Altai: A Novel (6 page)

12.

I gave a start, and resumed my journey into the past. I was still at Sarah’s grave, and the sun had risen, faint and pale behind a veil of clouds.

Mother, who would have thought that we’d meet again like this?

Mother, I’m leaving again, this time bound for I don’t know where. I will never see your grave again. I turned my back and walked away from the gravestones.

It happened all of a sudden. Four of them were waiting for me, hidden behind a low wall. They attacked me with sticks; I fell to the ground; I felt blood on my forehead. Then they dragged me off, into a whirl of shadows and muttered orders.

I drowned in the void that I had just evoked.

When I came to, the first thing I saw was a cockroach climbing the wall. It was escaping the floor, which was drenched with water. The walls of the cell were eroded with damp and salt. The only items of furniture were a bench nailed to the wall and a hole in the ground for the call of nature. The pain in my head and chest made even breathing difficult. How long had I been here?

I shut my eyes, letting the little dots of light flit about me like glowworms. My temples thumped. I touched my face: burst lip, swollen cheekbone, a big bump. I’d seen so many of them, beaten like this: spies, pimps, petty informers, hotheads from the Arsenal. I’d arrested lots of them. I’d even made some of them disappear. Not in person, of course. I had men willing to do that job; mine was to give orders. Or to take them, from the Consigliere.

The sounds of a key in the lock and chains rattling shook me from my reflections. Sitting up was a struggle. The door opened and a man appeared, dressed in the clothes of a wealthy Jew: a silk caftan tied at the waist and a conical hat with a yellow band. Slightly older than me, with black, black hair and a grizzled beard. He spoke in Ladino:

“My nombre is Yaakov Del Soto. I am here to favlar with you. I have been sent by a person interested in vuestra suerte
.
”

I hurled insults at him in various languages, beginning with his own. I called him “Judas,” I said his ancestors were dogs, I accused him and whoever had sent him of all the bruises on my body, all the pain, all the aches that took my breath away. I wished him plunged in a foul-smelling hole, as I myself had been. I told him to talk to me in Italian, because Ladino was a language of flies in shit.

He stood open-mouthed, stunned, then replied in a choked voice, “It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t us who had you arrested. We only found out about you a few hours ago.” Then, as if he were suddenly seeing me for the first time, his face bore an expression of concern. I must have looked terrible.

“Are you injured?”

My hand went to my chest. At least one of my ribs was broken, but I said nothing.

“Do you know why they’ve locked you up in here?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“The Venetians asked the people in Ragusa to arrest you and hand you over to them. The Council of Ten has charged you with treason and with selling state secrets, as well as with the death of various citizens in the fire that was started at the Arsenal.” He paused to assess the effect of these words. “Ragusa insists on defending its own independence, but in a case like this, not to keep Saint Mark happy would seem like an act of defiance.”

All I had left was sarcasm. “It’ll be a lovely hanging. How could you deny that to the people of Venice?”

Del Soto took a step forward, but was driven back by the filth and the stench of shit.

“I can relieve Ragusa of the burden of that decision,” he said. “I can help you escape.”

I slowly rose to my feet, counting the twinges of pain. They appeared in my mind like the numbers on my dice: I, II, III, IV . . . I had to steady myself on the bench to keep from falling. I rummaged in my pockets, already knowing what I wouldn’t find there. The medal had gone. The gift from my father. “Why should I do it?” I asked.

He assumed the most solemn expression he could muster. “The person who sends me has always used his wealth to help our people.”

“Tell me the truth,” I replied. “I’m not of your people.” At that moment I regained all my lucidity. I remembered the man they were accusing me of serving.

The most feared Jew in the world.

The archenemy of Venice.

We were in a vassal city of the Ottoman empire. I was a trusted agent of Venice, who had suddenly fallen into disgrace, who knew the secrets of the Republic. I said, “You’ve been sent by Giuseppe Nasi, haven’t you? The enemy of Venice wants to buy the renegade.”

