by Amin Maalouf
But what about Marta? In her condition, she can never escape!
6 April
I’ve spent all today writing, but not in this new notebook. I’ve written a long letter to my sister Pleasance, and a shorter one to my nephews and Maïmoun in case they’re still in Smyrna. I don’t yet know how to get these missives to the people they’re addressed to, but merchants and other travellers are always passing through Genoa, and with Gregorio’s help I’m sure to find a way.
I’ve asked my sister to write as soon as she can to set my mind at rest about what has become of her sons and Hatem; I gave her a brief account of my own misadventures, without saying too much about Marta. At least half the letter to Pleasance dealt with Genoa, my arrival here, the welcome I received from my host, and all the nice things he said about our family.
My letter to my nephews instructs them to go back to Gibelet as soon as possible, if they haven’t done so already.
I asked all my correspondents for detailed replies. But shall I still be here when their answers arrive?
7 April
I’ve been in Genoa for ten days now, yet until today I hadn’t left my host’s house and the garden surrounding it. I was exhausted, sometimes obliged to stay in bed, and at best could only drag myself from one chair or bench to another. It was when I made the effort to start writing again that I began to come back to life. Words became words again, roses roses.
Master Mangiavacca, so forceful aboard the ship the day we met, has proved a most tactful and considerate host. Realising I needed a period of convalescence after all my trials and tribulations, he was careful not to hurry me. But today, sensing that I felt better, he suggested for the first time that I should go with him on his daily business visit to the harbour. He asked his coachman to drive us through the Piazza San Matteo, where the Dorias’ palace is, then past the tall square tower of the Embriaci, before taking the coast road to the port itself, where a crowd of clerks was waiting. Before leaving me in order to attend to his affairs, my host ordered the coachman to drive me back home via several places of interest, one of which was the via Balbi, where you can still see how magnificent Genoa must have been in its heyday. Every time we stopped, the coachman would turn and tell me about the memorable building or monument before us. He had the same smile as his master, and talked to me with the same enthusiasm about our past glories.
I duly nodded and smiled back. In a way I envy him. I envy both him and his master for being able to contemplate this whole scene with pride. I myself can feel only longing. How I’d have loved to live when Genoa was the most splendid of cities, and mine the most splendid of its families. I can’t get over not having been born till now. Lord, how late it is! How insipid the world seems! I feel as if I’d been born in the twilight of time, unable to imagine what the midday sun was like.
8 April
Today I borrowed 300 livres of good money from my host. He didn’t want me to make out an IOU, but I wrote out, dated and signed one in due form. When the repayment date comes round, I know I’ll have to argue with him about reimbursing him. That will be in April 1667. The year of the Beast will be over, and we’ll have had time to see if it kept its terrifying promises. What will have become of our debts by then? Yes, how will it be with our debts when the world, together with all its men and all its wealth, is extinct? Will they just be forgotten? Or will they be taken into account in deciding each man’s ultimate fate? Will bad debtors be punished? Will those who pay up on time get into Heaven more easily? Will bad debtors who keep Lent be treated more kindly than good payers who don’t? Just like a merchant to bother his head with such questions, you’ll say! Perhaps. Perhaps. But I have the right to ask them because it’s my own fate that’s at stake. Perhaps the fact that I’ve been an honest merchant all my life will earn me the right to some of Heaven’s mercy? Or shall I be judged more severely than someone who was always cheating his customers and colleagues, but never lusted after another man’s wife?
May the Almighty forgive me, but I regret my mistakes and my follies, but not my sins. It’s not having possessed Marta that torments me; it’s having lost her.
How far I’ve strayed from what I was meaning to say! I started talking about my debt, but one idea led to another and I found myself talking of Marta and my passionate remorse. Forgetfulness is one grace I shan’t be granted. And I don’t ask for it. I ask for redress, I think all the time of making things right again. I keep mulling over the wretched episode that got me deported from Chios, trying to think what I should have done to get the better of all those tricks and deceits. Like an admiral after a defeat, I can’t stop moving the various ships about in my head to find the strategy that might have brought me victory.
I shan’t say any more now about my plans, except that they’re there inside me and keep me alive.
Towards the end of the morning I took the money order to the Baliani brothers in the Piazza Banchi — Gregorio had recommended them highly — and opened an account. I deposited most of the money I’d borrowed, keeping just twenty or so florins for small necessities and for tips to my host’s domestics, who serve me so willingly.
As I walked back to the house I had a strange feeling that I was starting a new life. I was in another country, surrounded by people I’d never set eyes on till a few days ago, and with new coins jingling in my pocket. But it’s a life lived on credit, in which I can command anything but own nothing.
9 April
I couldn’t understand why Gregorio’s family didn’t live with him. There was nothing surprising about his owning two palaces, or even three or four — that’s long been quite usual among the wealthiest citizens of Genoa. But I was intrigued by his living apart from his wife. He’s just told me the reason. Not without some stammering and stuttering, though he’s not shy by nature and isn’t one of those people who blush for nothing. His lady, whose name is Orietina, is very pious, he said, and stays away from him every year during Lent lest he be tempted to forget his duty to remain chaste during the fast.
