by Amin Maalouf
But all that has been overtaken by events. I’m heading for the unknown in the power of a madman, and my friends are probably standing on the quayside wringing their hands as they watch the Sanctus Dionisius vanish inexplicably in the distance.
I’m not the only person on board who feels helpless and distraught this evening. The few passengers and all the crew are in the position of hostages whom no one will ever ransom. Whether we’re hostages to the captain or to the demons that pursue him, or to fate, as future victims of war, we all, merchants and mariners alike, rich and poor, aristocrats or servants, feel like a pack of lost souls.
At sea, 7 June 1666
Instead of sailing northward along the Portuguese coast, the Sanctus Dionisius has for the last three days been heading west, due west, as if it were making for the New World. We are now in the middle of the vast Atlantic, the sea’s getting rough, and every time a wave hits the ship I can hear shouting and yelling.
I ought to be frightened, but I’m not. I ought to be angry, but I’m not. I ought to be rushing about in all directions and bombarding the crazy captain with questions, but I’m sitting cross-legged in my room on a blanket folded in four, as mild as a flock of sheep. As mild as old people dying.
At the moment I’m not afraid of being shipwrecked or being taken captive. I just dread being sea-sick.
8 June
Now, on the evening of the fourth day, the captain, perhaps thinking he’s thrown his demons off the scent, has just changed direction and is steering north.
I still can’t shake off my queasiness and dizzy spells. So I keep to my cabin and don’t write much.
Maurizio brought me the same supper as the sailors. I couldn’t touch it.
12 June
Today is the ninth day of our voyage to London, and the Sanctus Dionisius has stood still for three hours on the open sea — though I couldn’t say what our position is or which is the nearest coast.
We’d just passed another Genoese ship, the Alegrancia, which made signs to us and sent us a messenger, whom we hoisted on board. Rumours immediately started to circulate confirming that a fierce battle was taking place between the Dutch and the English, making our route dangerous.
The messenger stayed only a few minutes in the captain’s quarters. Then Centurione shut himself up alone for some time, issuing no orders to the crew, while the ship was buffeted about where it lay, sails furled. He was probably trying to make up his mind. Should he turn back? Take shelter somewhere and wait for more news? Or try to steer round the combat zone?
According to Maurizio when I asked him this evening, we’re now still on much the same course as before, but slightly more to the north-east. I told him frankly that I thought it rash of the captain to take such risks, but again the young man pretended not to hear. I didn’t press the matter, not wanting to weigh down his young shoulders with such anxieties.
22 June
Last night, unable to sleep and feeling queasy again, I went for a walk round the deck, and in the distance, on our left, I noticed a curious light that looked to me like a ship on fire.
Today it was clear no one else had seen it. I was beginning to think my eyes had deceived me when, in the evening, I heard the sound of gunfire in the distance. This time everyone on board is in a flutter, and we’re heading blithely for the scene of the battle. No one dreams of arguing with the captain or challenging his authority.
Am I the only one who knows he’s out of his mind?
23 June
The din of war grows louder before and behind us, but we still sail imperturbably on toward our destination — and our destiny.
I’ll be very surprised if we ever arrive in London safe and sound. But I’m not an astrologer or a seer, thank God, and I’m often wrong. I only hope I’m wrong this time. I’ve never asked Heaven to save me from error — only from misfortune.
I’d like my path through life to go on for a long while yet and be full of wrong turnings. Yes, I want to live for some years still, and make a lot more mistakes, even commit a few more sins worth remembering.
It’s fear that makes me write such nonsense. I shall now dry my ink, put my notebook away, and listen calmly, like a man, to the sounds of war nearby.
Saturday, 26 June 1666
I’m still free, and at the same time I’m a prisoner.
This morning, at dawn, a Dutch gunboat approached us and ordered us to stow our sails and hoist the white flag. We did so.
Some soldiers came on board and seized the ship, and now, according to Maurizio, they’re taking us to Amsterdam.
And who knows what will happen to us there?
I suppose all the cargo will be confiscated, but I don’t care about that.
I suppose we’ll all be taken prisoner too, and our belongings seized. So I shall lose the money Gabbiano gave me, as well as my own, and as well as this book and all my writing things.
It puts me off trying to write.
In captivity, 28 June 1666
The Dutch threw two sailors into the sea. One was English but the other was a Sicilian. I’d heard shouts of terror and a great uproar. I rushed to see what was the matter, but when I saw the crowd, and the armed soldiers gesticulating and shouting and bawling in their own language, I turned back. It was Maurizio who told me what had happened, a bit later. He was shaking in every limb, and I tried to comfort him, though I’m far from easy in my own mind.
Up till now, everything had gone fairly calmly. We were all resigned to being diverted to Amsterdam: we were sure the captain couldn’t have got away with his weird behaviour for ever. But today’s carnage has brought it home to us that we are prisoners and likely to remain so indefinitely, and that the most reckless and the most unlucky among us may come to a sticky end.
