Balthasar's Odyssey (18 page)

The Voice of Sabbataï

The harbour, Sunday 29 November 1665

There were still quite a lot of empty pages left in my other notebook, but I'm now beginning another that I've just bought in the harbour. I don't have the other one any more, and I think if I didn't get it back again, after all I've set down in it since August, I'd lose the inclination to write at all, and with it something of my will to live. But it isn't lost — I simply had to leave it behind when I left Barinelli's house in a hurry this morning. I hope to have it back by tonight, God willing. Hateb has gone to fetch it and a few other things, and I trust him to manage …

Meanwhile I'll deal with the events of this long day and the setbacks it has inflicted on me. Some of them I expected. Others not.

This morning, then, while I was getting ready to go to church in Pera with all my people, a Turkish official arrived in state. He didn't dismount from his horse, but sent one of his entourage to find me. All the local people saluted him very deferentially, some doffing their hats; then they vanished down the nearest alley.

When I presented myself he greeted me in Arabic from amid his elaborate trappings. He spoke as if we'd known one another for years, and called me his friend and brother. But his knitted brows told quite a different tale. He invited me to honour him with a visit some time, and I politely answered that the honour would be mine, wondering all the time who he was and what he wanted of me. Then he pointed to one of his men and said he'd send him to escort me to see him next Thursday. I was suspicious after all that's happened to me lately, and had no wish to go to the house of a stranger. So I replied that unfortunately I had to leave the city on urgent business before Thursday, but that I gladly accepted his generous invitation for the next time I was in this delightful capital. Not if I can help it! I thought.

Then he suddenly took from his pocket the document my jailer had got me to sign by trickery and under duress. He unfolded it, pretending his name was on it and claiming to be surprised that I should think of leaving Constantinople without discharging my debt. He must be the judge's brother, thought I. But he could be any powerful person in league with my jailer, and the latter could have meant to pass my IOU to him all along. The alleged judge was probably a mere invention.

“Oh, you must be the cadi's brother!” I said, to give myself time to think and indicate to everyone else that I didn't really know who he was.

His tone grew curt now.

“Never mind whose brother I am! I'm certainly not the brother of a dog from Genoa! When are you going to pay me what you owe me?”

The time for pleasantries was clearly past.

“May I see the document?”

“You know very well what's in it!” he replied, feigning impatience.

But he held it out towards me, and I moved closer to read it.

“The money's not due for another five days,” I said.

“Thursday — next Thursday. And be sure you bring me the whole amount — not an aspre less. And if you try to slip away before then, I'll see to it that you spend the rest of your days in prison. My people will watch you day and night from now on. Where are you going?”

“It's Sunday. I was going to church.”

“That's right — go to church! Pray for your life! Pray for your soul! And hurry up and find a good moneylender!”

He ordered two of his men to stand guard at the door of the house, and went off with the rest of his entourage, his leave-taking much less ceremonious than his arrival.

“What are we going to do now?” Marta asked.

It didn't take me long to reply.

“What we were going to do anyway. Go to church.”

I don't often pray when I'm in church. I go there to be soothed by the singing, the incense, the pictures, the statues, the vaults and the stained-glass windows; I like to lose myself in meditation, reveries, daydreams that have nothing to do with religion and are sometimes even rather daring.

I gave up praying, as I remember very well, when I was thirteen. I lost my ardour when I stopped believing in miracles. I ought to explain how that happened — and I shall do, but later. Too many worrying things happened today; I'm not in the mood for long digressions. I just wanted to say that this morning I did pray. I prayed for a miracle. And I expected my prayer to be answered. I even — God forgive me! — felt I deserved it. I've always been an honest merchant, and also a decent man. I've often given a helping hand to poor people whom the Almighty Himself had abandoned — God forgive me again! I've never taken advantage of the weak, or humiliated anybody who's dependent upon me. So why should He let anyone persecute me, ruin me, threaten my liberty and my life?

