17 November
Today, Tuesday, to take my mind off my worries, I indulged in one of my favourite pleasures: I strolled around the streets of the city on my own, browsing all day long among the bookstalls. But when, near the Solimaniah mosque, a trader asked me what I was looking for, and I openly mentioned Mazandarani’s book, the man frowned and signed to me to lower my voice. Then, after making sure no one else had heard me, he asked me into his shop and sent his son away so that we could speak in private.
Even when we were alone he still spoke in a whisper, so that I had to strain my ears to hear what he said. According to him, the highest authorities had got wind of certain predictions concerning the Day of Judgement, allegedly at hand. An astrologer was supposed to have told the Grand Vizier that all tables would soon be overturned, all food removed from them, and the grandest turbans would roll on the ground, together with the heads that wore them, while all the palaces collapsed upon their inhabitants. For fear that such rumours would give rise to panic and subversion, orders had been issued that any book forecasting the end of the world should be destroyed. Anyone copying, selling, promoting or commenting on such works was liable to the severest punishment. All this was being done in deadly secrecy, the worthy fellow told me, pointing out the stall of a neighbour and colleague closed down because its owner was said to have been arrested and tortured, while his own brothers dared not inquire about his fate.
I am infinitely grateful to this colleague for taking the trouble to warn me of the danger, and for trusting me in spite of my origins. But perhaps it was because of them that he trusted me. If the authorities wanted to test or spy on him, they wouldn’t have sent a Genoese to sound him out, would they?
What I’ve learned today sheds new light on what happened to me in no Aleppo, and makes me understand more clearly the strange reaction I met with from the booksellers in Tripoli when I mentioned The Hundredth Name to them.
I must be more careful in future, and above all not keep going and prating to booksellers about Mazandarani’s work. That’s what I tell myself now, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to stick to such prudence. For while my excellent colleague’s words encourage caution, they also make me more curious than ever about the accursed tome.
18 November
I visited the bookshops again today, and stayed till nightfall, looking around, watching and searching in corners, but not actually inquiring after The Hundredth Name.
I made a few purchases, including a rare book that I’d been trying to find for a long time — Introduction to Occult Alphabets, attributed to Ibn-Wahchiya. It contains dozens of different scripts that cannot be deciphered except by experts: if I’d been able to get hold of it sooner I might have used it to write this journal. But the time is gone by — I’ve got used to my own way of doing things and found my own method of concealment I shan’t change now.
Written on Friday, 27 November 1665
Through no fault of my own I’ve just been through a long nightmare of a week, and fear is still lingering in my bones. But I refuse to go. I refuse to leave after having been duped and humiliated.
I shan’t stay on in Constantinople any longer than necessary, but nor shall I leave until I’ve obtained redress. in My ordeal began on Thursday the 19th, when Boumeh, exultant, came and told me he’d at last discovered the name of the collector who owns a copy of The Hundredth Name. I’d told him to stop looking for the book, but perhaps I hadn’t done so firmly enough. And though I now rebuked him still, I couldn’t help asking him what he’d found out.
The collector in question was not unknown to me. He was a noble fellow from Walachia, a vaivode named Mircea who had gathered together in his palace one of the finest libraries in the Empire, and who had even, a very long time ago, sent an emissary to my father to buy a book of psalms written on parchment, marvellously illuminated and illustrated with icons. It seemed to me that if went to see him he’d remember this purchase, and perhaps tell me if he owned a copy of Mazandarani’s book.
We visited the vaivode late one afternoon, at the time when people are getting up after their siesta. Boumeh and I went on our own, dressed in Genoese style. I’d made my nephew promise to let me conduct the conversation. I didn’t want to scare our host by questioning him straight away about a book of doubtful authenticity and with equally dubious contents. A roundabout approach was indicated.
Though sumptuous enough in comparison with the Turkish houses around it, the vaivode of Walachia’s palace doesn’t quite live up to that designation, which it probably owes to the rank of its owner rather than to its architecture. It looked like a shoemaker’s house multiplied by twelve, or twelve shoemakers’ houses someone had bought and joined together, its ground floor almost devoid of windows, while those of the second storey rested on wooden corbels and had brown slatted blinds. But everyone calls it a palace, and the name includes the network of alleys surrounding it. I mentioned shoemakers because the district is inhabited by cobblers and leather workers — also by well-known bookbinders, of whom our collector must be, I suppose, a regular client.
We were met at the door by a Walachian partisan wearing a long green silk jacket that failed to conceal a sabre and a pistol. As soon as we’d given our names and occupations — we weren’t asked about the object of our visit — we were led into a small study. All the walls — even the space above the single door — were lined with books. I’d introduced myself as “Baldassare Embriaco, dealer in curios and old books, and my nephew Jaber.” I imagined my profession would act as an open sesame here.
The vaivode soon joined us, together with another partisan dressed in the same way as the first, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Seeing the sort of people we were, his master told him he could withdraw, and sat down facing us on a divan. A maid then came in with coffee and cordials, set them down on a low table, and left, closing the door behind her.
