I must admit that after feeling sorry for myself and lamenting the fact that I’d gone to so much trouble for nothing, I started to ponder on what it all meant and what I ought to learn from it. After the death of old Idriss, and now the disappearance of both Marmontel and The Hundredth Name, shouldn’t I give up on the book and go quietly back to Gibelet?
But that’s not what our expert on omens thinks. According to my nephew Boumeh, Heaven certainly wanted to teach us a lesson. (Some logic! — to drown the envoy of the King of France in order to drop a hint to a Genoese merchant. But let that pass.) Heaven wanted to punish us, especially me, for letting the book go when I’d actually had it in my possession. But the object wasn’t to make me give up. On the contrary. We ought to redouble our efforts and expose ourselves to yet more sufferings and disappointments in order to deserve the supreme reward — the book, with the salvation it contained.
So what does Boumeh think we ought to do? Go on searching. Doesn’t Constantinople contain the greatest and most venerable booksellers in the whole world? We must question them one by one, search their shelves and ransack their store-rooms, and in the end we’ll find what we’re looking for.
On this point — but on this point only! — I don’t disagree with him. If there’s one place where you ought to be able to find a copy, genuine or forged, of The Hundredth Name, then that place is Constantinople.
But this consideration has had little influence on my decision not to return straight away to Gibelet. Once I’d got over the first shock of the unexpected news, I decided it would be pointless to get depressed, and even more so to expose myself again — in the cold season and when I’ve still not quite recovered from my illness — to the rigours of travel. Let’s wait for a while, I thought, and scour the bookstalls and curio shops; and also give Marta time to complete her business. Then we’ll see.
Perhaps by prolonging the journey by a few weeks I’ll make it mean something again. That’s what I tell myself before I turn this page. I know very well it’s only a device to distract me from my anxiety and confusion.
3 November
I keep thinking about the unfortunate Marmontel, and last night, for the second time running, I saw him in my dreams! I do wish we’d parted on better terms on his last visit. He must have cursed my Genoese greed when I charged him 1,500 maidins for the Mazandarani book. How was he to know I did so only because I had qualms about parting at all with something a poor man had given me as a present? My intentions were of the best, but he couldn’t have guessed that. And now I shall never be able to win back his good opinion.
I only hope time will take the edge off my remorse.
This afternoon my pleasant landlord, Master Barinelli, came to see me in my room. He checked beforehand, by carefully opening the door a little way, that I’d finished my afternoon siesta, and when I beckoned him in he entered shyly, explaining that having heard what had happened he’d come to see how I was. Then he sat down formally, eyes downcast, as if offering his condolences. His maid followed him in, and remained standing until I pressed her to take a seat. While he offered wholesome words of consolation in the Genoese fashion, she remained silent, understanding nothing but concentrating on the sound of his voice as if it were the sweetest music. I listened as if grateful for his observations on the decrees of Providence, but in fact my chief solace came from watching the two of them.
I found them very touching. I haven’t mentioned them before in these pages, having too much to say about Marmontel, but since we’ve been here I’ve often spoken of them under my breath to my companions, especially Marta, and we’ve joked amiably about them.
Their story is a strange one. I’ll try to tell it as I heard it myself: perhaps it will distract me for a while from my worries.
Last spring, Barinelli, on his way to the gold — and silversmiths’ quarter on business, was passing by the slave market, known here as the Esir-pazari, when he was approached by a dealer holding a young woman by the hand and lauding her virtues. The Genoese told the fellow he had no intention of buying a slave, but the other insisted, saying:
“Don’t buy her if you don’t want to, but at least look at her!”
To end the matter as swiftly as possible, Barinelli glanced at the girl, meaning to walk on without more ado. But when their eyes met he had the feeling, he said, that he’d “found a long-lost sister who’d been taken captive”. He tried to ask her where she was from, but she could understand neither his Turkish nor his Italian. The dealer explained that she spoke a language no one here could understand, adding that she had another small defect — a slight limp caused by a wound in her thigh. He lifted up her dress to show the scar, but Barinelli firmly drew it down again, saying he would take her as she was — he did not need to see more.
So he returned home with the slave, who could only tell him her name was Liva. Strangely enough, Barinelli’s given name is Livio.
Ever since then theirs has been the most moving love story. They hold hands all the time, and never take their eyes off one another. Livio looks at her as if she were not his slave but his princess and beloved wife. I’ve often seen him raise her hand to his lips, place a chair for her, or stroke her hair or brow, oblivious of our presence. Any married couple and any pair of sweethearts in the world would be jealous of these two.
Liva has slanting eyes and prominent cheekbones, but fair, almost blonde hair. She might well come from a tribe that lives on the steppes. I think she must be descended from the Mongols, but from one of them who carried off a woman from Moscow. She has never been able to explain where she’s from or how she became a captive. Her swain tells me she understands every word he says now, but that’s not surprising, given the way he speaks to her. She’ll end up learning Italian, unless Barinelli learns the language of the steppes.
Have I mentioned that she’s pregnant? So her Livio won’t let her go up- or downstairs unless he’s there to take her arm.
