He wished me a good night’s sleep. I watched him drifting off, then, exhausted, I decided to lie down as well. Before closing my eyes, I looked up. The silhouette of Mukhtar, or perhaps Hafiz, was still there, watching motionlessly over everyone’s dreams.
26
We put in at a teeming little town. The ships en route for the Aegean, toward Smyrna, often moored at those docks. When storms lashed the White Sea, the boats and their cargoes sought refuge there. From the inland regions of Mysia and Anatolia came foodstuffs on their way to the capital. Judging by what Ismail said, the man we were looking for was a spider in the middle of this web, and the town, Bandirma, was his nest.
A unit of janissaries stood guard by the lighthouse, amid the fishermen’s stalls and the cases and barrels ready for lading. Their feathered hats were visible above the heads of the crowd. And as we walked along the quay, I saw their eyes watching our every step.
“Stop!” the captain ordered us.
Above his bushy mustache his expression was icy. A scar furrowed his face. Instinctively, our company closed ranks. The janissaries came closer. The captain narrowed his eyes. “Who are you and where do you come from?”
“I’m a coffee merchant and these are my colleagues. My name is Ismail al-Mokhawi.”
“Mokhawi?” The captain’s piggy eyes fixed on Ali. “Are you Yemenis?”
“Damned dogs, get back to your homeland!” muttered someone behind him.
Ismail remained impassive. “We are all subjects of the Sultan, God have mercy on him, and we are under his protection.”
The captain of the janissaries clicked his tongue and said, “He looks like a renegade Frank to me, and as to your friend,” he pointed at Ali, “we’ve seen plenty like him, down in Yemen. Heretic dogs, ready to cut your throat while you sleep.”
I noticed that the activity in the port had ceased. The people had formed a sort of circle, roping off the arena where the cocks were about to fight. I noticed Ali slipping his fingers around the hilt of his scimitar. Hafiz and Mukhtar had their hands on their belts. Ismail raised a hand, asking for calm. “These men aren’t rebels. If the Sultan’s standard is flying over Mokha again, it’s down to me. It was I who ensured that you could come in without paying a blood price.”
The captain didn’t seem very interested. He spat on the ground, as the onlookers pressed in behind the janissaries, who struggled to contain them. A leg appeared out of the scuffling crowd and kicked at the old man’s stick. Ismail managed not to fall. Mukhtar stepped to his side, shielding him.
The soldiers were irresolute, torn between their duty to contain the crowd and their desire to settle their scores with those whom they perceived as enemies. The captain of the janissaries drew his sword and spun about, threatening all the people around them. Meanwhile we retreated. Hafiz and I now faced the janissaries, while Mukhtar clung to Ismail and Ali, her hand on the hilt of her sword, opening up a path behind us. The captain barked at us not to move, while the people, who continued to rage at us, seemed ready to overwhelm his men. Then Mukhtar put her hand to her belt and drew a weapon that I had never seen before: a hilt from which long strips of steel protruded, supple and twisting. These, when whirled in the air above our heads, gave off sparks and a sound that chilled the blood. The crowd fell silent, and the captain of the janissaries froze where he stood. Ismail rested his hand on his pistol. Time seemed to stop.
Then the captain moved toward us, breaking the spell. The crowd roared. Ismail leveled his weapon, and the Indian girl prepared to bring hers down so that the steel blades first shredded the soldier’s hat, then did more serious damage below. I waited for the tragedy to happen.
Suddenly I heard an agitated voice calling out a name that must have been the captain’s. Another group of janissaries appeared, this one more tightly organized, and began to move the crowd back with more conviction.
A squat man, dressed in the Turkish style, pushed his way through with short but certain steps, accompanied by a janissary, who seemed to be a high-ranking officer, followed by other soldiers. They came straight toward the middle of the arena and interposed themselves between Ismail and the captain.
“As-Salaam ’Alaykum,” said the senior officer.
“Wa ’Alaykum As-Salaam,” the captain replied, without taking his eyes off us.
“You were about to commit an unpardonable error. Luckily Mimi Reis, here, requested that I intervene. This man,” he said, pointing to Ismail, “enjoys the esteem of illustrious people. He even knew Suleyman the Magnificent. Many in Istanbul respect him like a father. Touching a hair on his head, or the heads of his companions, would mean finding yourself on the Persian border in a very short time, and for a very long time.”
The squat man interjected, “May that never transpire, Captain. We want you here to defend us and ensure the safety of our trade.”
The captain decided to take his eye off Ismail. He took his leave politely, and retreated quietly with his janissaries in the direction of the lighthouse. The senior official turned back to Ismail. “I would like to have you as my guest, Ismail al-Mokhawi, but I know you are traveling on important business. I hope that God may allow us to meet again.”
“If God so wills.”
Then those Turks took their leave as well, in a more formal and courteous way, and we were left on our own with the short man. He turned toward Ismail. “It’s really you! I thought you’d been dead for ages,” he said.
“I wasn’t far off it.”
They smiled, hugged, and kissed each other’s beards.
“But I see that your habits have not changed. You’re still in trouble. Yes, but you travel under a lucky star. That star, today, is Mimi,” he said, patting his chest with his open palm. “Come, all of you come to my house. You are my guests.”
We had come in search of a man, and he had found us.
So it was that I met Mimi Reis.
27
On reaching Mimi Reis’s house, we went upstairs and sat on damask cushions on the floor. Two windows lit the room: One looked out onto the street and the other onto the garden.
Our guide’s accent was familiar to me; that of the inhabitants of Puglia, opposite Ragusa, which made me like him, not least because he was almost a compatriot of mine. We asked him to speak in Turkish so that everyone could understand.
Two maids came in, carrying a huge metal tray upon which lay half a roasted kid. They set it down on a stool, and together the two objects became a table. All we had to do was move our cushions around it and start eating.
“I’ve brought my sisters specially from Bari, to teach the maids to cook,” said the master of the house. He sang the praises of his native dishes, listing all the ingredients of dips and sauces. Ali asked if the animals had been butchered in the halal way, and it was only when he had received that reassurance that he and the Indians began to eat. Meanwhile, my attention was drawn to a Byzantine icon, right above a table beside the fireplace, surrounded by candles. Mimi Reis noticed my interest, and raised his right hand.
“Sanda Necole, patron saint of sailors.”
With these words, he pulled up his shirt to show us his chest and abdomen. Drawn just above his sternum was a bluish crucifix. Further down a group of women, and on his belly a sailing ship, manned by sailors carrying a trunk.
“You see?” he said, touching his ribs, “these are the three virgins of the miracle, and this one in the middle is my ancestor Benuzzo, who came back to Bari along with his companions, bearing the bones of the saint. They came to get them right here in Turkey, in Myra, on the coast opposite Cyprus.”