Balthasar's Odyssey (37 page)

He asked his questions without haste, sometimes glancing at me but more often looking out to sea, so that I was able to study his aquiline profile and painted eyebrows.

“Ever since the dawn of Islam, scholars have argued over a verse that occurs three times in similar terms in the Koran and lends itself to various interpretations.”

He quoted the phrase carefully: “Fa sabbih bismi rabbika-l-azim,” which may be translated as “Glorify the name of your Lord, the Most High”.

The ambiguity arises from the fact in Arabic the epithet “l-azim”, “the Most High”, may refer either to the Lord or to His name. In the first case, the verse is merely a normal exhortation to glorify the name of the Lord. But if the second interpretation is correct, the verse might mean “Glorify your Lord by His highest name”, which would suggest that among the names of God there is a major one which is superior to all the others, and the invoking of which produces special results.

“The argument had gone on for centuries, with the advocates of each interpretation finding, or thinking they find, proof of their own and disproof of their opponents' case in the Koran itself, or in the various pronouncements attributed to the Prophet. And then a new and powerful argument was put forward by a scholar in Baghdad known as Mazandarani. I don't say he managed to convince everybody. Some people still hold to their previous positions, especially as Mazandarani himself had rather a dubious reputation — he was said to practise alchemy, to use magic alphabets, and to study various occult sciences. But he had many disciples, and his house was always full of visitors. So clearly his argument undermined some certainties, and whetted the appetite of scholars and laymen alike.”

According to “the prince”, Mazandarani's argument, in brief, was that if it has been possible for the verse in question to be understood in two different ways, that is because God — who for Muslims is the author of the Koran — intended the ambiguity.

“Indeed,” said Esfahani, continuing his commentary, though without making it clear whether he actually agreed with Mazandarani, “if God put it that way rather than another, and used the same form of words almost identically three times, it's unthinkable that He could have done so by mistake, or incompetence, or accident, or ignorance of the language. If He did it, He must have done it deliberately!

“Having thus so to speak changed doubt into certainty and darkness into light, Mazandarani asked himself
why
God wanted to create this ambiguity. Why didn't He tell his creatures plainly that the supreme name doesn't exist? And Mazandarani answered his own question: if He expressed Himself equivocally it was not to deceive or mislead us — that too would be unthinkable! He couldn't have let us believe the supreme name might exist if it didn't. Therefore it necessarily does exist. And if the Most High doesn't tell us so more explicitly it's because His infinite wisdom commands Him to show the way only to those who deserve it. When they read the verse in question, as when they read many others in the Koran, most people will go on thinking they've understood all there was to understand. But the elect, the initiates, will be able to slip through the subtle door He has left ajar for their benefit.

“Judging that he'd established beyond all possible doubt that the hundredth name exists, and that God doesn't forbid us to try to find it, Mazandarani promised his followers to say in a book what it is not and what it is.”

“And did he write the book?” I asked, not very comfortably.

“There again opinions differ. Some people say he never did write it. Others say he did, and that it's called
The Book of the Hundredth Name,
or
A Treatise on the Hundredth Name,
or
The Unveiling of the Hidden Name.”

“I had a book through my shop once with that title, but I don't know if it was by Mazandarani.” Again, I couldn't be more truthful without giving myself away.

“Have you still got it?”

“No. Before I could read it an emissary from the King of France asked for it and I gave it to him.”

“If I'd been you I wouldn't have given it away before I'd read it. But don't worry — no doubt it was a forgery.”

I think I've reproduced what Esfahani said pretty faithfully, at least in the main, for our conversation lasted three whole hours.

I think he was speaking frankly, and I intend to be as sincere myself in our future exchanges. I shall go on asking questions, though, because I'm sure he knows much more than he's told me so far.

21 May

A really hopeless sort of day.

While yesterday brought me pleasure and information, today produced nothing but disappointment and vexation.

As soon as I woke up I felt queasy. Perhaps it was a recurrence of sea-sickness, brought on by the bumping of the ship. Or perhaps I ate too many of those Persian sweetmeats yesterday evening, cooked with pine kernels, pistachio nuts, chick peas and cardamum.

I felt so out of sorts I decided to spend the day fasting and reading in my cramped quarters.

I'd have liked to continue my conversation with “the prince”, but I wasn't fit for any kind of company. To console myself, I reflected that it might be best not to seem too eager. He might be put off if he thought I was trying to pump him for information.

Early in the afternoon, when everyone else would be taking a siesta, I decided to take a turn round the deck; it was, as I'd hoped, deserted. Then suddenly I saw the captain a few paces away, leaning back against the rail and apparently deep in thought. I didn't want to have to talk to him, but neither did I want to look as if I was avoiding him. So I walked steadily on, bowing politely as I passed him. He bowed back, but rather absent-mindedly. To fill the silence, I asked him when we were going to put in at a port, and where.

It seemed to me a perfectly natural question, the most obvious one for a passenger to put to a captain. But Centurione turned on me suspiciously.

“Why do you ask? What are you after?”

Why does a passenger ever want to know where his ship is bound? But I smiled as I explained, almost apologetically:

“I didn't buy enough provisions at our last port of call, and I'm starting to run short of some things.”

“It's your own fault! Passengers ought to have a bit of foresight.”

He seemed almost ready to give me a box on the ear. I mustered such patience and politeness as I had left, took leave of him and walked away.

An hour later he sent Maurizio to me with some soup.

