by Amin Maalouf
The four of us rode forward at the same pace, pretending not to notice his gallops, his stopping and starting, or the clapping of his legs against the flanks of his mule. But at noon, when Hatem prepared some food — only local flat bread stuffed with local cheese, seasoned with oil and oregano — I invited the intruder to share our meal. Neither my nephews nor my clerk approved of my generosity and, given the ill-mannered oaf’s behaviour, I must say they were right. For he grabbed what we offered him, took it to the other side of the road, and devoured it all alone like a brute beast, with his back to us. Too uncouth to eat with us, but not proud enough to go hungry. What a pathetic wretch!
We are going to spend this first night at Anfé, a village on the coast. A fisherman has offered us food and shelter. When I went to open my purse to give him a token of thanks, he declined, then took me aside and asked me instead to tell him what I knew about the rumours concerning next year. I spoke in as learned a manner as I could to reassure him. They are only empty rumours, I told him — the kind that always circulate when men lose courage. Don’t be taken in by them! Does it not say in the Scriptures, “Ye know neither the day nor the hour”?
My host was so comforted by these words that, not content with having offered us hospitality, he took my hand and kissed it. I blushed with shame. If the good fellow only knew the absurd reason for my journey! And there I was pretending to dispense wisdom!
Before going to bed I made myself write these few paragraphs, by the light of a rank-smelling candle. I’m not sure I’ve selected what’s important. It’s not going to be easy to distinguish the essential from the trivial every day, the significant from the incidental, the true paths from the blind alleys. But I mean to go forward with my eyes open.
Tripoli, 25 August
We seem to have shaken off our unwelcome fellow-traveller. Only to meet with other troubles.
This morning Rasmi was waiting for us outside the house where we’d spent the night, moustache bristling, ready to go. He must have slept in another house in the village, I suppose — some brigand of his acquaintance. When we set out he followed us for a few minutes, then rode to the top of a headland, as he had done yesterday, to scan the landscape. Then he turned back and went off in the direction of Gibelet. My companions are still wondering if it wasn’t a ruse, and if he won’t try to surprise us further on. But I don’t think so. I don’t think we shall see him again.
We reached Tripoli at noon. This must be the twentieth time I’ve been there, but I never pass through the city gates without emotion. It is here that my ancestors first set foot in the Levant, more than 500 years ago. In those days the Crusaders were besieging the town, unsuccessfully. Ansaldo Embriaco, one of my ancestors, helped them build a citadel designed to overcome the resistance of the beleaguered defenders, and offered the aid of his ships to blockade the harbour. In return he was given the seigniory of Gibelet.
The domain remained in my family for a good 200 years. And even when the last Frankish state in the Levant was destroyed, the Embriaci managed to persuade the victorious Mamelukes to let them hold on to their fief for a few more years. We had been among the first Crusaders to arrive, and we were the last to leave. We didn’t quite go even then. Am I not the living proof of that?
When the reprieve was over and we had to abandon our domain of Gibelet to the Muslims, what remained of the family decided to return to Genoa. “Return” is not the right word: they had all been born in the Levant, and most of them had never set foot in the city their forefathers came from. However, once back in Genoa, Bartolomeo, my ancestor at the time, soon fell into a state of depression. For a while, at the time of the first Crusades, the Embriaci had been one of the city’s most prominent families, with their own private mansion in their own quarter of the town, their own followers and supporters, a tower named after them, and the biggest fortune in all Genoa; they had now been supplanted by other families: the Dorias, the Spinolas, the Grimaldis and the Fieschis had all become more eminent than they. My ancestor felt degraded, exiled even. He might be a Genoese — he was one, in his speech, his dress, his way of life — but he was only a Genoese from the East!
So my people went to sea again, and weighed anchor in various ports — Haifa, Alexandria, Chios — until Ugo, my great-grandfather, had the idea of going back to Gibelet, where in return for services rendered the authorities gave him back a plot of land in what had once been his family fief. We had to abandon our seignorial pretensions and go back to commerce, our original occupation; but the memory of our days of glory survived. According to documents still in my possession, I am the eighteenth descendant in the direct male line of the man who conquered Tripoli.
So when I go to the booksellers’ district, how can I fail to feast my eyes on the Citadel, where once fluttered the banner of the Embriaci? When they see me coming, the merchants make fun of me and start to call to one another, “Watch out, the Genoese is here to take the Citadel again — don’t let him by!” They come out of their booths and really do stop me, but only to embrace me rowdily and offer me coffee and cordials at every step. They are naturally a hospitable people, but I must say I’m a sympathetic colleague too, and an extremely good customer. If I don’t come to them, they send me any items they think might interest me but which are not in their line — that is to say, mostly relics, icons and old books relating to Christianity. They themselves are for the most part Muslims or Jews, and their customers are chiefly their co-religionists, mainly concerned with their own faith.
