Altai: A Novel (8 page)

17.

Dawn came like a deliverance, after a dull, sleepless night. I raised my head, and it was as if a homunculus had started hammering on it from inside. I had gone to sleep with my clothes on, and the smell of wine still hung heavily in the room. The bottle, a kind concession from Efrem for good behavior during my questioning, lay empty on the floor. Rather than carrying out the task assigned to me by Navarro, I had chosen to get drunk, to dodge the boredom of confinement or, more probably, to fog my mind and remove the nagging doubts that I had brought with me from Ragusa, from Venice.

The Consigliere had betrayed me, he had thought I could be sacrificed to the greater glory of La Serenissima, and yet I felt no desire for revenge. Was that what they had trained me to do? Sacrifice everything to the cause, even myself? No one had ever said as much explicitly, but in the secret service we had always known it.

It wasn’t revenge that I sought, but a way out. A way to lift myself out of the bog, or perhaps a reason to do so. The Sephardim had brought me to safety, but they had nothing to offer. Good wine and coffee, a visit to a brothel. When I had told them everything I knew, what would happen to me? They might kill me or send me back to Venice. They could, in fact, keep me a prisoner here forever.

I slipped down from the bed and reached the window. I threw it wide open, as if the air of the room were poisoned with lime.

Outside, the light was still faint, but I needed to move; I wanted to get out of there, even if it meant getting my guards out of bed. I walked over the door, determined to knock loudly. Before I did, I instinctively tried the handle.

The door opened.

I poked my head into the inner courtyard: no one. The house was still plunged in sleep. I held my breath; there was no time to thank fate or a lucky star. I walked down the pathway lit by the light of dawn and reached the front door. I lifted the peg that held it shut, then pulled the big iron chain, and the outside world was there, just beyond the threshold. All that was left was for me to start walking, quickly, but without running, so as not to draw attention at that time of the morning.

The streets already breathed with the hubbub of
Parasheve
. The eve of the Sabbath was dedicated to concluding the most urgent deals, salting the meat and the fresh fish, using up the supplies of fruit and vegetables. Come on, I had to get as far away as possible. How long did I have left before they discovered my escape? Storekeepers and vendors were already opening their shops, arranging their goods on stalls, and craftsmen were getting ready for work. I could recognize the Jews from their way of bustling about—small rodents preparing for hibernation, the chosen people leaving Egypt. It was as if the habit of packing their luggage and changing countries was relived every week in the ritual of preparations for
Shabat
. There was something irrevocable in their gestures, a haste unknown to Greeks and Ottomans, because all activity had to cease at sunset. The next day, performing any of these actions would impede the coming of the Messiah, since it is written that he will come when all the Israelites have observed the Sabbath two weeks in a row.

As I crossed the city, my childhood memories reemerged at every street corner, in every face, as they had in Ragusa. The market already echoed with the cries of the vendors.

Berendjenas! Guevos!
Aubergines! Eggs!

I understood these cries better than I had in Campo San Polo, where a Slavonian or a Brescian might have uttered familiar words in an obscure way.

Poyo! Sevoya!
Chicken! Onions!

The ingredients of the
chamin
echoed from one stall to the other; they filled cloth bags, and already I thought I could smell them as they cooked with chickpeas and rice, all night long, to be ready and hot for lunch the following day with no need for cooking on the Sabbath.

I kept on walking blindly, my only aim to gain ground, to increase my distance from my starting point. They must have discovered my escape by now. Gaining distance on your pursuers in a market is impossible, I knew: hunting people down was my trade. Or at least it had been.

I recalled the escape attempts of a trafficker in forbidden books, a Slav by the name of Gigek, suspected of spying for the Turks. When he realized he was being followed, be had started running through the stalls. Catching him had been easy. A cry of “Stop, thief!” and the crowd itself had immobilized him.

I left the market behind me, my senses alert. My ribs still ached, although they were getting better. A single punch would have left me breathless on the ground. I couldn’t afford to be caught; I could never manage to wriggle free.

