by Amin Maalouf
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.
12 September
I’m glad I didn’t give in to the desire to tell Habib or Marta off. Anything I might have said would only have sounded like jealousy. Though as God is my witness it isn’t that! Anyhow, I’d only have made myself ridiculous, and made them whisper and laugh together at my expense. Trying to defend my respectability, I’d just have damaged it.
I preferred to deal with the matter quite differently. This afternoon I invited Marta to ride beside me, and as we went along I explained why I’d undertaken this journey. Habib may already have told her something about it, but if so she gave no sign, listening attentively to my explanations, though she didn’t seem very worried about next year.
I wanted our conversation to be rather formal and serious. So far, I’d thought of Marta’s presence in our party as an unavoidable accident, sometimes annoying or embarrassing, at other times comical, amusing and almost reassuring. By taking her into my confidence as I did today, I’ve in a way made her one of us.
I’m not sure if I did right, but at any rate I felt relieved and much more comfortable after our conversation. After all, I’d been the only one that suffered because of the tensions that had sprung up in our little group since we broke our journey in Tripoli. I’m not the sort of person who thrives on adversity. I want to travel in the company of affectionate nephews and a devoted clerk ... As for Marta, I don’t yet know what I really want. A kind of considerate neighbour? Something more? I can’t just listen to my own longings as a lonely man, though every day I spend on the road will make me feel them more. I know I ought to do my best not to pester her with my attentions, though I’m well aware too that they spring from my soul as well as my body.
I haven’t spent a night alone with her since we left the tailor’s house. Sometimes we’ve slept under canvas, sometimes at an inn, but always all five of us together, or even with other travellers as well. Though I haven’t done anything to change things, I have sometimes wished circumstances would arrange for Marta and me to be alone with one another again.
To tell the truth, I wish it all the time.
13 September
Tomorrow is Holy Cross Day, and this evening I had a serious argument on the subject with the caravaneer.
We’d stopped for the night at a khan on the outskirts of Alexandretta, and I was strolling round the courtyard to stretch my legs when I overheard a conversation. One of the travellers, a very old man, from Aleppo judging by his accent, and very poor judging by his patched clothes, was asking the caravaneer what time we were to set off tomorrow. He said he’d like to be able to go, even if only for a moment, to the Church of the Cross, which according to him contains a piece of the True Cross. He spoke timidly, with a slight stammer, and this seemed to bring out the arrogance of our caravaneer, who replied in a scornful manner that we were going to start at the crack of dawn and had no time to waste in churches. If the old man wanted to see a bit of wood, he need only pick up that one — and the caravaneer pointed to a rotten old bit of tree stump lying on the ground.
Then I went over and said firmly that I wished us to stay on in Alexandretta a few hours longer so that I could attend mass on the feast of the Holy Cross.
The caravaneer, who’d thought he was alone with the old man, started when he heard me. He would probably have avoided talking like that in the presence of witnesses. But after a slight hesitation he recovered and answered — more politely, however, than to the other poor fellow — that the time of departure could not be put off: the other travellers would object. He even said it would harm the whole caravan, hinting that I’d have to pay compensation if I wanted a postponement. Then I raised my voice further and insisted that the caravan should wait for me until mass was over, otherwise I’d complain to the Genoese Resident in Constantinople, and even to the Sublime Porte.
I was taking a risk when I said that. I am in no position to approach the Ottoman Court, and even the Genoese Resident hasn’t much influence these days: he himself was subjected to harassment last year, and would be quite incapable of protecting or obtaining redress for me. But, thank God, the caravaneer didn’t know that. He didn’t dare take my threats lightly, and I could see he was wavering. If we’d been alone, I’m sure he’d have tried to smooth things over, but the sound of our voices had attracted a circle of travellers, and he couldn’t climb down in front of them without losing face.
All of a sudden one of the travellers went up to him. He had a green scarf wound round his head, as if we were in the middle of a sand-storm. He put his hand on the caravaneer’s shoulder, and stood there looking at him for a few moments without a word — or if there was one, it was uttered in such a low voice I didn’t hear it. Then he walked slowly away.
Then my adversary, his face screwed up as if in pain, spat on the ground and said:
“We shan’t be leaving tomorrow, because of him!”
“Him” was me. By pointing me out, the caravaneer meant to identify the guilty party, but everyone present realised he was designating the victor.