So, standing there in the church at Pera, I wasn't ashamed to gaze at the image of the Creator above the altar, radiating beams of gold like the Zeus of the Ancients, and ask him for a miracle. As I write this, I don't yet know if my prayer has been answered. I shan't know until tomorrow — until dawn tomorrow. But it seems to me there has been a preliminary sign.

I listened with only half an ear to Father Thomas's sermon. It was on the subject of Advent, and the sacrifices we ought to make to thank God for having sent us the Messiah. I started paying attention towards the end, when the preacher asked his congregation to pray for those among them who were due to go to sea tomorrow, that they might be granted fair winds and a safe voyage. At this, eyes turned towards a gentleman in the front row holding a captain's hat under his arm, who bowed in acknowledgement of the priest's recommendation.

Suddenly I was struck by a solution to my dilemma: we should leave straight away, without returning to Barinelli's house. Go straight to the ship, spend the night on board, and put some distance between us and our pursuers as fast as possible. What times we live in, when an innocent man's only resource is flight! But Hatem's right — if I make the mistake of appealing to the authorities, I risk losing both my money and my life. These rascals seem so sure of themselves, they must have accomplices among the powers-that-be. And I'm just a foreigner, an “infidel”, a “dog from Genoa” — I'll never get any justice trying to fight against them. That would only endanger the lives of my nearest and dearest as well as my own.

On leaving the church I went to see the captain, whose name is Beauvoisin, and asked him if by any chance he intended to put in at Smyrna. To tell the truth, in the state I'd been in since that interview with my persecutor this morning, I was ready to go anywhere. But I might have scared the captain off if I'd let him suspect I was a runaway. I was glad to learn that the ship was indeed due to call in at Smyrna to take on cargo and to put ashore Master Roboly, the French merchant who'd been acting as temporary ambassador and whom I'd met with Father Thomas. We agreed on a price to cover both transport and board: ten French ecus — the equivalent of 350 maidins — payable half on embarkation and the other half on arrival. The captain emphasised that we mustn't be late coming on board: he meant to sail at daybreak. I suggested that to make sure of being on time we should embark this evening.

And so we did. First I sold the mules we had left, and sent Hatem to Barinelli's to explain our hasty departure and collect my notebook and a few other things. Then Marta and my nephews and I went on board. That's where we are now. Hatem isn't back yet, but I expect him at any minute. He intended to enter the inn through a back door so as to elude our persecutors. I know he'll manage, but I can't help being anxious. All I've had to eat is a piece of bread and some dates and dried fruit. They say that's the best way to prevent sea-sickness.

But it's not sea-sickness I'm worried about at the moment. It was probably best to board the ship right away, without going back to Barinelli's place, but I can't help thinking somebody might have started looking for us. And if they have contacts everywhere, and it occurs to them to search the port, we might be arrested. Perhaps I should have told the captain why I was in such a hurry, so that he wouldn't spread it abroad that we were on his ship, and would know what to say if any dubious person came looking for us. But I didn't like to tell him all my misfortunes in case he changed his mind about taking us.

It's going to be a long night. Until we get safely out of the port tomorrow morning, I'll jump out of my skin at the slightest sound. Lord, how did I sink from being an honest and respectable merchant to being an outlaw, without doing anything wrong?

Talking of which, when I was introducing myself to Captain Beauvoisin outside the church, I heard myself saying I was travelling with my clerk, my nephews and “my wife”. Yes, despite the fact that I decided to put an end to such duplicity when I got to Constantinople, there I was, on the eve of my departure, putting the same false coin back into circulation. And so thoughtlessly too: my fellow-passengers on the ship won't be like the anonymous members of the Aleppo caravan — they'll include gentlemen who know my name and with whom I might have to deal in the future.

The captain may already have told Father Thomas he's agreed to take me and my wife as passengers. I can just see the priest's face. He wouldn't say anything because of the secrecy of the confessional, but I can guess what he'd think.