I suspect he forgets it anyway, for he comes back from certain day-time as well as night-time visits with a tell-tale sparkle in his eye. Nor does he try to deny it. “Abstinence doesn’t suit me,” he says, “but it’s best not to sin under one’s own roof, in the house consecrated by matrimony.”
I can’t help admiring this way of coming to terms with the rigours of the Faith. I myself pretend to ignore its precepts, but I always hesitate before breaking them in a big way.
10 April
Today I heard some amazing news about Sabbataï and his visit to Constantinople. The stories sound as if they were made up, but I’m quite willing to believe them.
My source is a monk from Lerici, who spent the last two years in a monastery in Galata. He’s a close cousin of my host’s, and Gregorio invited him to supper so that I could meet him and hear his account.
“The most reverend, holy and learned Brother Egidio”, was how Gregorio introduced him. I’ve met all kinds of “Brothers” and “Fathers” and such-like in my time: sometimes they’ve been saints and often they’ve been rogues, sometimes fountains of knowledge and often ignoramuses. So I learned long ago to judge them on the evidence. I therefore listened to this one, observed him, asked him some straight questions, and finally was convinced he was genuine. He doesn’t pass on anything he hasn’t seen with his own eyes or been told by unimpeachable witnesses. He was in Constantinople last January, when the whole population was in a state of excitement, not only the Jews but also the Turks and the various Christians, whether foreigners or Ottoman subjects — all expecting the most extraordinary events.
The account Brother Egidio gave us may be summarised as follows. When Sabbataï reached the Sea of Marmara aboard the caique bringing him from Smyrna, he was arrested by the Turks even before he could go ashore, and those of his followers who’d gathered to greet him were distressed to see him manhandled by two officers like a criminal. But he himself seemed quite unaffected, and called to those
who were lamenting to have no fear, for they would soon hear that which they’d never heard before.
This restored the confidence of the waverers. They forgot what they were seeing and clung on to what they were hoping, which seemed all the more foolish because the Grand Vizier intended to deal with this grave business himself. He’d been told what was being said among Sabbataï’s disciples — that he’d come to Constantinople to have himself proclaimed king, and that the Sultan was going to prostrate himself before him. He’d also been told that the Jews had stopped working, the money-changers were treating every day as the Sabbath, and that all this was doing great harm to trade in the Empire. No one doubted that in the absence of the Sultan himself, who was in Adrianople, the Grand Vizier was going to take extremely harsh measures: the head of the so-called Messiah would be detached from his body without delay and exposed on a tall column, so that no one would ever dare to challenge the Ottoman dynasty again, and business could go on as usual.
But what had happened in Smyrna — I had witnessed it myself — now happened again in Constantinople. Sabbataï, brought before the most powerful person in the Empire after the Sultan himself, was not met with blows or remonstrances or threats of punishment. Make what you can of it, the Grand Vizier greeted him warmly, told the guards to loosen his bonds, offered him a seat, and conversed with him at length on various subjects. Some people swore they saw them laugh together, and heard them address one another as “my honoured friend”.
When the time came for sentence to be pronounced, it was neither death nor flogging, but a punishment so light it seemed almost a tribute: Sabbataï is currently held in a citadel where he’s allowed to receive visits from his followers from morning till night, to pray and chant with them, preach sermons and give advice, and all without any let or hindrance from the guards. More incredible still, said Brother Egidio, the false Messiah sometimes asks the soldiers to take him to the seashore to perform his ritual ablutions, and they obey as if they were under his orders, take him wherever he chooses to go, and wait for him to finish before they bring him back. The Grand Vizier is even supposed to make him an allowance of fifty aspres, handed over to him every day in the prison, so that he shan’t lack for anything.
What more can I say? Isn’t this a great wonder, one that defies common sense? Wouldn’t any sensible person be sceptical about such a tale? I myself would certainly have railed against human credulity if I hadn’t been present at similar happenings in Smyrna last December. This time it’s the Grand Vizier who’s involved instead of a provincial judge, but that only makes the whole thing more incredible. But the wonder itself is the same, and I can’t doubt it.
This evening, as I write in my bedroom by the light of a candle, I think of Maïmoun and wonder how he’d have reacted if he’d heard this story. Would he have ended up agreeing with his father and, like him, joining those who call themselves “believers” and other Jews “infidels”? No, I don’t think so. He sees himself as a man of reason, and for him a wonder cannot take the place of a sound argument. If he’d been with us this evening, I imagine he’d have curled his lip and looked away, as I’ve often seen him do when the conversation made him uncomfortable.
I hope with all my being that he’s right and I’m wrong! If only all these prodigies could turn out to be false! all these signs misleading! this year a year like any other and neither the end of past time nor the beginning of an unknown future! May Heaven not confound men of good sense, but grant that intelligence triumph over superstition!
I sometimes wonder what the Creator thinks of what men say. How I’d love to know whose side He in His benevolence would take! That of the people who predict that the world will come to a sudden end, or that of those who think it still has a long road to travel? Is He with those who rely on reason, or those who despise and demean it?