I glimpsed the sea, the pennants of the ships standing out against the sky like pennons on the tips of lances. Without thinking, I made for an open horizon, toward a means of transport to take me away from there.

It was at that point that I saw them: Efrem’s two guards, his henchmen, who had come out in search of me. I just had time to hide behind a tarpaulin that had been hung out to dry. I spied on them as they eyed the comings and goings of the port, checking that I hadn’t turned up there in search of a boat.

Again I imagined the past, when I had made others flee. I remembered the face of a man who had managed to get away from me, thanks to a flash of genius, a brilliant intuition. His name was Baldan. He had pretended to stumble, toppling against my men before diving into the water of the canal. I had stopped short of the water’s edge so as not to ruin the fine gown I was wearing. I had seen Baldan swimming to the opposite bank, a few strokes away, and hoisting himself out, dripping, with a grin of triumph on his face. I had taken aim and fired my pistol and shot him in the leg.

Now I could expect a similar fate, if not a worse. I quickly set off again. I chose a street off to the right, then one to the left, like a throw of the dice, realizing too late that it was a blind alley. Turning back was too risky. In front of the wall at the end of the alley there was a cart. I slipped underneath it and crept over the mud until I reemerged in the narrow space between cart and wall. A stench of piss and rot. All I could do was wait. Leaving the city in darkness would be easier. I lay down on the ground and stared at the thin strip of sky.

The sound of children singing came from the high windows. Perhaps it was a synagogue.

If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand be forgotten
.

Again, my childhood memories. The song came from a psalm, the one about the rivers of Babylon. I, too, had learned it at their age. The song became clearer and more confident.

May my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember thee, if I do not consider Jerusalem my highest joy.

They were the voices of children born here, children of parents who had fled from who knows where. Here, in the greatest landfall of refugees that I had ever seen.

My mother’s face emerged as if from a dream.

Si me olvidaré de ti, oh Jerusalem, mi diestra sea olvidada
.

I have forgotten, mother.

Something burned in my chest until it hurt, something that only now appeared in all its clarity. Escape.

To go where? Drifting, like a beggar, a tramp.

For the Venetians, I was a traitor in the service of Nasi.

For the Jews of Salonika, I was still a Jew.

For a fleeing Jew there was no safer refuge than this city.

I stayed like that, lying in the dirt, letting time pass above me. An hour passed, two, who knows. Then, without haste, I got up and returned to the street. I didn’t need to take my bearings. The street was on a slope and I knew my way was uphill.

When I reached the door, Efrem opened it in person. He let me in without a smile, and I had a sense that he had been waiting for me. He fetched me coffee and clean clothes, with the solicitude normally reserved for someone who has just suffered an accident.

18.

It was a rainy day, the sky outside the window was a grey veil, and yet Navarro seemed gaudy, as if light were emanating from under his clothes. The colors that covered him were excessive, the red of his ring was a heart torn from his breast. Even his words seemed to me to have a color: a bright blue, they floated in the air along with the steam from the coffee. Such miracles brightness performs: Before trying to flee I had been confused and irresolute, certain of nothing. The realization that I could only go forward had blown the fog from my eyes.

“You must really like this city, if you felt the desire to take another walk,” he said as I sat down.

“Salonika is only a bigger ghetto than the others. In fact it’s a collection of little ghettos. Calabrians and Spaniards, Romaniots and Portuguese, Puglians and Dalmatians.”

Navarro took a sip of coffee. He kept his eyes half closed, the better to enjoy the savor of the drink, and to take his time. The muscles in his neck moved slightly, he sighed with pleasure, and it was only then that he spoke.

“The ghettos are in your mind, De Zante. For a Jew in Christian Europe, the ghetto is the only place. Things are different here, you will understand with time.”

I didn’t reply. I would have thrown out my words at random and cut a poor figure before a man who always found the right words. “Time.” The time I had ahead of me. The time allotted me. “You could have escaped and you didn’t. Why not?”

“To balance the books, Navarro.”

