Balthasar's Odyssey (33 page)

But today I overrode both my habits and his. I used all kinds of wiles to stop him from interrupting, and told him everything, or at least all that was essential as well as a good deal that was not.
The Hundredth Name,
the Chevalier de Marmontel and his shipwreck, my nephews and their shortcomings, Marta the false widow, the child she's expecting — yes, it was necessary to tell him even that — as well as my wretched adventures in Anatolia, in Constantinople, at sea, in Smyrna and then on Chios. Right up to my present regrets and vestiges of hope.

The further I got in my story the more downcast my host looked, though I couldn't tell whether this was out of sympathy with my misfortunes or because of their consequences for his own plans. For on this subject he caught my drift. I hadn't yet said I intended to leave; I'd just explained the reasons why I couldn't marry his daughter or stay on in Genoa indefinitely, when he said, succinctly for him:

“So when are you leaving us?”

This was put without rudeness or any sign of annoyance — he wasn't turning me out. If I'd had any doubt on that score I'd have left his house forthwith. No, his question was a simple acknowledgement of the facts: sad, hurt, disappointed.

“In the next few days,” I answered vaguely, meaning to go on to tell him how grateful I was and how much in his debt. But he just patted me on the shoulder and went out to wander round the garden alone.

Do I feel more relieved than ashamed? Or the other way round?

19 April

Dawn is breaking and I haven't slept a wink. All night I've been mulling over useless ideas that exhausted me without getting anywhere: I ought to have said this rather than that to Gregorio, or that rather than this; and I was ashamed that I'd hurt him. I'd already forgotten his insistence and his crude attempts at manipulation, and could think of nothing but my own qualms.

Did I really betray his trust? I'd never promised him anything. But he managed to make me feel I'd been ungrateful.

I've been thinking so much about Gregorio's reactions and how he'll remember me that I haven't asked myself the questions that really matter. Have I made the right decision? Should I really go away instead of accepting the new life he offered me? What am I going to do in Smyrna? What mirage will I follow? How can I possibly believe I'm going to get Marta back, and my child? If I'm not rushing towards a precipice, I'm heading for the foot of a cliff that will bar my path.

Today I'm upset at having offended my host. Tomorrow I'll regret not having done as he wished.

20 April

I seem to be in the grip of an irresistible impulse to confide in people, like a girl in love for the first time. I'm usually quiet, and have a reputation for taciturnity; I'm sparing of speech, and let myself go only in this journal. Yet recently I've told the story of my life twice — on Sunday to my host, in order to justify my attitude, and today to a perfect stranger.

When I got up this morning I had only one thought in my head — to give Gregorio such a splendid present he'd forget our differences and we'd be able to part as friends. I had nothing particular in mind, but I'd noticed a very large curio shop in an alley near the harbour, and had promised myself to visit it as a colleague practising the same trade. I was sure I'd find exactly what I wanted there — perhaps an imposing antique statue that would look just right in the Mangiavacca family garden and be a permanent memento of my visit.

I felt at home in the shop as soon as I entered it. The goods were set out in almost the same way as in my own place. Old books stacked on shelves. Stuffed birds above them. In various nooks and crannies on the floor, imposing but damaged vases that couldn't quite be thrown away and were kept year after year though clearly no one would ever buy them. Even the owner of the premises was quite like me — a middle-aged Genoese of about forty, clean-shaven and rather stout.

I introduced myself and was greeted very cordially. The man had heard of me — not just of the Embriaci, but also of me personally, for some of his own customers had been to Gibelet. Even before I said what I was looking for, he invited me to take a seat in a cool and shady little courtyard, sent a maid for iced cordials, and came and sat down facing me. His family too, he told me, had lived for a long time in various cities abroad. But they'd come back to Genoa some seventy years ago, and he himself had never left it.

When I said I'd recently been in Aleppo, Constantinople, Smyrna and Chios, his eyes filled with tears. He told me he envied me for having been “everywhere”; he dreamed all the time of faraway places but had never plucked up the courage to travel.

