What Casanova Told Me

by Susan Swan

  God the Almighty gave me the wisdom to tell our innkeepers and other travellers that she had been born dumb. And if I may humbly say, she was grateful for my ingenuity, Your Majesty, although she at first found the turban warm.

  We were riding across the plain of Filibe when the bandits struck. The alluvial plain is so pleasant with its fields of tobacco and cherry orchards that we had been lulled into forgetting all prospect of danger. The thieves came at daybreak while we slept, and disarmed us swiftly.

  Alas, we were travelling without bodyguards. As Your Majesty knows, the young prince often goes about as a commoner, so he can learn the ways of the people who will one day be his subjects. It is a practice his mother taught him. The thieves were too ignorant to see through Miss Adams’ disguise although they found the pistol in her travelling chest, and took the scimitar belonging to myself. The old gentleman had no weapons on him. And it was easy for them to ascertain that Mahmud had been born into a good family in Constantinople, although, Praise God the Almighty, they failed to guess how truly exalted is his rank. Their plan was to hold him ransom and extract a handsome sum from his family, and for this nefarious purpose they kept him separate from us. It was all I could do not to lose heart. Still, if I may humbly add, there have been enough brigands in Your Majesty’s Court to keep my wits sharp. To that end, I told the thieves Mahmud was my nephew, and that his family would send them the ransom monies in Constantinople if I went to his father with their request.

  Some days after our capture, janissaries were sighted in the distance, and the thieves hurried us out of the foothills up into the mountains. It was a hard march. The thieves rode horses and made us go on foot. Meanwhile, the weather had changed, bringing high winds and rain, and at night the ground by our fire was wet and infested with ticks. Mahmud was still kept apart from us, taking his yogurt and broth on the other side of the fire, and unhappily the thieves stopped me from giving him my ration.

  In the mountains, the Chevalier de Seingalt came down with fever. Every day he grew weaker, until we had to carry the old gentleman in a hammock held together by long poles, his dog running alongside him. It was touching to see the care Miss Adams lavished on him, feeding him herself and wiping his brow when his fever was high. I believe her friendship with the old gentleman is dear to her, although such a friendship cannot last long.

  I made a habit of sitting with the thieves when they took keyif. They had never met a Muslim like myself, and they delighted in my freckles and red beard, never losing an opportunity to call me “the Fair-Haired One.” I did my best to accommodate their questions. As a boy, I was deeply impressed by my father’s flexible nature, and if I may humbly say, the acorn does not fall far from the tree. Soon the thieves began to share their opium with me around their evening bonfires, which I made a pretence of smoking, while Miss Adams and the old gentleman sat at a distance.

  Praise God, they were simple farmers who had taken to robbing travellers because a drought had ruined their poppy crop. They blamed their luck on Bendis the Destroyer, an ancestral goddess who plays cruelly with the fates of men. I asked polite questions about this deity whose cult is known in the back hills of Thrace, and once they had fallen into a trancelike state by the evening campfire, the thieves would talk willingly about her.

  It seems Bendis has been worshipped by the people in that region long before Mohammed, and this faith is practised secretly so as not to arouse the ire of the mullahs. They described Bendis as dual in nature: she is the mistress of stones, forests, springs and healing waters, and the crone of the waning moon, whose savage powers can bring a man to his knees. They told me strange tales of Roman times when men cut off their genitals in order to appease Bendis, and their faces broke into relieved smiles when they said such sacrifice was no longer demanded.

  Soon after, we descended into a magnificent pine valley and made camp at the foot of a cliff. Above us, in the rocky edifice, was a large cave from which flowed a mountain spring. The thieves believed the cliff was haunted by the goddess Bendis, and pointed out the ledge, where in times of trouble Bendis was said to appear and offer help to mortals in need. The thieves were greatly excited and said that if I dug in the earth at the foot of the cliff below the cave I would find strange pagan idols left by her worshippers.

  To prove it, the chief amongst the thieves, by the name of Kemal, showed me a clay figure he had found in the ground. An embellished triangle on the antiquity signified its female nature.

