by Amin Maalouf
“She’s like that with all my friends,” he said eventually, “but it’s only a question of appearances. When you’ve got to know her better ...”
He kept pressing me to go back, but I stuck to my guns. After leaving as I had I couldn’t crawl meekly back without forfeiting everyone’s respect. But I promised to go and share the Easter meal with them. An honourable compromise.
24 April, Holy Saturday
I called on Melchione Baldi again today, to confirm that I was going to buy the Bacchus statue and ask if he could have it delivered to Gregorio’s house. He invited me to sit down, but there was a person of rank in the shop — a Dame Fieschi, I believe — together with her numerous entourage, so I preferred to leave, promising to come back another time. I left my colleague the name of my inn, which is only a stone’s throw from his place, in case he feels like paying me a visit.
I’d have liked my present to reach my host and hostess late tomorrow afternoon, by way of thanks after the Easter meal I’ll have had with them by then. But Baldi isn’t sure he can get anyone to deliver it on Easter Sunday, and has asked me to wait till Monday.
25 April, Easter Day
Melchione Baldi, meaning to do me a favour, has instead made me feel extremely embarrassed and ashamed.
I’d originally asked him to have the statue delivered to my host and hostess late on Sunday afternoon, hoping they’d receive this token of my gratitude when I’d already left their house after sharing their Easter meal at midday. But when Baldi doubted if he could find men prepared to work on a holiday, I decided it would be perfectly all right if the present arrived the next day. It might even be better. Courtesies should not be too rushed.
But Baldi didn’t want to disappoint me, so he managed to find four young porters, and they came and knocked at Gregorio’s door while we were still in the middle of the meal. Everyone got up from the table and started rushing to and fro, and there was such a hullabaloo ... I didn’t know where to hide my face, especially when the young men, all inexperienced and perhaps slightly tipsy, overturned a stone bench in the garden and broke it in two, and started trampling over the flower beds like a pack of wild boars.
I can’t describe how I felt.
Gregorio went purple with stifled fury, his wife made sarcastic remarks, and their daughters laughed. What was intended as an elegant gesture had been turned into a crude farce!
And that wasn’t the first of the day’s surprises.
Towards noon, when I arrived at the Mangiavacca house — perhaps for the last time — Gregorio welcomed me at the door like a brother and took me into his study to chat until his wife and daughters were ready. He asked if I’d made up my mind about leaving, and I told him I still meant to sail some time during the next few days, probably for Gibelet, though I was still uncertain about my destination.
He told me again how much my departure would grieve him, that I’d always be welcome in his house, and that if in spite of everything I decided to stay in Genoa he would see that I never regretted it. Then he asked if I’d given up the idea of going to London. Not yet, I told him, but although I was still attracted by The Hundredth Name, it would probably be wisest to return to the East to take my too long neglected business in hand again and to make sure my sister was safely reunited with her children.
Gregorio, who seemed to be listening with only half an ear, started singing the praises of the cities I’d go through if I went by sea to England — Nice, Marseilles, Agde, Barcelona, Valencia, and above all Lisbon.
Then he asked, his hand lying heavy on my shoulder:
“Could you do something for me if you change your mind?”
I said truthfully that nothing would give me greater pleasure than to repay a little of my moral debt for all he’d done for me. He explained that the effects of the war between England and Holland had recently rather interfered with his business, and he needed to get an important message to his agent in Lisbon, a certain Cristoforo Gabbiano. Then he tookfrom a drawer a letter already written and closed with his own seal.
“Take this,” he said, “and take good care of it. If you decide to go to London by sea you’ll have to go through Lisbon. In that case I’d be eternally grateful if you’d deliver this letter to Gabbiano himself. You’d be doing me a great favour! On the other hand, if you should decide to go somewhere else and can’t manage to give the letter back to me, promise me you’ll burn it unopened and unread!”
I promised.
It was another and this time quite pleasant surprise when just before we sat down to table Gregorio asked his eldest daughter to show me round the garden. The few minutes that followed confirmed my excellent impressions of the girl. She was still smiling, had a very graceful walk, and knew the names of all the flowers. As I listened I thought to myself that if my life had turned out differently and I hadn’t met Marta; if I didn’t have a house, a business and a sister over the sea, I might have been happy with Gregorio’s daughter. But it’s too late for that, and I hope she’ll be happy without me.
I’m not sure whether I should end this list of the pointless incidents of my Easter Day by noting that my friend’s wife, the virtuous Dame Orietina, welcomed me this afternoon with a smile and some other indications of pleasure. I suppose it’s because she knows I’m leaving, never to return.
Monday, 26 April 1666
I was sitting in my room, gazing out of the window, when suddenly the door burst open. I turned round to see a very youthful sailor standing breathless in the doorway, his hand still on the latch. Did I want to go to London? he asked. I was so struck by what seemed like a call of fate that I immediately said yes. He then told me to make haste, because the ship would soon be setting sail. I hurriedly tied up my few things into a couple of bundles, which stuck out like angels’ wings when he picked them up and stowed one under each arm. His long fair hair was tucked roughly into a woollen cap. I followed him down the stairs and across the hallway, stopping just long enough to say a brief farewell to the innkeeper’s wife and throw down a handful of coins.