The English sailor was reckless — and probably tipsy — enough to tell the Dutch their navy would be defeated in the end. And the Sicilian was unlucky enough to be standing by and anxious to intercede on his comrade’s behalf.
In captivity, 29 June
I don’t leave my room any more, and I’m not the only one. Maurizio tells me the decks are deserted. Only the Dutch are to be seen; the crew only leave their quarters to carry out orders. The captain is now supervised constantly by a Dutch officer who issues commands through him. I have no complaints about that.
2 July
Last night, after blowing out my lamp, I suddenly felt cold, although I was just as warmly dressed as I had been recently, and the day had been quite mild. Perhaps the sensation was due to fear rather than cold. And I dreamed I was seized by the Dutch sailors, dragged along the ground, then stripped and flogged till I bled. I believe I cried out with the pain, and this was what woke me up. I couldn’t get back to sleep afterwards. I tried, but my head was like a fruit that wouldn’t ripen, and my eyes wouldn’t stay shut.
4 July
Today a Dutch sailor pushed my cabin door open, looked round, then went away. A quarter of an hour later one of his colleagues did exactly the same, but this one did mutter something meant to convey “Good-day”. It seemed to me they were looking for someone rather than something.
We can’t be far from our Dutch destination now, and I keep wondering what attitude I should adopt when we get there. Above all, what ought I to do with the money that was entrusted to me in Lisbon, with my own money, and with this notebook?
I have two alternatives.
Either I assume I’m to be treated as a foreign trader, with consideration and perhaps even permission to enter the United Provinces, in which case I ought to take all my “treasure” with me when I go ashore.
Or I assume that the Sanctus Dionisius is to be regarded as a prize, in which case its cargo will be confiscated and everyone on board, including me, held for a while, then sent away, together with their ship. In which case it would be best to leave my “treasure” in some safe hiding-place, pray that nobody finds it, and try to recover it when the present ordeal is over.
After hesitating for a couple
of hours, I’ve decided on the second alternative. I only hope I shan’t regret it!
Now I’m going to put my notebook and my writing things away in the same hiding-place where Gregorio’s money is already — behind a loose plank in the wall. I shall stow half the money I have left there too, though I ought to keep a reasonable amount on me: otherwise they’ll smell a rat and make me produce the lot.
I’m tempted to keep my notebook with me. Money comes and goes, but these pages are my own flesh, my own last companion. I can hardly bear to part with them. But I suppose I must.
14 August 1666
I haven’t written a line for more than forty days. I’ve been ashore, in confinement, while my notebook was still in its hiding-place on the ship. But now we’re both safe, thank God! and reunited at last.
I’m too shaken up to write today. Tomorrow I’ll have my joy more under control, and I’ll tell all then.
I still find it difficult to write, but it’s even more difficult not to. So though I shall set down the misadventure that now finds a happy ending, I’ll skip most of the details, like someone leaping from stone to stone to cross a stream.
On Wednesday, 8 July, the Sanctus Dionisius crawled into Amsterdam harbour like a captured beast on a leash. I was on deck, my canvas bag over my shoulder, my hands on the rail, my eyes on the pink walls, the brown roofs, and the black hats on the quay — though all my thoughts were elsewhere.
As soon as we’d berthed, we were ordered — without violence but without ceremony either — to leave the ship and proceed to a building at the end of the quay. And there we were shut up. It wasn’t really a prison — just a space with a roof over it, with sentries on duty at the two doors to prevent us from leaving. We were divided into two or three groups: the one I was in included the few remaining passengers and part of the crew, but not Maurizio or the captain.
On the third day a dignitary from the town came and inspected the premises. When he saw me, he said a few reassuring words, but he still wore a stern expression and he didn’t make any definite promises.
A week after that the captain arrived, with various other people I didn’t know. He picked out by name the sturdiest of the sailors — clearly to unload the cargo from the ship. They were brought back to the shed at the end of the day, and sent for again the next day, and the day after that.
One question was on the tip of my tongue: when they unloaded the cargo, had they searched the passengers’ cabins too? I tried for some time to think of a way of asking that would satisfy my curiosity without arousing suspicion, but in the end I gave up. In the situation I was in, it was dangerous to be too impatient.
How often, in those long days of anxiety and inaction, I thought of Maïmoun, of all he’d told me about Amsterdam, and of all I used to say about it myself. The faraway city had become for us a kind of shared dream, a distant hope. We sometimes talked of going and living there together for a while. And it may even be that Maïmoun is here now, as he planned. As for me, I regret ever having set foot in the place. I regret having come to the country of free men as a prisoner, and having spent so many days and nights in Amsterdam without seeing anything but the wrong side of its walls.
Two weeks went by before they let us back on the Sanctus Dionisius. But we weren’t allowed to set sail. We might be aboard our ship, but we were still not free, and there were soldiers on patrol all the time.
In order to keep a better watch on us, they confined us all to one part of the ship. My cabin was in the other part, and to avoid giving away my secret I made a point of not going there.
Even when the ship was under way at last, I still waited a while before going back to my former quarters: a squad of Dutchmen stayed on board until we left the Zuider Zee behind and emerged into the North Sea.