  That night, Kemal built a huge bonfire and scattered its ashes over the small figure. Soon everyone fell asleep, but I was unable to close my eyes because, Praise God Almighty, an idea had been born that would lead to the deliverance of Mahmud, along with myself and my two Frankish friends.

  Luce was helping Ender prepare lunch. His apartment was in the old district of Sultanahmet in one of the wooden houses she had noticed from her hotel. He had set a table for two on the balcony. It was cleaner than the cluttered verandas she had seen from the terrace of the hotel but simply decorated with a picnic table and a few old plastic lawn chairs. Ender explained that the apartment belonged to his uncle who had gone to his summer house in the Princes’ Islands and given him the run of the place so Ender could research the history of art under the Ottomans. Part of his research touched on the practice of calligraphy.

  “Casanova’s opinions about the scribe’s ‘Mussulmani nonsense’ is typical of Orientalist stereotypes,” Ender said, frowning. “You know, the barbaric Turk, that sort of attitude? Or else Western travellers exoticize the Ottomans just as they do the rest of the East. And yes, it’s a pet peeve of mine, so ignore me at your peril.”

  Luce laughed as she sliced up tomatoes. “I promise not to act like an ignorant Westerner. I’d be too terrified!”

  He gave her a bemused look from behind his oversized glasses and it struck her that his glasses sat on the bridge of his nose like an afterthought, or perhaps an apology. She wondered if he wore glasses defensively the way men who wore beards often wanted to be perceived as more manly. Perhaps he needed or wanted those large, strange-looking spectacles to defuse the impact of his attractive appearance.

  “But why would Asked For Adams be accused of treason? An American woman wouldn’t pose much of a threat to the Ottoman court, would she?”

  “Foreigners like Baron de Tott helped to train a new corps of engineers and artillery for Selim’s father and the work continued under Selim III. That’s probably why he rescued the Scotsman from death or imprisonment after Bonnie Prince Charlie’s rebellion and brought him to Turkey. De Tott reorganized the gun foundry and taught new European mathematics. But there was fierce resistance from the janissaries to learning new techniques.”

  “Did Selim welcome Western influence?”

  “On some parts of Ottoman life, yes. In 1808, Selim was murdered at Topkapi Palace. Mahmud—the scribe’s young prince—continued the reforms.”

  “And how does Asked For figure in this?”

  “Who knows what talk there would have been about a man like Casanova in Istanbul? His subtlety and intelligence would have been appreciated but his liberal way of thinking would have raised eyebrows in the Sultan’s court, perhaps providing the enemies of Western reform with another reason to cause trouble. But we don’t know that yet, do we? I’ve only just started translating the scribe’s letter.”

  Ender motioned to the table set with a wooden basket overflowing with the stuffed flatbread called gozleme, a hunk of beyaz peynin, the white cheese that looked like feta to Luce, and a platter of dry meatballs, kuru k’ofte, nestled next to slices of fat red domates.

  “Shall we eat?” They sat down to the modest lunch they had prepared together.

  On the third morning in the hills, I saw my chance to save us from the thieves. It came about, if I may humbly say, because Kemal had taken a liking to me and admired the sayings I copied from the Holy Book for him and his wife. The thieves, by now, had grown lazy and unconcerned, believing we could not find our way
out of the hills without their help.

  So Kemal was agreeable when I asked him to show me the secret path to the ledge, and once we were out of sight he let down his guard and warned me that the food supply was dwindling and that his companions spoke about shooting us so they could return to their homes before the winter set in. Perhaps because I am less than thirty years of age, Your Majesty, I was unable to imagine my own death. If I may humbly say, the end of a man in the middle of his life is a crime in the eyes of God the Almighty—like the sun setting at midday.

  In addition, I lived in daily torment because we broke camp often to avoid detection and our constant movement kept me from the tasks whose sacred nature is well loved by Your Majesty. With each hour that passed, I grew more aware of the nimbleness leaving my fingers. At night, I dreamt that Your Majesty had replaced me with my enemy, Kabasakal Edib Efendi, who rides through my dreams like a stalking horse, ever ready to take for himself the favours you bestow, O Glorious Master.

