Gun Island

by Amitav Ghosh

  Here a large map of Venice appeared on a drop-down screen and Cinta turned to it with a laser pointer: ‘You see,’ she said, ‘this is the sestiere – the district – of Cannaregio, in the north-east of Venice. And here –’ now the glowing red dot of the pointer moved a little – ‘is the island in question. Since Venice is itself an island – or rather an archipelago of islands – the old ghetto is an island within an island, as you can see.’

  The phrase ‘island within an island’ startled me. Where had I heard it before?

  A couple of minutes went by before I recalled the curious symbol I had seen on the walls of the Gun Merchant’s shrine, of two concentric circles.

  ‘Dwiper bhetorey dwip,’ Rafi had said, ‘an island within an island…’

  I leaned forward, listening intently as Cinta continued. The island that was allotted to the Jews, she said, had previously been a foundry where armaments, including bullets, were cast. The word for foundry in the old Venetian dialect was getto and this had become the name of the city’s Jewish settlement. Not only would this settlement become a great centre of Jewish learning, it would also lead to the coining of certain words, of which ghetto was only one.

  Now, resting an elbow on the podium, Cinta leaned forward: ‘Remember that the merchants who lived in the ghetto of Venice traded with the Levant, Egypt and North Africa; many were fluent in Arabic. Secondo me, it was through them that my city came to occupy a curious place in the vocabolario of classical Arabic: in that language Venice is linked to three apparently unrelated things – hazelnuts, bullets and guns! I say “apparently” because of course the shape of hazelnuts is similar to that of bullets which are, in turn, indispensable for guns! In any event, all three are known in Arabic by a word that derives from the Byzantine name for Venice, which was “Banadiq” – the ancestor of the German and Swedish “Venedig”. In Arabic “Banadiq” became “al-Bunduqeyya”, which still remains the proper name for Venice in that language. But bunduqeyya is also the word for guns, hazelnuts and bullets – and the latter, I like to think, were cast precisely in the foundry of the old getto!’

  Here she paused for a moment, and then, like a magician who is about to pull a rabbit out of a hat, she made a dramatic gesture.

  ‘And through Arabic the name of Venice has travelled far afield, to Persia and parts of India, where to this day guns are known as bundook – which is, of course, none other than “Venice” or “Venetian”!’

  It sometimes happens that the circuitry of the brain establishes a connection that creates a jolt like that of an electric shock. That was what happened to me at this point in Cinta’s talk. Was it possible that I had completely misunderstood the name ‘Bonduki Sadagar’? Could it be that its meaning was not ‘The Gun Merchant’, as I had thought, but rather, ‘The Merchant who went to Venice’?

  I must have gasped audibly for many heads turned to look at me. Flushed with embarrassment, I rose to my feet and stumbled out of the hall.

  * * *

  My abrupt exit did not escape Cinta’s attention. Later, at the closing party, she took me aside.

  ‘Dino! I saw you walk out of my talk,’ she said, putting a hand on my sleeve. ‘What happened, caro? Are you not well?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ I mumbled awkwardly. It’s just that you touched on something that startled me.’

  ‘What? Dimmi!’

  I cast a glance around the crowded, noisy room. ‘Can we go outside? I can hardly hear myself in here.’

  ‘Certo, let’s go to the garden.’

  Helping ourselves to glasses of wine, we went outside, to the hotel’s garden, and found ourselves a secluded bench.

  ‘So tell me then,’ said Cinta. ‘What is it?’

  I gulped down some wine and took a deep breath. ‘You know that shrine I was telling you about? In the Sundarbans?’

  ‘Sì. Go on.’

  ‘There’s a legend associated with it – but as I told you, it was never written down and all that survives of it are a few fragments. What I knew of it led me to assume that it was just a kind of wonder tale about fantastic places and people – something that had no connection with reality. But some of the things I’ve heard at this conference – first from the opening speaker, and then from you today – have made me wonder whether there might not be more to the story than I had thought.’

  ‘Why exactly?’

  ‘Well for one thing the central figure in the legend is called Bonduki Sadagar – which I had interpreted to mean “Gun Merchant”. I guess that’s how I’ll always think of him – but after listening to your talk I realized that it could also mean something quite different. Maybe it means “The Merchant who visited Venice”.’

