Balthasar's Odyssey (7 page)

The going is more pleasant after the rain — no sun, or excessive heat, or clouds of dust. Some mud, of course, but that affects only the hooves of our mules. We kept going until it started to get dark.

We skirted the town of Horns and halted for the night at a monastery on the banks of the Orontes. I'd stayed there twice before, on a trip to Aleppo and back with my father; but no one here could remember that.

In the evening, as I was strolling beside the river, in the monastery gardens, a young monk with bulging eyes came up and questioned me excitedly on the rumours circulating about next year. Vehemently though he condemned “false reports” and “superstition”, he seemed distraught. He spoke of disturbing signs recounted by local peasants — a calf born with two heads, the sudden drying up of an ancient spring. He also mentioned the hitherto unheard-of behaviour of certain women, but he did so in such a roundabout style that I couldn't understand what he was driving at.

I did my best to reassure him, quoting the Scriptures once more and reminding him of man's inability to foretell the future. I don't know if my arguments helped him. No doubt he went away from our encounter having imbibed something of my apparent calm; but I brought away from it a tremor of
his
fear.

On the road, 30 August

I've just read what I've written in the last few days, and I'm appalled.

I undertook this journey for the noblest of reasons, concerned about the survival of the universe and the reactions of my fellow-mortals to the dramatic events now being foretold. And because of that woman I find myself embroiled in the filthy byways beloved of the vilest of men. Jealousies, intrigues, petty tricks — when the whole world might be annihilated tomorrow!

Sheikh Abdel-Bassit was right. What is the good of travelling all over the world just to see what is inside me already?

I must pull myself together! I must get my original inspiration back, and dip my pen only in the most venerable ink, even if it is also the bitterest.

2 September

We often speak of sea-sickness, but rarely of riding-sickness, as if it was less degrading to suffer on the deck of a ship than on the back of a mule, a camel or a nag.

But riding-sickness is what I've been suffering from for the last three days, though I haven't got to the point of deciding to interrupt the journey. However, I haven't written much.

Yesterday evening we reached the little town of Maarra, and it was only in the shelter of its half-ruined walls that I felt myself come alive again and got my appetite back.

This morning, as I was sauntering through the shopping streets, something very strange happened. The local booksellers had never seen me before, so I could question them freely about
The Hundredth Name.
All I met with were expressions of ignorance — whether genuine or feigned, I couldn't say. But by the last booth, next to the main mosque, just as I was about to turn back, a very old seller of secondhand books, whom I hadn't yet spoken to, came up to me, bare-headed, and handed me a book. I opened it at random and, following an impulse I still can't explain, began to read aloud the lines my eyes first fell upon:

The author of the book is Abu-l-Ala, the blind poet of Maarra. Why did the old man put it into my hands? Why did it open just at that page? And what made me read aloud from it like that, right out in the street?

Is it a sign? But what sort of a sign is it that refutes all other signs?

I bought the old man's book. No doubt it will be the least unreasonable of my travelling companions.

Aleppo, 6 September

We got here yesterday evening, and had to spend all today haggling with a sly and greedy caravaneer. He claimed, among countless other tricks, that the presence in the party of a wealthy Genoese merchant and his wife meant he had to take on three more men to strengthen the escort. I said we were four men to one woman, and could defend ourselves against bandits if necessary. He looked us over meaningly, raising an eyebrow at the puny shanks of my nephews, the mild demeanour of my clerk, and especially my own prosperous paunch. Then he gave a disagreeable laugh. I felt like turning on my heel and applying to someone else, but I restrained myself. I hadn't much choice. I'd have had to wait a week or two and risk running into the first winter cold of Anatolia, and even then I might not find a more amiable guide. So I swallowed my pride and pretended to share the joke, tapping my belly and holding out the thirty-two piastres he was asking for — the equivalent of 2,500 maidins, no less!

Weighing the coins in his hand, he tried to make me promise that if we all arrived at our destination safe and sound, together with our merchandise, I'd pay him something extra. I reminded him that we had no merchandise, only our personal effects and our provisions. But I still had to undertake to show my gratitude if the whole journey passed off without incident.

We leave at dawn the day after tomorrow, Tuesday. If God wills, we should reach Constantinople in about forty days.

Monday, 7 September

After the tribulations of the journey so far, and before those yet to come, I'd been hoping for a quiet day, an oasis of calm, rest and cool, enlivened by a gentle stroll or two. But today hasn't been in the least like that: fatigue, one scare after another, and an as yet unexplained mystery is all this Monday has produced.

Having woken up early, I left the inn and went to the old tannery district to look for an Armenian wine-merchant whose address I still had. I found him quite easily and bought a couple of pitchers of malmsey from him for the journey. As I left his shop I suddenly had a strange feeling. On the steps leading up to the door of a nearby house there was a group of men, talking and glancing furtively in my direction. Something glinted like a blade in the eyes of one of them.

As I walked on through the narrow streets I felt more and more as if I was being followed, spied on, encircled. Was I just imagining it? I was sorry now that I'd ventured here alone, without my clerk or my nephews. I was sorry I hadn't gone back to the Armenian's shop as soon as I scented danger. But it was too late. Two of the men were now walking in front of me, and when I turned round I saw two more of them cutting off my retreat. The street I was in had emptied as if by magic. A few moments before it had seemed quite busy — not crowded, but not empty either. Now there was no one. A desert. I could already see myself being stabbed and then robbed of all I had. This is where my journey ends, I thought with a shudder. I'd have shouted for help, but I couldn't utter a sound.

Looking round desperately for some way of escape, I noticed, on my right, the doorway of a house. With a last effort I clutched at the door-knob, and it opened. Inside, all that was to be seen was a dark corridor. To hide there would be no better than choosing the place to have my throat cut. So as my pursuers followed me into the passage at one end, I hastened along it towards the other. There I came upon a second door, slightly ajar. I didn't have time to knock. I just shouldered it open and burst in.