  I have not forgotten how he slyly copied my tale of “The Scribe’s Honeymoon” and offered it as his after Your Majesty asked us to provide stories during the long, rainy weeks last winter. Then my enemy left out the delicate ending I’d provided, foolishly imagining it would evoke Your Imperial Anger. Does Your Majesty recall the tale? One night, around the campfire, while Miss Adams slept, I recited the tale in its entirety to the Chevalier de Seingalt who was delighted by the charm of its ending, which I humbly include here for Your Imperial Pleasure:

  I accepted the little invitation that she offered me and began to introduce my reed into her ink pot when she cried: “One-third, that is already too much. Don’t you see that its inner parts have not taken on the imprint before?” It was too late. The head of my instrument was inclined at an angle, the ink flowed, and my sentiments found their satisfaction.

  There are very few who understand the soul of a scribe, and I count Your Majesty among them. Our essence is this—if we do not copy God’s words, we do not live.

  Ender put down his notepad because Luce was laughing.

  “I’m sorry, Ender. The scribe—it’s the same old male preoccupation with size!”

  “It is a quaint and humorous tale,” Ender agreed. “Not to mention the scribe’s evident lack of interest in his partner’s satisfaction. Ah, that reminds me. I had almost forgotten.” Ender rose and disappeared into his uncle’s apartment. He returned a moment later carrying a little enamelled wooden box.

  “It’s a scribe’s pen-box. I found it this morning on my uncle’s desk. He likes to collect old things. And this was in the pen-case,” he said, handing her a postcard. “My uncle must have put it there to show what the man who used such a box looked like.”

  The card depicted a scribe seated on the floor of a disorderly room, making brush strokes in a book on his knee. She was touched by the scribe’s fastidious appearance and the delicate way he held his reed pen.

  “You see how serious he remains in the midst of chaos? I thought of our scribe’s confession—if he does not copy God’s words, he does not live!”

  “Yes, he looks like he takes his job and his faith very seriously.” She set down the card and opened the little pen-case, gently extracting a reed from its innards. The reed pen felt brittle to the touch of her fingers. She quickly put it back. Heaven knows how old it is, she thought. “What did the scribes make their ink from?”

  “Out of lampblack usually. And this makes me remember another fascinating thing. The architect of Süleyman the First designed his mosque so air currents brought the soot from all the oil lamps in the building to a special room. The currents deposited the soot on the wall of this room so his subjects could come and scrape it off to use in the making of ink.”

  “Are you serious Ender?”

  “I’ll take you there one of these days and show you the room. Believe it or not, Luce, they knew a few good tricks back then.”

  “You’re making fun of me.” She was quiet for a moment. “Are you religious?”

  “I grew up a Muslim but I do not practise any faith. I avoid religious doctrine—as much as possible.” He waved dismissively. “It is the cause of too many troubles in the world.”

  “But you have a faith, Ender. Everyone does. I suppose mine is a belief in the importance of keeping records,” she added, remembering Lee’s comment in Athens that, like her mother, she believed in posterity.

  “Then my hobby of studying Ottoman calligraphy is my faith. Let me tell you a story that will explain the way writing is seen in Islam. Once, an Islamic scholar found a boy sitting on an oil can manufactured in England.

  “‘Get up,’ the scribe told the boy. ‘There are words on the side of the can.’

  “‘This is infidel writing,’ the boy said, pointing to the English words.

  “‘There are Muslim people and infidel people,’ the scribe replied. ‘But all writing is equally holy.’”

  “I like your story,” she said softly.

  He gazed at her so warmly that she dropped her eyes, pretending to be absorbed in his uncle’s enamelled box.

  “Good. And now allow me to read you the next section of the letter.” He grinned as he picked up his notepad. “Our scribe is a surprising fellow.”

  I digress from my purpose, Your Majesty. I was recalling the night when I spoke with the Chevalier about my plan for our escape. We whispered about it to one another after the thieves had slipped into their opium dreams. He is a man it seems of imagination and talent, who has escaped from a few tight corners in his time. He undertook to convince Miss Adams that there was no other course open to us.