“I go to the harbour twice a day and watch the ships arriving and departing. I talk to the sailors and the owners, drink with them in the taverns so as to hear the names of the places they've put in to. They all know me now, and when my back is turned must say I'm crazy, because it intoxicates me just to hear those strange names. But I've never had the wit to go abroad myself.”

“The folly, you mean!”

“No — people tend to forget that one of the ingredients of true wisdom is a dash of folly.”

He looked so sad that I pointed out:

“You'd like to be in my place and I'd like to be in yours!”

I said this to allay his regrets, but by all the saints I thought it too, and still do! At that moment I'd have liked to be sitting in my own shop with a cool drink in my hand, never having dreamed of setting out on this journey, never having met the woman on whom I brought misfortune and who brought misfortune on me, and never having heard of
The Hundredth Name.

“Why do you say that?” he asked, to get me to tell him of my travels. So I began to talk. Of what made me set out, my brief pleasures, my misadventures, my regrets. The only thing I left out was my difference with Gregorio: I just described how kindly he'd taken me in when I arrived, and said that before I went away I wanted to show my gratitude with a gift worthy of his generosity.

At this point my colleague — his name was Melchione Baldi — ought, as a good businessman, to have asked me what I had in mind. But apparently he was too absorbed in our conversation about my travels. He kept asking questions about the things I'd seen in various places, then wanted to know more about Mazandarani's book, which he'd never heard of before. After this had gone on for some time, he asked where I planned to go now.

“I don't know yet whether to return to Gibelet directly or go back to Smyrna first.”

“Didn't you say the book that made you undertake the journey is in London now?”

“Does that mean I have to follow it there?”

“Oh no! And what right have I, who've never left dry land, to urge you to make such a journey? But if you should decide to go, do come and tell me about it when you get back!”

We then went into another courtyard on the other side of the shop, to look at a collection of statues, some of them antiques and some more modern. It seemed to me that one of them, which had been found near Ravenna, would be very suitable for my host's garden. It represents Bacchus, or perhaps a feasting emperor, holding a cup of wine and surrounded by all the fruits of the earth. If I don't see anything I like better, I shall buy it.

There was a spring in my step as I walked back to Gregorio's, and I resolved to go back and see my amiable colleague again. I'd have to anyway, for the statue.

Should I give it to Gregorio as it is, or have in mounted on a plinth? I'd better ask Baldi. He'll know what's usually done.

22 April

Gregorio's wife and his three daughters arrived home today after visiting seven churches on the way, as is the custom on Maundy Thursday. Dame Orietina is thin and curt and dressed all in black. I don't know if this is for Lent, but it looks to me as if it's Lent all the year round for her.

She wasn't supposed to come back until Saturday, the day before Easter, but she chose to risk her husband's impetuosity two days early. If I was her husband — God forbid — she'd have nothing to fear from my ardours, in Lent or at any other time.

Why do I speak of her so harshly? Because as soon as she got here and I joined her husband and the rest of the household to greet her return, she gave me a look that meant I was not welcome in her house, and I shouldn't really have been allowed over the threshold.

Did she take me for Gregorio's companion in vice? Or was it that she'd heard of his plans for me and their daughter and was trying to show her disapproval of the idea? Or perhaps she'd taken offence at my lack of enthusiasm? At all events, ever since she got here I've felt like a stranger in the house. I've even thought of leaving without more ado, but I didn't want to affront Gregorio, who has treated me like a brother. So I pretended to think his wife's demeanour was to be set down to fatigue, to Lent, and to the thought of the sufferings endured by Our Lord during this Holy Week — a consideration not likely to make anyone bubble over with joy. But I shan't stay on too long. This evening I didn't join the others for dinner, either. I said I had to go and see a colleague.

As for the famous Giacominetta, whom her father praised to me so, I haven't really seen her. She rushed to her room without speaking to anyone. I suspect her mother's hiding her deliberately.

