I listened with only half an ear to Father Thomas’s sermon. It was on the subject of Advent, and the sacrifices we ought to make to thank God for having sent us the Messiah. I started paying attention towards the end, when the preacher asked his congregation to pray for those among them who were due to go to sea tomorrow, that they might be granted fair winds and a safe voyage. At this, eyes turned towards a gentleman in the front row holding a captain’s hat under his arm, who bowed in acknowledgement of the priest’s recommendation.
Suddenly I was struck by a solution to my dilemma: we should leave straight away, without returning to Barinelli’s house. Go straight to the ship, spend the night on board, and put some distance between us and our pursuers as fast as possible. What times we live in, when an innocent man’s only resource is flight! But Hatem’s right — if I make the mistake of appealing to the authorities, I risk losing both my money and my life. These rascals seem so sure of themselves, they must have accomplices among the powers-that-be. And I’m just a foreigner, an “infidel”, a “dog from Genoa” — I’ll never get any justice trying to fight against them. That would only endanger the lives of my nearest and dearest as well as my own.
On leaving the church I went to see the captain, whose name is Beauvoisin, and asked him if by any chance he intended to put in at Smyrna. To tell the truth, in the state I’d been in since that interview with my persecutor this morning, I was ready to go anywhere. But I might have scared the captain off if I’d let him suspect I was a runaway. I was glad to learn that the ship was indeed due to call in at Smyrna to take on cargo and to put ashore Master Roboly, the French merchant who’d been acting as temporary ambassador and whom I’d met with Father Thomas. We agreed on a price to cover both transport and board: ten French ecus — the equivalent of 350 maidins — payable half on embarkation and the other half on arrival. The captain emphasised that we mustn’t be late coming on board: he meant to sail at daybreak. I suggested that to make sure of being on time we should embark this evening.
And so we did. First I sold the mules we had left, and sent Hatem to Barinelli’s to explain our hasty departure and collect my notebook and a few other things. Then Marta and my nephews and I went on board. That’s where we are now. Hatem isn’t back yet, but I expect him at any minute. He intended to enter the inn through a back door so as to elude our persecutors. I know he’ll manage, but I can’t help being anxious. All I’ve had to eat is a piece of bread and some dates and dried fruit. They say that’s the best way to prevent sea-sickness.
But it’s not sea-sickness I’m worried about at the moment. It was probably best to board the ship right away, without going back to Barinelli’s place, but I can’t help thinking somebody might have started looking for us. And if they have contacts everywhere, and it occurs to them to search the port, we might be arrested. Perhaps I should have told the captain why I was in such a hurry, so that he wouldn’t spread it abroad that we were on his ship, and would know what to say if any dubious person came looking for us. But I didn’t like to tell him all my misfortunes in case he changed his mind about taking us.
It’s going to be a long night. Until we get safely out of the port tomorrow morning, I’ll jump out of my skin at the slightest sound. Lord, how did I sink from being an honest and respectable merchant to being an outlaw, without doing anything wrong?
Talking of which, when I was introducing myself to Captain Beauvoisin outside the church, I heard myself saying I was travelling with my clerk, my nephews and “my wife”. Yes, despite the fact that I decided to put an end to such duplicity when I got to Constantinople, there I was, on the eve of my departure, putting the same false coin back into circulation. And so thoughtlessly too: my fellow-passengers on the ship won’t be like the anonymous members of the Aleppo caravan — they’ll include gentlemen who know my name and with whom I might have to deal in the future.
The captain may already have told Father Thomas he’s agreed to take me and my wife as passengers. I can just see the priest’s face. He wouldn’t say anything because of the secrecy of the confessional, but I can guess what he’d think.
What on earth makes me behave like that? Simple souls say love makes people act irrationally. No doubt that’s true, but there are other things involved beside love. There’s the approach of the fateful year; the feeling that our actions will have no consequences; that causes are no longer followed by effects; that crime won’t necessarily be punished; that good and evil, what is acceptable and what is unacceptable, will soon all be merged together in the same deluge, and hunters die at the same time as their prey.
But it’s time I shut my notebook. It’s the waiting, the anxiety, that have made me write like this tonight. Perhaps I’ll write quite differently tomorrow.
Monday 30 November 1665
If I thought dawn would bring me salvation I’ve been very disappointed, and it’s difficult to hide my anxiety from my companions.
We’ve been hanging about the whole day, and I find it hard to explain why I remain on board when all the other passengers and the crew take advantage of the delay to go ashore and browse around the market. The only excuse I could think of is that I’ve spent more than I expected to in Constantinople and find myself short of money, so I don’t want to give my nephews and “my wife” the chance to make me spend still more.
The reason for the delay is that during the night the captain heard that Monsieur de la Haye, the French ambassador, had at last arrived in Constantinople to take up his duties — five years after he was appointed to succeed his father. It’s an important event for all the French people here: they hope it will restore better relations between the French crown and the Grand Vizier. There’s talk of renewing the Capitulations signed last century between François I and Soliman the Great. Captain Beauvoisin and Master Roboly wanted to go to welcome the ambassador and pay him their respects.