What on earth makes me behave like that? Simple souls say love makes people act irrationally. No doubt that's true, but there are other things involved beside love. There's the approach of the fateful year; the feeling that our actions will have no consequences; that causes are no longer followed by effects; that crime won't necessarily be punished; that good and evil, what is acceptable and what is unacceptable, will soon all be merged together in the same deluge, and hunters die at the same time as their prey.

But it's time I shut my notebook. It's the waiting, the anxiety, that have made me write like this tonight. Perhaps I'll write quite differently tomorrow.

Monday 30 November 1665

If I thought dawn would bring me salvation I've been very disappointed, and it's difficult to hide my anxiety from my companions.

We've been hanging about the whole day, and I find it hard to explain why I remain on board when all the other passengers and the crew take advantage of the delay to go ashore and browse around the market. The only excuse I could think of is that I've spent more than I expected to in Constantinople and find myself short of money, so I don't want to give my nephews and “my wife” the chance to make me spend still more.

The reason for the delay is that during the night the captain heard that Monsieur de la Haye, the French ambassador, had at last arrived in Constantinople to take up his duties — five years after he was appointed to succeed his father. It's an important event for all the French people here: they hope it will restore better relations between the French crown and the Grand Vizier. There's talk of renewing the Capitulations signed last century between François I and Soliman the Great. Captain Beauvoisin and Master Roboly wanted to go to welcome the ambassador and pay him their respects.

This evening I gather that because of certain complications the ambassador hasn't yet gone ashore: negotiations with the Ottoman authorities haven't been completed, and his ship,
Le Grand César,
is at anchor at the entrance to the harbour. So it looks as if we shan't leave until tomorrow evening at the earliest, perhaps not until the day after tomorrow.

Meanwhile, mightn't it occur to our enemies to come and look for us in the port? But with luck they'll think we're going back to Gibelet overland, and more likely to be found in the direction of Scutari or on the road to Izmit.

It's also possible that the scoundrels were just bluffing all along, to scare me into paying up, and that they're as anxious as I am to avoid the repercussions of an incident in the port. As foreigners, their victims could count on protection from their ambassadors and consuls.

Hatem is back safe and sound, but empty-handed. He couldn't get into Barinelli's place: the house was under surveillance, back and front. He did manage to send a message to our host, though, asking him to hold on to our things until we could reclaim them.

It upsets me to be parted from my notebook and think vulgar eyes might be gloating over my secrets. Does the disguise I use really protect them? But it's no good thinking about it all the time, getting worked up and wondering if I ought to have acted differently. Better to trust in Providence, my lucky star, and above all Barinelli. I'm very fond of him, and I'm sure he wouldn't do anything unseemly.

At sea, 1 December 1665

I awoke to a delightful surprise. We were no longer in port. I'd spent the night feeling queasy and unable to sleep. I didn't close my eyes till just before dawn. But when I opened them it was the middle of the morning and we were sailing across the Sea of Marmara.

We'd left unexpectedly because, instead of coming with us, Master Roboly had decided to spend some time with the ambassador to bring him up to date on his own stewardship. So Captain Beauvoisin, who'd planned to go and see Monsieur de la Haye only to keep Master Roboly company, saw no reason for further delay.

As soon as I realised we were under way my sea-sickness abated, though usually the further you are from shore the worse it gets.

I gather that if the winds are favourable and the sea remains calm we'll reach Smyrna in less than a week. But it's December, so it won't be surprising if we encounter a bit of rough weather.

Now that I'm feeling more peaceful I'll keep my promise and tell the story of how I lost interest in religion, and in particular stopped believing in miracles.

As I said before, I was thirteen when it happened. Until then I was always to be found on my knees, with a rosary in my hand and surrounded by women in black. I knew the virtues of all the saints by heart. I'd been more than once to the chapel at Ephrem, a modest cell hewn out of the rock, once inhabited by a pious anchorite still revered in the region round Gibelet for the many wonders he performed.