Altai: A Novel (17 page)

19.

Following a sedan chair along the byways of Constantinople is an easy business. The narrow, muddy streets force the vehicles to adopt a slow, uneven pace. And anyway, people who use them don’t do it to go faster, but rather to shelter their heads from inclement weather and keep their shoes clean—two advantages that I couldn’t help envying as I walked along, drenched by the storm. In the morning, when I left the palace, a tepid sun was shining. Shrubs and bushes were putting out their first flowers, and the scent of jasmine sweetened the air, like a drop of honey in a spicy brew. Then all of a sudden the wind had risen, and while Ashkenazi lurked in the bailiff’s rooms, a curtain of clouds had covered the blue.

The sedan chair passed down along rivers of mud until it reached the coast at Galata, where I lost sight of it in the crowd. Boatmen harried by the rain called out the price of a crossing to the opposite shore. Pickpockets, thanking the precipitation, robbed the passengers distracted by the cries. Taking care not to be among their victims, I boarded a
parema
and had myself ferried to the peninsula, sure that Ashkenazi would have done the same. And indeed, I found him at the Fishmonger’s Gate, ready to climb into a new chair.

We left the warehouses and fish stalls behind us, crossed the Imperial Road, and came back down toward the district of Kadirga, on the shore of the White Sea, the site of one of the city’s three arsenals.

The sedan chair passed through the entrance to a big building set into the city wall, revealing still more gates and courtyards above a sequence of three terraces. From without, the structure’s appearance was imposing but plain, typical of Ottoman seraglios, which surprise visitors with the contrast between their simple facades and elaborate interiors. I sheltered from the rain beneath the closed balcony of a house and asked a passer-by who owned the residence in front of me. Sadrazam Mehmet Pasha, was the reply.

The Grand Vizier Sokollu.

Over the next few days I pondered this discovery, until I realized that I hadn’t resolved a thing. From Solomon’s journey I could deduce that the bailiff’s letters very swiftly ended up in front of the eyes of Sokollu. But I had no proof of their transit, and besides, I didn’t need any. My aim was to work out how those letters reached Venice, and I was sure that the Grand Vizier was not the courier I was looking for. Too reckless, for him, to act as a direct go-between in this correspondence. It was one thing to read the enemy’s messages, quite another to help them reach their destination.

Don Yossef had talked to me for a long time about Ashkenazi’s dealings. The doctor’s properties were on the island of Crete. Vines, olives and lemons. His ships regularly came and went from Candia. Nothing better than a Venetian colony to deliver the bailiff’s letters to the right people. If my idea was correct, I had to work out
who
would bring them to the island, and when.

I plunged into the depths of Galata like a pearl fisher, hoping to come back up with the treasure in my hands. I lingered in the taverns till late; I unloaded bales of silk on the planks of the jetty. I spoke Turkish, Dalmatian, Italian, Ladino. I won the words of gamblers at dice, I bought them from merchants, I forced open the silence of drifters. I lent an ear to whispers and tall tales, to the conversations of barbers and cries in the street, to the gossip and secrets of the port. I reacquired the taste for an activity congenial to me. I felt gratified.

In the end I got hold of three names, all commercial agents working for Solomon Ashkenazi.

The first was a Greek. I managed to meet him in a tavern during a shadow play, and without too much difficulty I got him drunk on raki and mulled wine. He told me his life story, listed the lovers he had had, and finished off by accusing himself of several murders. I couldn’t imagine Ashkenazi entrusting such a man with the task of passing on secret messages.

The second came from the Crimea. A silent, discreet character, rather more suited to the task. Still, obeying an old instinct from my days on the lagoon, I paid more particular attention to the third candidate, who looked the least likely.

His name was Bernardo Traverso, and his ship was due to set sail at the end of the month. He was Genoese, his every fiber filled with hatred of Venice. I had met him before on several occasions, at the
kahvehane
on the Golden Horn, the one I frequented with David Gomez. He said he had been to Goa and Brazil and that always, in every corner of the world, he had met a
galuscio
Venetian who was ready to squeeze his
cuggie
. He even complained that the Venetians who lived in Istanbul lived in a district that had been built, stone by stone, by the Genoese before they surrendered it to the Sultan. I was struck by his resentment, because that, ostentatiously displayed, might act better than anything as a screen for secret activities in favor of Venice.

I became convinced that he was the pearl I was diving for.

20.

Bernardo Traverso wasn’t one of those Europeans who live confined in Galata, as if it were an Italian or French city, eating the same food that they would eat at home, not learning a word of Turkish and despising all Ottoman practices, even the most pleasing and wholesome.

Instead, he went often to the Old City, where he applauded the acrobats in the local markets, played dice, bet on the ram fights and greyhound races at the hippodrome. He was an equally assiduous visitor to the nearby baths at the Seraglio, so much so that some people wondered whether cleanliness was the only reason for this deep attachment.