Even if I'd been in perfect health I wouldn't have gone near it. Today, with my upset stomach …

I asked the young sailor to convey my thanks, but at the same time launched a few well-chosen sarcasms in the captain's direction. But Maurizio pretended not to hear, so I had to act as if I hadn't said anything.

So much for my day, and now I'm just sitting here with my pen in my hand and tears in my eyes. All of a sudden I feel bereft of everything.

Dry land, Gibelet, Smyrna, Genoa, Marta, even Gregorio.

A really hopeless sort of day.

24 May

We're anchored in Tangiers, beyond Gibraltar and the Pillars of Hercules. It's recently come under the English crown — though I admit I didn't know that until this morning. For a couple of centuries it belonged to Portugal, which acquired it by force, but when the Infanta Catherine of Braganza married King Charles four or five years ago she brought him two fortresses in her dowry — Tangiers was one, the other was Bombay in India. I'm told the English officers who've been sent here dislike the place, which they cry down and dismiss as a worthless acquisition.

But the town itself struck me as charming, with its broad straight streets lined with well-built houses. There are also fields of orange and lemon trees which give off a wonderful heady perfume. Tangiers' mildness derives from its singular situation at the crossroads between four different climates, close to both the Mediterranean and the Atlantic, both the Atlas mountains and the desert. In my opinion, any king would be glad to possess such a place. Walking round, I met an elderly Portuguese burgess who was born here and refused to leave when his king's soldiers went. His name is Sebastiao Magalhaes — I wonder if he's a descendant of the famous navigator? No, he would have told me. It was he who told me what people were whispering, adding that he was sure the English officers' mockery is entirely due to the fact that their king's wife is a “Papist”: some of them think the Pope himself secretly promoted the marriage in an attempt to win England back to Rome.

But according to my interlocutor there's another explanation for the marriage: Portugal is constantly at war with Spain, and Spain still hopes to reconquer Portugal, so Portugal is always trying to strengthen its links with its enemy's enemies.

I'd promised myself that as I couldn't do so aboard ship, I'd entertain my Persian and Venetian friends royally when we reached our first port of call. I meant to find out beforehand what were the best places to go to, so I took advantage of my meeting with Master Magalhaes to ask his advice. He said at once that I'd be welcome at his house. I thanked him, but told him I had several invitations to return and would feel awkward to set sail again without having repaid my debts to my friends. But he wouldn't listen.

“If you'd had a brother here, wouldn't you have invited them to his place? Well, consider that to be the case, and you may be sure you and your friends will be much better off chatting in my library than in some tavern in the harbour.”

25 May

I couldn't add anything to my journal yesterday evening. It was dark by the time I got back from Magalhaes' house, and I'd eaten and drunk too much to be able to write.

Our host had even pressed us to stay the night, which would have made a pleasant change from all the nights we've spent in beds being bumped up and down all the time. But I was afraid the captain might take it into his head to sail before dawn, so I preferred to decline the invitation.

It's midnight now, and the ship is still moored to the quay. Everything is quiet. I don't think we can be about to leave.

Yesterday evening passed pleasantly enough, but the fact that we had no language in common rather spoiled things. Of course, Father Angel was there to act as interpreter for his master, but he didn't over-exert himself. Some of the time he was busy eating. At other times he hadn't been listening and was obliged to ask us to repeat what we'd said. At other times again he would translate a long speech by just a couple of words, either because he couldn't remember it all or because he disapproved of some of it.

For instance, at one point Esfahani, who was very interested in Muscovy and what the Venetian had to say about its people and their customs, wanted to know what religious differences there were between Orthodox and Catholic believers. Girolamo started to explain the Patriarch of Moscow's arguments against the Pope, but Father Angel didn't like having to repeat that kind of thing, and when Durrazzi said that the Muscovites, like the English, referred to the Pope as the Antichrist, the priest went red in the face, dropped his knife with a clatter, and said to the Venetian, his voice trembling:

“You'd do better to learn Persian and say such things for yourself. I don't propose to soil my lips or the prince's ear with them.”

Father Angel was so furious he'd spoken in French, but everyone present had understood the word “prince”, and though he tried to mend matters the damage was done. Perhaps it was a similar incident that gave rise to the old saying that a translator is the same thing as atraitor.

Anyhow, after a month as his fellow-passenger, I now know for sure that Esfahani really is a prince. Perhaps by the time we land in London I'll have found out exactly who he is and why he's on this journey.

Yesterday evening, when we'd been talking again about Tangiers being handed over by the Portuguese, he leaned over and asked me if one day I'd explain to him in detail both the similarities between the various Christian countries and the things that divided them from one another. I promised I'd tell him what little I knew. And by way of preamble I told him half jokingly that if anyone wanted to understand anything of what is going on around him he should bear in mind that the English hate the Spaniards, the Spaniards hate the English, the Dutch hate both the English and the Spaniards, and the French cordially detest all of them.

Then suddenly, Girolamo, who, heaven knows how, had understood what I'd just said in an aside and in Arabic too, intervened.

“And tell him too that the Sienese curse the Florentines, and the Genoese prefer the Turks to the Venetians!”

I translated this faithfully, and then protested, hypocritically:

“The proof that we Genoese no longer bear a grudge against Venice is the fact that you and I are talking together like friends!”

“Yes, now!” he answered. “But to begin with you always looked round first to make sure there wasn't any other Genoese watching!”