Am I pleased with my victory? Yes, I’m not only pleased — I’m delighted, happy and proud. The old Christian from Aleppo came and thanked me, praising me for my piety.
I didn’t want to disabuse him, but piety has nothing to do with it. I wa
s acting out of profane prudence. In the ordinary way I seldom go to mass, I don’t celebrate Holy Cross Day, and in my view relics are worth no more than their equivalent in piastres. But people would have stopped respecting me if I’d stood by and let the symbols of my religion and my country be insulted.
It’s the same with Marta. Whether she’s my wife in fact or only in appearance, my honour is involved with her, and I owe it to myself to protect it.
14 September, Holy Cross Day
I keep thinking about that incident yesterday. It’s rare for me to act so violently, and it gives me a pang to remember it, but I don’t regret my boldness.
Reading over the account I wrote yesterday evening, it seems to me I didn’t say enough about how fast my heart was beating at some points. There were some long moments of silent struggle when the caravaneer was wondering if I really had as much protection as I claimed, and I was asking myself how I could get out of this confrontation without losing face. Of course I had to look him in the eye, to disguise my weakness and make him think I was sure of myself.
That said, there was also a moment when I was no longer afraid. When I stopped being a merchant and took on the spirit of a conqueror. Brief as that moment was, I’m proud of it.
Was it my will-power that brought about the decision? Or was it the intervention of the Arab in the head-dress? Perhaps I ought to thank him… Yesterday I didn’t want to approach him, in case people thought I’d been at a loss and he’d saved the situation for me. But today I did look for him, and I couldn’t find him.
I keep thinking about him, and because I’m not engaged in any contest now, and this notebook isn’t an arena and I’m not surrounded by spectators, I can say here that I was immensely relieved when he took a hand: my victory is partly his, and I am somewhat in his debt.
What could he have said to our caravaneer to make him give in?
I almost forgot to say that I, together with my nephews, my clerk, the “widow”, and about a dozen other travellers, duly went to the Church of the Gross. For the first time, Marta was wearing a coloured dress — a blue one with the neck edged in red. I’d seen her in it as a girl, when she went to church in Gibelet on feast days with her father the barber. Up till then, ever since she joined us on our journey, she’d always worn black — out of bravado, because her in-laws objected to it. She must have decided the gesture was no longer necessary.
All through the celebration of the mass, the men kept looking at her — some furtively, others openly. But as God is my witness, it didn’t bother me, and I didn’t feel the slightest twinge of jealousy.
16 September
A Jewish jeweller from Aleppo, Maïmoun Toleitli by name, came to see me this morning. He’d heard how learned I was, he said, and was eager to meet me. Why hadn’t he approached me before? I asked. There was an embarrassed silence. I realised at once that he’d preferred to wait until after Holy Cross Day. So far, admittedly, when some of my co-religionists meet a Jew, they feel obliged to act in a very hostile manner towards him, as if such behaviour constituted a just revenge and an act of great piety.
I explained tactfully that I wasn’t like that, and that if I’d insisted on staying on for a day in Alexandretta it was not to demonstrate that my religion was more important than other people’s, but simply to insist on being shown some respect.
“Quite right,” he said. “With the world the way it is …”
“Yes,” I agreed. “If it had been different, I’d have demonstrated my doubts rather than my beliefs.”
He smiled, then lowered his voice to say:
“When faith preaches hate, blessed are the doubters!”
I smiled back, and lowered my voice to say:
“We are all lost sheep.”
We spoke for only about five minutes, but it was enough to make us brothers. Our whispered exchanges generated the spiritual kinship no religion can create, and no religion can destroy.
17 September
Today our caravaneer decided to make us depart from the usual itinerary and go round by the bay of Alexandretta. He claims a fortune-teller told him he’d have his throat cut if he went through a certain place on a Thursday, so the delay I’d insisted on forced him to change our route. The other travellers didn’t protest. What could they have said? You can argue about a difference of opinion. You can’t argue about superstition.
I said nothing, for fear of causing another incident. But I suspect the rogue of re-routing the caravan for some nefarious purpose. Especially as the inhabitants of the village he took us to have a dreadful reputation. As wreckers and smugglers! Hatem and my nephews bring me all sorts of rumours. I tell them to be careful.
My clerk has put up the tent, but I’m in no hurry to go to bed. Marta will stretch out on her own along one side of the tent, and we four men will lie cramped together at right angles to her, with our heads nearest and our feet pointing away from her. I’ll smell her perfume and hear her breathing all night long, without being able to see her. Sometimes the presence of a woman can be torture!
