by Amin Maalouf
I soon learned that my colleague was getting ready to leave Smyrna late in the day for England; his ship was already waiting alongside. His departure had been decided on in haste, for family reasons I wasn’t told about, so no arrangements has been made about the house. We’d been sitting together for barely a quarter of an hour, and I was conversing politely with the pastor about the Embriaci’s past, Gibelet, Sabbataï, and current events, while Wheeler said little and seemed scarcely to hear what we said, so deeply was he absorbed in his own worries. Then he suddenly emerged from his torpor and asked me point-blank if I’d care to stay at his place for a while.
“If we’re soon to find ourselves living in the reign of chaos,” he said, “I’d like to know my house is being looked after by a noble spirit.”
Not wanting to seem too eager, I explained that I was only in Smyrna for a short time, to settle some urgent business, so I too might have to leave from one day to the next. But I couldn’t have sounded very convincing, for he didn’t bother to answer my objection and just asked if I’d mind taking a stroll with him and the pastor so that he could show me my “new home”.
I think I’ve already mentioned that the foreigners’ quarter is a long avenue running along by the beach. It’s lined on both sides with shops, warehouses, workrooms, a hundred or so houses, a few well-reputed caterers and four churches, including that of the Capuchins. The houses overlooking the sea are more sought after than those giving on to the hill, the old citadel and the districts inhabited by the local people — Turks, Greeks, Armenians and Jews. Wheeler’s place is neither the biggest nor the safest of the houses: it’s at the end of the avenue, and the sea practically knocks at the door. Even when it’s calm, as it was today, you can hear the roar of the waves. When there’s a swell the noise must be deafening.
The most attractive thing about the place is the huge room I’m in at the moment. It’s surrounded by the bedrooms, and full of statues, statuettes, fragments of ancient columns and bits of mosaic, all excavated by Wheeler himself, who does a good trade in such articles.
What I can see all round me, and what makes me feel as if I’m living on the site of some Greek temple or antique villa, must be the remains of the remains — nothing but items that are cracked or broken or have bits broken off them, or of which there are three or four examples. The best pieces have no doubt been dispatched to London, where my host will have sold them at a handsome profit. Good luck to him! I know from experience that the people round here will never buy such things. Those who have the means to acquire them don’t appreciate them, and most Turks, if they don’t regard them as meaningless, are eager to deface or destroy them on religious grounds.
When he embarked yesterday, Wheeler took a number of packing cases with him, despite the fact that he was leaving at short notice. The largest and heaviest crate, as he told me himself, contained a magnificent sarcophagus ornamented with bas-reliefs that had been found in Philadelphia. Having accepted his invitation about the house, I obviously couldn’t but join the pastor and see my host off on his journey. This turned out to be fortunate for him, as we found when we reached the harbour that the dockers were refusing to load any cargoes, no matter how much money they were offered. I couldn’t discover the reason for this, but their attitude fits in with the general atmosphere of confusion, demoralisation, touchiness and irresponsibility. I enlisted the help of Hatem and my nephews, so we had the help of seven pairs of arms, including those of the pastor and of Wheeler’s own clerk, to get the crates safely on board. Only the sarcophagus was too much for us, and we had to bribe some sailors to haul it up on ropes.
After thanking the Capuchins for their hospitality and leaving a generous contribution towards the repair of their church (damaged in the last earthquake), I came and settled in here with all my travelling companions.
Wheeler has left us a young servant maid with an evasive expression who hasn’t been with him long and whom he suspected of pilfering food and crockery. Perhaps money and clothes as well — he wasn’t sure. If I should decide to dismiss her I wasn’t to hesitate. Why hadn’t he done so himself? I didn’t ask. I haven’t seen much of her yet. She’s been through the house a couple of times, barefoot, with eyes downcast, and wrapped in a red and black check shawl.
We’ve shared out the bedrooms. There are six altogether, not counting the maid’s, which is on the roof and reached by a ladder. Hatem has taken the room usually occupied by our host’s own clerk; each of my nephews has a room to himself; and so do Marta and I, to keep up appearances, though I have no intention of sleeping in a different room from her.
I’m going to join her now.
18 December
There’s still one bedroom free in Wheeler’s house, and this morning I offered it to Maïmoun.
Ever since he’s been in Smyrna he’s lived with his father in the house of a man from Aleppo called Issac Laniado, an ardent supporter of Sabbataï and next-door neighbour to the “Messiah’s” family. This has been forcing my friend to conceal his true feelings, and he told me, sighing, that he didn’t know if he could bear another long Sabbath in their company.
But he declined my invitation. “It’s when our nearest and dearest lose their way that we ought to stay close to them,” he said. I didn’t insist.
