Altai: A Novel (33 page)

Finale

Venice, December 11, 1571

Hawsers, scraps of sail, ropes, tree trunks, shards of shattered hulls, figureheads, oranges, pages from books, a rosary.

I floated for a long time, among the living and the dead, amid the scum of war, a piece of flotsam among many others.

I could have rested in the anonymous silence of the depths, with the fallen of a thousand storms and battles, like one of Ulysses’s companions. My death would have been worthy of the poems my father once read to me. Instead, the waves returned me to the world, so that my fate might come full circle.
Et stetit mare a fervore suo
, sated by the sacrifice of thousands.

They picked me up, the Venetians. Only to plunge me into this yet blacker abyss, the one reserved for the defeated and the traitorous, but not before cauterizing my wound with a red-hot iron. My cries must have been heard all the way here, announcing to everyone the arrival of an important prisoner. In fact it was not mercy that guided the surgeon’s hand, but my name. It was just by chance that I was spotted by a convict condemned to a life sentence at the oars. He had risen from his bench and stretched out a filthy hand, the index finger pointing at me. His naked thigh still bore the violet scar from the bullet. Baldan is his name. I should have aimed for his heart, the day I decided to shoot at him to stop him from escaping across the canal. He couldn’t have forgotten the man who had consigned him to a life of pain. For years, as he cursed my name with his every breath, he must have prayed that he might one day take his revenge, and inflict the same suffering on me. God heard his plea, putting him on the benches of the ship that picked me up.

That’s the Arsenal assassin.

A Jew corrupted by Jewish money.

A traitor.

A murderer.

That’s me. They didn’t need to torture me to obtain a confession; I could have spoken the sentence myself. Denial would have been pointless, not after I’d plotted to obtain a war that left piles of corpses rotting in the sun and fattening the fish. A war whose fruits no longer belong to us. We only bear its blows.

They say that the Ottoman fleet was destroyed, that Kapudan Pasha is dead, sunk to the bottom of the sea with his flagship. They say that only Ucciali, that shrewd pirate, got away, and that he will now be the Sultan’s Great Admiral.

They say that Bragadin’s stuffed hide reached Constantinople, and that it led Lala Mustafa’s belated parade.

On the other hand, nothing is said of Yossef Nasi, as if he were an enemy no longer feared. And yet at my trial they asked me about him: Was it true that he was Selim’s lover, that he had had children with his aunt, Gracia Nasi, that he worshipped the devil in the seclusion of his residence?

I laughed out loud at their stolid faces. A hearty laugh that echoed like a scandal around those dilapidated walls.

They brought me here, to this dark hole, where cold grips the limbs and tirelessly shakes them. Venice is cold as winter approaches, and this prison is even more so. My wound is a black lump of burned meat; I no longer even notice it. Not after being up to my calves in bilge for days and days, my feet tormented by water and chains, and then in this musty cell, reserved for the poor wretches I once locked up in here.

The Jews have been thrown out of Venice, expelled, all of them. I’m the last one, and a grand finale awaits me.

That’s how I know he’s coming. He won’t be able to resist the temptation of seeing me before everything is done. I stay alert, I pace my spot to banish shivers and rats. I squash the insects that scrabble around under my clothes. It’s strange how, even when the end is imminent, we go on repeating certain gestures, as if self-preservation were still a necessity.

In this blind intimacy, I can think about the ones I have left behind.

Tuota, whom I still imagine sitting bolt upright at the tiller.

Yossef, locked away in the solitude of Palazzo Belvedere.

Ismail, Ali, Hafiz and Mukhtar, together in the vastness of the desert.

Dana. I sacrificed our bond to the plan that should have returned me to myself, and instead it has only led me back to my starting point. I see again her face, her body, her hair; I hear her inviting voice.
Welcome to my garden.

I stop on the threshold of the memory, startled at the rattle of the bolts. The door is thrown wide open and a torch banishes the darkness, showing the grim face of the jailer, bestial in the flickering light. I step aside to let him pass in.

