Mika Waltari - The Wanderer

“But,” I said, rather flustered, “he’ll get away before I can catch him. I mean to give him a hundred good lashes on the soles of his feet and send him down to the bazaar to be sold. We cannot keep a raving madman in the house.”

Giulia seemed ill at ease, and said, “You don’t understand, Michael, and you’d better be quiet. It’s I who owe Alberto an apology; I lost my temper and struck him for some trifle that I’ve already forgotten-and don’t stand there staring like an idiot! You madden me. If my face is swollen it’s from toothache and I was on my way to the Seraglio dentist when you came in and interfered-slinking in to spy on me, though God knows I’ve nothing to hide. But if you lay a finger on Alberto I shall go to the cadi and in the presence of witnesses declare myself divorced. Alberto has suffered enough from your bad temper, though he’s a proud, sensitive man and not baseborn like you.”

At this I flew into a passion and seizing her by the wrists I shook her and shouted, “Are you really a witch, then, Giulia-a devil in human shape? For my own sake I would not believe it, but even the strongest pitcher can go to the well too often. Never do I want to think ill of you, for I love you still. But to let a slave strike you and go unpunished is unnatural. I don’t know you. Who are you, and what have you to do with that miserable wretch?”

Giulia burst into violent weeping; she flung her arms about my neck and stroked my cheek with her hair. Then with downcast eyes she said faintly, “Ah, Michael, I’m only a foolish woman and of course you know best. But let us go into our room to talk it over. It’s not fit that our slaves should hear us quarreling.”

She grasped my hand and I followed her unresisting to our bedchamber where, having dried her tears, she began abstractedly to undress.

“You can talk while I change my clothes. I must go to the dentist and cannot show myself at the Seraglio in this old rag. But you may go on talking and reproach me to your heart’s content for being so bad a wife to you.”

As she spoke she removed everything but the thin shift that she wore next her skin, and took out one gown after another to decide which best became her. Truth to tell it was long since she had accorded me the joys of marriage, and was most often assailed by a violent headache when I approached her. Therefore when I beheld her naked in the clear light of day I was spellbound by her alluring white skin, the soft curves of her limbs, and the golden hair curling freely over her bosom.

She noticed that I was staring at her, and sighed plaintively, “Ah, Michael, you’ve only one thought in your head! Don’t glare at me so.”

She crossed her arms over her breast and looked sideways at me with those strange eyes that in my unreason I could not forbear loving. My ears sang, my body glowed, and in a tremulous voice I begged her to wear the green velvet gown embroidered with pearls. She took it up, then let it fall again and instead chose a white and yellow brocade with a jeweled girdle.

“This yellow dress is more slimming to the hips-”

Her face took on a soft expression as she stood there with the gown in her hands, and she said, “Michael, tell me truly. Are you weary of your wife? Since you’ve taken to entertaining those new friends of yours you seem less close to me than you once were. Be honest with me. You’ve only to go to the cadi to be divorced from me. How should I force upon you the love your indifference has so often wounded?” She sobbed, and after a pause went on, “The love of women is a capricious thing and must ever be wooed afresh. It’s long since you brought me flowers or showed me any other attention. No, you push a purse into my hand and tell me to buy what I want, and this coldness has hurt me deeply. That’s why I have been so irritable-and perhaps that’s why I struck Alberto, who bears only good will to both of us. So you see it has all been your fault, Michael, and I cannot remember when last you took me in your arms and kissed me as a man kisses the woman he loves.”

Her wild and groundless accusations took my breath away, but shyly she drew near me and pressed her warm white body against me, saying, “Kiss me, Michael! You know you’re the only man I ever loved-the only man whose kisses really satisfy me. Perhaps in your eyes I seem old and worn out, and like all Moslems you desire a new and younger wife. But kiss me!”

I kissed her treacherous lips, and what ensued need not be told, for the wise man will guess and for the fool all explanations are vain. All I can say is that barely an hour later I went readily down to Alberto to beg his pardon on Giulia’s behalf because she had so exasperated him as to make him strike her. I asked him to overlook the hard words I had flung at him, and ended by giving him two ducats. Alberto listened without betraying by the flicker of an eyelid what he was thinking, but he took the money and confessed freely that his behavior had been most unbecoming. Peace reigned in the house once more. Giulia hid her somewhat weary eyes behind a thin veil and was rowed to the Seraglio. May a wiser man rebuke my blindness; I cannot. A man in love is always blind, be he the Sultan himself or the meanest of slaves, and it is easy for a landsman to be wise about a shipwreck. Let the clever man cast a glance at his own marriage before sneering at mine.

I was not the only blind man. Sultana Khurrem received Mustafa ben-Nakir in the presence of the Kislar-Aga and spoke with him first from behind the curtain; later she revealed to him her laughing face. When the cool Mustafa returned from the Seraglio he was like another being. He sped to me on winged feet. His eyes shone and his pale face glowed. The first things he asked of me were wine and roses, and with an autumn rose in his hand he said, “Ah, Michael! Either I’ve lost my understanding of character or we have been entirely mistaken in this woman. Roxelana is like the glow of morning. Her complexion is snow and roses, her laughter is silver, and to look into her eyes is to see a smiling heaven. No evil thought could lurk behind that white forehead. I’m out of my senses, Michael, and know not what to think of her or of myself. For Allah’s sake melt amber in wine, call musicians, sing to me, for devine poems are welling up in my heart and no one has lain under such a spell before.”

“Allah be gracious to you, dear Mustafa ben-Nakir!” I stammered at last. “Surely you cannot have fallen in love with that diabolical Russian!”

“How should I dare to lift my eyes to the gates of heaven? But no one can forbid me to drink wine mixed with amber, to scatter my verses to the winds, or to play upon a reed pipe in praise of Khurrem the beautiful.”

He wept tears of rapture while I surveyed him with distaste and said, “The Sultana is a shameless woman to flout custom and the law by unveiling her face and so leading you into temptation. How could the Kislar-Aga permit it? But tell me, did you speak to her of the Grand Vizier? And what did she say? That, after all, is the most important thing.”

Mustafa ben-Nakir dried his tears, and forgetting for once to polish his rose-colored nails he looked at me in wonder and said, “I don’t remember. I recall nothing of what we said, for I listened only to the music of her voice and her laughter until she unveiled her face. Then I was so bewitched that when she left me my head was like a blown egg. Compared with the miracle that has happened all else is indifferent to me.”

Giddy with wine he sprang up and began to dance, stamping rhythmically and joyously ringing the silver bells at his girdle. And as he danced he crooned love songs until I began to suspect he had been eating hashish. Yet his delirium infected me and filled me with an irresistible desire to laugh. I blended drops of fragrant ambergris in the wine and soon I seemed to see how destiny sped like a gazelle from the swiftest hunter, and mocked the vain pursuit.