by Mika Waltari
It seemed to me that all this had happened before, and half in a dream I began wondering who she really was, and what it was that linked me to her. She came of an alien race whose language and way of thinking were different from mine. So immersed was I in my somber mood that I failed to notice when she ceased talking. But suddenly she raised herself in bed and stared at me with a look of fear.
“What are you thinking of, Michael?” she asked in a low voice. “Something unpleasant about me, no doubt.”
I could not lie to her, and answered with a shudder, “Giulia, I was remembering my first wife, Barbara-remembering how even dead stones came to life when we were together. And then she was burned as a witch, and so I feel very lonely in the world in spite of lying here beside you with your lovely breast under my hand.”
Giulia was not angry as I had expected; she stared at me curiously and her face took on an unfamiliar look. With a faint sigh she said, “Look into my eyes, Michael!”
If I had wanted to I could not have freed myself from those eyes, gazing at me under their lowered lids. She spoke in a low voice, and although I hardly listened to her I knew what she said, “You’ve doubted my ability to see things in sand, Michael, but as a child I could do the same with water. Perhaps I hardly know myself how much of it is genuine and how much pretense and imagination. But now look deep into my eyes as if into a bottomless well. Then answer me. Which lives in you now, your dead wife or I?”
I gazed and could no longer turn away my head. Giulia’s strange eyes seemed to grow to the size and depth of pools; I could feel my inner self open out and flow into their darkness. Time seemed to halt and then roll backward until all was one engulfing vortex. I seemed to be looking into the green eyes of my wife Barbara and to see her face full of ineffable, mournful tenderness. So real did she appear that I felt I might have touched her cheek. But I would not try.
I stared long at this face, while yet aware that Barbara had been dead many years and that her body had been burned to ashes in the market place of a German city. I was aware of pain-a pain so intense as to seem an ecstasy surpassing any bodily joy. For in seeing again one who had been reft from me by force and whom I had long mourned and missed, I perceived with agonized clarity that her face had nothing more to say to me-that it belonged to another world and another existence-and that I was no longer the man who had shared those two short years with her. My experiences and mistakes, my good and evil actions had raised an insurmountable wall between us, and she would not even have recognized me now. It was useless to recall her among the living. In my heart I had lost her, and forever.
I neither spoke her name nor put out my hand to touch her, and after a little time her yearning face faded into the grave countenance of Giulia. At this singular point in time something happened in my heart that made me feel I understood Giulia better than before, and I believed I really knew her. Then the mist faded; I lay once more in the familiar room and raised my hand to stroke her face. She closed her eyes and drew her brows together with a sigh.
“Where were you, Michael?” she whispered, but I could not answer her. Without a word I took her in my arms and in the warmth of her I knew the boundless solitude of the human heart. My anguish of soul was too keen for me to feel tenderness or desire. I shivered, comfortless. Passing my hand over that lovely body I thought how one day it would grow old, how the soft smooth skin would wither, the round neck shrivel, and the perfumed hair turn dull and gray. So also my desire would fade and dissolve into nothingness. If I loved her, I must love her simply for being the only creature in the world who was near to me, though even this might be a cruel illusion.
As summer neared its end, Khaireddin was satisfied that he had at last consolidated his position in Algeria, and he began to prepare the long-planned embassy to Sultan Suleiman. For as long as confirmation from the High Porte was lacking, the title of beylerbey, which he had already assumed, was worthless; he was shrewd enough to see that he could not found a kingdom of his own on the Algerian coast without becoming the Sultan’s vassal.
When the ships were taking the last of the cargo aboard, Khaireddin ordered me and the other slaves to make ready. He presented me with a kaftan of honor and a copper pen case, and explained to me the maps, charts, and notes that I was to offer as a gift from him to the cartographers of the Seraglio. He gave me also two hundred and fifty gold pieces to distribute among minor court officials who, though without great influence, were able from time to time to gain the ear of their masters. He advised me to squander rather than hoard this money, and promised to replenish my funds should the seed I sowed fall on good soil. But if I stole more than fifty gold pieces of it, he vowed, he would flay me alive with his own hands.