I can hardly find words to describe the scene that then unfolded. I can smile at it now, but at the time it made me tremble almost as much as the blades of the rascals behind me.

There lay prostrate before me a dozen men, barefoot and deep in prayer. And I, not content with interrupting their ceremony and trampling on their prayer mat, tripped over someone's leg, let out a fruity Genoese oath, and measured my length on the ground. My two pitchers of wine crashed together as I fell. One of them broke, and its unholy contents splashed with a loud gurgle over the rugs on the floor of the little mosque.

God in Heaven! Before I had time to be afraid I was ashamed. How could I, in such a few seconds, have been guilty of so much profanation, boorishness and blasphemy? What could I say? How could I explain? What words could express my regret and remorse? I hadn't even the strength to get to my feet. Then the eldest of those present — he was in front of the rest and leading the prayer — came over, took me by the arm, and helped me up, disconcerting me further by saying:

“Forgive us, Master, if we finish praying before attending to you. Be kind enough to wait for us behind the curtain.”

Was I dreaming? Had I misunderstood? This affable tone might have reassured me if I hadn't known how the sins I'd just committed were usually punished. But what could I do? It was impossible for me to go out into the street again, and I didn't want to make matters worse by perturbing their orisons further with apologies and repinings. All I could do was withdraw obediently behind the curtain. There I found a bare room lit by a small window looking on to a garden. I leaned against the wall and folded my arms.

I didn't have long to wait. When they'd finished praying they all came into my cell and gathered around me in a half-circle. They gazed at me silently for a moment, exchanging glances with one another. Then the oldest among them spoke to me again, as amiably as before:

“If the Master introduced himself in that manner in order to test us, he knows we are ready to welcome him. And if you are a mere passer-by, may God judge you according to your intentions.”

Not knowing what to say, I took refuge in silence. In any case, he hadn't asked me a question, even though his eyes, like those of his companions, were gulfs of expectation. I assumed an enigmatic expression and walked towards the door. They stood aside and let me pass. When I got out into the street I found my pursuers had taken themselves off, and I could go back to the hostelry without further hindrance.

I do wish someone would explain to me what just happened. But I've thought it best to say nothing to my companions about my misadventure. If my nephews found out how rashly I'd acted, my authority over them would probably suffer. And then they'd think they could commit whatever folly they liked without my daring to criticise.

I'll tell them about it later on. Meanwhile, I'm content to confide my secret to these pages. Isn't that what this journal is for?

But sometimes I ask myself: why keep a diary, and in this ambiguous language, when I know no one will ever read it? When in fact I don't even
want
anyone to read it? I do it precisely because it helps me to clarify my thoughts and memories without having to tell my travelling companions about them.

Other people write as they speak. I write as I stay silent.

On the road, 8 September

Hatem woke me too early, and I still feel I didn't finish my dream. But although I hadn't had enough sleep, I had to hurry to join the caravan by the Antioch gate.

In my dream I was being followed by some men, and every time I thought I'd shaken them off I saw them in front of me again, barring my path and baring their teeth at me like wild animals.

It's hardly surprising I had such a dream after my experience of yesterday. What does surprise me, and disturb me somewhat, is that I still feel I'm being spied on even now I'm awake. But by whom? By the brigands who wanted to rob me? Or by that strange congregation whose prayers I interrupted? I don't suppose I'm really being pursued by either group, but I can't help turning round all the time.

I only hope this aftermath of last night will fade as I get farther away from Aleppo!

9 September

This morning, after we'd camped out all night in a field strewn with ancient ruins — broken columns buried under sand and grass — the caravaneer came and asked me point-blank whether the woman with me was really my wife. Trying to look offended, I said she was. He apologised, assuring me he hadn't meant any harm but had forgotten whether I'd told him or not.

This has put me in a bad mood for the rest of the day. I keep turning it over in my mind. Does he suspect something? There are about a hundred travellers in the caravan; might one of them have recognised the “widow”? It's not impossible.

But it's also possible that the caravaneer overheard a snatch of conversation or caught a meaning look between Marta and Habib, and that his question was intended to warn me.

As I write these lines my doubts increase, as if my pen, scratching at the paper, was also scratching at the wounds to my self-esteem . . .

I shan't write another word today.

11 September

Today there was one of those demeaning incidents I promised myself I wouldn't mention. But because it bothers me, and I can't confide in anyone, I might as well write it down.

The caravan had halted for the travellers to have a meal and a short rest before starting out again when it was cooler. We'd spread out at random, a few people lying or sitting under each tree, when Habib leaned over and whispered something in Marta's ear that made her laugh aloud. Everybody nearby heard, and turned to look, first at her and then, with pitying expressions, at me. Some exchanged remarks under their breath with their neighbours: I couldn't hear what was said, but their smiles and titters were not lost on me.

I need not say how hurt and humiliated and embarrassed I felt. I decided I would have it out with my nephew and make him understand he must behave better in future. But what could I say? What had he done wrong? Wasn't it I who was behaving as though the lie linking Marta and me together gave me special privileges?

And so it does, in a way. Since the people in the caravan think she's my wife, my honour will be tarnished if I let her behave irresponsibly.

I'm glad I confided in my journal. Now I know that the feelings upsetting me are not unjustified. They've got nothing to do with jealousy; it's honour and respectability that are at stake. I can't just let my nephew whisper in public to the woman everyone thinks is my wife, and make her roar with laughter!

I'm not sure whether putting all this into words makes me angrier or calms me down. Perhaps writing only arouses the passions in order to allay them, as beaters flush out the game in order to expose it to the hunters' arrows.