Each time he went into the hammam I waited outside, pretending to take an interest in the shops selling herbs and syrups, before tailing him again as soon as he came out, guided by his fragrance of cedar.

On the fourth occasion of this kind, driven by boredom, I discovered a welcoming and not very crowded
kahvehane
down the street. From the benches outside, resting against the wall, you could keep an eye on the entrance to the baths. As soon as I sat down I took off my slippers, ordered a coffee and, not even thinking about it, started listening in on the conversations of the other patrons.

Two bearded old men, sucking on the rims of their cups, were loudly commenting on the news of the day. The Doge had ordered the arrest of all the Jews and Ottomans living in Venice. Now it was time to pay back the favor and do the same with the Venetians in Galata. No, quite the contrary. Precisely because they were treated well in Istanbul, they should demand that their compatriots do the same at home with the good Muslims. And the Jews? They needed putting down here too, not freedom. They needed sorting out, them and their wives, always jeweled up like queens; who knows how much they enjoyed humiliating the good Muslims. That was why God, the Merciful, the Compassionate, had punished their arrogance by setting fire to the Jewish quarter some months ago.

I ordered a plate of cakes while a toothless young man, his face covered with scars, recommended the services of a prostitute to two others. A fourth, older than his companions, dismissed the youth’s tedious advice and suggested instead blond Mursel, a Bulgarian
tellak
at the baths, who could pleasure you three times in a row with his mouth. This boy, most importantly, was also a good poet, and liked to recite his erotic verses and love lyrics. The toothless boy screwed up his nose and said that only an ignorant heretic like the Shah of Persia would write his poems in Turkish. The truly literate and the great sultans wrote in Arabic or in Persian. Yes, of course, everyone agreed, but no one understood Persian, and if you don’t understand erotic poetry how on earth are you going to get a boner?

I paused with my cup in midair. Then I finished my coffee and ate the last baklava. For a few minutes I contemplated a flight of midges, until I saw Traverso coming out of the baths and walking away. I paid what I owed, my fingers still sticky with honey. I quickly put on my slippers and headed for the hammam.

Inside, beneath the great dome, stood a white limestone fountain. The water that poured from it, slipping from one basin to the other, filled the silence like the voice of a stream. All around, cushions and carpets accommodated a dozen clients; on the seats along the walls the same number of men were taking their clothes off. Daylight imprinted the colors of the stained glass on their faces.

A freckled servant came toward me to hand me clogs and a bath towel.

“Mursel?” I asked.

“I’ll get him for you right away, Effendi; he’s just come free. Meanwhile you can get undressed and have a drink.”

Mursel was a bony young man, almost beardless, with curls so blond they looked white. Like the other
tellaks
he was naked to the waist and wearing a blue cloth skirt. He was holding a pot of aromatic oil. He talked to me in a low voice.

“If you want a poem, Effendi, it’s three aspers for a short one and five for a long one.”

Having pocketed the three coins, Mursel beckoned to me to follow him into the hot room. We passed under one of the arches and sat down in a tub, alone, sheltered from the eyes of the other bathers. When he knelt down in front of me and made to lower his head between my legs, I stopped him with a hand on his forehead.

“No verses, Homer. What I want is information.”

Over the next few days, still on Traverso’s heels, I made a bet with myself. I put twenty aspers on the meetings he would have before he set off for Crete, while his men loaded the final cases onto the
mahona
.

First stop: Solomon Ashkenazi, to receive from his hands the bailiff’s letters, guarded like relics in one of the Jewish doctor’s secret drawers.

Next: his sweetheart, to take final leave before he boarded the ship, like any self-respecting seafaring man, with her perfume still on him.

That was exactly what happened that last afternoon, the only difference being that the sweetheart was a fair-haired boy.

Once more I followed the Genoese to the door of the hammam
.
I counted to one hundred, to keep myself from being overimpetuous, and then stepped inside.

I was greeted by the same servant as usual. He asked me politely if I needed Mursel, because unfortunately, just a moment before . . . I told him not to bother Mursel, but to show me where the man who had requested his services had left his clothes. Five silver aspers appeared in the palm of my hand.

The boy replied that for any kind of theft in the dressing rooms he would be given twenty lashes, and that twenty lashes were worth at least five more coins.

“I’m not a thief,” I told him and added one more asper, promising him a cruel death if he spoke of my visit to anybody. The young
tellak
brought his fingers to his mouth and pinched his lips as if gluing them together. He gestured to me to follow him. In no particular hurry, I set my slippers down on the mahogany shelf, put on a pair of clogs and complied.

The boy turned the key in the lock and half-opened the door. I quickly rummaged through Traverso’s bag and clothes. The bailiff’s letters were folded and hidden between the lining and the leather. I recognized the seal with the Barbaro family crest, a shield with a disc in the middle. Then I put the papers back where I had found them, having no need for anything else. I hurried to retrieve my shoes, returned my clogs and towel, and headed for the exit.

21.

