Mika Waltari - The Wanderer

There was nothing for it but to give him a little foretaste of the treasure that Khaireddin had sent. When he had gone, the janissaries settled down on deck and on the quay. Taking off their tall felt caps they began to plait their lock of hair, keeping a sharp lookout to see that no unauthorized person came aboard and that none of us went ashore. These blue-clad warriors, with their long mustaches and sharp chins, kept their heads shaven save for one long lock on top of their heads, so that if the worst befell them their victors need not pierce their ears but could conveniently carry their severed heads by the hair. We realized that we were prisoners, and Torgut perceived too late the mistake he had made in not sending a trustworthy man to call secretly on the Grand Vizier. To prevent bloodshed in the Sultan’s capital, the carrying of arms was forbidden, and the janissaries were armed only with rods of Indian bamboo; nevertheless Torgut believed our situation would hardly be improved by offering violence to the people of the Seraglio.

When from the balconies of the minarets the muezzins proclaimed the hour of evening prayer, we were sitting together dejectedly in Torgut’s cabin and did not even raise our heads from our hands. Dusk erased the yellow, red, gray, and purple colors of the buildings in which countless tiny flames were kindled so that one could appreciate even more clearly the vast extent of this city. Beyond the Golden Horn blazed the foundry fires in the Sultan’s arsenal, whence came the ceaseless sound of hammering. The eunuch told us that this noise usually boded war, and it might therefore be surmised that the Sultan had more important matters to think of than ourselves and our gifts.

But Abu el-Kasim said, “Even though the Mohammedan part of the city is closed to us, the Venetian quarter is open and there should be no difficulty in finding a boatman willing to ferry us across. From what I know of the Venetians they keep late hours, and an astute man could gather useful information about the customs of this city by searching the taverns for a sufficiently exalted-and inebriated-personage. Michael el-Hakim can still pass for a Christian, and if Antar will only promise to keep sober he may go with him as bodyguard.”

Hardly had he finished speaking when we felt the slight shock of a rowing boat against our hull and heard a man whining for alms. For two aspers this fellow promised to row anyone to the opposite shore and its wonderful pleasure haunts, where the commandments of the Koran did not obtain and where women, kinder than the houris of Paradise, entertained the guests so long as their money lasted. Night in the harbor quarter was not made for sleep, the eloquent boatman assured us in a whisper. It was not long before Andy and I found ourselves gliding over the dim waters of the Golden Horn, unable in the darkness to make out the features of our ferryman.

As we approached the farther shore the waters reflected the glow of torches and we heard the gay music of stringed instruments. We drew alongside a stone quay and I gave the ragged boatman the fee he demanded, though it was an extortionate one for so short a journey. The watchman paid us no heed and we passed straight through the harbor gates into the brightly lit street, where unveiled women addressed us without embarrassment in a number of different languages. Suddenly Andy opened his eyes wide, seized me by the arm, and exclaimed, “As I live, there’s a cask of honest ale standing by that door, with a bundle of straw above it!”

He carried me through the doorway as if I had been a feather and when our eyes had grown accustomed to the light we beheld a number of rough fellows sitting at tables and drinking. A fat, gray-haired man was busy at a cask, filling tankard after tankard with foaming ale, and on seeing us he said, “By Allah, you’re not the first Moslems to enter this respectable tavern, for the Prophet never forbade his followers to drink ale. The holy book mentions only wine, and so with a clear conscience you may drain a tankard here.”

As he spoke he surveyed us suspiciously, as if wondering where he had seen us before. 1 stared back, and suddenly recognizing those bristly eyebrows and that purple nose I exclaimed in astonishment, “Jesus, Mary! Is it not Master EimerP How in the world did you get here?”

The man turned deadly pale and crossed himself repeatedly. Then, snatching up a carving knife, he hurled himself upon me and shrieked, “And you’re that accursed Michael Pelzfuss, Madame Genevieve’s confederate! Now at last I can make mincemeat of you.”

But Andy snatched away the knife and hugged him to his breast to stifle his wrath; as he struggled and stormed in Andy’s arms I thumped him heartily on the back and Andy spoke kindly to him, saying, “How pleasant to meet an old friend on our first evening in the Sultan’s capital! May it prove a good omen for our task here. Don’t abuse Michael, dear Master Eimer; was it not you who lured Madame Genevieve from him and so found yourself supping with the devil? It’s no fault of his that Madame Genevieve cheated you of your money and then sold you to the galleys. It’s the result of your own sins. Madame Genevieve is now proprietress of a highly esteemed brothel in Lyons, founded with your money.”

Master Eimar was purple in the face.

“Burn me if I’ll bandy words with curs like you! You both helped to rob me and I was mad to trust such devil-ridden heretics. That you should have trodden the Cross underfoot and taken the turban is no more than I might have expected. It’s but a step from Luther’s abominable heresies to the Prophet and his teaching.”

But when Andy seized him by the throat and threatened to pull the house down about his ears, Master Eimer’s tone grew milder; he asked us to pardon him for losing his wits in the surprise of meeting us, and to give him our opinion of his ale, as he was not altogether satisfied with the Hungarian hops of which it was brewed. Andy at once swallowed a mugful, licked his lips, and agreed that there was something a little strange about the taste, though it was long since he had so much as seen a drop of honest ale. After a further draught he nodded and said, “Now I taste it. It’s as it used to be, and tickles the nose pleasantly. Surely no better ale is brewed this side of Vienna.”

By the time we had drunk a few stoups of this really excellent strong ale, the three of us were friends and it was cheering to meet with a good Christian again after all these Moslems. I begged Master Eimer to tell me his adventures, but he was unwilling to say anything of his sufferings as a galley slave aboard the Venetian warship. Yet, after some further drinking, he displayed to us his fat back with its network of scars-a perpetual reminder of the overseer’s whip. He held himself askew when walking and believed he would never lose this habit, which resulted from two years spent chained to the same oar. Master Eimer was over fifty and he thought he must have perished but for the powerful brewer’s heart he inherited from his father and grandfather, further strengthened by good ale of his own drinking.

In the course of a battle with the Imperial fleet, the Venetian war galley had been so badly damaged that in the confusion Master Eimer was able to hammer out the bolt to which he was fettered and swim ashore. Soon afterward he was taken prisoner by Moslems and sold in the Cairo slave market. A compassionate Jew who had embraced the faith of Islam bought him his freedom; then took him to Istanbul and financed a brewery for him. The tavern had paid well, for ale was rare enough among Mussulmans for the price to be kept high. (This last was to our address, for he had noted how smoothly the good drink was slipping down our throats.) With a jingle of my purse I asked coldly what we owed him, and he named a figure that made my hair stand on end. After that I could not wonder that he had laid the foundations of a substantial fortune is so short a time.