This evening I gather that because of certain complications the ambassador hasn’t yet gone ashore: negotiations with the Ottoman authorities haven’t been completed, and his ship, Le Grand César, is at anchor at the entrance to the harbour. So it looks as if we shan’t leave until tomorrow evening at the earliest, perhaps not until the day after tomorrow.
Meanwhile, mightn’t it occur to our enemies to come and look for us in the port? But with luck they’ll think we’re going back to Gibelet overland, and more likely to be found in the direction of Scutari or on the road to Izmit.
It’s also possible that the scoundrels were just bluffing all along, to scare me into paying up, and that they’re as anxious as I am to avoid the repercussions of an incident in the port. As foreigners, their victims could count on protection from their ambassadors and consuls.
Hatem is back safe and sound, but empty-handed. He couldn’t get into Barinelli’s place: the house was under surveillance, back and front. He did manage to send a message to our host, though, asking him to hold on to our things until we could reclaim them.
It upsets me to be parted from my notebook and think vulgar eyes might be gloating over my secrets. Does the disguise I use really protect them? But it’s no good thinking about it all the time, getting worked up and wondering if I ought to have acted differently. Better to trust in Providence, my lucky star, and above all Barinelli. I’m very fond of him, and I’m sure he wouldn’t do anything unseemly.
At sea, 1 December 1665
I awoke to a delightful surprise. We were no longer in port. I’d spent the night feeling queasy and unable to sleep. I didn’t close my eyes till just before dawn. But when I opened them it was the middle of the morning and we were sailing across the Sea of Marmara.
We’d left unexpectedly because, instead of coming with us, Master Roboly had decided to spend some time with the ambassador to bring him up to date on his own stewardship. So Captain Beauvoisin, who’d planned to go and see Monsieur de la Haye only to keep Master Roboly company, saw no reason for further delay.
As soon as I realised we were under way my sea-sicknes
s abated, though usually the further you are from shore the worse it gets.
I gather that if the winds are favourable and the sea remains calm we’ll reach Smyrna in less than a week. But it’s December, so it won’t be surprising if we encounter a bit of rough weather.
Now that I’m feeling more peaceful I’ll keep my promise and tell the story of how I lost interest in religion, and in particular stopped believing in miracles.
As I said before, I was thirteen when it happened. Until then I was always to be found on my knees, with a rosary in my hand and surrounded by women in black. I knew the virtues of all the saints by heart. I’d been more than once to the chapel at Ephrem, a modest cell hewn out of the rock, once inhabited by a pious anchorite still revered in the region round Gibelet for the many wonders he performed.
So one day when I was about thirteen and had just returned home after one such pilgrimage, a litany of miracles still ringing in my ears, I couldn’t help telling my father about the paralytic who’d been able to walk back unaided down the mountainside, and the madwoman from the village of Ibrine whose reason was restored the moment she rested her forehead against the chill stone wall of the shrine. I used to be very upset by my father’s indifference to things concerning the Faith, especially after a devout lady from Gibelet hinted that my mother’s early death — I was only four at the time, and she herself scarcely twenty — was due to her not having been prayed over properly. I held this against my father, and wanted to bring him back to the straight and narrow.
He listened to my edifying anecdotes without showing either scepticism or astonishment. He just kept nodding impassively. When I’d finished he stood up, tapped me on the shoulder to tell me to wait, then brought from his bedroom a book I’d often seen him reading.
Laying it down on the table, close to the lamp, he began to read out, in Greek, a number of stories about miraculous cures. He didn’t say which saint had performed them; he wanted me to guess. I liked this idea. I considered myself quite capable of identifying a miracle-worker’s style. Was it Saint Arsenius? Or Bartholomew? Or Simeon Stylites? Or Proserpina, perhaps?
The most fascinating story — it elicited great ecstasies from me — told of a man whose lung was pierced by an arrow that remained lodged there. He slept for a night in the saint’s room, and dreamed the holy man had touched him. When he awoke he was cured, and the head of the arrow that had wounded him was clutched in his own right hand. The arrow made me think the saint in question might be Sebastian. No, not him, said my father. I wanted to go on guessing, but my father demurred, and told me flatly that the person who had performed the miraculous cures was Asclepius. Yes, Asclepius, the Greek god of medicine, in his shrine at Epidaurus, where countless pilgrims have gone for centuries. The book containing the stories was the famous Description of Greece, written by Pausanius in the second century AD.
When my father told me all this, I was shattered to the depths of my piety.
“It was all lies, then?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. But people believed in it enough to go to the temple of Asclepius year after year to be cured.”
“But false gods can’t perform miracles!”
“I suppose not. You’re probably right.”
“Do you believe it’s true?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
And he went and put the book back on its shelf.
From that day on I’ve made no more pilgrimages to the chapel at Ephrem. Nor have I prayed very often. Though I haven’t actually become a unbeliever. I now take the same view as my father of all praying and kneeling and prostration — a view that’s sceptical, distant, neither respectful nor contemptuous, sometimes intrigued, but always free of any certainty. And I like to think that out of all His creatures the ones the Creator likes best are those who have managed to be free. Doesn’t a father like to see his sons grow out of infancy into manhood, even if their young claws wound a little? And why should God be a less benevolent father than the rest?