Today, arriving in the city at noon, I went at once to see Abdessamad, a Muslim friend of mine. He was sitting at the door of his shop, surrounded by his brothers and a few other booksellers from the same street. But when, following the usual elaborate exchange of courtesies, and after I’d introduced my nephews to those who didn’t already know them, I was asked what brought me here, I was tongue-tied. Something told me it would be best not to say: it was the voice of reason speaking, and I should have listened to it. Surrounded by these respectable characters, who all had a high opinion of me and regarded me rather as the most senior member of our group, if not because of my age and erudition then at least because of my fame and fortune, I realised it would be unwise to reveal the real reason for my visit. Though at the same time another, less prudent voice was urging me to take a different course. After all, if old Idriss in his hovel had had a copy of this coveted work, why shouldn’t the booksellers in Tripoli have one too? Theirs might be no less of a forgery than his, but it could save me having to go all the way to Constantinople!
After some seconds of reflection, during which all eyes rested weightily on mine, I finally said:
“I suppose one of you wouldn’t happen to have a copy of that treatise by Mazandarani that people are talking about these days — The Hundredth Name?”
I’d spoken in as light, detached and ironic a tone as I could manage. But an immediate silence fell on the small company — and, it seemed to me, on the whole city. All eyes now turned on my friend Abdessamad. He was no longer looking at me, either.
He cleared his throat as if about to speak, but instead he let out a forced, staccato laugh, which he suddenly cut short, to take a sip of water. Then he said to me:
“We’re always glad to see you!”
This meant that my present visit was over. I stood up sheepishly and said a word of farewell to those closest to me; the rest had already scattered.
Stunned, I began to walk back to the hostelry where we were to spend the night. Hatem came and told me he was going to buy some provisions. Habib whispered that he was off for a stroll by the harbour. I let them both go without comment. Only jaber stayed with me, but I didn’t speak to him either. What could I have said? “A plague on you, Boumeh — It’s your fault I’ve been humiliated!” His fault, and Evdokim’s, and Idriss’s, and Marmontel’s, and the fault of many others, but most of all it’s mine. And It’s first and foremost up to me to preserve my reason, my reputation and my dignity.
I wo
nder, though, why those booksellers reacted as they did. Their attitude was very cold and curt toward someone who’s always found them friendly and prudent. I expected amused smiles at most. Not such hostility. And I framed my question so carefully! I don’t understand. I simply don’t understand.
Writing these lines has calmed me down. But that incident put me in a bad humour for the rest of the day. I went for Hatem because he didn’t buy what I meant him to buy. Then I scolded Habib for not coming back from his excursion till after dark.
To Boumeh, the main cause of my discomfiture, I couldn’t think what to say.
On the road, 26 August
How could I have been so naive?
It was staring me in the face and I didn’t see it!
When I woke up this morning, Habib wasn’t there. He’d risen early and whispered to Hatem that he had to go and buy something in the Citadel market and would meet us afterwards near the Bassatine gate to the north-east of the city.
“I just hope he gets there before we do,” I exclaimed, “because I shan’t wait for him! Not a single minute!” And I gave the order for us to leave at once.
The gate isn’t far from the hostelry so we were soon there. I looked around. No Habib in sight.
“Give him time,” pleaded my clerk, who has always had a soft spot for the boy.
“I shan’t wait long!” I replied, tapping my foot impatiently. But I had to wait for him. What else could I do? We were setting out on a long journey — I couldn’t very well abandon my nephew on the way!
After an hour, by which time the sun was high in the sky, Hatem, pretending to be all excited, called out to me: “Here comes Habib, running and waving his arms! He’s a good lad really, God save him! Always smiling and affectionate. The main thing, master, is that he hasn’t come to any harm.”
All this, obviously, to try to spare him a trouncing! But I wouldn’t be mollified. An hour we’d been waiting! There was no question of my greeting him or smiling at him; I wouldn’t even look in the direction he was coming from. I just waited another minute, long enough for him to come up with us, and then I stalked off towards the city gate.
Habib was now behind me: I could feel his presence and hear his breathing. But I kept my back turned on him. I’ll start talking to him again, I thought, when he’s kissed my hand respectfully and promised not to stay away again without my permission! If we’re to continue this journey together I need to know all the time where my nephews are!
When we reached the officer keeping the gate, I greeted him formally, told him who I was, and slipped him a suitable coin.
“And is this your son?” he asked, nodding towards the person behind me.
“No, I’m his nephew.”
“And this woman?”
“That’s his wife,” said Habib.
“Right! You may proceed.”
My wife?
I decided to get through the gate and away from the customs post and the soldiers, still looking straight in front of me. Then I turned round.
It was Marta.
“The widow.”
Dressed in black, and smiling all over her face.
No, I admit I didn’t understand anything till now, didn’t even suspect. And Habib handled it well, I agree. He’s usually up to all sorts of tricks in order to charm both men and women, but in the last few days he didn’t indulge in one knowing smile or a single teasing allusion. He pretended to be as shocked as I was by Rasmi’s accusations. Which turned out in the end to be less flimsy than I thought.
