‘How reassuring.’
Paolo looked once more at the ruby, close against his eye. ‘This is the true stone.’
‘You are correct,’ said Jacopo, momentarily impressed.
Simone beamed with pride. ‘I told you he would be of benefit to you.’
Jacopo was still uncertain. ‘But I am also told you cannot see into the distance. How will you tell me of dangers?’
‘You will have to tell yourself,’ Paolo replied.
The men were shocked by his directness.
‘Then why should I not take a boy who can see perfectly well?’
‘Because none other has Paolo’s gifts,’ said Simone.
‘And he is of good temperament?’
‘Exemplary …’
‘For a Christian, which does not say very much.’
Simone smiled. ‘There are good Christians.’
‘Then I hope one day you will show one to me …’
Jacopo turned to Paolo. ‘How do you know such things?’
‘Because I see closely it is all I see.’
Jacopo watched the way Paolo still looked at the glass and the jewels. There was a ferocity of concentration in him that he had never seen before. ‘We will make a strange pair of men. I cannot see close, and you cannot see into the distance …’
‘Then you will take him?’ asked Simone.
Jacopo shrugged. ‘My life is risk; and I have never had a son. Let us journey together.’ He seemed to have made the decision on a whim, and began to explain the terms of employment.
Paolo was to be a personal servant during the Sabbath and a companion during the week. He was asked to check that the prayer and festival books were always close by and would have to light fires, hold anything that needed to be carried, convey messages, and, most importantly, keep Jacopo’s purse on the day of delight.
He told Paolo how they would stay in Jewish communities with his family, friends, and trading partners wherever they could: Jacopo de Nathan in Ragusa, Levi di Jacopo in Candia, Domenico Gualdi in Negroponte.
‘You have done this journey before?’ Paolo asked.
‘Many times.’
‘How long will it take?’
‘It depends upon our fortune. Nine or ten months to reach the limit of our journey, if we are quick and the Lord wills it …’
‘And the same to return?’
‘Again, if we are blessed: The earth of the Lord is full of the goodness of the Lord.’
‘And you trade in jade?’
‘I do.’
Jacopo pulled out a piece to show him, and Paolo looked at its unusually veined luminosity, as pale as the flesh of a corpse.
‘But this cannot become paint, of course,’ Jacopo concluded, putting the jade back in its velvet pouch.
‘No,’ said Simone. ‘As you know, I have asked Paolo to find a different shade: the blue of the heavens, the colour of eternity.’
‘A modest proposal,’ smiled Jacopo.
‘I will know it when I see it,’ said Paolo.
‘Then I hope we agree when we find it.’
Three weeks later Simone accompanied Paolo as far as Ancona where he would join the boat to take him to Constantinople. Then he would continue overland across Persia to Cathay, completing their journey in Tun-huang where the trade routes met.
The harbour lay on the northeastern shore and was filled with boats that loomed above and sank below, studded with caulkers, carpenters, and cord-makers, metalworkers, shipwrights and blacksmiths all working as if a second flood were about to strike.
‘This ship is insured for three hundred ducats. Imagine,’ Simone explained, pointing at a large merchant galley. ‘And this for two hundred. Venetian, of course.’ He drew Paolo’s attention to a twenty-eight-oar brigantine. ‘Either boat could take you to the edge of the world with good enough men.’
He stopped alongside their trading galley, and waved to the captain as he supervised the loading of salt for ballast, sacks of grain, and bales of woollen cloth.
‘Do you know him?’ asked Paolo.
‘Of course not. But he needs to know that we are important.’
They waited as a small group of sailors passed, singing a hymn to St Phocas for protection.
‘Please.’ Simone gestured, pointing to the walkway.
As Paolo climbed onto the ship, he could hardly believe that he had dared to embark on such a journey. What was he doing? He looked up and tried to make out its highest point, the gabbia, and the maintopmast topcastle. It looked higher even than the campanile on Murano. A great web of rope, hemp, hessian, and sail opened up above him. The lines blurred off into the distance, a strange infinity against the sky.
Simone now made the captain’s acquaintance, arranging payments, checking the direction and duration of the journey.