  I do not know if Your Majesty has heard the story of Bendis. But as the thieves danced about their fire, a figure appeared on a rocky ledge and, as a result of my cunning, our captors were able to behold the goddess.

  One by one the idolatrous thieves climbed the steps on the cliff and knelt before her. When it came time for Mahmud’s guard to take his turn, he pulled Mahmud along with him, thinking that if he did not, the young prince might try to use this opportunity to escape. Mistakenly believing I was in awe of their despicable ways, they allowed me, too, to climb up the steps carved into the cliff face, with my hands bound and my head bowed. As we approached the ledge, the moon passed behind a cloud, and we were in darkness. Cursing softly, Mahmud’s guard lit a small torch and pushed the young prince forward. We beheld a naked figure, tall, with arms as well muscled as our palace guards. Yet the idol of the thieves was feminine in all aspects, with ruby lips and eyes the same glorious turquoise as the Bosphorus on summer days. And then the goddess cried out to the awestruck thieves that their poppies would grow again if they freed their prisoners.

  Overcome, Mahmud took a step backwards, extinguishing his guard’s torch, and nearly fell from the ledge. As he cried out, a hand grasped his arm, and the idol whispered his name. When the torch was relit and we looked again, she had vanished. The young prince was deeply troubled and confused by what he had seen, until I told him it was the hand of God Almighty gripping his through the hand of the pagan goddess of Thrace.

  I have not told Mahmud the true identity of the Thracian goddess, Your Majesty. But I humbly urge Your Majesty not to overlook the bravery of the Giaour who grasped the prince’s hand in the presence of the thieves. She did not know Mahmud would be among her worshippers, and if I may humbly say, even with the benefit of my coaching, it was terrifying for her to stand unclothed in the moonlight.

  The next day, we awoke to find our guns and horses restored to us, and the thieves gone. They left us boiled rice and a map with crude instructions on how to reach Xanthi at the eastern end of the plain.

  Evening was falling in Istanbul. Luce and Ender were finishing supper at a little fish restaurant in Kumkapi, facing a small square.

  “So it seems your ancestor saved the young sultan-to-be,” Ender said.

  “Or the scribe made up the story to impress the sultan. After all, he wasn’t just a scribe, was he? He invented erotic tales t
o please Selim.”

  “You may be right. Ah, look at the sunset, Luce. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  In the dying light the spires of minarets gleamed in every direction like magic flutes designed by a wizard to delight and fascinate. She didn’t exclaim on the beauty of the city in case Ender decided she was an impressionable Western tourist exoticizing the East.

  They had spent part of the afternoon “Bosphorising,” as he called it. They had walked down the hill from his uncle’s apartment in Sultanahmet and taken a bus to Yeniköy. Then they wandered through the streets near the famous river, stopping to watch the freighters and public ferries gliding up and down the strait. It was warm by the water and an iridescent sheen of light played on the narrow wooden mansions lining the opposite shore.

  Now, in the restaurant, Ender pulled out the translation and put the finishing touches on a new section of the scribe’s letter. He had left the document at his uncle’s apartment, but he wasn’t satisfied with his reconstruction of some of the scribe’s flowery sentences. She felt a thrill of pleasure at the sight of him sitting across the table, his eyes, under the thick black brows, bright with interest, his hand moving with slow, careful strokes across the paper. As he worked, the breeze from the Bosphorus ruffled his hair.

  Finally, he put down his pen, apologizing for taking so long, and she teased him for being a perfectionist. He told her how he had become interested in calligraphy as a small boy, how an elderly man who knew his father had been a scribe, and how he and Theodore Stavridis used to go to the old man’s house and watch him make his flawless, sweeping strokes with an old reed pen. He had been fascinated with the man’s tales of medieval calligraphers like Shaikh Hamdullah, who died in 1520. After his death, Ender said, other scribes would bury their reed pens for a period of time near Shaikh Hamdullah’s tomb, hoping the aura of the great calligrapher would be passed on to them through these pens. “If I lived then, maybe I would have been a scribe too. It was an honourable profession.”