Journey of Strangers

by Elizabeth Zelvin

  “No, the score is even,” Amir said, embracing Hutia in turn and looking at Rachel as if he wished to hug her too. “Your family might fare worse than in Istanbul. Consider it if you find them not settled elsewhere.”

  I did not voice the thought that we might not find them at all, especially if they had not found a safe haven somewhere already.

  Rachel, reading my mind, said, “We will find them!” with a bracing look and a lift of the chin that told me not to dare lose heart.

  We found a night’s lodging close to the docks in a tavern whose proprietor asked no questions. In the morning, we found that barely a horse remained in Toulon. All had been commandeered for Charles’s expedition, except for those whose owners would have knifed us sooner than part with them and a few too broken down to make it to the next town. In the end, we set out along the coast on foot. We aroused no particular notice on the road or in the towns and villages along the way. At Nice or Nizza, a city with a thriving port, as Italian as it was French, we persuaded a fellow with a fishing boat to take us on to Genoa.

  We arrived in the city that called itself la Superba on the sixth of July. It had been cool on the water, but it was a sizzling day on shore, ever hotter as we walked farther from the docks. It was too late to make inquiries at the Bank of St. George, but those we asked for its direction were uniformly incredulous that anyone in Genoa, even the newly arrived, could possibly not know. The Palazzo San Giorgio had been the city’s crowning architectural glory for more than two hundred years, and the Genoese made little distinction between the bank’s governors and the city’s rulers, who were more or less one and the same. Having been raised in Spain’s absolute monarchy, I still had difficulty comprehending the Italian cities’ patchwork of republics, oligarchies led by doges like those of Genoa and Venice, duchies, and kingdoms.

  “It is simple, Diego,” Hutia said. “Each is a great village with its own cacique and council of nitaino. What they call themselves does not matter, for everyone knows who they are.”

  “That would be well enough,” I retorted, “if each European cacique were content to stay in his own village, apart from the occasional raid on the village next door. You cannot tell me that the Taino have a word for empire, as I know they have none for war.”

  “Please do not squabble,” Rachel said. “I am tired and very hungry, and we must be alert in the morning when we present ourselves at the bank.”

  “Diego and I are but playing batey with words,” Hutia said, “as Europeans do.”

  Lodging was hard to find, as Genoa was teeming with refugees from every town in the path of the French army, which had evidently left Naples in May. King Charles had left a viceroy there in his stead, along with a substantial garrison, and set off north with his booty. According to a widespread rumor, he had borne off not only enough furnishings and decorative items to trick out every hall and chamber at Amboise, his vast château on the Loire, which it had long been his passion to rebuild, but three Italian architects, willy-nilly, to do the job to his liking. Now he was demanding passage through Italy back to France, which Venice and its allies were not inclined to grant him without a fight. We heard again about the slaughter at Mordano the year before and that even cities that had welcomed him, including Firenze, had come to regret it. The French soldiers, quartered on the citizenry, had eaten them out of house and home and pillaged the churches and palazzos so thoroughly that it would take them a decade to recover. The Genoese, who had diplomacy and luck to thank for having been spared a French visit on the army’s march south, were flocking to their own churches to pray that their stout walls and the doge’s militia would protect them if it came their way. But rumor had Charles and his troops not marching along the coast but northeast toward Bologna and Parma, in search of provisions for thousands of hungry soldiers, fodder for their mounts, and perhaps a wider choice of routes out of Italy, whether or not they engaged the Holy League in battle.

  Eventually, our gold bought us a cupboard in the stables of an inn, big enough for the three of us to stretch out, wrapped in our cloaks, on straw that smelled only faintly of manure.

  “It be where we keep the pitchforks,” the boy told off to lead us to it said, “but they all be taken up to use against the soldiers if the Frenchies come.”