Reading through what I’ve written, I see I’ve called Liva his “maid”. I vowed never to cross anything out, but I must correct this point. I didn’t want to refer to her as a “slave”, and hesitated to call her his concubine or mistress. But after all I’ve just said, it seems obvious that she should simply be called his wife. Barinelli regards her as that, he treats her much better than wives are usually treated, and she’ll soon be the mother of his children.
4 November
This morning my people are scattered around the city, each in pursuit of his or her preoccupation.
Boumeh has gone rummaging among the bookstalls, having heard some rumour about a great collector supposed to own a copy of The Hundredth Name. He hasn’t been able to find out anything more precise.
Habib and his brother both crossed the Golden Horn on the same boat, but they came back separately, and I doubt if they stayed together long.
Marta went to the Sultan’s palace to try to find out if a man with the same name as her husband wasn’t hanged as a pirate two years ago. Hatem went with her, as he speaks Turkish fluently and is better than any of us at coping with official ins and outs. They haven’t discovered anything specific so far, but they did learn something of how to set about it, and they’ll return to the charge tomorrow.
As for me, I went to see Father Thomas again in his church at Pera. When we met for the first time, on Sunday, I had neither the opportunity nor, I may say, the wish to tell him plainly why I was so affected by Marmontel’s death. I made some vague mention of valuable articles that the Chevalier had bought from me and that we were supposed to have talked about again in Constantinople. Now I explained, as to a confessor, the real reasons for my discomfiture. He interrupted me by seizing my wrist and pausing for a while as he pondered or prayed. Then he said:
“The only way for a Christian to address God is through prayer. He must be humble and obedient and tell Him of his own grievances and hopes, concluding by saying Amen and trusting that His will may be done. Proud men, on the other hand, look in the books of magici
ans for forms of words that they think can alter or divert God’s will. They imagine Providence as a ship, whose tiller they, poor mortals though they are, may manipulate to suit their own purposes. But God is not a ship — he is the Master of all ships, and of the seas, and of quiet skies and tempests alike. He cannot be ruled by forms of words invented by magicians, nor constrained by phrases or figures. He is incomprehensible and unpredictable, and woe to him who thinks he can tame Him!
“You say the book you sold to Marmontel has extraordinary powers ...”
“No, Father,” I corrected him. “I merely told you the foolish things that are said about it. If I myself believed it possessed unusual powers, I wouldn’t have parted with it.”
“You did well to part with it, my son, for you travelled under the protection of Providence and here you are in Constantinople, while the Chevalier, who set sail with the allegedly sacred book in his baggage, never arrived! God have mercy upon him!”
I asked Father Thomas for details about the disaster, but he told me nothing new. He did offer me much consolation, though, and I left the church with a lighter step than I had entered it, and with my recent melancholy cured.
Above all — why should I deny it? — his last comment was a comfort to me. So when Boumeh returned in the evening and started speculating about our chances of finding another copy of The Hundredth Name, I said with a sigh, shamelessly pretending I’d arrived at this sage attitude on my own:
“I don’t know if we shall return from here with it, but it’s fortunate that we didn’t come here with it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the Chevalier, who did travel with it…”
Marta smiled, Hatem’s eyes sparkled, and Habib actually laughed and clapped his brother on the shoulder. Boumeh shrugged his hand off disdainfully and snapped back at me, avoiding my eye:
“Uncle thinks The Hundredth Name is some holy relic supposed to perform miracles. I’ve never been able to make him understand that it’s not the book itself that can save its owner, but the word hidden within it. The book Idriss owned was just a copy of a copy. And what had we come here for? To borrow the book from the Chevalier, if he’d let us, and make yet another copy! But it’s not the book we’re looking for — it’s the word concealed inside it.”
“What word is that?” asked Marta innocently.
“The name of God.”
“Allah?”
Boumeh answered in his most pedantic manner.
“‘Allah’ is just a contraction of ‘al-ilah’, which simply means ‘the god’. It’s not a name; it’s just a designation. As if you were to say ‘the sultan’. But the sultan has a name too — he’s called Muhammad, or Mourad, or Ibrahim, or Osman. Like the Pope, who is called the Holy Father but has a name of his own as well.”
“That’s because popes and sultans die,” said I, “and are replaced. If they didn’t die they’d always be the same, and we’d no longer need to give them a name and a figure. Just ‘the Pope’ or ‘the Sultan’ would be enough.”
“Just so. And because God doesn’t die and is never replaced by another, we don’t need to address Him in any other way. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t got another, secret name. He doesn’t tell ordinary mortals what it is — only those who deserve to know. They are the real Elect, and they need only speak the divine name to escape all dangers and fend off all calamities. You will object that if God reveals His name to those He has chosen, there is no need to own Mazandarani’s book in order to have that privilege. No doubt. The wretched Idriss had the book in his possession all his life, and may have learned nothing from it. In order to deserve to know the supreme name a person must demonstrate exceptional piety, or unparalleled knowledge, or some other unique merit. But it can also happen that God feels well disposed towards someone apparently quite undistinguished. He sends signs to him, entrusts him with missions, tells him secrets, and transforms his dull life into a memorable epic. We must not ask why one person is chosen rather than another. Our ephemeral considerations are irrelevant to Him who sees past and future all in one glance.”
