Everyone’s eyes were on him. In his youth he must have been very handsome, and that attractiveness hadn’t faded. Nasi was fascinating, there was no point in denying it. It’s not for nothing that Satan is the great charmer.
“You must know that the houses of Constantinople were built by mixed teams of workers. The reason is clear to see. Turkish carpenters are very good at working and sawing wood, but they can’t carve stone. And a house without stone foundations is an unstable house. That’s why we turn to Armenian, Greek, and Arab stonecutters. So some of the people dig a foundation; the others build the upper stories and the roof.”
The French ambassador took advantage of a pause to reply. “I don’t see that masons have anything to do with tolerance.”
“Oh, they do, they do, Excellency. . Of course you know the Bible story of the Tower of Babel. Well, many people think the Lord scattered the tongues of men to punish them, but it’s exactly the opposite. He saw that uniformity made them proud, dedicated to enterprises as excessive as they were useless. Then he realized that humanity needed a corrective and he made us a gift of differences. So the masons, of different customs and faiths, have to find a modus vivendi that allows them to conclude their construction of the building. And for that you need not a conceded, flaunted tolerance, like the tolerance of the powerful, but an experienced tolerance, lived out every day, lived with the awareness that if it is lost, the house will fall down and you will be left without shelter. Tahammül, gentlemen.”
It was Nasi’s turn to address a reverent nod to the Grand Vizier’s secretary, who replied with a forced smile. This new interpretation of the biblical passage mustn’t have been greatly to his liking.
A faint clap of the hands made us turn toward Fitch. The Englishman was paying amused homage to the rhetoric of the master of the house. A moment later, the Polish voivode burst out laughing all by himself, at the sight of the pale face of Monsieur de Grantrie.
3
By the end of the meal, the meaning of that bizarre meeting was clear to me. Basically, that was my trade, working out who was doing what and why. The presence of those people must be significant. Nasi had wanted me to be a spectator at this drama, so it was up to me to decipher the roles.
The Grand Vizier’s secretary represented the Empire. France and Poland were the Catholic friends of the Grand Turk. The English bibliophile might have been there only for a book, but for some time his queen had certainly wanted to gain favor with the Sultan and open a trade route in the East. After all, Nasi was the guarantor of the soup kitchen, the referee in the diplomatic game, and I was the advantage point that he held over the others.
But I had no intention of being his amuse-bouche, the surprise dish to serve to the guests after the sea bass and roasted kid.
I told him as much later on, after he had said good-bye to his guests and we were left on our own. Not alone, as we had been that morning, in fact, because when we went back to the library, he introduced me to David Gomez, Satan’s right hand. Gomez was a sturdy-looking man, with an olive complexion and distinctive features. He must have been about the same age as Nasi; his youth was behind him, but his physical and mental health were still intact. He inspired awe, although it would not be he who held a blade to my throat a few moments later.
I refused the tobacco that Nasi offered me and observed him as he lit up a roll of it, taking dense mouthfuls of smoke in the manner of the natives of the New World.
“So, what did you think of the meal?”
“Your cook serves you well. And so does your cellar keeper.”
He smiled. “I was actually referring to the guests.”
“Listen,” I said to him through gritted teeth. “Moisés Navarro sent me all the way here from Salonika to give you some information, not to answer your riddles. In exchange, you promised that I would receive money and a house where I could rest.”
“Everything under the sun takes its time. For a time, you will be my guest here at the palace, if you don’t mind.”
That really was the final straw, and I could barely refrain from insulting him.
“Use words to mean what they mean. I’m not really your guest, I’m a prisoner.”
His surprise seemed sincere. He looked at me as if I were a chaffinch that had suddenly started braying. Then, with a slow movement of his arm, he invited me to look around. “Does this look to you like a cell?”
I didn’t move my eyes; I kept them fixed on him. The smell of tobacco made me want to vomit. “How long am I going to have to stay here?”
“Long enough for us to get to know each other,” he replied. “Today’s meal has shown you who I am.” His keen eye lit up with a strange light. “A Jew at the top of the world. Would you have thought it possible?”
He got up and set the roll of tobacco down on a little plate. “You can circulate wherever you like except for the north wing. That’s my wife’s chosen refuge.” I thought I spotted some sadness in his eyes. “David will show you to your lodgings. Ásta luego, Senyor De Zante.”
He strode out, leaving me prey to a mute rage. I breathed deeply and looked around at the hundreds of volumes that filled the walls. It was then that I noticed the open chink. Dark eyes were studying me from the secret room that I had occupied with Nasi.
Almost as soon as I spotted them, the chink was closed.
4
A big room, a bed overflowing with pillows. A small table, a chair, a desk. Broad carpets on the floor and the walls. Warmth from the stove and the perfume of sandalwood from the candles. I looked around, and remembered Tuota’s hovel, the cell in the backstreets of Ragusa, Efrem’s house in Salonika.
Time, when it builds up momentum, changes a man’s conditions quite quickly. Even the conditions of his imprisonment.
Gomez looked at me in puzzlement. Perhaps he didn’t understand the smile that had just vanished from my lips. I imagined him serving Nasi all his life, and then a memory took shape. An old list of names. The eminent wanted men, the list of Giuseppe Nasi’s acolytes and agents.
Duarte Gomez. Yes, Duarte was his marrano name; David was his Jewish one.
He picked up a bell from the desk and made it tinkle faintly. A young woman appeared in the doorway, her raven hair piled up under a mantilla, a tanned complexion. She was wearing wide breeches and a wool jerkin.
“If you need anything, you know what to do,” Gomez said before taking his leave, leaving me alone with the girl.
I asked her for her name.
“Dana.”
I stared at her. Memories of my body wrapped around Arianna’s. I stepped forward, letting my eyes caress her features and the curves of her body. I framed her eyes with my hands and felt her freeze. Her eyes were light green, like the patina on copper pots.
No, they weren’t the eyes that had been spying on me through the chink in the library wall.
“Why does Nasi’s wife stay in hiding?”
She hesitated, the reply already on her lips, perhaps to weigh the words she was about to say. “She isn’t hiding. She’s still in mourning for the death of her mother, Donna Gracia.”
There were other questions I would have liked to ask, but her body claimed all my attention. The shape of her breasts. The curve of her hips. The swelling between her legs.
She began straightening the bed, which was perfectly tidy already. Nervous gestures to overcome embarrassment, waiting for me to dismiss her. I sidled up to her until the fabric of my trousers touched hers. I took a deep breath, filling my nostrils with her perfume. She smelled of almonds and. . a blade pricked my throat. The woman’s eyes were keener than the dagger that she was pressing to my neck. She waited for me to step back before returning the weapon to her belt.