‘Stefano!’ the captain called.
A boy, perhaps eleven years old, with a pockmarked face, raced up from the gangway.
‘Show this boy the ship.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
Stefano took Paolo to the windward side of the mainmast, asking him to look up to the topgallant to see the leonine flag of St Mark fluttering above. The bright blue of the sky was cut by a confusion of rigging: bowlines, ratlines, shrouds, lifts, and stays, and Stefano pointed out the main forecastle, beakhead, and rigging rail; the bowsprit, sprit yard, foremast, mizzen, and bonaventure. He showed Paolo how to look through the blindage, the removable archery screen through which bowmen would fire on any attackers, and told him how important it was to keep out of the way of men working rope and sail. He then took Paolo along a companion ladder down through a hatch into the darkness of the lower decks.
‘I’ll show you every beam, bitt, and bunker,’ he laughed and recounted travellers’ tales of what such adventure might mean: of earthquakes forty cubits high, of whales nine hundred feet long, and of eels which, he had heard, could choke a man even after they had been eaten, writhing and twisting their way inside the throat of their victims. People had returned from the east with stories of giants with teeth a hundred times the size of a man’s; of cannibals and pigmies, sorcerers and soothsayers; of vast oceans, and mountains that touched the sky; of winds that could make a man fly, and of rains that could wash away whole towns.
On the rowing deck the oarsmen were already lining up on the benches. The air was damp with sweat, and there was little room to move or breathe. Paolo thought himself to be an intruder in a dark and secret world of men, violence, and adventure.
‘Now,’ said Simone, once they had returned to the upper deck, ‘we must part. Take my purse.’ He handed Paolo a leather wallet. ‘It contains ten florins. Remember what I have taught you. Travel boldly and without fear. Find me the colour of eternity.’
‘I cannot believe that I have agreed to this,’ Paolo replied.
‘Have courage. Who will have lived a life as interesting as yours? Think what a hero you will be on your return.’
‘If I do return.’
‘Of course you will.’
Simone did not quite know how to say goodbye and gave Paolo a playful punch on the shoulder which hurt far more than his pupil admitted. ‘I will wave to you as the ship departs; perhaps you will not see it, but believe me, I will salute you.’
‘Then I will look for your salutation.’
‘Farewell.’
Simone leaned forward and attempted a paternal hug. Then there was a bell, a hauling at the anchor cable, and a sharp cry. All at once the men below began to row, chanting as they did so, pulling away with the tide, leaving all that was light. The figures on the shore were blurred and indistinct, and Paolo looked out into the path of the sea ahead. He felt the waters becoming thicker underneath as the ship struggled to make headway through treacherous channels. Out to the north lay a stretch of sandbanks, bleached gold by the evening sun, standing proud against the wash of the sea. He tried to look back to the city once more, in order to remember what they were leaving, holding it in his head, but it
was already too late. He could not see Simone at all. Everything had become faint.
He made his way down onto the lower deck and asked Stefano if he should not try to find Jacopo.
‘The old Jew? Let me take you to him.’
When he found his patron at last Paolo noticed that Jacopo had pushed back his sleeves and strapped one length of leather containing a prayer box to his left arm and another around his head. He stood with his feet together, hands folded over his heart, facing Jerusalem. As he spoke the words of the Amidah he bowed four times.
He prayed without acknowledging Paolo’s presence.
‘They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters – these saw the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep; for he commanded, and raised the stormy wind, which lifted up the waves thereof.
‘They mounted up to heaven, they went down to the deeps; their souls melted away because of trouble; they reeled to and fro, and staggered like a drunken man, and all their wisdom was swallowed up – they cried unto the Lord in their trouble, and he brought them out of their distresses. He made the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof were still. Then were they glad because they were quiet, and he led them unto their desired haven. Let them give thanks unto the Lord for his mercy, and for his wonderful works to the children of men!’
When he had finished, Jacopo turned to face Paolo. ‘Sit down where you can and eat with me. I have challah.’ His voice softened. ‘Marinated herring. Even some kichlach biscuits.’