I suppose in due course my nephew will tell me how it was all arranged. But what’s the point? I can guess most of it. I can guess why he so surprisingly sided with his brother to urge me to make this journey to Constantinople. I imagine he then hurried off to tell “the widow”, and she must have thought that was a good moment to run away. So she left Gibelet, and must have spent one night in Tripoli staying with a cousin or in a convent. That’s all so plain I don’t need any confessions. But until the whole thing was put right under my nose, I didn’t have an inkling.
So what should I do now? For the rest of the day I just walked straight ahead, without expression, without saying a word. Sulking solves nothing, I know. But unless I want to lose all dignity and all authority over my family, I can’t act as if I hadn’t been led up the garden path.
The trouble is, I’m forgetful by nature, easy-going, and always inclined to forgive. All day I’ve had to make an effort to keep up my attitude of injured innocence. And I’ll have to keep it up for another day or two, even if it hurts me more than the people I’m trying to punish.
The four of them trail along behind me, not daring to speak to one another above a whisper. Good.
The village of the tailor, 27 August
Today we’ve acquired another unexpected companion. But a respectable one this time.
We had a terrible night. I knew this inn we stopped at, but I hadn’t been there for a long while. Perhaps I’d stayed there at a more auspicious time: I didn’t remember those swarms of mosquitoes, those cracked and mouldering walls, that stench of stagnant water. I spent the whole night tossing and turning, clapping my hands together every time I heard that menacing drone approaching.
In the morning, when it was time to set out again, I’d hardly closed my eyes. Later on during the day, I fell asleep in the saddle several times, and nearly fell off my mule. Fortunately Hatem came and rode close beside me, to prop me up from time to time. He’s a good fellow — I’m not really cross with him.
Towards noon, after we’d been travelling for a good five hours and I was looking for a shady spot to have our midday meal in, we found our way suddenly barred by a big leafy branch from a tree. It would have been quite easy to move it out of the way, or just to go round it, but I halted, puzzled. There was something strange about the way it had been put there, right in the middle of the road.
I was looking around to find some explanation when Boumeh came up and suggested in a whisper that it would be best to turn off on to a path on the right that rejoined the main road a bit further on.
“If that branch was blown off its tree,” he said, “and the wind dropped it there just like that, it must be a warning from Heaven, and we’d be mad to disregard it.”
I derided his superstition but followed his advice. True, as he was speaking to me I’d noticed, some way along the path he wanted me to take, an inviting-looking copse. Just looking at the greenery from a distance, I seemed to hear the cool plash of running water. And I was hungry.
As we started along the path we saw some people riding away in front of us — three or four of them, I thought. They’d probably had the same idea as us — to leave the road and have their meal in the shade. But they were moving fast, and flogging their beasts as if in a hurry to get away from us. When we reached the copse they’d already disappeared over the horizon.
Hatem was the first to yell:
“Brigands! Highwaymen!”
A man was lying in the shade of a walnut tree. Naked, and showing no sign of life. We called out to him as soon as we saw him, but he didn’t stir. We could already see that his brow and beard were streaked with blood. But when Marta cried, “My God, he’s dead!” and let out a sob, he sat up, apparently reassured by hearing a woman’s voice, and hastily covered his nakedness with his hands. Until then, he told us, he’d been afraid his attackers had come back to finish him off.
“They’d laid a branch across the road, and I thought that might signal some danger further on, so I turned off along this path. But it was here that they were lying in wait. I was on my way back from Tripoli, where I’d been to buy cloth. I’m a tailor by trade. My name’s Abbas. They took all I had: two asses and their load, my money, my shoes, and my clothes! God curse them! May everything they stole from me stick in their throats like a fishbone!”
I turned to Boumeh.
“So you thought that branch was a warning from Heaven, did you? Well, it was only a highwayman’s trick!”
/> But he wouldn’t change his mind.
“If we hadn’t taken this path, God knows what would have become of this poor man! It was because they saw us coming that the robbers made off!”
Hatem had just offered the victim one of my shirts, and he said as he put it on:
“Only Heaven could have sent you here to save me! You are decent people — I can tell by your faces. And only honest folk travel with women and children. Are these two fine young men your sons? May God watch over them!”
He was talking to Marta, who was wiping his face with a moistened handkerchief.
“His nephews,” she answered after a slight hesitation and a quick apologetic glance in my direction.
“God bless you,” the man repeated. “God bless you all. I shan’t let you go on without offering each of you a suit of clothes. Don’t say no — it’s the least I can do. You saved my life! And you shall spend tonight at my house, and nowhere else!”
We couldn’t refuse, especially as it was nightfall by the time we reached his village. We’d made a detour to take him home; after all he’d been through, we couldn’t let him travel on alone.
He was very grateful, and despite the late hour insisted on giving a veritable feast in our honour. From every house in the village, people brought us the most delicious food, some with meat and some without. The tailor is loved and respected by everyone, and he described us — my nephews, my clerk, my “wife” and me — as his saviours, the noble instruments of Providence to whom he’d be beholden for the rest of his life.
We could not have imagined a more congenial place to stay: it has made us forget the annoyances that beset the beginning of our journey, and smoothed away the tensions between me and my companions.