He has aged. His hair and beard are grizzled. But his expression is the same: the face of someone accustomed to studying his neighbor.

“Good to see you, Consigliere.”

Bartolomeo Nordio studies me for a long time. Perhaps he, too, is seeing the marks, or rather the ravages, that time has left on me.

“I didn’t think you’d be so careless as to let yourself be captured. Not after getting away from me.”

I shrug as I once wouldn’t have dared to do in his presence. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

He steps toward me and I notice that the wrinkles on his face are different, too. “Disappointed? On the contrary. You’re my greatest success. I trained you to be my eyes, my hand. I put you to the supreme test, the sacrifice of your life, and you got out of it, you ran away, you became what I wanted you to be. A renegade, a traitor, a Jew. The truth is that you’ve never stopped being one of my agents. I turned you into what you are; you are more mine than a son would have been. But even so, you will go to hell, like everyone of your race, and you will be buried in unconsecrated ground. It’s almost time.”

There must be something that irritates him in my expression, something he didn’t expect to find in this fetid hole. “Goodbye, De Zante.”

He turns nervously towards the jailer, to be led out of the cell.

“There are men who would do anything to catch a hare.”

The Consigliere stops and looks at me uncertainly, bewildered, as if he didn’t catch my words. But in fact he did hear them, I’m sure of it.

“Men like you,” I go on. “As I once was. Now you think you’ve been successful, and you don’t realize you’re clutching a carcass mangled by the same dogs you unleashed.” I look into his eyes for the last time. “Keep this rag close to you. Because it’s all you have left.”

He stares at me again, his jaw clenched. Not understanding me is the biggest blow. He goes out without another word, and leaves me plunged in darkness once again.

Not much time is left. Enough to murmur a prayer and review all the faces of the people I have loved. I have stolen the last two years from fate: the best of a whole life lived backward over the course of a season, then hurled forward with the power of a dream, of home. Having tried to trace a difference future, having been freed to fly, even just for a moment, is what gives me the strength to confront what awaits me.

Perhaps that’s why, now that they’re coming to get me, I realize that I feel neither pain nor fear. Only bitterness at the disappointments inflicted.

The daylight hurts my eyes, forcing me to keep them shut. They drag me out, I struggle, I stumble, and am held upright. There’s a crowd around me; shouts and insults fly.

Gradually I make out some shapes, as the anonymous multitude comes running over to see the great spectacle. My eyesight clears, and I look over the heads at the Ducal Palace, at the church of Saint Mark, with its great bulk and the campanile rising toward the sky. I think of all the times I have crossed this square as a free man, and go on losing myself in the details surrounding me, to keep them in full view. I don’t listen to the magistrate reading the sentence. Each one of those accusations is false, and yet they sanction a just punishment. I have plotted against Venice; I have acted in accordance with her enemies. I have managed Giuseppe Nasi’s money.

Yossef, I’m sorry. For me and for our island. We’ll never know whether that hell on earth might have produced a paradise. And whether, though I doubt it, it is still worth the trouble of hoping and fighting for with all our strength. If you were here, now, I would tell you without regret, Good-bye, my brother.

They tie my wrists behind my back, delicately, as if they were afraid of hurting me, a curious concern to show for a condemned man. The cap is placed on my head, with swift and expert movements.

My heart races, the sound of my breath drowns out everything else. Suddenly I recognize a figure in front of me, as it emerges from an ancient memory. It’s my mother. She is young and beautiful.

She spreads her arms with a smile.

“Come, Manuel. Come on, come to me.”

I’m small, I’m taking the first steps of my life to reach her, so that she can feel proud of her son and give him the prize of that warm embrace. Suddenly I realize that I’m not afraid anymore, it’s easy, all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other and I can cover unimaginable distances. Even free myself to fly, high above the crowd, above Saint Mark’s Square and the domes of the church, to see the whole city as if in a big fresco, and fly still further, faster, across the sea. To reach a faraway garden and rest, at last, in the shade of a carob tree.