Not more than a fortnight after our wedding I began to notice that Giulia could not bear my dog Rael. She forbade him to sleep by me and chased him into the courtyard, saying that he had fleas and left hairs on the rugs. I was astonished at her fickleness, for before our marriage she enjoyed feeding the dog and talking to him, and never drove him out. Rael, however, had always treated her with reserve, and on her approach would withdraw to a corner with his hackles up, ready to snap, though he never attacked anyone else.
After our marriage he began to grow thin and his coat became rusty. Often he would sit whining softly in the yard, and I noticed his unwillingness to eat the good food which Giulia threw so impatiently into his bowl, though from my hand he eagerly took the hardest bone or the driest crust. I was really sad on poor Rael’s account and took to feeding him myself in secret, and keeping him company in the yard. I continued to confide my troubles to him as of old, but now I had no joys to share.
Giulia’s behavior to Andy too was very arrogant. She respected his physical strength and his skill in the casting of cannon, but for the rest she regarded him as a simpleton with a bad influence on me, for she had noticed that when in his company I was often irritable with her. She did all she could to bring about a rift between us.
Her loveliness and our shared delights could always dispel my ill humor and my doubts, however, and I had only to gaze into her strange eyes, shining like blue and brown jewels in her beautifully painted face, to forget all else; I would think myself a fool to trouble about a poor soulless wretch of a dog, or the simple Andy. At other times as I sat dejectedly in the courtyard with my faithful Rael’s head in my arms, I saw with startling clarity the emptiness of sensual pleasure, and was aware of Giulia as a stranger doing her utmost to part me from my one true friend.
It was already October when, with straining oars and spread sails, we glided upstream through the fortified straits leading into the Sea of Marmara. The hazy yellow heights to the eastward rose fom the Asiatic mainland, while to the west lay that part of Europe which in bygone days had belonged to Greece, but which the Ottomans afterward conquered. Somewhere in this region lay the ruins of Troy, the city of which Homer sang, and here, too, Alexander the Great was buried. I stood on deck and surveyed the gliding shores, thinking of old tales and of the many peoples who had sailed through this channel between the two halves of the world, in search of fortune.
Giulia complained of the hardships of the voyage, and expressed a longing for fresh water and fruit and a proper bath. And indeed after our long period at sea a most abominable stench prevailed aboard our handsomely painted vessel. We put in at a little place near the mouth of the straits and lay there for two days and nights, while we cleansed ourselves and our ship. Long pennants floated in the wind and rich carpets hung over the rail as, to the sound of drums and tambourines, we weighed anchor and with long oar strokes headed toward Turkish Istanbul-once Constantinople, the fabled city of Byzantium.
The weather next day was glorious. The blue hills of the Prince’s Islands rose from the embrace of the sea, while far in the distance the city of the emperors shone toward us like a dream of white and gold. As oars and sails brought us ever nearer to our goal, more prosaic details emerged. We saw the high, gray walls lining the shore, and the
colorful houses seemingly fused together in masses on the slopes. When we had passed the Fort of the Seven Towers our eyes fell upon the Sophia mosque, once the most wonderful church in Christendom, whose mighty dome and minarets still dominated the great city. Behind it on the point, surrounded by the lush green of gardens, lay the numberless dazzling buildings of the Seraglio, marked by the towers that flanked the Gateway of Peace. Opposite the Seraglio, on the other side of the Golden Horn, were the slopes of Pera and the foreigners’ quarter beneath the tower of Galata, with its floating standard-the Lion of St. Mark.
As we glided past Seraglio Point and the Sultan’s marble quay we fired a salute, but the din of it was borne away by the wind. We had sent word of our coming, however, and our salvo was acknowledged by three shots from the cannon on the point. A French vessel anchored in the roads also fired hastily in reply, from which we concluded that King Francis must indeed be in trouble, or his ships would not have deigned to salute a vessel belonging to the pirate king Khaireddin. Our reception was nevertheless devoid of ceremony, and I think that all of us, whatever our rank, were oppressed by a sense of our own insignificance here in the Sultan’s capital.