  Cinta’s eyes widened and she stared at me for a moment.

  ‘What else do you know about this legend?’

  ‘Not much, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Tell me what you know, everything.’

  * * *

  She listened to me intently as I sketched the outlines of the story. Even before I had finished she began to nod: ‘You are right, I think. Your Gun Merchant’s name probably is a reference to Venice, not to guns.’

  She frowned and tapped her chin with her forefinger. ‘But still, I am not sure what you have in mind. Are you suggesting that the story is an apocryphal record of a real journey to Venice?’

  ‘That thought did cross my mind,’ I said, ‘but there are too many arguments against it, all those fantastical place names for instance. What can you make of the Land of Palm Sugar Candy and the Land of Kerchieves? Don’t they sound like items from a book of marvels?’

  Cinta closed her eyes. ‘Forse, forse … but tell me: what are the actual names of these places, in Bangla? Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes I do,’ I said. ‘The name that I translated as the “Land of Palm Sugar Candy” was Taal-misrir-desh. Desh is “country” in Bengali, and taal is a kind of palm tree that produces a sugary syrup which is used to make all kinds of sweets including a crystallized candy. I translated the phrase as “palm sugar candy” because the Bengali word for “sugar candy” is misri.’

  ‘O caro mio!’ Cinta gave a deep, rumbling laugh. ‘This is indeed a marvel, but not of the kind you imagined.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you not know that “Misr” is but the Arabic word for Egypt? Misri or masri just means “Egyptian” – perhaps crystallized sugar is known as misri because the process had come to Bengal by way of Egypt?’

  I gazed at her, dumbfounded.

  ‘Non è possibile?’ she continued. ‘Maybe your Sugar Candy Land is just a reference to Egypt?’

  ‘Why … yes,’ I stuttered. ‘I suppose it’s possible – the Gun Merchant and Nakhuda Ilyas would certainly have had to go through Egypt in order to reach the Mediterranean…’

  The solving of the first puzzle had whetted Cinta’s appetite. She cut me off impatiently: ‘And the other country they passed through?’ she said. ‘What was that called?’

  ‘The Land of Kerchieves? In the legend it was called Rumaali-desh. In Bengali rumaal is a handkerchief…’

  A triumphant cry burst from Cinta’s lips: ‘Hah! But nothing could be more clear! Of course! That too is a place.’

  ‘What place?’

  ‘Have you not heard of Rumelia? Or of the fort of Rumeli-Hisari?’

  I shook my head. ‘No? Where is it?’

  ‘In Turkey.’

  I gasped. ‘Turkey? Really?’

  ‘Yes, caro, Turkey. Why do you look so … so sbigottito? You’re shivering.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Oh, it’s nothing. Go on. Where is this fort?’

  ‘On the outskirts of Istanbul, where the Turks built their first stronghold in Europe. Rumeli comes from “Rum”, “Rome” – which is how Constantinople, the Byzantine “Rome”, was known in Arabic and Persian. The Rumaali of your story is probably just a corruption of some version of “Rum” – does it not make sense that the Gun Merchant and Captain Ilyas would have gone
from Egypt to Turkey? And wait a minute…’

  She stopped to rub the tip of her nose: ‘È vero – did you say they were expelled from that land because of a fire?’

  I answered with a nod, and she cried out. ‘See! Now you even have a date!’

  ‘How?’

  ‘There was a great fire in Istanbul in 1660 – do you not remember what our opening speaker said the other day? A terrible drought had turned Istanbul into a tinderbox and in July 1660 a huge fire broke out in the city, killing forty thousand people and destroying hundreds of thousands of houses. Two-thirds of the city was immolated, and the Jewish neighbourhoods were particularly badly hit. It was a great catastrofe because afterwards fanatics placed the blame on the Jews. Many were expelled and a good number came to settle in Venice.’

  Cinta took a sip of her wine: ‘Che peccato … such a pity that we don’t know anything more about this Captain Ilyas. It would be interesting to have a few clues about who he was and where he was from.’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ I said, suddenly recalling a detail. ‘There is one little clue. On the walls of the shrine, the figure of Captain Ilyas was often paired with a little symbol – a sign I didn’t recognize.’

