Mika Waltari - The Wanderer

In the course of that spring the people’s senseless and unreasoning hatred for the Grand Vizier became so evident that he preferred not to appear in public, and remained either in his palace beyond the Atmeidan or among the buildings of the third courtyard of the Seraglio. Janissaries exercising on the Atmeidan would yell insults and make faces at his palace, and one night some drunken wrestlers broke into it, tore the trophies from the walls and smashed them, and befouled the corners of his rooms. Yet to avoid all troublesome publicity the Grand Vizier made no inquiry and summoned none of the culprits to answer for the outrage.

After his return from Persia the Grand Vizier was compelled first of all to deal with matters that had arisen during his absence and that the pashas had refused to handle for fear of making mistakes. Negotiations in preparation for the French treaty also occupied his time, so that with the best will in the world he could not receive me. The winter days went by without hope of a personal interview, although I longed to warn him of dangers that I did not dare to hint at in a letter. Now and then he sent me word that he would attend to me all in good time.

In response to my continual pestering, the Grand Vizier sent me two hundred gold pieces in a silken bag. This was intended as a proof of his favor, but never did a present sadden and hurt me so much. It showed that in his heart he despised me and believed that I served him only for money-and how could I blame him for that? The fault was mine. Too long I had thought only of presents and rewards. But now as I stood idly among the slender pillars of the Grand Vizier’s entrance hall with that embroidered purse in my hand, I perceived with agonizing clarity that not all the gold in the world could deaden the pain now gnawing at my heart.

Yet I will not seek to appear better than I am, for my object in writing this story is to be as honest as it is possible for imperfect human nature to be. Therefore I admit freely that since sharing the Tunisian diamonds with Andy I felt-though without any great pleasure-that my future was financially secure.

On my return Giulia laid her white arms about my neck and said coaxingly, “Dear Michael, while you were out I searched your medicine chest for a remedy for stomach trouble. The Greek gardener is ill. But I dared not take the African drug that you brought from Tunis, for you told me that an overdose might be dangerous. I don’t want to harm the man through ignorance.”

I disliked her habit of ransacking my chests while I was out, and I told her so. But my mind was on other things and I gave her a drug that Abu el-Kasim had warmly recommended, warning her against administering too much at a time. The same evening I was attacked by pains in the stomach after eating fruit, and Giulia told me that besides the gardener, one of the boatmen had also fallen sick. Such disorders were common in Istanbul and I paid no heed to my own pains. I took a dose of aloes and opium before going to bed and in the morning was fully recovered.

Next day I learned that the Sultan had suffered the same thing after an evening meal taken with the Grand Vizier. Suleiman at once succumbed to a mood of depression-a common enough thing among those suffering from stomach disorders.

As a result of the Sultan’s sickness the Grand Vizier at last had his evenings to himself, and at sunset after the prayer he sent for me. I hastened at once to his palace, but that lovely building, usually brilliant with countless lamps and surrounded by crowds, now stood dark, empty, and silent, like a house of mourning. Only a few pale slaves stood idly in the great hall, which was lit by a few faintly burning lamps, but between the slender columns of the audience chamber the German clockmaker came hurrying toward me. With him, to my surprise, was the Sultan’s French clockmaker, whom King Francis had sent to Suleiman after hearing of his weakness for clocks. Both these masters were examining with solemn physicians’ airs the unevenly ticking clock, made by Niimberg’s most famous horologist, that should have indicated unerringly the hour, date, month, year, and even the position of the planets. The German fell on his knees, kissed my hand, and said, “Ah, Master Michael, I am lost-I have forgotten my cunning. Thanks to my skilled repairs this unlucky timepiece has gone perfectly for six years, and now it has begun to lose. I cannot find what is wrong, and have had to beg the excellent Master Francois to help me.”

The clock ticked heavily, its hand pointed to seven, and the little figure of the smith came out and began jerkily striking the silver belL But he managed only three feeble strokes, the clock resumed its uneven ticking and the smith, his hammer still raised to strike, turned and disappeared. I looked searchingly at the two men and noted that the Frenchman guiltily thrust a wine jar behind the clock with his foot. Both men averted their eyes in some embarrassment, and then Master Francois said boastfully, “All clocks have their little ways, or we clockmakers would be out of work. I know this one inside out and to take apart so complicated a mechanism would be laborious and risky. So we have been content to refresh our memories and compare our pre-eminent knowledge, and so perhaps discover what the fault may be. It is not worth dismantling so costly a toy without good reason. The Grand Vizier is-forgive my candor-somewhat eccentric to regard this little irregularity as a bad omen.”

In his drunkenness he continued to speak so slightingly of the Grand Vizier that I grew angry and raised my hand to strike him-though I doubt whether I would have done so as he held a hammer in his hand and had the look of a testy man. But the German flung himself between us and said, “If the clock is sick, the noble Grand Vizier is more so. No man in his senses keeps his eyes constantly on a clock and loses sleep because of it. At night he often gets up to look at it and in the daytime he will break off in the middle of a sentence before the assembled Divan and stand staring at the dial. Each time he holds his head in his hand and says, ‘My clock is losing. Allah be gracious to me, my clock runs slow.’ Is that the talk of a sensible man?”

I left the fellow and hurried to the brightly lit chamber where the Grand Vizier was sitting cross legged on a triple cushion with a reading stand before him. I am not sure whether he was really reading or pretending to do so; at any rate, he turned a page calmly before raising his eyes to mine. I prostrated myself to kiss the ground before him, stammering for joy and calling down blessings upon him on his happy return from the war. He silenced me with a gesture of his thin hand and looked me straight in the eyes, while a shadow of ineffable sorrow stole over his face. His skin had lost its youthful glow and the roses of his cheeks were faded. His soft black beard made his face seem ghostly pale in the lamplight, and as he had removed his turban no diamonds sparkled over his brow. He had grown so thin that the rings hung loose upon his fingers and seemed too heavy for them.

“What do you want, Michael el-Hakim?” he asked. “I am Ibrahim, lord of the nations and steward of the Sultan’s power. I can make you vizier if it pleases me. I can transform beggars into defterdars and boatmen to admirals. But though I hold the Sultan’s own seal I cannot help myself.”

He showed me the Sultan’s square seal hanging on a gold chain about his neck under the flowered kaftan. I uttered a cry of amazement and pressed my face to the ground once more in veneration for this most precious object that no one but the Sultan might use. The Grand Vizier hid it beneath his kaftan once more and said in a tone of indifference, “With your own eyes you have seen the boundless trust reposed in me. This seal exacts unconditional obedience from high and low in all the Sultan’s dominions. Perhaps you knew that?”