Balthasar's Odyssey (20 page)

We are now ashore in Smyrna, thank God. Admittedly it's still dark, but that's because it's nearly nightfall. The sky started to clear as soon as we entered the bay. Tomorrow we shall see the sun.

Smyrna, Saturday 12 December 1665

We slept in the Capuchin monastery and I dreamed about being shipwrecked. All the time I was at sea I was afraid during the day, but at night I dreamed I was on dry land, in my house in Gibelet.

The monks received us politely, but without enthusiasm, even though I'd told them — rather improperly, it's true — that I'd been recommended to them by Father Thomas of Paris. If I'd asked him for a letter of introduction I'm sure he'd have obliged, but things happened so fast I didn't know I'd be leaving so soon. And I didn't want my pursuers in Constantinople to go to the church and learn from him where I'd gone to. I suppose I could have asked him not to tell them anything, but then I'd have had to explain why I was being pursued, and to ask him to lie to protect me. To cut a long story short, I came without a recommendation but acted as if I had one. I even referred to Father Thomas as “my confessor”, which was not actually untrue but slightly inaccurate and rather boastful.

But that's not really what I meant to talk about today. I just wanted to write up my notes in chronological order, starting with last night and my dream, before getting on to my main preoccupation: the strange things that everyone tells me are taking place here in Smyrna. I have many different sources of information. The first is an elderly Capuchin monk, Father Jean-Baptiste of Douai, who has lived in the Levant for twenty years. Before that he spent fifteen years in Genoa, which he misses and loves as if it were his birthplace. He says it's an honour for him to talk to a descendant of the famous Embriaci, and he opens his heart to me as if he'd known me from childhood. But I've also heard evidence about what's going on from other foreigners whom I've met today, as well as from some of the local people.

They all say that a man living here in Smyrna, a Jew called Sabbataï, or Shabtai, or Shabetai, has proclaimed that he is the Messiah and predicted that the world will end in 1666 — in June of that year, I believe, to be precise. The strangest thing about it is that most of the people in Smyrna, even the Christians and the Turks, and even those who make fun of the man himself, seem to believe his prophecy will come true. Father Jean-Baptiste himself maintains that the appearance of false Messiahs is a sign that the end of the world is at hand.

People say the Jews are no longer willing to work, and spend all day in prayer and ritual fasting. Their shops are shut, and travellers are unable to find a money-changer. I haven't been able to check that this is true, because yesterday evening and today have been the Jewish Sabbath, but I'll be able to do so tomorrow, which is the Lord's Day for us but not for the Jews and the Turks. I shall go to the Jewish quarter, which is on the hillside near the old castle. The foreigners here — mostly English and Dutch — live by the sea, on either side of the avenue skirting the harbour. Then I'll see with my own eyes whether what people tell me is true.

13 December 1665

The Jews say it's a wonder, and I, who've always lived in Ottoman territory, agree with them. Their so-called Messiah is safe and sound — I've seen him with my own eyes, walking freely through the street and singing at the top of his voice! And yet this morning everyone had given him up for dead.

He'd been summoned to appear before the cadi, the judge who rules the roost in Smyrna and who deals extremely harshly with anyone who is a threat to law and order. And, in the eyes of the authorities, what is going on now in Smyrna is more than a threat — it's an extraordinary challenge, an insult even. No one is working. It's not only the Jews. In a city that has almost as many foreign merchants as there are anywhere, nothing is being bought or sold. The dockers in the harbour won't load or unload cargoes. Stalls and workshops are shut, and the people just gather in the squares, talking about the end of the world and the destruction of empires. It's reported that delegations are beginning to arrive from faraway countries to prostrate themselves before this Sabbataï, whose supporters call him not only the Messiah, but also the king of kings.