Then we ran through the narrow streets to the quay, where I hurtled up the gangway with my tongue hanging out.
“So here you are at last!” said the captain. “We were going to leave without you.”
I was too breathless to ask any questions. All I could do was stare in astonishment. But no one noticed.
I’m writing this aboard the Sanctus Dionisius. Yes, I’m already at sea.
I arrived in Genoa unexpectedly, and a month later I’m leaving there in much the same way. I was still weighing up the pros and cons of, on the one hand, going straight back to Gibelet, and, on the other, making a detour to Smyrna or Chios or somewhere else first, when all the time Providence, unbeknown to me, had chosen my path for me.
Sitting slumped on a crate to get my breath back, I kept asking myself whether it was really me who was expected on board. Mightn’t the young sailor have been sent to The Maltese Gross to fetch some other traveller? I stood up and looked down along the quay, expecting to see someone running towards the ship, shouting and waving his arms. But there was no one there but tired porters, unoccupied customs men, clerks, holiday-makers out for a walk in their best clothes, and ordinary citizens come to watch the comings and goings in the harbour.
Among the latter I recognised a familiar face. It was Melchione Baldi, whom I’d cursed so heartily yesterday at Gregorio’s. He was leaning against a wall and waving to catch my eye. His face glowed with sweat and satisfaction. He’d told me he spent all his Sundays, holidays and other idle hours in the harbour watching the ships arrive and depart and getting the sailors to talk to him. He was a dreamer as well as a merchant — a stealer, or rather a receiver, of voyages. After the embarrassment he’d caused me yesterday I felt more like reproaching than smiling at him, and I almost averted my eyes. But I was about to leave Genoa for ever, and it would have been unkind to snub him. He’d only been trying to please me, and must still think the statue was delivered safely as and wh
en I’d wished, and that I was grateful to him. So I forgot my resentment and waved back at him in as pleased and friendly a manner as if I’d just caught sight of him. Whereupon he jumped up and down excitedly, clearly delighted with our final encounter. I too — I’ve often reproached myself for this sort of thing — welcomed the silent reconciliation with relief.
Slowly the ship began to move away from the quay. Baldi was still waving a white handkerchief at me, and from time to time I waved my hand back at him. At the same time I looked around me, still trying to understand how on earth I came to be here. I felt, and still feel, neither glad nor sorry about it. Simply intrigued.
Perhaps it would be wise to end this page with the words “His will be done!” It will be, anyway.
At sea, 27 April
Yesterday I mentioned Providence, because I know that’s what poets and famous travellers do. But I’m not fooled. No doubt all of us, strong or weak, wily or naive, are the blind instruments of Providence. But Providence has nothing to do with this voyage! I know perfectly well what hand has traced my route and led me to the sea, to the west, to London.
At the time, in the breathlessness, the surprise and the general hubbub of departure, I didn’t understand. But this morning I see it all. When I say “all” I’m only exaggerating a little. I know who impelled me in this direction, I can guess the means by which Gregorio manoeuvred me into accepting the idea of going to England — but I still can’t make out all his calculations. I suppose he’s trying to get me to marry his daughter, and wanted to prevent me from returning to Gibelet because I’d probably never come back again. This voyage of a few months to the other side of the world probably makes him feel he’s still got some hold on me.
But I don’t blame Gregorio or anyone else. No one forced me to go. I could just have said no to the fair-haired messenger and I’d still be in Genoa or else on my way back east. But I ran to catch this ship!
If Gregorio is guilty then I’m one of his accomplices, along with Providence, the year of the Beast, and The Hundredth Name.
At sea, 28 April
Yesterday evening, after I’d written those few lines expressing resignation, I saw the fair young sailor going along the deck — the boy they sent to fetch me from the inn. I signed to him to come over to me; I wanted to ask him a few urgent questions. But there was such a childlike look of fear in his eyes I just slipped a silver gros into his hand and didn’t say anything.
The sea has been calm ever since we set sail, but I’ve been ill all the same. It’s as if it were vexation rather than the waves that upsets me when I’m on board a ship.
Now, for instance, neither my head nor my stomach is churning. But I daren’t go on writing much longer. The smell of ink, which usually I’m not even aware of, makes me feel ill.
I’d better stop straight away.
3 May
It’s Monday, and this morning, when for the first time in a week I was able to take a turn round the deck, the ship’s surgeon came and asked me if it was true that I was Master Gregorio Mangiavacca’s future son-in-law. Amused by this inaccurate and, to say the least, premature description, I said I was one of that gentleman’s friends, but no relation. How, I asked the surgeon, had he learned that we knew each other? He suddenly looked embarrassed, as if he wished he hadn’t spoken, and then hurried away, saying the captain had sent for him.
