“The fire is spreading,” he said. “They’ve lost count of the number of victims.”
He turned to one of the janissaries.
“Did the local people see you bring our friends here?”
“Yes, a few of them followed us at a distance.”
Morched Agha looked more troubled still.
“We must be on the alert all night. You must all stay awake. And if anyone asks you where our friends are, tell them we’ve put them in prison to await trial.”
He gave us a meaning wink, revealing his black spikes, and said reassuringly: “Don’t worry. Those ragamuffins won’t lay a finger on you — take my word for it.”
Then he signed to one of his men to bring some pistachio nuts. The two janissaries chose this moment to withdraw.
But I must interrupt my account for tonight. It’s been a tiring day, and my pen’s starting to feel heavy. I’ll take it up again at daybreak.
Written on Saturday the 28th
Later on they gave us dinner, then showed us a room in the house where my nephew and I could sleep on our own. I didn’t sleep a wink all night, and was still awake at dawn when Morched Agha came and shook me by the shoulder.
“You must get up straight away,” he said.
I sat up.
“What’s the matter?”
“The crowd has gathered outside. It seems half the neighbourhood has burned down, and hundreds of people have been killed. I swore to them on my father’s grave that you weren’t here. But if they go on asking I’ll have to let some of them in to see for themselves. So you must hide. Come with me!”
He led us along a corridor and unlocked what looked like a cupboard door.
“You have to go down a few steps,” he told us. “Be careful, there isn’t any light. Go down slowly and hold on to the wall. There’s a small room at the bottom. I’ll join you there as soon as I can.”
We heard him close the door and turn the key twice in the lock.
Having negotiated the stairs, we groped around for somewhere to sit, but the floor was muddy and there wasn’t a chair or a stool. I was obliged to lean against the wall, praying that our host wouldn’t leave us down in this hole for long.
“If he hadn’t taken us under his wing we’d be in a dungeon by now,” said Boumeh suddenly. He hadn’t opened his mouth for hours.
In the dark I couldn’t see if he was smiling.
“A fine time to make jokes!” I said. “I suppose you’d rather he threw us to the mob? Or handed us over to a judge who would have us strung up to satisfy public opinion? Don’t be so ungrateful! And show a bit of humility! Don’t forget it was you who made me go to see the vaivode. And made me come on this journey in the first place! We should never have left Gibelet!”
I’d spoken to him in Genoese rather than Arabic, as I do instinctively whenever I come up against typically Oriental difficulties.
I have to admit that as the hours, and then the days, went by, my thoughts took much the same tone as Boumeh’s, though I’d suspected him of facetiousness and taxed him with ingratitude. Sometimes, at least. At other times I thanked my lucky stars for having sent Morched Agha my way. I wavered between the two points of view. At one moment I’d see him as a wise and mature dignitary, concerned about our fate and well-being, apologising every time, in spite of himself, he caused us any inconvenience. At others, all I could think of was that black mouthful of shark’s teeth. When the time hung heavy and the dangers threatening us seemed far away, I’d sometimes ask myself if it wasn’t ridiculous for us to be shut up in a house belonging to someone we didn’t know and who was neither an official responsible for law and order nor a friend. Why was he doing this for us? Why should he get on the wrong side of the locals, and even of the authorities, to whom he ought to have handed us over from the start? Then he started having the door of the cell opened and summoning us up into the house, usually during the night, inviting us to share a meal with him and his men, installing us in the place of honour and giving us the choicest morsels of chicken or lamb before bringing us up to date on how our case was getting on.
“Alas,” he would say, “you are in mortal danger. The local people keep watch over my door — they’re sure I’m still hiding you here. The whole city is looking for whoever started the fire, and the authorities promise they’ll make an example of the guilty parties.”
If we were caught we couldn’t even expect a proper trial. We’d be impaled the very same day, and our bodies exposed in the public squares. So long as we remained hidden in the house of our benefactor, we were safe. But we couldn’t stay there indefinitely. Every secret eventually got out. And the judge had sent his clerk on a visit of inspection. So he must suspect something.
My hand no longer trembles as I write. But for nine days and nights my life was a nightmare, and the presence of my wretched nephew did nothing to alleviate my distress.
The situation wasn’t resolved till yesterday. After letting me think that the judge might have the premises officially searched at any moment, and that it was growing more and more risky for him to shelter me, my host at last brought me good news.
“The judge sent for me this morning, and I said my prayers as I went! When he began by saying he knew you were hidden here — the janissaries had confessed as much — I threw myself at his feet and begged him to spare my life. He told me to get up, and said he approved of my noble attitude, defending two innocent people. For he believes that you’re innocent, and if feelings weren’t running so high he’d let you go free straight away without a stain on your characters. But we need to be careful, he said. Before you leave you ought to be provided with a safe-conduct. ‘Only your excellency,’ I said, ‘can supply them with that.’ He said he needed to think it over, and told me to come back again this afternoon. What do you think?”
I told him I was delighted: it was the best possible news.
“We’ll have to make the judge a suitable present.”
“Of course. How much do you suggest?”
“Think it over carefully. He’s an important person. And a proud one — he won’t want to haggle. He’ll just see what you offer, and if he thinks it’s enough he’ll issue the safe-conduct. If he thinks it isn’t enough, he’ll throw it back in my face and it’ll be goodnight for ever for all three of us!”
He drew his hand across his throat, and I automatically copied him.
So how much money ought I to offer to save my life? How can anyone possibly answer such a question? Is there a figure beyond which I’d prefer to lose my own life and that of my nephew?