At sea, Wednesday 2 December
We’ve passed the Dardanelles and are heading due south. The sea is calm and I often stroll on the deck with Marta on my arm. She looks like a lady from France, and the crew eye her surreptitiously — just obviously enough for me to realise how much they envy me, but at the same time most respectfully. So I manage to be proud without being jealous.
Day after day, almost imperceptibly, I’ve got used to her presence. So much so that I hardly ever call her “the widow” now — it’s as if the word were no longer good enough — though in fact the reason we’re on our way to Smyrna is to get proof of her widowhood. She’s sure she’ll get it. I am more sceptical. I’m afraid we might fall among venal officials again, who’ll try to drain us piastre by piastre of all the money we’ve got left. If that happens we’d do best to take Hatem’s advice and get a false death certificate. I still don’t care for the idea, but we may be reduced to it if all the honest solutions fail. But come what may I won’t abandon the woman I love and go back to Gibelet without her, and plainly we can’t go back there together without a document, genuine or otherwise, that will let us live under the same roof.
Perhaps I haven’t yet made it quite clear that I’m deeper in love now than ever I was in my youth. I don’t want to open old wounds — they are deep, and still unhealed despite the passage of time. I just want to explain that my first marriage was a marriage of reason, while the marriage I envisage with Marta is one of passion. A marriage of reason at nineteen, and a marriage of passion at forty? Well, that’s how my life will have been. I don’t complain — I have too much reverence for the person I’d have to complain of, and I can’t blame him for wanting me to marry a Genoese wife. It’s because my forbears always married Genoese wives that they managed to preserve their own language and customs, and remained attached to their original country. As far as all that is concerned, my father was in the right, and anyhow I wouldn’t have opposed him for anything. It was just unfortunate that the girl who came our way was Elvira.
She was the daughter of a Genoese merchant from Cyprus. She was sixteen, and both her father and mine believed she was fated to be my wife. I was about the only young Genoese in our part of the world, and our marriage seemed to be in the order of things. But Elvira had promised herself to a young man from Cyprus, a Greek whom she loved to distraction. Her parents wanted to separate them at all costs. So from the first she saw me as a persecutor, or at least an accomplice of her persecutors, whereas in fact I was as much forced into the marriage as she was. I was more docile, though, and more naive; curious to find out about what everyone said were the most wondrous of pleasures; amused by the rituals involved; and as obedient to my father and his commands as she was to hers.
Too proud to submit, too smitten with the other youth to listen to or look at or smile at me, Elvira was a sad episode in my life cut short only by her early death. I don’t like to say it came as a relief. Nothing concerning her makes me think of relief or serenity or peace. The whole misadventure left me with nothing but a lasting prejudice against marriage and its ceremonies, and against women too. I’ve been a widower since I was twenty, and was resigned to remaining one. If I’d been more inclined to prayer I might have gone to live in a monastery. Only the circumstances of this journey have made me question my deep-rooted doubts. I may be able to go through the same motions as believers, but in that area too I remain a doubter.
I find it very painful to rake over that old story. Whenever I think of it I start to suffer again. Time has hardly healed the wound at all.
Sunday, 6 December
Three days of storm, fog, creaking timbers, driving rain, nausea and dizziness. My legs will scarcely carry me. I try to hang on to wooden walls, passing ghosts. I trip over a bucket, two unknown arms help me up, I immediately fall down again on the same spot. Why didn’t I stay at home in my nice quiet shop, peacefully writing out columns of figures in my ledger? What madness made me set out on my travels? Above all, what po
ssessed me to go to sea?
It wasn’t by eating forbidden fruit that man annoyed the Creator — it was by going to sea! How presumptuous it is to risk life and property on this seething immensity, to try to mark out paths over the abyss, grazing with our oars the backs of buried monsters like Behemoth, Rahab, Leviathan and Abaddon — serpents, beasts, dragons! That’s where the insatiable pride of man lies, the sin he commits over and over again in the face of repeated punishments.
One day, says the Apocalypse, long after the end of the world, when Evil is at last overcome, the sea will no longer be liquid. Instead it will be like glass, a surface that can be walked over dry-shod. No more storms, no more drownings, no more sea-sickness. Just one vast blue crystal.
Meanwhile the sea is still the sea. This Sunday morning there isn’t a moment’s respite. I put on clean clothes and have been able to write these few lines. But the sun is going dark again, time has ceased to exist, and the passengers and crew of our fine carrack are hurrying about in all directions.
Yesterday, when the storm was at its height, Marta came and clung to me. Her head on my chest and her hips against mine. Fear had become an accomplice, a friend. And the fog a tolerant innkeeper. We held one another, desired one another, our lips met — and people roamed around us without seeing us.
Tuesday the 8th
After Sunday’s brief lull we’re in the midst of bad weather again. I don’t know that “bad weather” really describes it — it’s all so strange. The captain tells me he’s never seen anything like it in twenty-six years’ experience all over the world — certainly not in the Aegean, anyhow. A kind of sticky fog lowering over everything, unmoved by the wind. The air is dense, heavy, ashen.