Not until today was I able to check that my treasure was still intact in its hiding-place. I’ve left it there, taking only my notebook and writing materials.
15 August
All the sailors on board are getting tipsy, and I myself have drunk a little.
Strangely enough I didn’t get sea-sick this time after we’d left the harbour. And in spite of all my potations, I can walk about the deck quite steadily.
Maurizio, who’s just as drunk as his elders, told me that when our ship was seized the captain said that only a third of our cargo was bound for London and the other two-thirds were going to a merchant in Amsterdam. Once ashore, he sent for this man, whom he knew very well, but as the friend was out of town he had to wait for his return. Then things moved fast. The merchant sized up the situation, saw his advantage, confirmed what Centurione had said, and took delivery of the goods. The Dutch authorities confiscated the other third of the cargo, then released the ship and the people on it.
Well, our captain seems sharp enough, though I still maintain he’s crazy! Unless he’s two different people alternately.
17 August
According to Maurizio, our captain has fooled the Dutch again. He made them think he was going back to Genoa, whereas in fact he’s heading straight for London!
19 August
We’re sailing up the Thames estuary, and I haven’t any companions left on board — I mean anyone with whom I can have a proper conversation. Given that there’s nothing else to do, I should get down to some writing. But my mind’s a blank, and my hand is reluctant.
London. I never dreamed I’d see it, yet I’ll soon be there.
Monday, 23 August 1666
We reached the landing-stage of the port of London at first light today. The English are so wary after their recent confrontations with the Dutch that we were intercepted three times as we came up the estuary.
As soon as we arrived, I left my meagre belongings at an inn by the river near the docks, and went in search of Cornelius Wheeler. I knew from what Pastor Coenen had said that his shop was near St Paul’s Cathedral, and found my way to it by making inquiries of some other merchants.
Having asked to see Master Wheeler, I was shown upstairs by a young clerk and greeted by a very old man with a thin, sad countenance, who turned out to be Cornelius’s father. His son was in Bristol, he told me, and wouldn’t be back for two or three weeks. But if I needed a book or any information in the meantime, the old gentleman would be happy to help me.
I’d already introduced myself, but as my name didn’t seem to mean anything to him, I explained that I was the Genoese friend to whom Cornelius had lent his house in Smyrna.
“I hope nothing went wrong?” said the old man anxiously.
No, he needn’t worry, the house was quite all right. I hadn’t come to London on that account, but to attend to business of my own. I chatted to him about it for a while, telling him of the books that sell well in my part of the world and those that are no longer in demand. He was bound to be interested since we’re both in the same trade.
At one point I mentioned The Hundredth Name, hinting that I knew Cornelius had brought it back from Smyrna. The old man didn’t actually start, but I caught a gleam of curiosity, perhaps not unmingled with mistrust, in his eye.
“Unfortunately I don’t read Arabic. I can tell you exactly what we have on our shelves in Italian, French, Latin and Greek, but for Arabic and Turkish you’ll have to wait for Cornelius.”
I told him in detail what the book looked like — its dimensions, the concentric gold patterns on the green leather binding. Then the young clerk, who was hanging about listening to us, chipped in.
“Isn’t that the book the chaplain came for?”
The old man looked daggers at him, but the damage was done and it was too late to try to cover it up.
“Yes, it must be. We sold it a few days ago. But look around — I’m sure you’ll find something that interests you.
He asked the lad to bring various volumes, but I didn’t even try to register their names. I didn’t intend to let myself be thrown off the scent.
“I’ve come a long way to get that book,” I said, “and I’d be grateful if you’d tell me
where I can find that chaplain so that I can try to buy it from him.”
“Excuse me — I’m not supposed to tell you who buys what, and especially not to reveal a customer’s address.”
“But if your son trusts me enough to lend me his house and everything in it —”
I didn’t have to go on.
“Very well,” said the old gentleman. “Jonas will take you there.”
On the way, no doubt misled by having heard me attempt a few words in English, the lad bestowed on me a flood of all but incomprehensible confidences. I just nodded from time to time as I observed the crush in the narrow streets. I did manage to make out that the man we were going to see had once been a chaplain in Cromwell’s army. Jonas couldn’t tell me his real name, and seemed not even to understand my question. He’d never heard him called anything but “chaplain”.
As the man who’d bought the book was a churchman, I thought we must be on the way to the nearby cathedral, or some church or presbytery. What was my surprise, then, when we stopped at a dubious, ramshackle place defined by a sign outside as an ale-house. Inside, we felt the glazed stare of a dozen pairs of eyes. The room was dark as twilight, though it wasn’t yet noon. Conversation had dropped to a murmur, though I could tell I was its subject. They can’t often see Genoese finery there. I gave a little nod, and Jonas asked the landlady — a tall plump woman with shiny hair and a half-naked bosom — if the chaplain was there. She merely pointed upwards. We went along a passage to a flight of creaky stairs, at the top of which the lad knocked on a closed door and, without waiting for an answer, opened it, calling out: