You will ensure that you please the Sultan for as long as God wills, and you will never again try to influence his will. You will be our court Jew once more, but you will no longer be in charge of imperial trade. Dr. Ashkenazi will take care of that. He has the right talents to do it, and above all he is a more loyal man than you can imagine.
You know, Nasi Bey, deep down we are the same, I esteem your tenacity. But unlike you, I have never committed the blunder of underestimating a queen. That’s why I hold your life in my hands and declare you defeated.
He hears her approaching lightly, and when he turns round what he sees enchants him.
Her scarlet lips stand out in a face white as a statue’s. There’s something unnatural about her: her features are polished, her hair perfect, as if in a grotesque transfiguration. She wears a European dress that Yossef recognizes. It belonged to Gracia.
He wonders if she has come to confess or to accuse him, and suddenly he realizes that it makes no difference. Hard to say which one is the truly guilty party, he who wrote a letter to the biggest persecutor of Jews in the West, or she, who purloined it, prevented it from reaching its destination and handed it to the Grand Vizier. He has no wish to fight, he just wants to understand.
“Why did you do it?”
Reyna kneels in front of him and her skirt opens up like a corolla on the floor. He stares at her without rancor.
“All my life I have been what my mother wanted me to be. You and she based your dreams on a sacrifice. Look at me, Yossef. I have no children. I don’t even have a husband. She has always been your queen. When she died, you preferred to choose a loyal disciple rather than allowing me to serve you and love you.”
“He’s dead, and I should have died in his place.”
Reyna brushes his hand. “Now you know you’re not invincible. There are no more mirages to follow, or lives to sacrifice. You and I are the only ones left.” She raises Yossef’s hand and brings it to her face, coloring his fingers white. “My lord,” she murmurs. “My king.”
Yossef retreats from this painful homage and walks away, leaving her by the empty chair. He withdraws to the library, among the books, his sacred place where he breathes the smell of paper and parchment, as good and fragrant as the smell of freshly baked bread. He instinctively raises his gaze toward the hole in the wall, deluding himself that Manuel’s eyes might still be there, but he finds it closed. No one is spying on his rooms.
On the table, instead of the map of Cyprus, there is a parcel of handwritten pages. Yossef runs the palm of his hand over them, as though testing their consistency.
Ismail’s bequest, before leaving. The old man had understood. That was why he hadn’t wanted to witness the final act. When he came to say good-bye to his friend, he gave him his memoirs, the ones he had worked on for years, pages that included the story of the battles and rebellions that he had been through. So his journey was not in vain; it had been useful for something.
Impossible to forget his friend’s words before their paths parted for the last time.
Now I know why Gracia wanted me to be by your side. Not to help you to do what you’ve done, but to keep you from doing it. I understood too late, Yossef, and this is only the last of my defeats. If I didn’t know you well, I’d tell you to come with us.
When the old man handed him the package his eyes were shining.
This is my story, which is also ours. Lest anyone forget that we were friends.
Manuel, Ismail. Too many good-byes for one old heart. Yossef holds back his emotion, brushes away a stray tear, and only at that minute does he become aware of the presence in the doorway of the library.
Ralph Fitch is in traveling clothes, and the sight of his young face revives the old man’s spirit. Here is someone who still has much to see and do.
“I came to take my leave. My ship sails at dawn.”
Yossef welcomes him with a handshake. The Englishman’s tone does not conceal his regret. “What will you do now?”
Yossef Nasi spreads his arms, pointing at the space around him. “What I’ve always done. I’ll protect fugitives.” His gaze falls on the package. He picks it up and looks at it for a moment. “Accept a farewell gift, Master Fitch. These are the memoirs of a traveler, and I think a traveler should look after them.”
The other man grasps his hands respectfully.
“Take them to England with you, along with my most devoted respects to your queen,” Yossef adds. “Tell her I’m sorry.”
“I will. Good luck to you.”
“Farewell, Master Fitch.”
The Englishman seems to be on the point of adding something, then merely bows and leaves. Now all that remains is to listen to the silence. The palace has never known silence so profound.
Yossef stands beside the big window and looks at the clouds drifting across Asia, where night is already falling. And yet it is a luminous image that forms before his inner eye. Dunes, and a track that snakes between scorched hills, to a city bathed by the sea.
Five outlines proceed in single file, mounted on dromedaries. At the head of the little caravan is a young woman, leading it toward the first of the houses. She is followed by an Arab with a long scimitar and a boy with a beardless, almost childish face. Clinging to her back is a little boy, with big, curious eyes. The old man brings up the rear.
There’s a movement among of the houses: A flock of children comes from who knows where and surrounds the travelers with noise and laughter. Then men and women come out, even the oldest of them. When the old man climbs down from his saddle everyone crowds around him, giving thanks to God, He who reunites, for bringing him home.
Now there is no longer any reason to hold back the tears that mingle now with Yossef Nasi’s smile.
Somewhere, far away, there will be rain and another season. The monsoons will return, the time will come to listen to the tales of sailors and pilgrims. And to admire once more the falcons’ flight above the high plains.
Acknowledgements
This book owes a great deal to a great many people. We can only name a few of them here.
Roberto Santachiara, commander en jefe.
Severino Cesari and Paolo Repetti, for believing in us from the start, for following our every switch of direction, and for all of their advice.
Valentina Pattavina, for her patience, her teeth-gritting determination, her enthusiasm.
Ersan Ocak, for his personal interpretation of the term tahammül, set out one October afternoon, over a cup of coffee, in the Old Town of Damascus.
Andrea Lollini, for his valuable suggestions about Jewish culture.
Claudia Boscolo, for linguistic advice (and more besides).
Dimitri Chimenti, for his in-depth comments on the first draft.
Gaia De Pascale, for her overview.
The whole Polifonie group, for all the ideas flying around in that immaterial space.
Valerio, Giu, Giro, Alez, Filippo, Alberto and Carmilla’s group.
Loredana Lipperini, for all her observations over the years.
Mario Boffo, Italian ambassador to Yemen (and author), for his kindness and helpfulness.
Omar Berakdar, for the discussion of Islam and the iconography of victors.
Dr. Balagan of Moorfields Eye Hospital in London, for filling in a dangerous pothole at the last minute.
Our partners Chiara, Chiara, Claudia and Giulia, for everything.
Our children Davide, Ismaele, Matilde and Sofia, because “everything” still isn’t enough.
Luca, in fair and foul weather. This novel is for him too.
Everyone who, over the years, has shaped the fate of Q.