The incident made me think people were talking about me behind my back. Perhaps they make fun of me when they gather together for meals. I ought to be angry, but I think, “What does it matter? Let them laugh! It doesn’t cost anything to mock the worthy, portly Baldassare Embriaco, dealer in curios. Whereas they might be flogged for making fun of the captain, though God knows he probably deserves it, and worse!”
Judge for yourself. Instead of taking the usual route and calling in either at Nice or Marseilles or both, he’s decided to make straight for Valencia in Spain, on the pretext that the north-east wind will get us there in five days. But the wind keeps changing. After carrying us as far as the open sea, it blew itself out; and since then it has changed direction every night. With the result that on the eighth day of the voyage we’re still nowhere! We can’t see either the Spanish or the French coast, nor even Corsica or Sardinia or the Balearics! Where are we? Who knows! The captain says he does, and no one dares to contradict him. We shall see. Some of the passengers have run out of food, and most have almost no water left. We haven’t reached disaster yet, but we’re heading towards it with all sails spread!
5 May
On the Sanctus Dionisius, whenever two people whisper together they’re talking about the captain. Some roll their eyes up to heaven, others now dare to laugh. But how long can we go on just laughing and whispering at his rashness?
I’m quite well again. I walk about, have a hearty appetite, talk to all and sundry, and look down on those of my fellow-passengers that are still sea-sick.
I didn’t make any arrangements beforehand about meals, apart from expecting to buy what food might be available on the ship. I’m sorry I didn’t engage a cook or bring some provisions on board with me, but it all happened so fast! Most of all I wish I still had Hatem with me. I only hope nothing has happened to him, and that he’s safe and sound in Gibelet.
Where, incidentally, I ought to have gone myself. That’s what I think now, though I didn’t start doing so until I’d set out in the opposite direction. Ah well, there it is. I shrug my shoulders. I don’t complain. I defy the sea by humming a Genoese song. I record in my notebook the various decrees of fate, interspersed with my own passionate shilly-shallyings. Yes, there it is, I’m resigned to my fate. Everything ends underground, so what does it matter how it gets there? Why should I take short cuts rather than detours?
6 May
“A good captain turns the Atlantic into the Mediterranean. A bad captain turns the Mediterranean into the Atlantic.”
That’s what one of the passengers, a Venetian, had the audacity to say aloud today. He didn’t say it to me, but to all the people gathered near the ship’s rail. I didn’t answer him, but I memorised what he’d said, intending to write it down here.
It’s true that we all feel as if we were lost in the midst of a vast ocean, and long for the moment when someone shouts “Land!” And yet we’re in the most familiar waters, and at the best time of the year.
The latest rumour has it that we should berth tomorrow evening in either Barcelona or Valencia. We’re so disorientated that if we’d been told “It’ll be Marseilles”, or Aigues-Mortes, or Mahon, or Algiers, we’d have believed it.
Somewhere in the Mediterranean, 7 May 1666
Today I exchanged a few sentences with the captain. He’s forty years old and his name is Centurione, and quite literally he’s mad!
I don’t mean he’s bold, or reckless, or capricious, or eccentric. I mean he’s crazy. He believes he’s being pursued by winged demons, and thinks he can escape them by following winding routes!
If another passenger had talked to me like that, or a sailor, or the surgeon, or the carpenter, I’d have gone straight to the captain so that he could clap him in irons and put him ashore at our next port of call. But what are you to do if it’s the captain himself who is crazy?
If he was obviously insane, raving, shrieking and foaming at the mouth, we’d have got together and overpowered him. And we’d have notified the authorities in the port where we called next.
But it’s not like that at all! What we have here is a quiet madman, who walks about in a fitting manner, talks, jokes and gives orders as to the manner born.
Until today I’d practically never spoken to him. Just a couple of words that last day in Genoa, when I rushed up and he told me the ship had nearly left without me. But this morning, when he was strolling round the deck, he passed quite close to me. I greeted him politely and he replied conventionally. As is the custom in Genoa in respectable society, we spoke first about our families, and he courteously referred to the Embriaci’s renown and
the history of the city.
I was beginning to think the satirical comments about him were unfair, when a bird swooped low over our heads, its cry making us both look up. I noticed that the captain was looking uneasy.
“What kind of bird is it?” I asked. “A common gull? A herring gull? An albatross?”
“It’s a demon!” he replied with some agitation.
At first I thought this was just a way of objecting to the nuisance birds can cause, then I wondered whether it wasn’t a seaman’s name for a particular species.
Meanwhile the captain went on, becoming more and more disturbed.
“They’re after me! Wherever I go they find me! They’ll never leave me in peace!”
One flap of the creature’s wings had been enough to set him off.
“They’ve been after me for years, everywhere I go ...”
He wasn’t talking to me any longer: he was just taking me to witness his incomprehensible conversation with himself or his demons.
