Wu Ming - Altai

“If you want a poem, Effendi, it’s three aspers for a short one and five for a long one.”

Having pocketed the three coins, Mursel beckoned to me to follow him into the hot room. We passed under one of the arches and sat down in a tub, alone, sheltered from the eyes of the other bathers. When he knelt down in front of me and made to lower his head between my legs, I stopped him with a hand on his forehead.

“No verses, Homer. What I want is information.”

Over the next few days, still on Traverso’s heels, I made a bet with myself. I put twenty aspers on the meetings he would have before he set off for Crete, while his men loaded the final cases onto the mahona .

First stop: Solomon Ashkenazi, to receive from his hands the bailiff’s letters, guarded like relics in one of the Jewish doctor’s secret drawers.

Next: his sweetheart, to take final leave before he boarded the ship, like any self-respecting seafaring man, with her perfume still on him.

That was exactly what happened that last afternoon, the only difference being that the sweetheart was a fair-haired boy.

Once more I followed the Genoese to the door of the hammam. I counted to one hundred, to keep myself from being overimpetuous, and then stepped inside.

I was greeted by the same servant as usual. He asked me politely if I needed Mursel, because unfortunately, just a moment before. . I told him not to bother Mursel, but to show me where the man who had requested his services had left his clothes. Five silver aspers appeared in the palm of my hand.

The boy replied that for any kind of theft in the dressing rooms he would be given twenty lashes, and that twenty lashes were worth at least five more coins.

“I’m not a thief,” I told him and added one more asper, promising him a cruel death if he spoke of my visit to anybody. The young tellak brought his fingers to his mouth and pinched his lips as if gluing them together. He gestured to me to follow him. In no particular hurry, I set my slippers down on the mahogany shelf, put on a pair of clogs and complied.

The boy turned the key in the lock and half-opened the door. I quickly rummaged through Traverso’s bag and clothes. The bailiff’s letters were folded and hidden between the lining and the leather. I recognized the seal with the Barbaro family crest, a shield with a disc in the middle. Then I put the papers back where I had found them, having no need for anything else. I hurried to retrieve my shoes, returned my clogs and towel, and headed for the exit.

I arrived at Palazzo Belvedere as evening fell, keen to tell Nasi what I had discovered amid the steam of the hammam. I was told that he had just locked himself away in the library, with Gomez and Master Fitch, and that he had given orders to be left in peace.

Perhaps it was fate, that I had to wait every time before passing on my discoveries. In fact, Nasi was always busy, always meeting someone or making some sort of decision. I would have taken advantage of the fact to enjoy a hot bath, but as soon as I got to my room the sharp scent of wine changed my mind. The night before, Dana and I had poured it from the flask, mixing it with opium juices left to dissolve in the bottom of our glasses. Now I served myself the nectar that remained in the jug and tried a sip. It was still good, but I didn’t want to drink it on my own, lying in the bathwater talking to the wall. I washed her glass, hid it under my jerkin and went down to the garden with mine in my hands.

I walked along the central avenue, trying to remember the names of the trees. Dana had taught them to me, pointing them out from the bedroom window. Pomegranate, Judas tree, ash, perhaps a plane tree. She said that Adam had contributed to the Creation by giving names to the things of the world. All of mankind’s other works were the fruit of the Fall. I, not to be outdone, had shown her the constellations and told her the legend of Queen Cassiopeia.

Past the duck pond, I slipped between the box hedges and emerged into the circular clearing, where Dana gave shape to her memories.

I knew that at that time of day I would find her there.

White and red roses peeped from the arch above the stone bench. She was hoeing the ground around the carob tree and singing, in a language that sounded to me like Greek, although its melody reminded me of a Sephardic song that I had heard a thousand times in my mother’s voice. Lullabies unite the shores of the Mediterranean more than do the ancient routes of the Phoenician merchants.

“Are you already preparing to take it to Cyprus?” I interrupted her, pointing to the little tree. Dana raised her head and set the hoe aside. She came lightly toward me, barefoot, and stroked my cheek. Over the past few weeks I had stopped trimming my beard, which had grown luxuriant. I wanted to walk around the European city without danger of being recognized. “Your eyes look happy,” Dana said. “Won’t you tell me why?”

I gave her a clue. “One of Don Yossef’s enemies has an Achilles’ heel, and I’ve exposed it.”

“And who is he? One of the Jews you were talking to me about?”

I didn’t reply, even thought I would have liked to tell her about Ashkenazi and Traverso, to give her a better understanding of my job and my contribution to Nasi’s enterprise.

“I understand,” she said in a singsong voice. “The usual secrets between you and your boss.” She slowly shook her head, as if to rid herself of some strange thought, but I asked her to welcome it, and not to keep it hidden from me.

“I was thinking I’d know more about what you did if the Senyora were still alive. She and Don Yossef consulted one another about everything — they took all their decisions together. And she often told me; she trusted me. But now I only know that my master could become king of Cyprus. Donna Reyna told me that, but she, too, complains that she knows too little.”

I marveled at her way of talking about things. I said, “I don’t think she was really very interested in Don Yossef’s plans.”

In the cage hanging from the carob, the goldfinch hopped about and chirruped pointedly. “Who knows?” Dana translated. “I don’t think he ever asked her opinion.”

“And you?” I asked quickly. “What do you think about Don Yossef’s plans?”

Dana shrugged. “I told you, I’m just a lady-in-waiting, to a queen who doesn’t know her own kingdom. I can only hope that the new palace has a corner where I can plant my garden.”

“Of course you’ll have a garden,” I said. “Don Yossef promised me the residence of my choice.”

It took her a few moments to work out what I was referring to. A house for both of us, where we could live together. And it took me a few to realize what I had just done. I was wracked with doubt, and my thoughts were a blur. My days at Palazzo Belvedere had been a succession of metamorphoses, discoveries, frenetic activity. Three months previously I had been a different person, lost, drifting. How could I be sure that I had finally berthed? How could I give someone else any kind of certainty?

And yet, I drew joy from indulging Dana. Thinking of us both, of our life together, granted me a youth that I had never had. Emanuele De Zante was dead, and I, Manuel Cardoso, had gone back to my bar mitzvah, as if I were fifteen years old again.

Except that I was thirty-one, and covered in scars.

I banished the bad thoughts as if they were irritating insects. I slipped the second glass from under my clothes, poured out a little of the wine still left in mine, then handed it to Dana. She raised it slightly and recited a phrase in our ancient tongue: Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh haolam, bo’re p’ri hagafen.