Epilogue

Constantinople, 23 Rajab 979

(December 11, 1571)

The big hall is filled with the calm of evening. The sounds of the day and the shouting of the servants are far away; what remains are the rustle of water in the fountain and the crackling of the fire under the chimney.

The last light falls from above, through the glass, and by now the loggias are in darkness. Yossef Nasi sits on a stool by the open jaws of the fireplace, in the middle of the mosaic showing the
Mare nostrum
, from the Pillars of Hercules to the Sinai Desert.

He’s been holding a roll of tobacco in his fingers; he has forgotten it is there. Perhaps he’s been drinking wine, or perhaps, who knows, that was the night before. Pain distends time, it breaks it down into endless moments, each one the same as the next, until it blurs them together, until it makes you lose the meaning of the gestures that mark out the days, how to feed yourself, how to sleep.

He recognizes the footsteps behind his back and the warm, vibrant voice of David Gomez. “No news.”

Another stab in the heart. Another pang of uncertainty.

“Keep on looking. Talk to anyone who came back.”

“Yossef . . .”

“Please.”

Gomez grips his shoulder hard, before withdrawing into the shadow that he emerged from. He will do what he’s been asked to do. He will go back among the survivors of the catastrophe, as he has done every day, to question them, to uncover a clue, something, anything, that might illuminate the fate of the man who disappeared at sea. He will do it even though he knows it’s pointless, out of the love that he feels, out of the fidelity that is his own.

The portrait on the wall is a ghost that mutely observes the passing of earthly glory.

The voice that echoes vividly in the mind is another one, that of the unsung victor. A true Giant, convinced that the future of the empire lies in the east, and that sooner or later he will sign a peace with Venice so they can return to their good prewar trading relations. Yossef Nasi sees the huge shadow rising to the ceiling and touching the corners of the room with its long fingers.

There’s a moment in every game when one of the players is declared defeated.

There are men who can accept the verdict of fate without feigning, but you aren’t one of them, Nasi Bey
.

You believe that you can trick fortune and that every result can be turned into its opposite.

That much is proved by the letter you wrote to the King of Spain. These are your seal and your monogram. These are the words with which you offer your services to the greatest enemy of the empire, promising him to become a Christian in exchange for his favor.

How many times are you prepared to change face to save yourself?

I wonder whether Philip would have accepted. Do you think he might still need you? We will never know, because this letter will remain in my possession, as proof of your betrayal. It will be the guarantee that you will never again try to raise your head.

Even now Yossef can’t repress a hint of admiration for Mehmet Sokollu. That man managed to make him fall into his own net. He waited patiently, he let his enemies organize their own defeat, leaving him master of the field at last.

Now he will rebuild the fleet and will steer the Crescent back toward Persia, India and beyond. A magnificent plan, even bigger than Yossef’s own.

Your ruin is not in my interest, since Selim enjoys your company.

You will ensure that you please the Sultan for as long as God wills, and you will never again try to influence his will. You will be our court Jew once more, but you will no longer be in charge of imperial trade. Dr. Ashkenazi will take care of that. He has the right talents to do it, and above all he is a more loyal man than you can imagine.

You know, Nasi Bey, deep down we are the same, I esteem your tenacity. But unlike you, I have never committed the blunder of underestimating a queen. That’s why I hold your life in my hands and declare you defeated.

He hears her approaching lightly, and when he turns round what he sees enchants him.

Her scarlet lips stand out in a face white as a statue’s. There’s something unnatural about her: her features are polished, her hair perfect, as if in a grotesque transfiguration. She wears a European dress that Yossef recognizes. It belonged to Gracia.

He wonders if she has come to confess or to accuse him, and suddenly he realizes that it makes no difference. Hard to say which one is the truly guilty party, he who wrote a letter to the biggest persecutor of Jews in the West, or she, who purloined it, prevented it from reaching its destination and handed it to the Grand Vizier. He has no wish to fight, he just wants to understand.