I say “his supporters” and not “the Jews” because the latter are very divided in their opinions about him. Most of them believe he is the Anointed One heralded by the prophets, but some of the rabbis see him as an impostor, a blasphemer, because he dares to utter the name of God — a thing that is prohibited among the Jews. But his supporters say nothing may be forbidden to the Messiah, and that this breaking of the rules is a sure sign that Sabbataï is not just an ordinary believer. The battles between the two factions apparently went on for months without anything becoming known of the matter outside the contenders' own community. Then a few days ago the controversy took a new turn. Various incidents took place in the streets, and some Jews accused other Jews of being infidels in front of a crowd of mystified Christians and Turks.

And yesterday something serious happened at prayer time in a large meeting place known as the Portuguese synagogue. It was full of Sabbataï's enemies, who did not want him to be admitted. But he arrived, surrounded by his supporters, and proceeded to hack down the door with an axe. It was because of this that the cadi decided to send for him, as I learned early this morning from Father Jean-Baptiste, who takes a close interest in all this. It was he who encouraged me to go to the cadi's house to watch Sabbataï's arrival and tell him all about it. I needed no persuading. I've grown more and more curious about this affair every day, and consider it a privilege to witness such portentous events. A privilege, and also — why should I go on being afraid of the word? — a sign. Yes, a sign. What else can I call what's happening? I left Gibelet because of all the rumours about the year of the Beast, and was overtaken on the way by a woman whom people were always talking to about Smyrna because it was there that her husband was supposed to have been seen for the last time! For love of her I find myself in that very town, and now I discover that it's precisely here and now that the end of the world is announced. We're only a few days away from 1666, and I'm in the process of losing my doubts in the same way as other people lose their faith. Just because of a false Messiah? someone may ask. No, because of what I have seen today, and what my reason can no longer comprehend.

The cadi's residence can hardly be compared to the palaces in Constantinople, but it's by far the most imposing house in Smyrna. Three storeys of delicate arcades, a gate that visitors must stoop to pass through, and a huge garden where the horses of the guards browse. For the cadi is the governor as well as a judge, and if the Sultan is God's shadow on earth, then the cadi is the Sultan's shadow in the city. It is his job to make the Sultan's subjects live in fear, whether they are Turks, Armenians, Jews or Greeks, or even strangers. Not a week goes by that someone isn't tortured, hanged, impaled or beheaded, or if the person concerned is of high rank and the Porte has so decided, respectfully strangled. So people never hang around too close to the cadi's residence.

Even this morning, though there was a crowd of onlookers thereabouts, they were scatterered through the alleys, ready to disperse at the first sign of trouble. Among them were many Jews in red caps, whispering feverishly together, and also numbers of foreign merchants there, like me, to see what happened.

Suddenly a shout went up. “There he is!” said Hatem, pointing to a man with a red beard, wearing a long coat and a head-dress set with precious stones. He was accompanied by a dozen or so of his entourage; about a hundred more followed at a distance. He walked slowly but steadily, as becomes a dignitary, then suddenly started to sing loudly, waving his hands as though haranguing the crowd. Some of his followers went through the motions of singing too, but his was the only voice that could be heard. Around us, other Jews were smiling with approval, looking askance at a small group of janissaries who were mounting guard. Sabbataï walked right past them without so much as a glance, and still singing regardless. I was sure they'd grab him and beat him up, but all they did was smile broadly, as if to say, “We'll soon see what song you sing when the cadi delivers his sentence!”

We had a long wait before he emerged again. Meanwhile many of the Jews prayed, swaying from side to side; some were already weeping. As for the European merchants, some of them looked worried, others mocking or contemptuous, according to their nature. There were varying attitudes even in our small group. Boumeh was radiant, proud to see events confirming his forecasts about next year — as if his perspicacity will win him special treatment when the end of the world came! His brother, meanwhile, had forgotten all about the false Messiah and the apocalypse, and was busy ogling a young Jewess leaning nonchalantly against a wall nearby to fasten her shoe. From time to time she glanced at my nephew, covering the lower part of her face to hide a smile. Standing in front of her was a man who might have been her husband or her father. He turned round now and then as if he suspected something, but he saw nothing. Only Hatem and I were watching the romantic manoeuvres — the kind that each of the parties concerned knows will come to nothing, though it seems the human heart often feeds off its own desires, and may even grow empty again once they are satisfied.

