A little way off, a Muslim was finishing his prayers. His robes, his amber skin, his reddish beard all suggested that he was an Arab. He got to his feet and rolled up the carpet on which he had been praying. He also picked up a scimitar. He saw me and nodded his head — a cautious and barely perceptible greeting.
Coming back from the day of investigations and surveillance, I certainly hadn’t expected an encounter like this. The last refugees had returned to their homes, and the drawing room at Palazzo Belvedere was almost always empty.
Last of all, I saw the old man. He was standing beneath the portrait of Donna Gracia and staring at it in silence. The big painting loomed over him. I, too, had often contemplated that picture; I had admired its strength. The Senyora’s black eyes looked like lunar eclipses. Her arched eyebrows were bridges hanging over precipices so high, it took the breath away. Her sharp nose was the prow of a ship.
The old man was dressed in the Moorish manner, the darkness of his tunic and turban broken by his white beard. I studied him from a distance, at the edge of the hall. It was impossible to tell how old he was, but his body was still straight, in spite of the stick that he held parallel to his leg.
At that moment a door opened and a servant came rushing into the room. He barely deigned to glance at the other foreigners, but headed straight for the old man. When he was close to him, he slowed his step as if he didn’t want to frighten him. Or perhaps he was the one who was scared.
“Don Yossef is at the Seraglio, Effendi. A guest of the Sultan,” he said in Turkish, his voice full of bitterness. “We have managed to warn him, but you will understand that it’s difficult for him to be here before evening.”
“Duarte Gomez?” asked the old man.
“You mean. . Don David? He was with Don Yossef.”
The old man spoke the name of Donna Reyna, and it was like a revelation to the other man.
“Yes, of course, Effendi, right away, Effendi.” He nodded his agreement and flew toward the stairs. The old man stared at the painting again. Less than a minute must have passed when his voice broke the silence.
“Tell me, you who are observing me: Is it only indiscretion on your part, or have you some other motive?”
I froze. I was sure that he hadn’t turned his head in my direction. In spite of the clothes he was wearing, he had spoken in Italian, and in an accent that was clearly European.
“Might I know who is asking?” I replied.
He turned and walked toward me. I stared at him, keeping the others in the corner of my eye. We found ourselves face to face, and I met his gaze, more out of curiosity than defiance. His eyes were gray and piercing. For some reason the memory of Tuota flashed through my mind.
“I am Ismail al-Mokhawi,” he said. “I deal with the Nasi family’s affairs in the Yemen.”
My sixth sense told me there was more to this than he was letting on. I didn’t yet know the extent to which my presentiment was correct. “Arab name, German accent,” I observed.
“Congratulations; you have a good ear. And your name?”
“My name is Manuel Cardoso.” I gave a slight bow that the old man didn’t return.
“Spanish name, Venetian accent,” he announced, as if we were having a riddling competition. “Are you a businessman, too?” he asked. “Are you in business with João? I don’t think so, or I’d have heard your name mentioned.” He touched my right hand with his stick. “Of course you don’t work with those. No recent marks, only old scars.”
I brushed his stick away. “Your eyesight is enviable, in spite of your age.”
“Indeed. If I’m not mistaken, what you have on your jacket is poplar pollen.”
I instinctively checked my sleeves. On the green of the fabric, some barely visible filaments had appeared, the tiniest pinch. “I don’t remember poplars in the park at Palazzo Belvedere,” he went on. “But there are many in Pera.”
A secret agent should never be dumbfounded, so I maintained my self-control. I don’t know how our discussion would have continued, because we were interrupted by a voice from above: “Don’t upset our man Cardoso, Messer Ludovico. He’s Yossef’s new pupil.”
It was only the second time that I had seen her, and I was very struck. Not an ostentatious woman, but pride shone from her eyes. The old man smiled. He seemed already to have forgotten me and what had just happened.
My mind, meanwhile, was working quickly. He was German. He had introduced himself as Ismail, and Donna Reyna had called him Ludovico. He called Don Yossef and David Gomez by their Christian names. It was clear that he knew the Nasi family well, perhaps since before they had arrived in Constantinople.
With one hand, Donna Reyna pointed to the woman in the painting, her mother.
“Are you paying homage to one who is no more, Messer Ludovico?”
“I am paying homage to one who lives in my heart, Signora.” With these words he touched his chest and bowed to her.
Reyna vanished, reappearing in the drawing room a moment later. Once they stood facing one another, they held each other’s hands for a long time. I looked at the Arab and the two Indians, who remained impassive. I wondered if they had understood even one of the words that had just echoed around the room. In all likelihood they didn’t know Italian.
“It’s still hard to believe you’re here,” said Reyna, without letting go of the old man’s hands. “And yet you are. How much time has passed?”
“Eight years,” he answered, with a half smile. “And they have been a little more kind to you than they have to me.”
It was as if I had ceased to exist.
“You are exactly the same as the man I remember,” said Reyna. “And you have survived a very long journey. You will want to rest and refresh yourself.”
“What my friends and I need more than anything is a hot bath and a bed.” He smiled. “But I’m no longer used to the comforts of a palace. Tell João I will wait for him at Uskudar, in the house where I used to live.”
The woman seemed disappointed, but not very surprised. “You’re not staying here? Yossef will be mortified.” The last sentence sounded like a distant formality.
The reply was a whisper: “Between these walls, memories would keep me from resting.”
“I understand that very well,” said Reyna. “They keep me awake too, every night. And there is nowhere one can go to seek refuge.”
The skin below one of the old man’s cheekbones twitched. I thought that beneath his beard he had clenched his jaw. I wondered what was happening, and what messages were being passed, hidden in their words.
Reyna called a servant. “See to it that our guests are escorted to the other side of the Bosphorus.”
“Thank you, mia signora, but that isn’t necessary.” The old man bowed briefly, then turned, saw me and gave a start, as if he had only that moment remembered my existence. He collected himself and walked quickly across the room, using his stick occasionally, followed by the rest of his strange retinue.
The first to catch up with him was the Arab, who immediately addressed him in his own language. The Indian youngsters were slower, glancing around, moving with soft and even steps. They drew up alongside the other two and all four walked on like that, in a row, all talking together, on the path that led through the middle of the garden. Seen from behind, they looked like friends who had just emerged from an evening of drinking and idle chit-chat.
When they had disappeared, I turned back to Reyna.
“Who is that man?”
“He is the past,” she replied. “The past knocking at the door.” She took her leave with a nod of her head. We were left alone, I and the eyes of Donna Gracia. As if those presences had been mirages, the voices the ravings of a lunatic.