“Why did you do it?”

Reyna kneels in front of him and her skirt opens up like a corolla on the floor. He stares at her without rancor.

“All my life I have been what my mother wanted me to be. You and she based your dreams on a sacrifice. Look at me, Yossef. I have no children. I don’t even have a husband. She has always been your queen. When she died, you preferred to choose a loyal disciple rather than allowing me to serve you and love you.”

“He’s dead, and I should have died in his place.”

Reyna brushes his hand. “Now you know you’re not invincible. There are no more mirages to follow, or lives to sacrifice. You and I are the only ones left.” She raises Yossef’s hand and brings it to her face, coloring his fingers white. “My lord,” she murmurs. “My king.”

Yossef retreats from this painful homage and walks away, leaving her by the empty chair. He withdraws to the library, among the books, his sacred place where he breathes the smell of paper and parchment, as good and fragrant as the smell of freshly baked bread. He instinctively raises his gaze toward the hole in the wall, deluding himself that Manuel’s eyes might still be there, but he finds it closed. No one is spying on his rooms.

On the table, instead of the map of Cyprus, there is a parcel of handwritten pages. Yossef runs the palm of his hand over them, as though testing their consistency.

Ismail’s bequest, before leaving. The old man had understood. That was why he hadn’t wanted to witness the final act. When he came to say good-bye to his friend, he gave him his memoirs, the ones he had worked on for years, pages that included the story of the battles and rebellions that he had been through. So his journey was not in vain; it had been useful for something.

Impossible to forget his friend’s words before their paths parted for the last time.

Now I know why Gracia wanted me to be by your side. Not to help you to do what you’ve done, but to keep you from doing it. I understood too late, Yossef, and this is only the last of my defeats. If I didn’t know you well, I’d tell you to come with us.

When the old man handed him the package his eyes were shining.

This is my story, which is also ours. Lest anyone forget that we were friends.

Manuel, Ismail. Too many good-byes for one old heart. Yossef holds back his emotion, brushes away a stray tear, and only at that minute does he become aware of the presence in the doorway of the library.

Ralph Fitch is in traveling clothes, and the sight of his young face revives the old man’s spirit. Here is someone who still has much to see and do.

“I came to take my leave. My ship sails at dawn.”

Yossef welcomes him with a handshake. The Englishman’s tone does not conceal his regret. “What will you do now?”

Yossef Nasi spreads his arms, pointing at the space around him. “What I’ve always done. I’ll protect fugitives.” His gaze falls on the package. He picks it up and looks at it for a moment. “Accept a farewell gift, Master Fitch. These are the memoirs of a traveler, and I think a traveler should look after them.”

The other man grasps his hands respectfully.

“Take them to England with you, along with my most devoted respects to your queen,” Yossef adds. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

“I will. Good luck to you.”

“Farewell, Master Fitch.”

The Englishman seems to be on the point of adding something, then merely bows and leaves. Now all that remains is to listen to the silence. The palace has never known silence so profound.

Yossef stands beside the big window and looks at the clouds drifting across Asia, where night is already falling. And yet it is a luminous image that forms before his inner eye. Dunes, and a track that snakes between scorched hills, to a city bathed by the sea.

Five outlines proceed in single file, mounted on dromedaries. At the head of the little caravan is a young woman, leading it toward the first of the houses. She is followed by an Arab with a long scimitar and a boy with a beardless, almost childish face. Clinging to her back is a little boy, with big, curious eyes. The old man brings up the rear.

There’s a movement among of the houses: A flock of children comes from who knows where and surrounds the travelers with noise and laughter. Then men and women come out, even the oldest of them. When the old man climbs down from his saddle everyone crowds around him, giving thanks to God, He who reunites, for bringing him home.

Now there is no longer any reason to hold back the tears that mingle now with Yossef Nasi’s smile.

Somewhere, far away, there will be rain and another season. The monsoons will return, the time will come to listen to the tales of sailors and pilgrims. And to admire once more the falcons’ flight above the high plains.