I arrived at Palazzo Belvedere as evening fell, keen to tell Nasi what I had discovered amid the steam of the hammam. I was told that he had just locked himself away in the library, with Gomez and Master Fitch, and that he had given orders to be left in peace.

Perhaps it was fate, that I had to wait every time before passing on my discoveries. In fact, Nasi was always busy, always meeting someone or making some sort of decision. I would have taken advantage of the fact to enjoy a hot bath, but as soon as I got to my room the sharp scent of wine changed my mind. The night before, Dana and I had poured it from the flask, mixing it with opium juices left to dissolve in the bottom of our glasses. Now I served myself the nectar that remained in the jug and tried a sip. It was still good, but I didn’t want to drink it on my own, lying in the bathwater talking to the wall. I washed her glass, hid it under my jerkin and went down to the garden with mine in my hands.

I walked along the central avenue, trying to remember the names of the trees. Dana had taught them to me, pointing them out from the bedroom window. Pomegranate, Judas tree, ash, perhaps a plane tree. She said that Adam had contributed to the Creation by giving names to the things of the world. All of mankind’s other works were the fruit of the Fall. I, not to be outdone, had shown her the constellations and told her the legend of Queen Cassiopeia.

Past the duck pond, I slipped between the box hedges and emerged into the circular clearing, where Dana gave shape to her memories.

I knew that at that time of day I would find her there.

White and red roses peeped from the arch above the stone bench. She was hoeing the ground around the carob tree and singing, in a language that sounded to me like Greek, although its melody reminded me of a Sephardic song that I had heard a thousand times in my mother’s voice. Lullabies unite the shores of the Mediterranean more than do the ancient routes of the Phoenician merchants.

“Are you already preparing to take it to Cyprus?” I interrupted her, pointing to the little tree. Dana raised her head and set the hoe aside. She came lightly toward me, barefoot, and stroked my cheek. Over the past few weeks I had stopped trimming my beard, which had grown luxuriant. I wanted to walk around the European city without danger of being recognized. “Your eyes look happy,” Dana said. “Won’t you tell me why?”

I gave her a clue. “One of Don Yossef’s enemies has an Achilles’ heel, and I’ve exposed it.”

“And who is he? One of the Jews you were talking to me about?”

I didn’t reply, even thought I would have liked to tell her about Ashkenazi and Traverso, to give her a better understanding of my job and my contribution to Nasi’s enterprise.

“I understand,” she said in a singsong voice. “The usual secrets between you and your boss.” She slowly shook her head, as if to rid herself of some strange thought, but I asked her to welcome it, and not to keep it hidden from me.

“I was thinking I’d know more about what you did if the
Senyora
were still alive. She and Don Yossef consulted one another about everything—they took all their decisions together. And she often told me; she trusted me. But now I only know that my master could become king of Cyprus. Donna Reyna told me that, but she, too, complains that she knows too little.”

I marveled at her way of talking about things. I said, “I don’t think she was really very interested in Don Yossef’s plans.”

In the cage hanging from the carob, the goldfinch hopped about and chirruped pointedly. “Who knows?” Dana translated. “I don’t think he ever asked her opinion.”

“And you?” I asked quickly. “What do you think about Don Yossef’s plans?”

Dana shrugged. “I told you, I’m just a lady-in-waiting, to a queen who doesn’t know her own kingdom. I can only hope that the new palace has a corner where I can plant my garden.”

“Of course you’ll have a garden,” I said. “Don Yossef promised me the residence of my choice.”

It took her a few moments to work out what I was referring to. A house for both of us, where we could live together. And it took me a few to realize what I had just done. I was wracked with doubt, and my thoughts were a blur. My days at Palazzo Belvedere had been a succession of metamorphoses, discoveries, frenetic activity. Three months previously I had been a different person, lost, drifting. How could I be sure that I had finally berthed? How could I give someone else any kind of certainty?

And yet, I drew joy from indulging Dana. Thinking of us both, of our life together, granted me a youth that I had never had. Emanuele De Zante was dead, and I, Manuel Cardoso, had gone back to my bar mitzvah, as if I were fifteen years old again.

Except that I was thirty-one, and covered in scars.

I banished the bad thoughts as if they were irritating insects. I slipped the second glass from under my clothes, poured out a little of the wine still left in mine, then handed it to Dana. She raised it slightly and recited a phrase in our ancient tongue:
Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh haolam, bo’re p’ri hagafen.

It was the prayer of thanks for the fruit of the vine, and it was also the first of the marriage blessings that come before the libation by the bride and groom.

We kissed for a long time, swapping sips of wine. I found it very hard to resist the desire to take her and lie down there, on the grass, beneath that carob tree that made her a child again, but I didn’t want to risk anyone discovering our secret.

We drained our glasses in a final sip, and then I told her I had to get back. I had to talk to Nasi about Bernardo Traverso’s sea crossings. We exchanged one last kiss, only brushing each other’s lips, and then she got up and let me out of her garden.