Our host asked politely after the fatigues of our journey and said how honoured he was by our visit, though he didn’t ask us the reasons for it. He’s an elderly man, probably getting on for seventy; slender, with a gaunt face and a grey beard. He was dressed less richly than his men, in a long white embroidered shirt hanging loosely over trousers of the same material. He spoke Italian, explaining that in his many years of exile he’d spent some time in Florence, at the court of the Grand Duke Ferdinand. He’d left to avoid being forced to convert to Catholicism. He praised the intelligence and generosity of the Medicis at some length, but deplored their current weakness. It was while living among them that he’d learned to love beautiful things, and decided to devote his fortune to collecting old books rather than to princely intrigues.
“But many people, in Walachia and Vienna alike, believe I’m still involved in plots, and think my books are only a diversion. Whereas in fact these creatures of leather occupy my mind completely, day and night. Learning that a book exists, tracking it down from country to country, homing in on it at last, buying it, owning it, shutting myself away with it and making it yield up its secrets, then finding a place worthy of it in my house — those are my only battles, my only conquests, and nothing gives me more satisfaction than to chat with other connoisseurs here in my study.”
After this encouraging preamble I felt I could tell him, in suitably chosen words, what brought me there.
“I share the same passion as your Lordship, but in me it is less praiseworthy, for I do for reasons of business what you do for love. When I look for a book it is usually to fulfil an order and sell it to a client. Only this journey to Constantinople was undertaken for a different purpose. An unusual one for me, and I hesitate to tell people what it is. But with you, who have given me a welcome worthy of your rank rather than my own, and are a genuine collector and savant — with you I shall speak plainly.”
And I began, contrary to my own expectations, to tell him directly and without any guile about the prophecies concerning the imminent coming of the Beast in the year 1666, before Mazandarani’s book, the
circumstances in which old Idriss had given it to me, how I’d sold it to Marmontel, and how the Chevalier had been lost at sea.
At this the vaivode nodded to show he knew about it. He didn’t react to the rest of what I’d said, but when I paused he said he’d heard the various predictions about the coming year, and he referred to the Russian book of the Faith, which to save time I had not mentioned.
“I have a copy of it,” he said. “It was sent to me by the patriarch Nikon himself — I met him when I was young, in Nijni-Novgorod. It’s a disturbing piece of work, I confess. As for The Hundredth Name, it’s true I was sold a copy seven or eight years ago, but I didn’t attach much importance to it. The seller himself admitted it was probably a forgery. I bought it just out of curiosity — it’s one of those books collectors like to talk about when they meet. Like the fabulous beasts hunters describe in their cups. I kept it just out of vanity, I admit, and I never actually tried to read it. I don’t know much Arabic, and I couldn’t have made much of it without a crib.”
“So did you get rid of it?” I asked, trying to quell the pangs that were making my voice tremble.
“No,” he said. “‘I never sell or give away a book. It’s a long time since I actually set eyes on the one we’re talking about, but it must be here somewhere — perhaps upstairs among the other books in Arabic.”
I had an idea. I was revolving in my mind how to express it acceptably when my nephew, ignoring my instructions, broke in.
“If you like,” said he to our host, “I could translate it into Italian or Greek for you.”
I glared at him. There was nothing out of the way about his suggestion — I was about to propose something similar myself — but the abrupt manner in which he’d made it contrasted with the urbanity of the previous conversation. I was afraid our host might be put off: I could see he was hesitating about what answer to make. I myself would have introduced the subject more carefully.
The vaivode gave Boumeh a condescending smile.
“I thank you for your suggestion,” he said, “but a Greek monk I know can read Arabic very well and has both the perseverance and the skill in penmanship to make a suitable version for me. He’s a man of my own age — young people find that kind of work too tedious. But if you two gentlemen would like to look through The Hundredth Name yourselves and copy out some lines from it, I’ll fetch it for you. On condition that it doesn’t leave this room.”
“We’d be most grateful.”
He rose and went out, closing the door after him.
“You’d have done better to keep your promise and say nothing,” I told my nephew. “As soon as you opened your mouth he cut the conversation short. And now he feels he can impose ‘conditions’.”
“But he’s bringing us the book — that’s all that matters. That’s what we came all this way for.”
“How much shall we have time to read?”
“At least we’ll be able to check if it’s like the copy we had. And I know very well what I shall look for first.”
We were still arguing when we heard cries and the sound of running footsteps outside. Boumeh got up to go and see what was happening, but I stopped him.
“Stay where you are! And remember you’re in the house of a prince!”
The cries faded in the distance, then after a while approached the study again, accompanied by the sound of violent thumps that made the walls shake. And by a disturbing smell. At this I opened the door a little way and added my voice to the shouting. The walls and carpets were on fire and the house was full of dense smoke. Men and women were rushing about in all directions with buckets of water, yelling to one another as they did so. As I was about to hurry out of the room, I turned and saw Boumeh still sitting there.
“We must stay where we are,” he said sarcastically. “We’re in the house of a prince.”