To pass the time till I felt drowsy, I went and sat on a stone to write a few lines by the light from one of our camp fires. Then I caught sight of Maïmoun. He wasn’t yet ready to retire, either, so we went for a stroll along the beach. The lapping of the waves encourages confidences, and I told him all about my strange adventure in Aleppo. He lived there, so I expected him to offer some explanation. And he did provide one that satisfied me for the time being.
“Those men were more frightened of you than you were of them,” he began. “They practise their religion secretly and are persecuted by the authorities. They’re suspected of rebellion and sedition.
“But everyone in Aleppo knows about them. Their enemies nicknamed them ‘The Impatient Ones’, to make fun of them, but they liked it and now they use it themselves. They believe that the Hidden Imam, God’s ultimate representative on earth, is already among us, ready to reveal himself when the time is ripe, and to put an end to the sufferings of the faithful. Other groups say the Imam will come, sooner or later, some time in the future, but the Impatient Ones believe his advent is imminent, and that the saviour is here already, in Aleppo or Constantinople or elsewhere, going about the world, watching, and getting ready to tear aside the veil of secrecy.
“People wonder how they would recognise him if they met him. I’ve been told the Impatient Ones are always discussing this among themselves. Because the Imam is hidden and must not be found by his enemies, we must be ready to recognise him in the most unexpected disguises. He who will one day inherit all the world’s riches might come in rags. He who is the wisest of the wise might appear in the form of a madman. He who is all piety and devotion might commit the worst sins. For this reason these men make it their duty to revere beggars, fools and profligates. Thus, when you intruded on their worship, and swore, and spilled wine on their prayer mat, they thought you were trying to test them. They weren’t sure, of course, but they didn’t want to make you unwelcome in case you were the Expected One.
“Their faith requires them to be friendly to everyone, even to Jews and Christians, because the Imam might assume a different religion as camouflage. They must even treat their persecutors well…”
But if they are so pleasant to everyone, why are they persecuted?
“Because they are waiting for the one who will topple all thrones and do away with all laws.”
I had never heard of these strange sectarians, but Maïmoun told me they’d existed for a long while.
“But it’s true they’re becoming more numerous and more fervent now. More careless too. Because of all the rumours going round about the end of the world, which the weak-minded are taken in by.”
These last words have troubled me. Have I myself become one of the “weak-minded” people my new friend condemns? Sometimes I check myself and anathematise credulity and suspicion, smiling with scorn or pity … when I myself am hunting for The Hundredth Name!
But how can I remain enti
rely rational when I’m always coming upon signs and portents? Isn’t my recent adventure at Aleppo very disturbing? Doesn’t it look as if Heaven, or some other invisible force, is trying to increase my bewilderment?
18 September
Today Maïmoun told me he contemplated going to live in Amsterdam, in the United Provinces.
I thought at first he was speaking as a jeweller, and that he hoped to find more beautiful gems to carve there, and wealthier customers. But he was speaking as a sage, a free man, and also as one who had been hurt.
“I’m told it’s the only city in the world where a man can say ‘I’m a Jew’ as others, in their countries, say I’m a Christian’ or ‘I’m a Muslim’ — without fearing for his life, his property or his dignity.”
I’d have liked to question him further, but he seemed so moved by what he’d said already that he had a lump in his throat and his eyes filled with tears. So I said no more, and we walked on side by side in silence.
Further on, when I could see he was calmer, I put my hand on his arm and said:
“One day, God willing, the whole world will be an Amsterdam.”
He smiled bitterly.
“That’s your pure heart speaking. The world mutters something different. Quite different.”
Tarsus, dawn, Monday 21 September
I talk away to Maïmoun for hours every day. I tell him about my fortune and my family. But there are two subjects I still shrink from broaching.
The first concerns my real reasons for coming on this journey. All I’ve said is that I needed to buy some books in Constantinople; and he’s been considerate enough not to ask me which ones. As soon as we met it was our doubts that drew us together, as well as a certain love for wisdom and reason. If I now went and confessed that I’d given credence to vulgar delusions and common fears, I’d forfeit all his esteem. So shall I keep it all to myself for the whole of the journey? Perhaps not. Perhaps a time will come when I can tell him everything without harming our friendship.