  Not wanting to subject Rachel to the rough company in the taproom, I left her and Hutia to dine on bread that seemed to be composed partly of straw like that we were to lie on, cheese that smelled marginally worse than our dung-scented chamber, and sour wine. I elbowed my way through the crowd in the tavern, listening to every conversation I could catch. But I learned nothing to the point, except that those in the army’s path were suffering from a new pox they were calling “the French disease,” evidently spread by soldiers and whores to the respectable via the inevitable rapes of warfare and the hasty liaisons that occurred when soldiers were quartered in the homes of citizens. I was astounded to hear that some believed the pestilence had been brought by Admiral Columbus’s sailors from the Indies, who had certainly visited as many whores as their Taino gold could buy on their return. But more attributed the outbreak and its rapid spread to the Jews, who had been driven from Naples in punishment. And that, though certainly untrue—most whores refused to service Jews, nor did Jewish girls give themselves to Christian soldiers—was nothing new.

  In the morning, we woke before dawn, so we could use the horse trough for our ablutions without contesting it with either our fellow lodgers or the horses. For breakfast, we shared two wrinkled apples, in the barrel since ’94 or even ’93, for which I had paid as much as if they were golden apples of the Hesperides. When I said so, Rachel pointed out that Hesperides apples were almost certainly oranges. She had managed to untangle her hair with a comb left lying in a corner under the straw, no doubt last used on a horse’s mane. Her cheeks were flushed, and she had managed to make a decent toilette, considering how far the gown she wore had traveled in her pack.

  “I am glad to see you in good spirits,” I said.

  Her eyes sparkled.

  “Today is the first time since we left Spain that we may hope to hear some real news of Mama and Papa!”

  “Do not get your hopes too high,” I warned her. “Your disappointment if they can tell us nothing at the bank will be the worse.”

  “On the contrary,” Rachel said, “I will have the joy of hoping for as long as I can and will not regret it if the bankers have no news for us.”

  Once we entered the imposing portal of the Palazzo San Giorgio, giving my name and those of Admiral Columbus and Doña Marina as references, Rachel stopped bouncing and began to look as nervous as I felt. She took my hand, hers warm and damp, as we sat on a bench in a cool antechamber paved in tile and pillared in marble, awaiting a summons from whatever personage would deign to speak with us. Hutia sat crosslegged on the floor in his favorite position, running his hand over the tile as if marveling at how cool it felt, even though the morning was heating up to another scorching day. We had waited about an hour when a young Genoese with dark, curly hair and a harried expression came to lead us to an interview with one Signore Boccanegra, whom he seemed to hold in awe.

  Signore Boccanegra, apparently of high enough rank to be friendly with whomever he chose, greeted us with more warmth than I had expected, shaking my hand and bowing courteously to Rachel. He cast a sharp glance at Hutia, who still insisted on presenting himself in public as a servant of deferent bearing, though both Rachel and I protested that there was no need and no point in doing so, since no one knew us or paid any attention to us.

  “Let them ignore me,” Hutia said each time we had this conversation. “It is best.”

  Everyone we had encountered thus far had done so. But Signore Boccanegra was cleverer than most.

  “Andrea Boccanegra,” he said, smiling warmly. “You, Signor Mendoza, must be one of our Genoese hero Colombo’s sailors from the Indies. And this, no doubt, is one of the inhabitants of these marvelous isles. And the lady? Your sister
? Signorina, your servant.” He bowed again, this time with more of a flourish. “If we were not in the midst of chaos at the moment—no doubt you have heard the news!—I would ask you to tell me of your adventures. But alas, our tasks multiply with every fresh word that reaches the bank.”

  Rachel’s eyes began to sparkle again, arousing a sympathetic twinkle in the signore’s. Next time she complained about being forced to resume being a lady, I must remind her of this moment, which she could not deny she was enjoying.

  “You are observant, Signore,” I said, before she could use up his no doubt precious time with flirting. “There is nothing we would enjoy more, but we are grateful for even this brief time, and we will not waste it. We seek news of our family. My father is the brother of Doña Marina Mendes y Torres. He and my mother and our two sisters have been living in Firenze, but we do not know if they are still there. Indeed, from what we have heard of the French occupation, we hope they are not, although it could have been much worse.”