In the town itself a quiet chaos still reigns. People have lost their fear of the law, as if the Kingdom that is to come will be one of mercy and forgiveness, not of discipline and order. But this sense of impunity doesn’t lead to unbridled violence; there are no riots, no bloodshed or looting, The wolf lies down with the lamb without trying to eat it, as it says somewhere in the Scriptures. This evening a score of Jews, men and women, went down from their own quarter to the harbour singing “Meliselda, the king’s daughter” and waving torches, thus breaking both their own law, which forbids them to kindle a fire on Friday evening, and the law of the country, which allows only foreign merchants to use torches when they go out at night. Not far from here the Jews met a patrol of janissaries marching behind their officer. The singing wavered for a moment, then went on again louder than before, each group going on its way without taking any notice of the other.
How much longer will this exaltation last? One more day? Three? Forty? Those who believe in Sabbataï say for ever and ever. A new era will soon begin, they declare, and it will never end. Once the Resurrection has begun it will never stop. Resurrection will not be followed by death. What will end is humiliation, subservience, captivity, exile, diaspora.
And where do I come in in all this? What ought I to be hoping for? Maïmoun blames his father for abandoning everything to follow his king-cum-Messiah. But haven’t I done something much worse? Haven’t I left my home town, my occupation and my quiet life just because of rumours of an apocalypse, and without even hoping for salvation?
Aren’t I just as crazy as these misguided folk walking about brandishing torches on the night of the Sabbath? I am defying the laws of religion and of the country by sleeping with a woman who’s not my wife, and may still be the wife of another, with the knowledge of all my entourage. How much longer can I go on living this lie? And above all, how long shall I escape unpunished?
But if the prospect of punishment does occasionally occur to me, it doesn’t turn me away from my desires. The thought that God can see me bothers me less than the thought that other people do. Last night, for the first time, I took Marta in my arms without having to check the windows and doors, without having to listen for footsteps. Slowly I undressed her, slowly undid the ribbons and buttons and let her clothes fall on the floor, then blew out the candle. She raised her arm and hid her eyes; only her eyes. I took her hand and led her over to the bed. Laid her down, and lay down beside her. Her body smelled of the scent we bought together in the Genoese merchant’s shop in Constantinople. I whispered that I loved her and always would. As I breathed into her ear she put her arms round me and drew me to her warm body, murmuring words of joy, eagerness, consent, abandon.
I m
ade love to her with the fire of a lover and the serenity of a husband. Could I have done so if everything around us, in the city and in the world, hadn’t been in this supreme state of exaltation, of unreality?
19 December
The Dutch pastor paid me a visit early this morning, saying he just wanted to make sure I was comfortable in his friend’s house. When I answered with some enthusiasm that I was already living there as if the place was my own, he saw fit to reply that I must never forget that it was not. I was annoyed at this unnecessary remark, and pointed out shortly that I’d merely been trying to express my gratitude. I’d agreed to come here only in order to be of service, I told him. I’d been quite happy at the monastery and could easily go back there. I thought he’d put on his hat then and leave, or perhaps ask me to go and take all my tribe with me. But after a moment’s hesitation he gave a little laugh, apologised, coughed, and said there must have been a misunderstanding — his Italian wasn’t very good. In fact he speaks it as well as I do! In short, he tried so hard to put matters right that when he got up to go five minutes later I laid my hand on his arm and asked him to stay for a cup of coffee. “My wife” was just getting it ready, I said.
After this somewhat awkward start, our conversation took a more agreeable turn, and I soon found I was talking to a sensible fellow and a scholar. He told me that for several months a number of European cities had been buzzing with rumours about the lost tribes of Israel, which were said to have appeared in Persia and raised a huge army. They are said to have seized Arabia, defeated the Ottoman forces, and even advanced as far as Morocco. People say that this year the caravan of pilgrims which should have set out from Tunis to Mecca gave up the idea for fear of meeting the lost tribes on the way. Coenen himself doesn’t believe these rumours, and thinks they’re put about by Vienna, which is being besieged by the troops of the Sultan, and by Venice, which has been at war with the Sublime Porte for thirty years, and is trying to get up its courage with the thought of unexpected allies preparing to attack the Muslims from the rear.
The Dutch minister says that every month travellers passing through Smyrna bring him letters to this effect from Holland, France, Sweden and especially England, where many people are on the look-out for strange events that might herald the end of the world and Christ’s Second Coming. What’s happening in Smyrna can only sharpen their expectations.
I told Coenen that I myself had been following these events with great interest, had seen the so-called Messiah twice with my own eyes, and was very troubled by it all. When I added that a Jewish friend of mine was highly sceptical, Coenen was anxious to meet him, and I promised to pass his invitation on to Maïmoun as soon as possible.
Going over the things that had worried me most in the last few days, I mentioned the to me inexplicable fact that the cadi had let Sabbataï go free last Sunday, and further that the authorities had so far done nothing to cut the current excesses short and get the people back to work. The pastor replied that according to reliable sources the judge had been given a large sum of money by certain wealthy Jewish merchants, supporters of Sabbataï, to leave the self-proclaimed Messiah alone.
“I don’t know,” said I, “how corrupt the Ottoman officials may be, nor how much they are motivated by sheer greed. But what we see at present is utter chaos. And as soon as Constantinople finds out what’s going on here, heads are going to roll. Do you really think the cadi would risk his own head for a handful of gold?”