  ‘Davvero? Draw it for me.’

  I pulled a pen and a paper napkin out of my jacket pocket and closed my eyes, trying to visualize the symbol.

  ‘It looked something like this,’ I said.

  I handed her the napkin and shone a light on it, with my cellphone.

  Putting on her glasses, she peered at the napkin for a moment. ‘Why,’ she said, ‘I think … no, sono sicura! – yes, I am sure – it’s an aleph, the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet! It is all clear now – the Captain was a Jew! The name ‘Ilyas’ was common among Eastern Jews at that time – and in Hebrew the name begins with an aleph!’

  Cinta clapped her hands in childlike delight. ‘Sì! Now – all of it begins to make sense! Did you not say that the Gun Merchant was sold to Captain Ilyas by Portuguese pirates?’

  ‘Yes – that was the story.’

  ‘Ah!’ She ran a fingertip ruminatively around the top of her wineglass. ‘Now, if a seventeenth-century Portuguese pirate had picked up a few captives in the Bay of Bengal, where would he go to sell them? The answer is obvious: Goa, which was the capital of the Portuguese Empire in Asia as well as a hub of the Indian Ocean slave trade.’

  She laughed again. ‘So you see, Dino, maybe this is not just a wonder tale. The outlines of the story are historically quite plausible. The protagonist is a merchant, whose homeland, in eastern India, is struck by drought and floods brought on by the climatic disturbances of the Little Ice Age; he loses everything including his family, and decides to go overseas to recoup his fortune. On the way his ship is attacked and he is captured by Portuguese pirates who take him to Goa and put him up for sale, as a slave. He is bought by a well-travelled trader and sailor, Ilyas, who recognizes his qualities and sets him free. Ilyas is by origin a Portuguese Jew; his family had come to Goa to escape the Inquisition in Portugal. But now the Inquisition has come to Goa too, so he has decided to leave again and the Gun Merchant decides to accompany him. They set off in Ilyas’s ship and go first to the Maldive Islands where they acquire a cargo of cowrie shells. Poi they go to Egypt, only to find that it is also convulsed by the “general crisis” of the seventeenth century. The government is split between two warring factions, the economy is under strain, it is not a good time for merchants. So Ilyas and his protégé set off for Istanbul, the capital of the Ottoman Empire, which has long been a safe haven for Jews like Ilyas. But there too, trouble is brewing. The land is in the grip of a fearsome drought; strange messianic figures have emerged. Suspicion stalks the streets of Istanbul, and when a great fire breaks out the finger of blame lands upon the Jewish community. So Ilyas decides that he and his protégé are not safe and must leave again, this time for Venice.’

  She made a sweeping gesture, like a conjuror picking something out of the air. ‘Ecco! You have your legend!’

  But I was still unconvinced.

  ‘I don’t see why Nakhuda Ilyas would have taken the Merchant with him to Italy. Wouldn’t a dark-skinned Bengali man have stood out in Venice?’

  Cinta’s eyes sparkled, brightly enough to pierce the gathering darkness. ‘Ah tesoro, non ti ricordi? Remember Othello? Your Merchant would not have been the first, or last, dark-skinned man in Venice. It was then the most cosmopolitan place in the world. Visitors from other parts of Europe always commented on how many foreigners there were in Venice – including people from the Levant, North Africa, Mali. That was why Shakespeare set those two plays in Venice – it was the only plausible setting for characters like Shylock and Othello.’

  Even as I was conceding this, another objection occurred to me: ‘But what about the cowrie shells?’ I said. ‘What use would they be in Venice?’

  ‘They would fetch money, of course! Cowries were for centuries an important article of trade in Venice. They served as a currency in the Malian Empire and at that time Venice was the most important trans-shipment port for that part of Africa. In the seventeenth century the demand for cowries began to rise because they were used for the Atlantic slave trade. It was a time when large quantities of cowries were flowing through the markets of Venice – our heroes could have found no better place to dispose of their shells.’

