and because I loved
her.

“Where should we start in telling about my family and my
life?” I asked her.

“How about your mother. Where is she now?”
“In Florence, I believe.”
“Hmm… what were your favorite things to do as a boy?”

“Most of all of all…” I had to think hard about that time
that exists still only in fragments… “I loved spending entire days
painting colorful designs on the skiffs we had. They belonged to
the old fisherman who raised me together with his old wife and
my mother. It was the saddest thing in the world to me when the
fishermen would go fishing in the skiffs and all the paint would
wash off. My mother saw my talent and encouraged me to
become a painter when I grew up.” I told Saskia how my mother
had to go into exile when she was pregnant with me…

“She is the niece of the present king of our country… the
same man who, as a youth, hated my grandfather the Indian. My
mother was only a girl of your age when she fell in love with my
father, Solarus: the son of the Cherokee and my grandmother, the
Russian Polinichka. My father was, they say, a very charismatic
man and was loved by the people at court. But my father, the son
of two freedmen, was not a nobleman. He was not liked by our
king, just as his father before him. The king was jealous of my
father’s strength and charm. So when our king found out about
his niece’s pregnancy, he ordered the death of my father (my
father had admitted he had taken my mother’s virginity). Like
Socrates, my father was given hemlock to drink. The rumor is,
however, that the executioner loved and respected my father, just
like almost everyone at court. So loving him, he mixed in the
water—instead of hemlock—barley. According to this legend, a
rooster crowed as my father drank the barley water, and Solarus
then slipped away to who-knows-where. The executioner then
reportedly filled an empty grave, and he told the king that the job
was done. A friend and confident of my mother who was there
when the executioner reported to the king that Solarus was dead,
went to find my mother just after. She found her pregnant with
me and told her that Solarus had been executed. To avoid my
being killed as soon as she gave birth, my mother slipped away in
the night. She changed her clothing and assumed a false name—
claiming to be a poor merchant’s daughter rather than a
princess—and she travelled on foot many, many days, until she
reached the fishing village where she gave birth to me, and where
I grew up. She didn’t have any money with her, and consequently
she was dependent on the generosity of others. Fortunately, my
mother possessed great charm, noble graces and beauty, and a
cheerful disposition… all which inspired people to assist her. She
was grateful to accept the generous hospitality of the aging
fisherman and his frail spouse when they opened their home to
her and offered me a place to grow up and to take on after their
death. As for my father, I don’t know if it was true that the
executioner helped him escape or not. I believe that he loved my
mother very much, so I think if he were alive, he would have come
to find her. Since he didn’t, I hold the belief that he was executed
after all.”

Saskia asked me what religion the people of my country
believe in and I said we were Roman Catholics, that our king is a
Christian king, but that before him our country was ruled by
moors. “I know it!” she cheered, “You’re from Portugal!” I
reminded her that my mother and I, along with most of the ruling
class and the courtiers, grew up speaking French. And that
French, as far as I knew, had never been the ruling-class language
in Portugal. She was confused, and being confused she was
solemn. I tried to cheer her up. I told her that we would find my
mother in Florence as soon as we found Adélaïse, and that my
mother would tell her the truth about where I grew up and where
my father was from. She asked me again how long since I’d seen
my mother. I told her, “Fifteen years.”

“In that case,” she said, “I will be so excited to be with you
and your mother in Florence that I won’t care if we ever make it to
Saint Petersburg for the white-nights.”

“We’re not going to stay in Italy with my mother forever,” I
said, “Before I let the earth swallow me up, you and I are going to
Petersburg together! Back to my story…

“When I reached manhood, my mother begged me to go
to Florence to study painting. We had no money for my studies,
but she thought I could find some menial work in Florence to
sustain me. I informed her that a friend of mine from our village
had moved to the capital of our country, to where she and my
father were from, and he worked there painting gold leaf on the
monuments and official buildings; and he said he could get me
the same job as him. I, knowing that riotous adventures could be
had with my friend in our capital, told my mother I was going
there instead. My mother accepted this, but she made me
promise never to reveal the names of my parents while in that
city. Should I be wise enough to one day leave our country, she
told me, I should sing my father’s name from every rooftop, for he
was a man to take pride in.

“And so, I left for the capital, found my friend, and worked
for a while gold-leafing the monuments and official buildings.
Eventually, I met a group of young men a few years older than me
who lived in Malta. They, with their sophisticated clothes and
worldly ways, seduced me into a life beyond that which was
offered in my friendship with the young fisherman’s son whom I
came to the city to work and live with. These wild gentlemen told
me glittering stories of their escapades in Malta. I decided to visit
Malta immediately with them, and when I did, I met my future
friend and business partner, Juhani who convinced not to go back
to my home country. He and I began organizing decadent and
luxurious parties together…”

I then told Saskia of the night we threw my last party: a
rich event that drew important people from all over Europe.
Juhani and I held an auction, where we auctioned off precious art
for a large return. We had roulette tables with the largest bank in
Malta. “But that same fateful night,” I told her, “I made the
unlucky decision to seduce the wife the Maltese ambassador to
England. It was after I seduced her on the beach that shots rang
out in the night. The ambassador and his bodyguards tried to kill
me as I fled the island in a small boat piloted by a single man
whom I had enough money on me to pay handsomely. And as we
were leaving Malta, while the ambassador stood on the shore
firing bullets at me, I stood like Odysseus leaving the island of the
Cyclops. From the boat, I shouted at the ambassador, ‘Do not
forget me! I am the son of Solarus, the man who seduced your
wife!’ It was that moment of hubris
¹
that cursed me. Among
other things, I learned that I would be executed should I try to go
to Malta again, or should I ever try to enter England. This is why I
can never go with you to London.”

I continued telling my story to Saskia…

“We were lucky to have clear skies during the whole
escape from Malta. The boat was too small to sail the wide sea,
and I feared if we made a long journey, a police boat would catch
up with us and control us. Since Malta lay midway between Italy
and Sicily to the north, and North Africa to the south, I had my
choice. The pilot of the boat was from North Africa and he hoped
to return there; I had paid him enough so that he shouldn’t have
had any say in the matter. But I made him happy by agreeing to
go to North Africa. The thing that swayed my decision was that
Africa is cheap. The pilot had most of my money. Since I was
hosting a luxurious party in Malta the night I went into exile, I
was wearing all my gold and jewels. I sold them all—all, except
for my gold Breguet watch that was stolen in Málaga—and they
paid my way from where we landed until Alexandria where they
funded my life there for some time.