He gave a start: I had done well with the little I had, obtaining the result of startling him. I had put a question in his head, and for the first time I had uttered his name, bringing us closer together. It was his turn now. I watched him thinking, struggling and finally surrendering. He gestured to me to go on.

“That’s enough about gratitude, and about how much I owe you. I could have escaped, and instead here I am. The books are balanced. So far, you’ve told me what will become of me if I don’t help you. It’s time to tell me what I will gain.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. From the start Navarro had studied me like a book; now, at last, I saw him turning the page.

“You’re a clever man, De Zante, congratulations. The truth is that you didn’t escape because you hadn’t the faintest idea where you could go. And yet you present it as if it’s a choice and you want to give me something in return.”

“Then I’ve passed the test. I’m a good Jew.”

He laughed to himself, snorting through his nostrils. He said he would give me money, a lot of money, if my revelations were useful to him. And a house, in a safe place of my choice. The chance of a new life. I asked why I should trust him.

Navarro replied, “Aren’t we all good Jews?” And he had my back against the wall again. From that point onward, I couldn’t move without giving him a shred of what he wanted.

He asked me about the Arsenal, about the damage caused by the fire.

I told him what I had seen: three burned galleys, some flooded docks, the collapse of the surrounding walls, the destruction of the powder grinders. A severe blow, but damage less severe than one might have imagined.

He asked me about the new wing of the Arsenal, the recent expansion. He wanted to know what went on in there.

“The dry-dock basins are used for the repair of old galleys, big merchant ships,” I replied. “Someone decided not to let them go on rotting in the port. In the event of war, they could be useful as troop carriers.”

Navarro handed me the coffee that I hadn’t yet touched. The glass was tepid, the liquid no longer steaming, I took a great sip. “So Venice is preparing for war,” he observed. “Do you have any idea what its goal will be?” The question was uttered in the same neutral tone as the others.

“Don’t pretend you don’t understand. The Sultan is preparing for war; he has been ever since he came to the throne. Some people say it will be against the Portuguese, to chase them from Hormuz. Some are convinced that he wants to support the revolt of the
moriscos
of Granada. Others say that he will besiege Tunis, Heraklion or Cyprus. The Doge, in Venice, fears a direct attack on the city. He has even recalled the architect Savorgnan from Cyprus to reinforce the whole defense system of the lagoon.”

That name produced a barely visible reaction on Navarro’s face, and made him even more alert and watchful. He leaned toward me slightly.

“Giulio Savorgnan? Did you know him?”

“Yes. The Consigliere employed me to ensure his personal security and the secrecy of his projects.” Cat’s eyes flashed in the gloom. You could almost hear him thinking.

“Do you know if he planned to return to Cyprus?”

I shrugged. “He didn’t say as much, but I shouldn’t imagine so.”

“And what sense did you have?”

“He was very out of sorts, even though he had made every arrangement for the work to be completed in his absence. The money had run out, so before he left Nicosia, he come up with the idea of a competition between the aristocratic families of the city: the one offering the most money could give their own name to one of the eleven bastions. It was the result of that lottery that constantly troubled him.”

“And in Famagusta?”

“He only managed an inspection there. He said the defenses were very antiquated.”

Navarro paused for a long time. It was clear that he was making a decision. When at last he got up, I realized that he had resolved the dilemma.

“I’m sorry, De Zante,” he said, “but I’ve decided to send you away. You will leave tomorrow.”

“What?” My alarm was like a long flaming branch that had been passed from hand to hand for an hour, growing shorter and shorter, until it was finally scorching my fingers. “You said I could choose where to go!”

“And that’s true,” he said without batting an eyelid. “You will choose, but not today. Other people must hear what you have said to me. You will go to Constantinople. Don’t worry, you’ll like it.” He waited for a moment before adding, “Even more than Salonika.”

Then he bade me farewell and left. I peered out of the doorway, still stunned by the news, and I heard him say to Efrem, “Tomorrow
el mansévo
will leave for Konstantinopla
.
You’re going to go with him
,
apronta todo
.”

In my right pocket, my hand touched my dice.