  “So it could,” Boccanegra said. “We have been exceptionally lucky so far here in Genoa. My great-great-grandfather was the first doge, you know, and a fine old rascal he was, by all reports. And now the Florentines have chased the Medici out and got themselves a republic at long last. The Medici would have done better to make himself doge and allow others to share his rule, as we do—Lorenzo, not Piero, who was always going to be a weakling. I wonder why families must always go up or down? Sons must either outstrip their fathers, like our great Columbus, or disappoint them, like Piero the Unfortunate and me. No, no, do not make polite noises, there is no need. I will never be doge, and I thank God for it. Let me send for someone who can look among the records and see what we can find of relevance to your quest.”

  “I cannot thank you enough, sir,” I said. “Believe me, I can have no greater aspiration than to be exactly like my father. If only I can find him!”

  “You are a lucky son, then, and he a lucky father,” Boccanegra said. “Beppo, take this note to young Adorno and tell him to hop to it.”

  Beppo took the scribbled note. Though dressed like a banker in a high-necked brown doublet with a thin rim of fur around the collar, black hose, and a brown hat with complicated folds, he looked like any apprentice in his harried air and tendency to bob and scurry. He was nearly through the door when Boccanegra called after him, “And get someone to send in wine and pastries. And fruit as well—my guests and I are starving!”

  Rachel and I had hardly finished exclaiming how grateful we were when an older servant brought in a tray heaped with food. Beppo had his master’s measure to the extent that the tray held four glasses, making it clear that Hutia was considered one of the guests. Hutia expressed his own thanks for this courtesy. His Italian was coming on. Boccanegra’s eager questions showed more sensitivity to how different a faraway land’s culture and customs might be from his own than we had yet encountered since our return. Hutia responded willingly, but little time had passed before Beppo came running in, panting in his haste and fairly sliding across the floor.

  “Signore! Signore!”

  “Back so fast, Beppo? What did Adorno find? Is he coming himself to speak to my guests? They are anxiously awaiting the result of his research.”

  “News!” Beppo spoke on a sobbing breath and drew air into his lungs. “Signor Adorno is looking—says—will come presently. But there is news!”

  We all leaped to our feet, agog but helpless until Beppo could compose himself enough to speak.

  “Out with it, man!” Boccanegra said. “What has happened?”

  “There’s been a bloody great battle, sir!” Beppo’s training in maintaining a banker’s phlegmatic demeanor had deserted him. He was all excited boy. “At Fornovo—a village outside Parma—not a hundred miles from here.” He drew several deep breaths and scrubbed at his sweating face with trembling hands.

  “Don’t stop now, boy!” Boccanegra exclaimed. “Go on! Who won?”

  “No one knows, sir,” Beppo said. “It was a bloodbath on both sides. The League is claiming the victory, and so are the French.”

  Chapter 15: Joanna

  The settlers stood on the beach, looking around them with dazed expressions. It had been a long day, with the degradado men pressed into service as rowers. The ship’s boats shuttled back and forth, crammed to overflowing on each inbound passage. The folk on the beach who had gathered to welcome them numbered no more than two hundred. They assured an incredulous Captain Caminha, whom all must now call Governor, that they comprised the whole population of São Tomé. The huddle of tattered tents and lopsided huts, thatched with rotting fronds of palm, that they had seen when the ships dropped anchor was the settlement itself. The news spread like wildfire through the crowd of disembarkees.

  “But where is the town?” Felicidade cried, her voice high and trembling. “Where are the shops?”

  “Have you only now realized that Lisbon is dead to you?” Imaculada sniffed. “This is no worse than I expected.”

  For once, Joanna agreed with her.

  “They said there would be blacks to do the work,” Mateus said. “I have bleeding blisters from pulling on those cursed oars all day.”

  “Stop whining and shut up,” Belmiro said. “If they have not brought in any Africans yet, the governor will do it soon enough. Do you think the king would leave a rich trade like slaving to chance? Caminha is just the man to get it going, and I intend to get in good with him. Blacks and sugar—like so many sacks of gold for the taking, they’ll be, if not now, then soon enough.”