If there was one thing I was clearly skilled at, it was taking him by surprise. He opened his eyes wide, then stopped to reflect. He had thought our discussion was going in a quite different direction. “Think about it,” he said at last. “If you’re accused in Venice of having been sold to him, Don Yossef Nasi is the only one who can protect you.”

“Did he have me arrested so that he could buy me?”

“Why would he do that?” the man replied. “He could have had you kidnapped without spending one coin. No, before you were arrested we didn’t know you were in the city. Then they got you, and the information fell on the right ears.”

My grin reopened the wound on my lip, which started bleeding.

Del Soto went on, “If they send you back to Venice you’ll end up with a rope around your neck. But first they’ll torture you, to make you confess even if you’re innocent.”

I knew the method. And I knew how enthusiastically they would apply it to me, Emanuele De Zante, who had made the guilty confess without torture. The faces of Rizzi and Tavosanis, intent on putting me through hell, had populated the previous nights, along with the image of the Consigliere coming toward me with a smile, with a sword in one hand and a book in the other.

I approached Del Soto until his back was pressed against the filthy wall. I raised my fist to smash the mask he was wearing. He closed his eyes in terror.

When he cautiously opened them again I was inches away from him. The scent of spices contrasted with the foulness of my breath.

“I know your kind. Pimps of the worst order. I’ve been fighting you for years. What will you do when I refuse to return the favor? Will you torture me, too? Will you have me quartered in front of the Sultan?” I stepped back, and immediately my thoughts returned to my pain, so intense that I had to support myself on the bench again.

Del Soto regained his composure, and suddenly he seemed surer of himself. “Your fate outside of Ragusa does not concern me.” At last, he was sincere.

“How do you plan to get me out of here?” I asked.

“One of the jailers is willing to accept a bribe.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

13.

Where did they plan to take me? The question swelled and filled all my time until the end of that day. Where did they plan to take me, to turn me from a spy hunter to a fleeing spy?

The empire of the Turk was big, vast. They could take me to Constantinople, or to the coast of Africa, or to a remote island in the eastern Mediterranean. The centers from which they ordered plots against Venice were scattered from the north to the south, like colonies of poisonous mushrooms. Perhaps they would take me to Naxos, the island of which Giuseppe Nasi had become duke when the Turks took it from Venice.

I put my right hand in my jacket pocket. There was a hole at the bottom. I slipped two fingers into that hole, rummaged in a twist of the fabric and, after a few attempts, was able to fish out my companions. I’d had them with me for less than two weeks, but they seemed like old friends.

Sitting on the mattress I threw them, perhaps in search of a response. The faces showed me two sixes: VI and VI. It was an order. “
Vivi
—live.”

The most important thing was to escape the gallows.

I thought of the executions I had seen—men hanged, mutilated, cudgeled, decapitated, sometimes quartered after their death. People still talked about the death of Pietro Leone of Valcamonica, sentenced almost twenty years before. He was a debauched chaplain who had impregnated lots of nuns and then forced them to have abortions. That day the blade had lost its edge, or perhaps the priest’s head refused to come off, and the executioner had to enlist the services of a hammer, striking the blade until it sank in and severed all the tendons. After thirty blows, he finished the job with a butcher’s knife.

My father was there that day, and had been disgusted by the spectacle. He had fought in the war, against Ferrara and the League of Cambray; he bore scars from the battle of Polesella; he had seen bodies pulped by the artilleries of Ippolito d’Este, embarkations by Ottoman pirates, throats slit, corpses with half a face and one wide-open eye. And yet he couldn’t stand the sight of the state killing in cold blood. Let them do it, but not where he could see it.

“As long as I live, Emanuele, I’ll never take you to see a fellow getting the chop. If you really want to, you can go on your own.” He had said that to me shortly after I arrived in Venice. A few years later, he would launch me on a career. The kind of career—it was almost funny—that amounts to sending people to the gallows.

I had been with him during the last years of his life, but I had never managed to see him as a father, nor had he managed really to treat me as a son. Too great a distance separated us, but he had been generous to me. He hadn’t just pointed out my new path, he had smoothed it, too. My origins were hidden at first, then skillfully erased. Gioanbattista De Zante, a naval officer and a hero of the Republic, could not have a
marrano
son. I had acquired his surname; I had been baptized and confirmed; I’d taken communion. I’d learned the Christian prayers; I’d studied Greek and Latin. I’d been given lessons in fencing and pistol shooting.