“My young friend,” he answered, “if you think men always act sensibly it shows you have no idea how the world wags. Irrationality is the creative principle of History.”
In his opinion, he went on, the reason why the cadi had let Sabbataï go free was not only that he himself had been bribed, but also because he must have concluded that a man who came before him singing psalms must be a mere madman, a danger perhaps to his own community but no threat whatsoever to the power of the Sultan. Coenen must have been told this by a janissary responsible for the security of the Dutch merchants. And it’s probably what the cadi himself hints at to his janissaries, to excuse his tolerance.
On a completely different plane, I saw today that my nephew Boumeh had let his hair and beard grow. I wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been wearing a loose white shirt that makes him look like a certain kind of dervish. He’s out all day, and hardly opens his mouth when he comes back in the evening. Perhaps I ought to ask him why he’s dressing up like that.
20 December
Maïmoun has come and sought refuge here. I welcomed him with open arms and put him in the last spare bedroom, which I’d intended for him all along. Though he declined my invitation before, something happened this morning to make him change his mind. He’s still very shaken.
His father asked him to go with him to see Sabbataï. It wasn’t the first time he’d been, but before he’d always managed to stay in the background, mingling with the crowd and observing from a distance the manifestations of allegiance and enthusiasm. But this time his father, now a “king”, insisted that he approach their benefactor and ask for his blessing. My friend did as he was asked, went forward with his eyes downcast, hurriedly kissed the “Messiah’s” hand, and as soon as he could tried to step back to make way for others. But Sabbataï, holding him back by the sleeve and forcing him to look up, spoke to him in a friendly manner and asked him two or three questions. Then, suddenly, he raised his voice louder and asked Maïmoun, his father, and a couple of rabbis from Aleppo who were with them, to utter the Ineffable Name of God. The others obeyed, but Maïmoun, though he was the most pious of them all, hesitated. He might not invariably follow the precepts of the Faith to the letter, and sometimes, in the synagogue, he would mutter the prayers half-heartedly, as if his heart was not quite in harmony with what his lips professed. But between such backslidings and committing the sin now being asked of him there was an insuperable difference. So Maïmoun remained silent, hoping Sabbataï would be satisfied with being obeyed by the other three. Little did he know! The self-styled Messiah went on holding him by the sleeve, and started explaining to the assembled company that in this new age what was formerly forbidden is forbidden no longer, that those who believe in the emergence of the new era shouldn’t be afraid of transgressing, and those who have faith in him, Sabbataï, should know he wouldn’t ask them to do anything incompatible with the true will of the Most High, especially if it appears to contradict what only seems to be His will.
By now all eyes were on my friend, including those of his own father, who bade him trust “our king and Messiah” and do as he asked.
“I’d never have thought I’d live to see the day,” Maïmoun told me, “when my father, who’d brought me up to respect our law, would ask me to break it in the worst possible manner. For such a thing to happen, for piety to be confused with impiety in that way, the end of the world really must be at hand.”
He lapsed into thought and melancholy. I had to interrupt his reverie to make him finish the story.
“So what did you do?”
“I told Sabbataï that what he was asking of me was a serious matter, and I needed to pray first. Then, without asking leave, I withdrew. And as soon as got outside I came straight here.”
He swore that until “this madness” is over he won’t set foot in the Jewish quarter again. I told him he was quite right, and that I was delighted to welcome him under my roof.
I went on to tell him about the visit of the Dutch pastor and Coenen’s desire to meet him. He didn’t refuse, but indicated that he’d rather put it off for a few days: for the moment he didn’t feel like talking to a stranger about what had happened.
“My mind’s still in a whirl. I’m confused. I don’t want to say something I’ll regret next day.”
I said there wasn’t any hurry, and it would be best if we both distanced ourselves from all this bother.
Monday, 21 December 1665
Are there really some honest officials in the Ottoman Empire? I hardly dare say so.
It’s strange enough that I can even ask the question!
For some days Marta’s been saying we ought to take up here the approaches we made in Constantinople, in the hope that they might meet with more success in Smyrna. So I went to see Abdellatif, the clerk at the local prison, who I’d been told kept a record of all the sentences passed in this part of Asia Minor and the Aegean islands. He let me set out my request, took notes, asked for a few more details, then said it would take him a week to look into the matter before he could give me a satisfactory answer. This, of course, brought back an unpleasant memory of the clerk in the Armoury of the Sultan’s palace, who’d got one sum of money after another out of us on the pretext of having to consult a series of different ledgers. But I’d decided in advance that I’d pay up without making too much fuss, if only to show Marta I’d do anything for her. So I asked the man the usual question about “how much his informants would have to be paid”. My hand was already in my purse. But the man plainly signed to me to take it out again.
“Why should your honour pay?” he asked. “You haven’t got anything yet.”
Not wanting to annoy him by insisting, I withdrew, saying I’d come back in a week, and that I prayed Heaven would reward him as he deserved. No honest man could object to that.