‘What are they?’
‘Ah.’ Jacopo smiled. ‘I see that I have much to teach you.’
He took off his prayer shawl, washed his hands from a jug, dried them on a towel, and then sprinkled salt over the bread.
‘I cannot imagine the length of the journey,’ said Paolo.
‘You must have faith. The fear of man brings a snare; but whoever puts his trust in the Lord shall be safe.’
‘The Book of Proverbs.’
‘You know the passage?’ Jacopo was both curious and amused. ‘Of course; you believe in that man.’
‘As my mother has told me.’
‘The man who promised heaven within a generation.’
‘I believe so.’
‘But where is it? I cannot see it.’
‘I have been taught that it is not for this earth.’
Jacopo smiled as if Paolo had fallen into his trap. ‘But he told his followers – Verily I say unto you, This generation shall not pass, till all these things be fulfilled. How can he have been the Messiah, if we are still waiting for such deliverance? And they shall see the Son of man coming in the clouds of heaven with power and great glory. And he shall send his angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather together his elect from the four winds.’
‘You have read this?’ asked Paolo.
‘And I have found it wanting. His promise has already failed.’
‘Then, as my mother believes, we must trust and love.’
Jacopo laughed. ‘I do not want to insult your mother, but I do not see much trust and love from those of your faith. You preach poverty but covet wealth; you speak of forgiveness but your behaviour is otherwise. You say that we Jews are rapacious but you come to us for loans; you study with us but declare the Talmud to be blasphemous; and then, if that is not enough, we are persecuted …’
‘I have not seen this …’ said Paolo.
‘If a Jew is bountiful then he is seeking to corrupt; if he is cautious then he is considered miserly. If he is proud then he is too proud; but if he is humble then he is too humble. Even if he is baptised into your faith he is still considered a Jew.’
‘And yet Christ was a Jew.’
‘He was,’ said Jacopo. ‘Perhaps you can remind the Christians we meet on our journey of that truth.’
Just before nightfall Paolo climbed back up to the main deck and then onto the beakhead under the foremast. He watched the sky shade into dusk, filling both sea and horizon with the deepest and darkest of blues. He tried to understand what it was like to live without sight of landfall, alone in the vast expanse of ocean.
And, as he looked out into the night, he realised that his world had expanded far, far away from his own small life, wider than he had ever expected, out into an immensity.
CONSTANTINOPLE
The ship was swift under sail and made good progress towards Ragusa on the Dalmatian coast. Paolo soon learned to adjust to the crowded conditions, the stench of men and animals, and the meagre food; but the contrast between the darkness below decks and the brightness above hurt his eyes. He longed for a fixed sense of place where he could choose between light and shadow; for the freedom to travel in another direction; for solitude. He realised that the only way in which he could survive would be to be as discreet as possible and to make himself as familiar with the ship as if he were blind, memorising dimension and direction, learning the routine rhythms of work, sail, food, labour, and rest.
His first duty was to unload provisions as Jacopo sold wine and bought silver. He was to keep a record of every transaction and check their goods each day, inspecting cloth for damage and food for decay, re-stoppering bottles of oil and securing flagons of wine.
As they travelled Jacopo began to feel strangely responsible for his charge, worrying if he was wearing sufficient clothing or if he might become chilled. He was watchful of their diet, suggesting that Paolo eat not meat but fish cooked in wine according to his wife Sofia’s recipe. He should also take as much fruit as possible in order to keep his kidneys healthy and his water clear. By the time they reached Candia, Jacopo had become almost paternal, telling his companion to avoid all temptation from the women of the town because a bite from a Cretan woman’s teeth could be as fatal as the pox from her favours.
Paolo had not yet seen any women to be tempted by and, because of his eyesight, had difficulty in looking at them at all. If he wanted to see a girl properly he had to stand so close that the object of his intended affection would immediately wonder what he was doing, suspecting him either of lechery or theft. The only chance of an encounter lay in the crowded markets of the ports and islands where women stopped to gather provisions. There he would seek out moments of beauty – the fall of hair, a perfect mouth, or the curve of a breast. Yet such times came so fleetingly, and the women seemed so remote, that Paolo doubted that he would ever know the delights of flesh against flesh. Nevertheless, Jacopo insisted that he remain vigilant. A man should do everything possible to avoid temptation and desire.
