Ali couldn’t conceal a certain disgust at this spectacle, perhaps because of the nakedness on display, or perhaps because of the sharp smell emanating from the Italian’s chest. His expression didn’t escape our host, who suddenly looked contrite.
“Now I know that having your body carved is an insult to God’s work,” he hastened to say as he lowered his shirt. “But the Christians in my part of the world say it’s proof of faith, and also a protection, because if someone has these drawings on him it’s harder for the Turks to take him away; he’s like a rotten apple.”
“And what about you?” Ali asked curiously. “How did you become a Muslim?”
“The Turks took me anyway; they weren’t picky. I was eighteen, and my name was Domenico, Mimi to everybody. Since then I’ve been Mehmet.”
“So your faith was imposed upon you,” Ali said with regret.
The other protested: “Not at all. The pope is a tyrant, God is great and Mohammad is his Prophet. Saint Nicholas was born before him, so we can’t blame him for not being a Muslim. In my crew, when I was a corsair, the Albanians and Bosnians venerated him as much as I did: They called him imam, and if the sea swelled we prayed to him together to keep us afloat.”
The arrival of a tray of cakes interrupted his story. I was full by now, my head was heavy, and the warm air that day wasn’t helping me to stay awake. I missed a few lines of conversation, and perhaps I even closed my eyes, until the scent of coffee reached my nostrils.
“Of these people’s recipes, the only one we should imitate,” our host announced, bringing the cup to his lips, and when we had emptied ours, he asked us if we wanted anything else. The request was polite but superfluous, after the mountain of food that he had served us.
“I want to talk business,” said Ismail.
Mimi Reis stretched his arms out along the edges of the big pillow behind his back. He said, “It must be important business if it made you come back from Yemen. Or was it the Zaydi rebellion that dislodged you?”
Ismail smiled. “Rebellions don’t scare me; you should know that. And besides, what should a man who has reached my age be afraid of? On the other hand, what made you leave Constantinople?”
The Pugliese tightened every muscle in his face, assuming an expression that was the quintessence of regret. “Aaah, a lot has changed since you were there. There are a lot of things that you wouldn’t recognize. Some people worked their way up the ladder, and some people got stuck. And then there are the people who had to leave. Particularly the ones who didn’t have saints to help them to Paradise, as we say—senza sande nan s’va en ’mbaravise. We also say that ’u pèsce gruesse nan pote sci mmocch’a cudde peccenunne—the big fish doesn’t fit in the little fish’s mouth. The little one has to go and swim somewhere else, you understand?”
“I understand,” said Ismail. “Anyway, I’ve come to suggest a transaction on behalf of a big fish. Yossef Nasi.”
Mimi Reis narrowed his eyes and scratched his chin. “And I’m listening to you because you’re you.”
“Are you still in touch with your Greek friends?”
The Pugliese nodded, his nose tilted upward as if sniffing every word. Ismail gestured to me to speak.
“At the end of the month,” I explained, “there’s a ship bound straight for Crete. It has to go off course and put in somewhere else, on the island of Naxos.”
The Pugliese pondered the request. “Whose ship is it?”
“It belongs to Solomon Ashkenazi.”
Mimi Reis pulled a disgusted face. “This is a rott ’n cule, a filthy trickster, servant of the Venetians. The Venetians are impostors. They tried to take Saint Nicholas’s bones, and when we got them back, rather than accepting the fact, they launched a crusade all the way here to tell us that we’d made a mistake and they’d found the real tomb.” He struck his chest and shook his head. “Infidel dogs.”
He stayed like that, with his hand on his beard, as if oppressed by that ancient injustice. Then he stirred himself, called for a bottle of raki and offered it to everybody, but of course Ismail and I were the only ones who accepted.
“This is no sganuffa,” said Mimi Reis, after sipping the spirits. “It’s no trifle. And people who engage in this kind of thing aren’t easily satisfied. It’s a big risk. It’ll take a lot of money.”
“How much?” I asked.
Again that contrite expression. “Let’s say at least six thousand aspers.”
“Fine,” I replied firmly. I had Nasi’s mandate to offer the necessary sum. “Half in advance and half once the business is concluded.”
“No,” Mimi insisted. “I need all the money up front.”
I exchanged a worried glance with Ismail, and he spoke up: “You used to trust me.”
The Pugliese sighed. “It isn’t a matter of trust, my friend. It’s that Yossef Nasi is more exposed than a sheet in the sun. They’re preparing for war, everyone knows that he’s up to his neck in it, and I don’t want any problems. And then you know that ’u uacejiedde pisce ’u llejiette e ’u cula iave mazzate.” He stopped and translated for everyone: “The cock pisses the bed and the arse gets the kicking. I’m going to have to cover my arse. .” He spread his arms. “Payment up front or I can’t help you.”
I looked at Ismail. The old man had no intention of replying. I wondered if he was silent out of kindness or whether he thought the objection was reasonable.
As we took our leave I was still filled with doubt. The Pugliese kissed us all and said he would send someone to get the money from Scutari. “Right then, Ismail,” he said before he left us. “You’re about to unleash a whirlwind, and troubles are going to come pouring in. It’s better for the old boats to stay in the harbor.”
The old man looked at him with laughing eyes. “Thanks for the advice, my friend. But you know me: I only stay in the harbor as long as I absolutely have to. As-Salaam ’Alaykum.”
“Wa ’Alaykum As-Salaam. Statt’ bun. Take care.”
28
It’s on moonless nights that misdeeds are done, when only the stars sparkle on the black cloak of the sky and the pilots choose their routes with their noses in the air, their hands firmly on the tiller. It was on a moonless night that Mimi Reis’s trap was sprung.
The merchant ship bound for Candia was passing calmly through the Cyclades when an alarm was raised on board. The black shadow of a sail had suddenly appeared from behind the island of Delos, on a collision course with the Cretan vessel. The bell on deck rang out, torches were waved, but the ghost ship pressed on until it struck the side of the merchantman, level with the prow, making it list to the left and spin on its own axis. Then it was clear to everyone that a major collision was unavoidable. The oarsmen were recalled to their benches, and the captain turned the ship’s tail and fled with sails unfurled.
The pirates’ slender galley, lighter and faster, pursued its quarry to Naxos. It was only at dawn, in view of the harbor, that it vanished again.
As Ashkenazi’s boat moored it was welcomed by the island’s militia and the keeper of the harbor, who in the name of the Duke of Naxos, that is to say Don Yossef Nasi, put the ship under the protection and custody of his master.
The captain’s protests were futile. The militiamen climbed on board and inspected the ship and its crew. Bernardo Traverso was missing from the lineup. After a long search, the Genoese was found in the hold, his breeches round his ankles, trying to stuff some rolls of paper into his rear orifice. Caught in flagrante, he commended his soul to the Holy Virgin and prayed on his knees to be spared. The keeper of the port took charge of the precious rolls of paper, but not before he had cleaned them of all traces of Genoese jitters. At last, along with a detailed report, he entrusted them to a messenger and sent them to Constantinople. A few days later, the letters of Marcantonio Barbaro, addressed to the Doge of Venice and the Council of Ten, were in the hands of Yossef Nasi.