The impudence! I boxed his ears for it, and for a lot of other things I’d been saving up inside me. But the room was filling with smoke and making us cough. We ran for the front door, crossing through three barriers of flame.
And when we found ourselves out in the street again, safe and sound except for minor burns on our faces and hands, we had time to draw breath we were confronted by another much more serious danger. It arose out of a misunderstanding that almost cost us our lives.
Hundreds of local people had already gathered round to watch the fire when the guard who’d opened the door to us pointed in our direction. He meant to convey to his master or another guard that we’d managed to escape and were no longer inside the house. But the bystanders interpreted his gesture quite differently: they thought he meant we were responsible for the conflagration, and began to hurl stones at us. We had no alternative but to run away, which of course seemed to confirm the crowd’s suspicions. They chased after us, armed with sticks and knives and cobbler’s scissors; there was clearly no point in stopping and trying to reason with them. The more we fled and the more terrified we seemed, the angrier and more numerous the crowd grew. In the end the whole neighbourhood was pursuing us. But we wouldn’t get far before they were bound to catch up with us. I seemed to feel them breathing down my neck already.
Then suddenly two janissaries appeared in front of us. Normally the mere sight of their plumed caps would have made me dive down the nearest alley to avoid them. But now they were a godsend. They’d been standing in front of a shoemaker’s stall and had turned round, their hands already on the hilts of their sabres, to see what the noise was all about. I shouted “Amân! Amân!” a plea for life to be spared, and threw myself into the arms of one of them like a child running to its mother. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my nephew doing likewise. The soldiers exchanged glances, then shoved us behind them, taking up the cry, “Amân! Amân!”
Our pursuers stopped short, as if they’d come up against an invisible wall. Except for one youth, who went on frantically shouting and bawling — on reflection I realised he must be a madman. Instead of halting, like the others, he rushed on, reaching out as if to grab Boumeh’s shirt. A hissing sound, and before I had time to see my janissary draw his sword and strike out with it, there he was wiping the blade on the back of the poor crazy wretch now lying at his feet. The blow had been delivered with such force it had slashed the victim’s shoulder from his body like a branch pruned from a tree. No dying gasp — just a dull thud as the corpse hit the ground. I stared at the dark blood gushing from the wound; it took some time to slacken. When at last I could tear my eyes away, the crowd had vanished. Only three men remained, trembling, in the middle of the street. The janissaries had ordered them to stay behind after the rest had fled, to explain what had happened. They pointed back to the fire, which was still burning, and then to my nephew and me. I said at once that we had nothing to do with the conflagration — we were respectable booksellers visiting the vaivode of Walachia on business, and could prove it.
“Are you sure these two are the criminals?” the elder of the two janissaries asked the locals.
They were afraid to say anything for fear of implicating themselves, but finally one of them spoke for all.
“Everyone says these foreigners set fire to the palace. When we tried to question them they ran away as if they were guilty.”
I’d have liked to answer this, but the janissaries signed to me to say nothing, and ordered Boumeh and me to walk in front of them to an as yet unspecified destination.
I glanced back over my shoulder from time to time, and saw that the crowd had gathered again and was following, but at a respectful distance. From further back still came the glow of the flames and the noise of the fire-fighters. My nephew just strode ahead without the least glance at me to show solidarity or share my anxiety. No doubt his great mind was preoccupied with far more important matters than the vulgar fears that beset his unfortunate uncle, unjustly suspected of a crime and being led by two janissaries through the back streets of Constantinople towards an unknown fate.
Our escort led us to the residence of
one Morched Agha, apparently a person of some importance. I’d never heard of him, but he led me to understand he was once a commandant in the janissaries, and as a result now occupied a senior position in Damascus. He addressed us in Arabic, but in an Arabic he’d obviously picked up late in life and spoke with a strong Turkish accent.
The first thing I noticed about him was his teeth. They were worn so thin they looked like a row of black needles. I found them repulsive, but they didn’t seem to cause him any shame or embarrassment. He displayed them generously every time he smiled, and he was always smiling. Apart from that, I must admit he looked respectable enough: a bit portly, like me, with grey hair under an immaculate white cap trimmed with silver, a well-tended beard, and friendly manners.
As soon as we’d been shown in he welcomed us and said we were lucky the janissaries had brought us to him rather than to a judge or to the prisoners’ tower.
“These young men are like children to me. They trust me. They know I’m a man of justice and compassion. I have friends in high places, very high places, if you see what I mean, but I’ve never used my influence to get an innocent person convicted. Sometimes, though, I have had a guilty person reprieved, if he’s made me feel sorry for him.”
“I can swear to you that we’re innocent,” I cried. “It was all a mistake. Let me explain.”
He listened to me carefully, nodding several times as if in sympathy.
“You seem a respectable man,” he said then. “Let me assure you I’ll be your friend and protector.”
We were in a huge room furnished just with rugs, curtains and cushions. It contained, apart from Morched Agha himself and our two janissaries, half a dozen armed men who looked to me like renegade soldiers. When a din arose outside, a guard left the room, then returned and whispered something to our host that appeared to worry him.