Wu Ming - Altai

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.

(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.