When asked how the terrors of lust might be avoided, Jacopo advised that the best course of action would be to cease shaving immediately and grow a beard, since, in his experience, the most lustful men were always clean shaven.
‘A beard,’ he told Paolo, ‘is a mark of wisdom and maturity.’
Paolo replied that his skin was so pale and his hair so fair that he wondered if anyone would ever notice if he had a beard or not, but Jacopo was adamant that he make the attempt.
It was slow progress.
Each day Paolo touched his face to check that the beard was growing. He scratched the stubble so often that it began to look like a nervous gesture. He would peer down his nose to see the burgeoning hairs on his upper lip. The spikes were sharp blond, pale brown, even auburn. It was as if the beard were not his own and that a separate creature had taken possession of his face.
‘I do not like it,’ he told Jacopo, but his guardian insisted he continue, arguing that a beard not only conveyed wisdom and learning, but also gave character to a man’s profile. It compensated for any loss of hair on the scalp, for the chin and the cheeks possessed far more vigorous follicles. It was also economical, saving money in the acquiring of knives and time spent shaving; and, most importantly, it would not only protect the face from the heat of the desert, but also avoid giving offence in the land of Mohammed.
Jacopo was quite obsessed with the subject. Male lizards, he told Paolo, grew beards in courtship displays; Noah an
d Methuselah must both have had beards that were over nine hundred years old; and the female Christian saints, Paula and Uncumber, had both escaped being ravished by spontaneously growing miraculous moustaches.
By the time they reached Constantinople, Paolo’s beard was in positive sprout and he had almost begun to enjoy the adventure. He had never seen such a majestic array of buildings: the city laid out in splendour across the waterfront, its mosques and minarets glistening in the evening light as if created by a single wave of God’s hand.
Once they had disembarked the two men found themselves in a maze of narrow streets filled with strolling musicians, itinerant jugglers, sudden crowds, and intense heat. There were pickle sellers, spice merchants, halvamakers, and children hawking cherries and pistachios. There were barbers, bakers, butchers, and babies; prophets and priests, hajjis and hojas, judges and jewellers. Gem cutters and glyptographers worked turquoise from Anatolia, amber from the Baltic, agate and amethyst from beyond the seas. Jacopo stopped at each stall, measuring each of the stones, weighing and judging, pressing them to the side of his cheek to feel their temperature, continually assessing the validity of each sample on offer.
Constantinople, he told Paolo, was a place of glory and of crime, where the best and the worst in human nature combined: the holiest men meditated amongst criminals; the most saintly women were forced to walk past murderers and whores. Paolo looked at the women who stood in the streets with their breasts exposed and wondered how much it might cost to touch them. It was hard for him to discern either their age or beauty, and every time they came close, Jacopo ushered them quickly away in disgust.
He warned Paolo that this was a city of heat, noise, and strangeness, so loud, so crowded, and so confused that none could trust their sight or hearing, such was the nature of its blast and din. If the trumpet announcing the Day of Judgment were sounded he swore that it would pass unnoticed.
Nothing was permanent, as if the city could never be stilled. Each person travelled for fear they might miss the end of the world, the solution to misery, or the key to happiness. They were looking for miracles, journeying in desperation to find somewhere, anywhere, other than where they were. Stalls and benches were laid out to soothe fears and answer any question a man or woman might choose to ask: ‘How long will I live?’ ‘Will I stay healthy?’ ‘How will I die?’ Others were more specific. ‘Shall I buy a farm?’ ‘Should I marry my cousin?’ ‘Am I the father of my wife’s child?’ There were fortune-tellers, palm-readers, and soothsayers all seeing into the future by different means: by contemplation, trance, or divine inspiration; by holding a piece of clothing or jewellery; by feeling muscles, drawing lots, turning cards; or by the simple observation of a flight of doves.
The Colour of Heaven Page 6