Before I shut this notebook for the night I ought to record under today’s date that I’ve given Brother Egidio my two letters. He’s soon leaving for the East, and he’s promised to deliver them, if not in person then at least through another churchman.
11 April
Could Gregorio, my host and benefactor, be thinking of marrying me to his daughter?
She’s the oldest of the three girls; her name’s Giacominetta and she’s thirteen. This evening, as we were walking in his garden, he spoke to me about her, saying she was very beautiful, and her soul was still even purer than her skin. Then he suddenly added that if I wanted to ask for her hand I’d do well not to wait too long, as such requests would soon be pouring in. He laughed heartily as he spoke, but I can tell the difference between what’s a real laugh and what isn’t. I’m sure he must have thought it over for a long while, and like any clever dealer he’s already got a plan in mind. I’m not the young handsome match girls dream about, and my fortune is nothing in comparison with his. But I’m an Embriaco, and I’m sure he’d be very happy for his daughter to marry into that name. I suppose that for him it would be the culmination of a lifetime’s effort to rise in society.
For me too such a marriage could only be attractive — if it weren’t for Marta and the child she’s carrying!
So do I forbid myself to marry out of fidelity to a woman from whom life has already parted me, and who is still the wife of another before God and man?
Put like that, my attitude is unreasonable, I know. But I also know that this is what my heart tells me, and it would be unreasonable to go against that.
12 April
All day Gregorio was unusually gloomy, depressed and taciturn. So much so that I was afraid I’d annoyed him by the lack of enthusiasm with which I’d reacted when he spoke to me yesterday evening about his daughter. But it wasn’t that at all. What was worrying him were rumours originating in Marseilles that a huge battle was imminent between the French and Dutch fleets on the one hand and the British navy on the other.
I’d learned when I got to Genoa that in January the King of France had declared war on England, but it was said he’d done so reluctantly, in obedience to a treaty, and no one here seemed to think it would really come to a confrontation. But now the auguries are different, and there’s talk of a real war and dozens of ships converging on the North Sea with thousands of soldiers on board. No one is more worried about it than Gregorio: he thinks that seven or eight of his ships must be thereabouts — some of them had even left Lisbon and were on the way to Bruges, Antwerp, Amsterdam or London — and that all of them could be stopped for inspection or destroyed. He broached the subject this evening, and I watched as he scribbled down dates and names and figures, as downcast as in other circumstances he might have been exultant.
At one point in the evening he asked me, without looking up:
“Do you think God is punishing me for not keeping Lent?”
“Do you mean to say the King of France might have sent his fleet against England because Signor Gregorio Mangiavacca hasn’t mortified the flesh for Lent? I should think the greatest historians of the future will ponder over that crucial question.”
He was taken aback for a moment, then burst out laughing.
“You Embriaci have never been very religious, yet Heaven hasn’t abandoned you!”
My host was more cheerful now, but not reassured. If he were really to lose his ships and their cargoes it would mean his lucky star had deserted him.
13 April
Rumour is mixed up with news, tidings of war with reports about the expected apocalypse. Genoa goes about its business glumly, halfheartedly, as in a time of plague. Spring is at the gates of the city, waiting for Lent to be over. Flowers are still few and far between, the nights are clammy, laughter is stifled. Am I seeing my own anxiety reflected back at me in the mirror of the world? Or is it the other way round?
Gregorio has spoken to me again about his daughter. To say that, for him, whoever marries her will be a son rather than a son-in-law. The son that Heaven never granted him. Even if he had had a son, muscle and boldness would have been the only advantages the yo
uth had over his sisters. For subtlety of mind and moral courage, not to mention filial affection and piety, Giacominetta left him no room for regret. All in all, he was quite satisfied with what Providence had decreed, provided that the lack of a son was made up to him when his daughters got married.
I listened in a friendly manner, filling each pause with conventional good wishes, not saying anything that might commit me in any way, but not betraying any reluctance or embarrassment either. While he didn’t press me further about my intentions, I’ve no doubt he’ll revert to the subject.
Should I consider running away?
I know that sounds disagreeable and ungrateful. Gregorio is my benefactor. I was in dire straits when he came into my life, and he transformed everything by turning humiliation into honour and exile into homecoming. If I believe at all in signs sent by Providence, Gregorio must be one of them. Heaven sent him my way not only to snatch me out of the clutches of the world but also to save me from my own vagaries. Yes, that’s what he did, and that’s what I’m blaming him for. He wants to lead me out of a blind alley, a pointless quest. In short, he offers me a chance to discard the tattered old clothes of my former life and put on a set of fine new ones. A new house, a spotless young wife, a position in my new-found mother country, where I should no longer be a foreigner and an infidel. It’s the most sensible and generous proposition a man could hope to have. I ought to rush to the nearest church and give thanks to God. And while I’m kneeling in prayer, whisper to my father, whose soul is never far away, that I’m finally going to marry a girl from Genoa as he always wanted me to. Instead of which I jib, I feel persecuted, I claim I’m embarrassed, I plan to run away. Where to, and to do what? To try to get a criminal to give me his own lawful wife?