  New canvas shelters, their folds stiff and smelling of tar, had been hauled to shore in the boats and piled on the beach. The soldiers now directed the newcomers to organize themselves into groups and select a leader as a spokesman for each group. This leader would report progress to the governor, carry instructions back to the others, and take responsibility for the whole group’s workload. Belmiro and Mateus drew together, Belmiro assuming leadership without discussion.

  “We’ll have to let a few of the others join us,” Belmiro said, “or we’ll be slaving all day and night ourselves. We need strong arms and backs.”

  “And stupid heads and weak wills,” Imaculada said. “I’ve no intention of allowing anyone, man or woman, to interfere with my decisions. You, girl, get those brats together and and drag those shelters over to the left of the huts, by that stand of palms. Move it!”

  The couple cut a small knot of born followers out of the herd as skillfully as any shepherd. Joanna was reluctantly impressed. By nightfall, the shelters had been erected, a fire built, and the company’s first freshly cooked meal in two months assembled. Dinner consisted of fish speared in the shallows, bananas from the broad-leaved plants that grew at the edge of the forest, and coconuts gathered from the ground beneath the tall palms on which they grew. Each group had been issued several knives, large and small, broad and narrow, smooth and saw-toothed, as well as a sickle and an ax. Belmiro kept these implements close at hand, allowing the men to use them under his supervision to cut stakes for the shelters, shape short wooden spears for fishing, and hack open the coconuts.

  As followers, Imaculada selected women like herself, who apparently harbored no maternal feelings toward their charges. Joanna took charge of the augmented group of children, none older than seven, drying their tears of shock at this further change in their condition and making sure their bellies were full before they slept.

  “In the morning,” Belmiro announced, “as many of the brats as can will climb those trees and throw down more coconuts. Those who refuse don’t have to share our food.”

  Joanna dared not risk asking what would happen if the children found they could not climb.

  “Don’t worry,” Simon whispered. “I bet you we can shinny up it easily enough. We’ll get a good view, and we’ll be able to get coconuts any time we want.”

  If Joanna hoped to avoid attention, at least till morning, she was unsuccessful. When the fire had died to embers, the child
ren’s eyes drooping in sleep, and the adults either exhausted and already snoring or withdrawn into the shadows to couple in privacy, Imaculada stalked over to her.

  “Now we’re here,” she said without preamble, “you’ll have to work. Soon you’ll have no time for whoring. But right now we need information. Go to that Pero, the governor’s cousin. He’ll be near that fancy tent Caminha’s got himself, if not inside it. Those like him who’ve got no families won’t be pleased that that sorry lot that met us didn’t have no slave girls waiting for them. He’ll be glad enough to see you, and if you play him right, he’ll talk. And don’t bother saying you won’t do it. Ship or solid ground, you’re not the Queen of Sheba. You’ll do as I say.”

  Joanna’s wrath, tightly bottled for so long, blazed up. She drew a breath to spit out her true feelings, regardless of consequences. Before she could speak, Imaculada showed her the knife.

  “I’ll cut you if you answer back, so don’t. I’m mistress here, and don’t you forget it. Scoot. I need my beauty sleep now. You can report to me and Belmiro in the morning. And if you’ve got no news, the brats will get no breakfast.”

  Shaking with rage and fear, Joanna turned her back on the degradada. As slowly as she dared, she made her way past the newcomers’ shelters. Once out of Imaculada’s sight, she veered toward the beach and walked into the softly purling waves. The warm salt water caressed her feet and loosened aching muscles. She could see the governor’s tent, illuminated by lanterns within and torches without, with soldiers standing guard. When she had stayed as long as she dared, she turned reluctantly toward the shore. She dreaded the humiliation of having to ask for Caminha’s cousin and deal with the guards, who would know why she had come. Turning her back on the sea and the ships riding at anchor some distance out, she began trudging toward the lights, her feet slipping in the soft sand.

  A man came down toward the water, unfastening his points as he walked. He came to a halt some distance ahead of her and pissed copiously on the sand. Creeping closer, Joanna saw with mixed emotions that it was the man she sought. Better to get it over with here, where no one could see.