The turbaned dock laborers cursed and swore at their toil. Only very slowly could we ease our way through the dense shipping to our own berth, where we hove out the anchor astern and made fast by the bows. Before us rose countless warehouses, and beyond them the high, crenelated walls of the harbor quarter. No one heeded us or bade us welcome, and I felt like a rustic come to town for the first time. Captain Torgut evidently felt as I did, for when he had donned his best clothes and a jeweled sword, and had waited for a long time on the quarterdeck, his face darkened and without a word he retired into his cabin.
To my regret Khaireddin had chosen Torgut-reis as his emissary to the High Porte, for Torgut was the youngest and handsomest of his officers; his proud manhood and his taciturnity made a strong impression on those who met him for the first time and knew nothing of his limitations. He was the son of an Anatolian robber and therefore of purely Turkish origin. Khaireddin knew he could trust him, for there was no room in his head for anything but ships and seafaring, fighting and fine clothes. To advise him in matters connected with court intrigue Khaireddin had sent with him an experienced eunuch who had belonged to Selim ben-Hafs. The fellow was corrupt and untrustworthy, but Torgut had been authorized to behead him if necessary, and in these circumstances Khaireddin considered he might be useful; he hoped he might gather information from the eunuchs of the Seraglio, since these persons readily make one another’s acquaintance and confide in one another more freely than they do in uncastrated men.
We had been waiting impatiently all day when one of the white slaves of the Seraglio suddenly appeared, riding a mule and attended by a large party of janissaries. He bade us welcome, promised to leave us some janissaries as guards, and told us that the Divan might attend to Khaireddin’s letters within the next few weeks, if Allah so permitted.
Torgut-reis was incensed by the messenger’s discourtesy and replied sharply that if such were the case he would cast off at once and return with all the rich presents to Algeria. His face crimsoned with anger as he cried that Khaireddin owed the Sultan nothing, and that on the contrary the Sultan was greatly in Khaireddin’s debt for the conquest of a new province and the harassing of the Emperor. Torgut did not mean to wait like a beggar at the rich man’s door, and nothing need prevent Khaireddin from omitting the Sultan’s name from the Friday prayers in the mosques.
The eunuch no doubt marveled in his own mind at Torgut’s uncontrolled behavior. However, he bowed repeatedly, declaring that it was a great honor to appear before the Divan at all, and that ambassadors from the Emperor and from the Emperor’s brother, the King of Vienna, had sometimes to wait for months before gaining an audience. They might even be locked up and have to spend their time of waiting in the cells of the Fort of the Seven Towers. But as for us, the eunuch promised-rubbing finger and thumb together abstractedly-he would put at our disposal a house befitting our dignity and a grant for our maintenance while in Istanbul.
There was nothing for it but to give him a little foretaste of the treasure that Khaireddin had sent. When he had gone, the janissaries settled down on deck and on the quay. Taking off their tall felt caps they began to plait their lock of hair, keeping a sharp lookout to see that no unauthorized person came aboard and that none of us went ashore. These blue-clad warriors, with their long mustaches and sharp chins, kept their heads shaven save for one long lock on top of their heads, so that if the worst befell them their victors need not pierce their ears but could conveniently carry their severed heads by the hair. We realized that we were prisoners, and Torgut perceived too late the mistake he had made in not sending a trustworthy man to call secretly on the Grand Vizier. To prevent bloodshed in the Sultan’s capital, the carrying of arms was forbidden, and the janissaries were armed only with rods of Indian bamboo; nevertheless Torgut believed our situation would hardly be improved by offering violence to the people of the Seraglio.
When from the balconies of the minarets the muezzins proclaimed the hour of evening prayer, we were sitting together dejectedly in Torgut’s cabin and did not even raise our heads from our hands. Dusk erased the yellow, red, gray, and purple colors of the buildings in which countless tiny flames were kindled so that one could appreciate even more clearly the vast extent of this city. Beyond the Golden Horn blazed the foundry fires in the Sultan’s arsenal, whence came the ceaseless sound of hammering. The eunuch told us that this noise usually boded war, and it might therefore be surmised that the Sultan had more important matters to think of than ourselves and our gifts.