  Her explanation left me scratching my head. ‘I still don’t understand, Cinta. Why would a roving sea captain like Nakhuda Ilyas want to settle in a ghetto?’

  ‘Caro,’ she said gently, ‘perhaps you have misunderstood the term – the getto of Venice was not like the ghettoes of Eastern Europe. Even though Jews were segregated in Venice, they were safer and freer there than anywhere else in Christendom. The place is not as you might think – have you not seen it?’

  ‘No, I don’t remember having seen the Ghetto.’

  ‘Well, then you must come back to Venice – to Banadiq. That is obvious I think. You visited me there once didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, a long time ago. I stayed in your apartment.’

  ‘Then you must come back again. Whatever this is, you must follow it through. Don’t think of it as something unfortunate that has befallen you. Think of it as an ordeal at the end of which there may be a reward, maybe even just something that will bring you peace of mind. And you are not alone in this. I will be with you too – all the way.’

  I knew, from the intensity of her voice, that she was trying to reassure me. But her words had the opposite effect: I felt exhausted and completely out of my depth.

  ‘But what can I do to see it through, Cinta? I have no idea.’

  ‘Well you won’t know until you come back to Venice.’ She reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Promise me that you will come? You will stay in my apartment of course – it is very close to the getto. This time we will make sure that you see it.’

  It was impossible to say no. ‘I promise,’ I said. ‘I’ll come to Bundook as soon as I can get my business affairs in order.’

  * * *

  My promise to Cinta was not idly made; at that time I certainly meant what I said. But once I was back in New York, ensconced in my apartment, the idea of going to Venice began to seem increasingly implausible. What would be the point of it? What could I possibly hope to find there? I had bills to pay and work to do. I hadn’t made a major sale in a long time and had no money coming in. I had already been forced to dip into my ‘rainy day’ account and could not afford to deplete it further. Venice was sure to be hugely expensive; going there was beyond the means of someone who made his living by hawking wares that nobody seemed to want any more.

  As the days passed I began to worry more and more about my finances. Soon I was thinking of little else: I would obsessively check the accounts in which my savings were invested; I would spend hours on the phone, rebalancing my funds and making minute adjustments to my portfolio. And every time I made a change messages would appear on my screen suggesting som
e new fund or some new strategy for saving still more.

  These messages in turn would generate others, some of which exhorted me to consider how long my savings would last if I lived for another twenty, thirty or forty years. Terrifying actuarial figures would scroll down the screen suggesting, very discreetly, that I was heading towards destitution and homelessness.

  Some years before I had paid a nostalgic visit to the Midwestern town where I had once studied and worked. Memories of that trip now came back to haunt me. I had been away from the town a long time and was unprepared for the changes that had befallen it: the whole region had been devastated by factory closings and was now a part of the Rust Belt. The damage had been compounded by a recent banking crisis. I drove past the house where I had once lived (paying a rent beyond my means simply because the neighbourhood had reminded me of the Archie comics I had read, as a child, in Calcutta) and I found the street, with its winding, leafy, picture-perfect curves, festooned with FOR SALE signs: I was told that a wave of evictions, enforced by a bank of near murderous rapacity, had left many of my former neighbours homeless and that some of them had even been reduced to sleeping under sheets of cardboard on the corner of Jefferson and Main, where they subsisted by begging quarters off drunken Chinese and Arab students as they stumbled out of the High Plains Bar and Grill.

  Now, staring at my dwindling savings, I began to wonder whether this was the fate that awaited me.

  Searching for answers, I immersed myself in the statistics and probabilities that were constantly thrust upon me by anonymous robo-messages: how long would I live? How many years would my savings last if I had to be committed to a nursing home?

  What if I lived to ninety-five; did I have enough insurance?

  I keyed in the question and stared in alarm at the numbers that appeared before me: the odds were good enough that I felt compelled to reach for my credit card. But no sooner had I paid for the extra insurance than another window popped up, displaying the odds of my living to one hundred and three – and I saw, to my dismay, that they were no smaller than those of a passer-by being hit by an icicle falling off my windowsill. And since that was a possibility against which I was already insured, I could think of no good reason not to reach for my credit card again.