Does my nephew really believe he himself has been designated by Heaven? That’s the impression I got as I listened to him. In that still childish face, beneath the fair down on his cheeks, there’s a kind of quivering tension that bothers me. Shall I be able to take him home to his mother when the time comes, or will he keep trailing me along on the road as he has kept all of us so far?
No, that’s not true — not all of us! Marta came on this journey for her own reasons. Habib came out of chivalry or for romance. And all Hatem did was follow his master to Constantinople, just as he would have followed me anywhere. I am the only one who gave in to Boumeh’s promptings, and it’s up to me to restrain him now. But I don’t do it. I listen to him patiently, even though I know his reason is unreason and his faith impiety.
Perhaps I ought to act differently towards him. Contradict him, interrupt, make fun of him — in short, treat him as an uncle usually treats a young nephew, instead of showing so much consideration for him and his learning. The truth is that I’m rather scared of him, terrified even. I ought to get the better of this apprehension.
Anyhow, be he an envoy from Heaven or a messenger from Hell, he’s still my nephew, and I mean to make him behave as such!
5 November
At her request I went with Marta as far as the Sultan’s palace. But I soon left again at the request of my clerk, who thought my presence made his task more difficult. I’d put on my best clothes in order to make a good impression, but I’d only aroused greed and envy.
We had entered the palace through the outer courtyard, together with hundreds of other plaintiffs, all as quiet as if in a house of prayer. But this was because of their terror at being close to one who had the power of life and death over each one of them. I’d never been in such a place before, and was anxious to get away from that crowd of whispering intriguers, creeping diffidently across the sand and reeking of misery and fear.
Hatem wanted to meet a clerk in the Armoury who’d promised him information in exchange for a small amount of money. When we reached the door of the building, which was once the church of St Irene, he asked me to wait outside for fear the man would put up his price if he saw me. But it was too late. As ill luck would have it, the official was just emerging on some business or other, and took the opportunity to examine me from head to toe. When he returned a few minutes later, his demands had risen to fifteen times what they were before. You don’t ask a wealthy Genoese for the same amount you’d gouge from a Syrian villager escorting a poor widow. Ten aspres had become 150, and on top of that the information wasn’t complete — instead of telling all he knew, the fellow held back most of it in the hope of getting more money. He told us that according to the ledger he’d consulted, the name of Sayyaf, Marta’s husband, didn’t appear among those condemned to death, but there was another ledger he hadn’t yet been able to look at. We must pay up and be grateful, and still be left in uncertainty.
Hatem wanted to go on and see someone else “under the cupola”, through the gate of Salvation. But he begged me not to accompany them any further, and, more amused than annoyed, I went and waited for them outside in a coffee shop we’d noticed when we arrived. All this tangling with officialdom gets on my nerves; I’d never have gone if Marta hadn’t insisted. From now on I’ll save myself the bother. I hope they’ll get on faster and more cheaply without me.
They rejoined me an hour later. The man Hatem wanted to see had asked him to go back again next Thursday. He is a clerk too, but in the Tower of the Law, where he receives innumerable petitions and passes them on to higher authorities. He charged a silver coin for making the appointment. If I’d been there he’d have demanded gold.
Friday, 6 November
Today what was bound to happen did happen. Not at night, not in the form of a surreptitious embrace in a bed of confusion, but right in the middle of the morning when the narrow streets outside wer
e swarming with people. We were there in Master Barinelli’s house, she and I, looking through the blinds at the comings and goings of the people of Galata, like a couple of idle women. Friday is a day of prayer here, observed by some as a holiday, an occasion for taking a stroll or resting. Our travelling companions were all abroad on their various errands; our host had gone out too. We’d heard the door bang to behind him, and watched him and his pregnant lady-love walking carefully along the alley beneath the window, avoiding the heaps of rubble. She moved with some difficulty and clung to his arm, almost tripping over at one point because she was gazing fondly at him instead of looking where she was going. He just caught her in time and scolded her gently, putting his hand protectively on her brow and drawing an imaginary line with his finger from her eyes to her feet. She nodded to show she understood, and they went on more slowly.
As we watched them coping with their difficulties, Marta and I broke into laughter tinged with envy. Our hands touched, then joined like those of the couple in the street. Our eyes met, and as if in some game in which neither must be the first to look away, we remained like that for some time, each gazing at the other as into a mirror. It might have become ridiculous or childish if, after a moment, a tear hadn’t started to trickle down Marta’s cheek — a tear all the more surprising because she was still smiling. I stood up, went round the low table where the steam was still rising from our two coffee cups, and stood behind her, clasping her tenderly in my arms.
She tilted her head back, parting her lips and closing her eyes. At the same time she breathed a little sigh of surrender. I kissed her forehead, then her eyelids, then either side of her lips, shyly approaching her mouth. At first I just brushed it with my own trembling lips, murmuring her name and all the Italian and Arabic words for “my dear”, “my love”, “my own”, and then for “I want you”.