But Abu el-Kasim said, “Even though the Mohammedan part of the city is closed to us, the Venetian quarter is open and there should be no difficulty in finding a boatman willing to ferry us across. From what I know of the Venetians they keep late hours, and an astute man could gather useful information about the customs of this city by searching the taverns for a sufficiently exalted-and inebriated-personage. Michael el-Hakim can still pass for a Christian, and if Antar will only promise to keep sober he may go with him as bodyguard.”
Hardly had he finished speaking when we felt the slight shock of a rowing boat against our hull and heard a man whining for alms. For two aspers this fellow promised to row anyone to the opposite shore and its wonderful pleasure haunts, where the commandments of the Koran did not obtain and where women, kinder than the houris of Paradise, entertained the guests so long as their money lasted. Night in the harbor quarter was not made for sleep, the eloquent boatman assured us in a whisper. It was not long before Andy and I found ourselves gliding over the dim waters of the Golden Horn, unable in the darkness to make out the features of our ferryman.
As we approached the farther shore the waters reflected the glow of torches and we heard the gay music of stringed instruments. We drew alongside a stone quay and I gave the ragged boatman the fee he demanded, though it was an extortionate one for so short a journey. The watchman paid us no heed and we passed straight through the harbor gates into the brightly lit street, where unveiled women addressed us without embarrassment in a number of different languages. Suddenly Andy opened his eyes wide, seized me by the arm, and exclaimed, “As I live, there’s a cask of honest ale standing by that door, with a bundle of straw above it!”
He carried me through the doorway as if I had been a feather and when our eyes had grown accustomed to the light we beheld a number of rough fellows sitting at tables and drinking. A fat, gray-haired man was busy at a cask, filling tankard after tankard with foaming ale, and on seeing us he said, “By Allah, you’re not the first Moslems to enter this respectable tavern, for the Prophet never forbade his followers to drink ale. The holy book mentions only wine, and so with a clear conscience you may drain a tankard here.”
As he spoke he surveyed us suspiciously, as if wondering where he had seen us before. 1 stared back, and suddenly recognizing those bristly eye
brows and that purple nose I exclaimed in astonishment, “Jesus, Mary! Is it not Master EimerP How in the world did you get here?”
The man turned deadly pale and crossed himself repeatedly. Then, snatching up a carving knife, he hurled himself upon me and shrieked, “And you’re that accursed Michael Pelzfuss, Madame Genevieve’s confederate! Now at last I can make mincemeat of you.”
But Andy snatched away the knife and hugged him to his breast to stifle his wrath; as he struggled and stormed in Andy’s arms I thumped him heartily on the back and Andy spoke kindly to him, saying, “How pleasant to meet an old friend on our first evening in the Sultan’s capital! May it prove a good omen for our task here. Don’t abuse Michael, dear Master Eimer; was it not you who lured Madame Genevieve from him and so found yourself supping with the devil? It’s no fault of his that Madame Genevieve cheated you of your money and then sold you to the galleys. It’s the result of your own sins. Madame Genevieve is now proprietress of a highly esteemed brothel in Lyons, founded with your money.”
Master Eimar was purple in the face.
“Burn me if I’ll bandy words with curs like you! You both helped to rob me and I was mad to trust such devil-ridden heretics. That you should have trodden the Cross underfoot and taken the turban is no more than I might have expected. It’s but a step from Luther’s abominable heresies to the Prophet and his teaching.”
But when Andy seized him by the throat and threatened to pull the house down about his ears, Master Eimer’s tone grew milder; he asked us to pardon him for losing his wits in the surprise of meeting us, and to give him our opinion of his ale, as he was not altogether satisfied with the Hungarian hops of which it was brewed. Andy at once swallowed a mugful, licked his lips, and agreed that there was something a little strange about the taste, though it was long since he had so much as seen a drop of honest ale. After a further draught he nodded and said, “Now I taste it. It’s as it used to be, and tickles the nose pleasantly. Surely no better ale is brewed this side of Vienna.”