“All I’ve got on me,” I said, “is four piastres and sixty aspres. I know that’s not enough ...”
“Four and a half piastres is what we need to give my men to thank them for protecting and looking after us for ten days.”
“That’s what I intended to do. But I also meant, as soon I get home, to send a magnificent present to you, our host and benefactor.”
“Don’t bother about me — I don’t want anything. You’ve been here in my house day and night and it hasn’t cost you anything. And I haven’t been risking my life in order to be given presents. I took you and your nephew in because I believed from the start that you were innocent. For no other reason. And I shan’t sleep easy until I know you’re safe. But the judge has to have a suitable present, and woe betide us if we get it wrong.”
“How does he have to be paid?”
“He has a brother who’s a wealthy and respected merchant. You write him an IOU for goods worth a certain sum that he’s supplied you with and that you promise to pay within a week. If you haven’t got that much in ready cash, you can borrow it.”
“Provided someone will lend it.”
“Listen, my friend! Take the advice of a man of experience! Start by getting yourself out of the hole you’re in with your head still on your shoulders. You can think about where to get the money from later on. We mustn’t waste any more time. I’ll draft the IOU. Bring me some paper and a pen!?
??
He asked me for my full name, usual place of residence, address in Constantinople, religion, origins and exact profession, and started smartly writing it all down, leaving one line blank.
“How much shall I put?”
I hesitated.
“What do you think?”
“I can’t help you. I don’t know how much you’ve got.”
How much have I got? Perhaps, including everything, 250,000 maidins — that is, about 3,000 piastres. But is that really the question? Shouldn’t I really know how much the judge usually charges for such services?
Every time a figure occurred to me, it stuck in my throat. Supposing my host said it wasn’t enough? Should I add another piastre? Another three? Another twelve?
“So how much?”
“Fifty piastres!”
He didn’t look very pleased.
“I’ll put 150!”
He started to write it down, and I didn’t protest. Then my nephew and I signed the document and he got two of his men to witness it.
“Now pray that all goes well,” he said. “Otherwise we’re all dead men.”
We left Morched Agha’s house early yesterday morning, when the streets were still deserted, after his men had made sure no one was watching. We were armed with a rather sketchy safe-conduct allowing us to travel all over the Empire without let or hindrance. The only part of the signature that was legible was the word “cadi”, meaning judge.
We slunk back to our house in Galata, dirty, penniless — if not like beggars, at least like travellers who’d been on the road for a long time and had many a brush with death. Despite our safe-conduct we were afraid of being stopped and questioned by some patrol, or, worse still, coming face to face with people from the neighbourhood of the fire.
Only when we reached home did we learn the truth: the very next day after the fire we had been cleared of suspicion. Although he was unwell, and shattered by the loss of his house and his books, the noble vaivode had gathered all his neighbours together and told them we’d been wrongly accused. The fire had been started when a maid dropped some embers from a hookah on a woollen rug. A few people had suffered superficial burns, but no one had been killed, apart from the crazy youth cut down by the janissaries.
Marta, Habib and Hatem, worried by our absence, had come to the vaivode’s palace the following day to ask what had happened to us, and of course they were directed to Morched Agha’s house. He told them he’d put us up for one night to save us from the mob, but we had left immediately afterwards. Perhaps we’d decided to leave the city for a while, he said, to avoid being apprehended. Our supposed benefactor was warmly thanked by my people, who agreed to let him know what had become of us as soon as they could, seeing that he and we had become, according to him, such great friends. While they were having this courtly conversation, Boumeh and I were stuck in a dungeon under their feet, fondly imagining that our host was doing his best to save us from the clutches of the mob.
“I’ll make him pay for this,” I said, “as sure as my name’s Embriaco! He’ll give me my money back, and then he’ll be the one to rot in a dungeon, if he escapes impaling.”
No one objected to this at the time, but when I was alone with my clerk he begged me not to pursue the matter.
“No question of that!” I replied. “Even if I have to take it as far as the Grand Vizier!”
“If a crooked minor official manages to steal your purse and make you sign an IOU for 150 piastres before he sets you free, how much do you think you’ll have to pay the Grand Vizier and his people to get satisfaction?”
“I’ll pay whatever it takes, but I want to see that scoundrel impaled!”
Hatem left it at that. He wiped the table, collected an empty cup and left the room, eyes downcast. He knows I must be handled with care when my pride is involved. But he also knows that I take in whatever is said to me, however I react on the spur of the moment.
So by this morning my mood had changed. I no longer want revenge — I just want to get away from this city, taking my nearest and dearest with me. Nor do I wish to have anything more to do with that accursed book: it seems to me that if ever I go near it again something awful will happen. First it was Idriss, then Marmontel. And then the fire. The book brings not salvation but disaster. Death, shipwreck, conflagration. I want no more of it. I’m off.
Marta too begs me to leave the city without more ado. She says she’ll never set foot in the Sultan’s palace again; she’s sure it would get her nowhere. Smyrna is where she wants to go now — somebody once told her her husband had gone to live thereabouts, and she’s sure it’s there she can get the document that will give her back her freedom. Very well. I’ll take her to Smyrna. If she gets what she wants there, we’ll go back to Gibelet together. And there I’ll marry her and take her to live in my house. I don’t feel like promising her that just now — there are too many obstacles still in the way. But I like to think that next year, said to be the year of the Beast and of a thousand predicted calamities, will be the year of our wedding. Not the end of the world, but another beginning.
NOTEBOOK II
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 mo
ney’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.