As for Marta, she felt sorry for the man about to be sentenced to death. Then she leaned towards me and asked if it wasn't before this same judge, in this same house, that her husband was brought a few years ago, before he was hanged. “God have mercy on him!” she whispered. She ought, like me, to have been thinking, “Let's hope we can get proof of it!”

Then up went another shout. The condemned man had emerged! But he hadn't been condemned at all. He was free, and attended by all his followers, and when those who'd been waiting for him saw him smiling and waving to them, they started shouting, “The law of the Most High has shown forth its power!” Sabbataï replied with something similar, then started singing as before. This time many other voices were loud enough to be heard, though not loud enough to drown his: he sang himself hoarse, and his face was red.

The janissaries on sentry duty didn't know what to do. In normal circumstances they'd already have drawn their sabres, ready to intervene. But the judge had let this man go free — they themselves would be guilty of disobedience if they arrested him. So they decided not to do anything, and on an order from their officer went in and took refuge in the palace garden. Their withdrawal had an instant effect on the crowd, who started calling out “Long live King Sabbataï!” in Hebrew and Spanish. Then they formed a procession and set out for the Jewish quarter, singing louder and louder as they went. Ever since then the whole town has been in a state of ferment.

A wonder, did I say? What else can I call it? In this country, people have had their heads cut off for crimes thirty times less serious than what I saw today! Until nightfall, processions went through the town in all directions, calling citizens of all religions to rejoice, to repent, or to fast! Hailing the advent of a new age, the age of the Resurrection. They call next year not “the year of the Beast” but “the year of the Jubilee”. Why? I don't know. But what does seem evident is that they're glad to see the end of an age that brought them, they say, nothing but humiliation, persecution and suffering. But what will the future bring? What will the world be like after the end of the world? Shall we all have to die in some cataclysm in order to make way for the Resurrection? Or will it just be the beginning of a new era, a new kingdom, the Kingdom of God restored on earth, after all human governments have shown through the ages how unjust and corrupt they are?

This evening everyone in Smyrna feels that this Kingdom is at hand, and that all the others, including that of the Sultan, will be swept away. Is that why the cadi let Sabbataï go free? Was he trying to manipulate the ruler of tomorrow, as the powers-that-be do so often when they sense that the wind is changing? Today an English merchant told me, with a knowing look, that the Jews had paid the judge a large sum of money to let “their king” go safe and sound. I find that hard to believe. If the Sublime Porte heard such a thing had happened today in Smyrna, it's the cadi's own head that would fall! No sensible man would take such a risk. So should I believe what I was told by a Jewish merchant newly arrived from Ancona? He said that in Sabbataï's presence the Turkish judge, having at first greeted the accused without rising and spoken to him contemptuously, was suddenly dazzled by a mysterious light and started to tremble with awe. He saw the Jew to the door with great deference, begging forgiveness for his previous behaviour. But I find that hard to believe too. I'm confused, and none of the accounts I hear is satisfactory.

Perhaps I'll see things more clearly tomorrow.

Monday, 14 December 1665

Today I'm still tempted to talk of wonders, but I don't want to debase the word by using it in its popular sense. I'd rather speak of something unexpected, amazing, a happy coincidence. I've just met, in a street in Smyrna, the man I most longed to talk to.

I didn't get much sleep last night. I'm extremely disturbed by what's happening, and keep tossing and turning in my mind as well as in my bed, wondering what to believe, who to believe, and how to prepare myself for the upheavals that are imminent.

I remember writing, before I set out, that I was afraid I was losing my mind. How the devil could it be otherwise? Yet I keep trying to unravel the mystery as serenely as I can. But I can't go on shutting myself up night and day in the citadel of my reason, with my eyes shut and my hands over my ears, telling myself it's all untrue, the whole world has got it wrong, and signs only become signs because you're watching out for them.