Once his career in the navy of La Serenissima was at an end, De Zante had dedicated himself to politics. He had introduced me to the Consigliere and asked him to take me on. Within two years, I was launched on my new career in the secret service.

When my father died, I found myself the master of a well-kept house in Cannaregio, with a servant and a cook. For eight years I hadn’t wanted for a change of clothes.

I had also discovered my talent. The Consigliere had spotted my anger and translated it into his language, a tongue of deceptions, mysteries, and murders, all for the security of the Republic. De Zante had given me a name and a new faith, but the Consigliere gave me a cause to fight, kill and die for. That man was a superior mind, a genius of his time. I had never wavered. Until he had asked me to frame myself.

I didn’t touch the revolting soup that they passed me through the hole in the door, and I watched the darkness filling the cell until no light entered from the little window at the top. It must have been a moonless night, for I could hardly see my own hand.

After hours of stillness, I heard a rattling sound from the lock. I shrank back against the wall and slipped behind the opening door. No light, no word came in from outside.

For a while I waited for something to happen, and then I tiptoed toward the threshold. I thought I could hear someone breathing, and I froze. I went on listening, and finally I decided to take a step forward. I was in total darkness and had no idea where the exit was. I walked down a narrow corridor, always staying close to the wall, with one arm outstretched. I advanced slowly, for fear of suddenly finding myself at the top of a flight of stairs and tumbling down.

My sense of smell came to my aid. A light breeze reached me, carrying a breath of the sea. I followed it as a dog follows a scent and found myself by a half-open door. I opened it. In front of me the glimpse of a path, a piece of night sky, a faint lapping sound. Not a soul.

I leaned out through the doorway, in search of the fresh night air. A blade stung my throat. Someone pronounced my name.

“
Ti star Emanuele De Zante?
”

“
Mi star
.” I replied in the same lingua franca of the ports.

The sword lowered, but it didn’t disappear. I became aware of a dark outline at my side, and another one on my other side.

“You have to come with us,” said the voice. “If you try to escape,
noi ti massar.
Understand?”

We must have been below the southern walls, near the docks. I was sure they were going to take me somewhere else, far from Ragusa; they must have a boat ready and waiting.

Instead, we headed toward the heart of the city. My ribs were hurting, and soon I found myself panting for breath. Things got worse when we turned into a street that rose between the houses towards the eastern bastions. I had to stop a few times, but the two shadows gripped me beneath the arms and forced me to go on.

By the time we reached the top I was breathless. I slipped to the ground, and they picked me up again, pushed me into an alleyway, then into a courtyard. I smelled horses and found myself resting against the seat of a cart.

A familiar outline came toward me from a doorway. The dawn’s light was starting to appear above the hills, just enough for me to recognize Del Soto.

“You’re out of jail, but you’re not safe yet.”

I’d got enough of my breath back to speak.

“Where are you taking me?”

He sighed. “I can’t tell you.”

“Go to hell,” I hissed.

“It’s just a precaution,” he reassured me. “You’ll be going to a safe place, where the Venetians won’t be able to get you.”

A stitch in my ribs made me bend double with a groan, and he helped me back up. I felt an instinctive impulse to shrink from that contact, but discovered that I didn’t have the strength. He nodded to the servants, who took me and hoisted me onto the cart.

“Why not a boat?” I murmured.

“Venice will be looking for you in all the ports of the Adriatic. You’re going to be leaving by land. Good-bye, De Zante.”

He gave his men the order to set off, a whip cracked, the wheels creaked. I slumped beneath the heavy tarpaulin they’d used to cover me, and stayed like that, with my throat tight and a hole where my heart should have been, an abyss that sucked everything in: the pain in my ribs, the bruises, the thoughts, my past, the help that Tuota had given me, the crossing to Durrës, everything. Even my name.