It's time I was off. High time.

I'm passing a very uncomfortable night, though there's nothing wrong with me. Yes, there is — it upsets me to think I'm no longer welcome in this house. I can't get to sleep. It's as if my very sleep had been stolen or begged for from my hosts. The expression I remember seeing on Dame Orietina'sface has grown uglier and more intense as the night wears on. I can't stay here any longer. Not till Christmas, not even till Easter, which is only two days away. Not even till tomorrow morning. I shall leave a polite note and creep out. I'll sleep in an inn near the port and embark on the first boat that leaves.

For the East or for London? I still can't make up my mind. Should I try to find the book first? Or forget the book and try to save Marta? But how? Or forget all my crazy ideas and go back to my people in Gibelet? I find it harder than ever to decide.

23 April, Good Friday

I'm in my new room in an inn called The Maltese Cross. From my window I can see the harbour, and dozens of ships with their sails furled. Perhaps I'm looking now at the one that I'll travel on. I'm still in Genoa, but I've already left it. I expect that's why I miss it already, and feel like an emigrant again.

I did what I said I'd do and left Gregorio's place, despite some unforeseen incidents that cropped up at the last minute. Early, very early in the morning I got together my few belongings and left a short note thanking my host for his hospitality. I didn't say anything unkind or even ambiguous; just expressions of gratitude and friendship. I didn't even mention the 300 livres I owe him — that would have offended him. I left the letter in a prominent place, weighted down by some coins for the servants. I tidied the room and left it as neat as if I'd never lived in it. Then I went.

Outside it was beginning to get light, but the house was still dark. And silent. If the servants were up, they were being careful to make no noise. The room where I'd slept is on the first floor, up a flight of wooden stairs that I meant to go down cautiously so that the planks wouldn't creak.

I was still on the top step, clutching the banister so as not to trip up in the dark, when I saw a light. A girl appeared from somewhere, who could only be Giacominetta. She was carrying a two-branched candlestick which suddenly lit up the stairs as well as her face. She was smiling. An amused, knowing smile. There was no question of my retreating: she'd seen me, carrying my luggage, and I had no choice but to go on. So I smiled too, and winked as if to share my secret with her. She was as radiant as her mother was dowdy, and I couldn't help wondering if her character was different too. Perhaps she'd acquired some of her father's cheerfulness. Or perhaps each woman's attitude was determined by her age.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs I nodded silently in her direction and made for the door, which I softly opened and closed behind me. She had followed me with the light, but had said nothing, asked nothing, and made no attempt to stop me. I went along the path to the gate leading into the street. The gardener opened the gate for me, I slipped a coin into his hand, and walked away.

In case Gregorio, alerted by his daughter, might try to catch up with me, I made my way swiftly and through the darkest alleys to the port and the inn. I'd noticed its sign last week.

Now I've written these lines I shall draw the curtains, take off my shoes and stretch out on the bed. It will do me good to sleep, even if it's only for a few minutes. There's a smell of dried lavender, and the sheets seem clean.

It was midday and I'd slept for a good two or three hours when I was wakened by the most infernal din. It was Gregorio hammering on my door. He said he'd been to all the inns in Genoa trying to find me. He was weeping. According to him I'd betrayed him, stabbed him in the back, humiliated him. For thirty-three generations the Mangiavaccas had been as close to the Embriaci as the hand to the arm, and in a moment of annoyance I'd slashed right through bones, veins and sinews. I told him to sit down and keep calm. There'd been no treachery and no slashing or anything like it. Not even any bad feeling. At first I refrained from telling him what I really felt. The truth has to be deserved, and he didn't deserve it, behaving like this. So I pretended I wanted to leave him in peace with his reunited family, and was leaving his house with the best possible memories. He said that wasn't true: his wife's coldness had driven me away. Tired of pretence, I finally admitted that it was true — his wife's attitude hadn't encouraged me to stay. Then he sat down on the bed and wept as I'd never seen a man weep before.