Leo Africanus (47 page)

One day I was in Cardinal Julius' house, shortly before his departure for Tuscany, when a young painter introduced himself to him. He was called Manolo, I think, and came from Naples, where he had acquired a certain reputation. He hoped to sell his paintings before going back to his city. It was not unusual for an artist to come from afar to see the Medici, as everyone who knocked at his door could be sure that they would not leave empty-handed. This Neapolitan unrolled several canvases, of uneven quality, it seemed to me. I looked at them absent-mindedly, when all of a sudden I jumped. A portrait was just passing in front of me, quickly put away by Manolo with a gesture of irritation.

‘May I see that picture again?' I asked.

‘Certainly, but it is not for sale. I brought it by mistake. It was ordered by a merchant and I must deliver it to him.'

Those curved lines, that matt complexion, that beard, that smile of eternal satisfaction . . . There could be no mistake! I still had to ask:

‘What is the name of this man?'

‘Master Abbado. He is one of the richest shipowners in Naples.'

‘Abbad the Soussi! I murmured a good-humoured curse.

‘Will you see him soon?'

‘He is often on his travels between May and September, but he spends the winter in his villa beside Santa Lucia.'

Taking a sheet of paper, I hastily scribbled a message for my companion. And, two months later, ‘Abbad arrived at my house in a carriage, accompanied by three servants. Had he been my own brother I would not have been happier to embrace him!

‘I left you in chains at the bottom of a ship's hold; I meet up with you again and you are prosperous and resplendent.'

‘
Al-hamdu l'illah! al-hamdu l'illah!
God has been generous towards me!'

‘Not more so than you deserve! I can testify that even at the worst moments you never said a word against Providence.'

I was sincere. Nevertheless I could not keep my curiosity completely intact.

‘How did you manage to extricate yourself so quickly?'

‘Thanks to my mother, may God bless the earth that covers her! She always used to repeat this sentence to me which I eventually knew by heart: a man is never without resources as long as he has a tongue in his head. It is true that I was sold as a slave, my hands in chains and a ball and chain at my feet, but my tongue was not chained up. A merchant bought me, whom I served loyally, giving him all sorts of advice, enabling him to profit from my experience of the Mediterranean. In that way he made so much money that he set me free at the end of the first year and made me a partner in his business.'

When I seemed astonished that things had been so easy, he shrugged his shoulders.

‘When a man has become rich in one country, he can easily become so once more elsewhere. Today our business is one of the most flourishing in Naples.
Al-hamdu l'illah!
We have an agent in every port and about ten branches which I visit regularly.'

‘Would you happen to make a detour to Tunis?'

‘I am going there in the summer. I shall go and visit your family. Should I tell them that you are happy here?'

I had to acknowledge that without having made a fortune I had not had to undergo the rigours of captivity. And that Rome had
made me taste of two real kinds of happiness: that of an ancient city that was being reborn, drunk with beauty, and that of a son who was sleeping on the knees of the woman I loved.

My friend seemed satisfied. But he added:

‘If, one day, this town ceases to bring you pleasure, you must know that my house is open for you, you and your family, and that my vessels will carry you as far as you wish.'

I denied that I wanted to leave Rome, promising ‘Abbad to welcome him on his return from Tunis and to give him a sumptuous feast.

I did not want to complain in front of my friend, but things had begun to take a turn for the worse for me; Adrian had decided to mount a campaign against the wearing of beards. ‘They are suitable only for soldiers,' he had decreed, ordering all clerics to shave. I was not directly affected, but because of my assiduous visits to the Vatican palace, my persistence in keeping this decoration seemed like an insolent reminder of my Moorish origins, like a challenge to the Pope, probably even a sign of impiety. Among the Italians whom I met, beards were not common, and were more a sign of eccentricity reserved for artists, an eccentricity that was elegant for some and a sign of exuberance for others. Some were attached to them, while others were ready to get rid of them rather than to be forbidden the court. For me the matter could not but take on a different significance. In my country the beard is standard. Not to have one is tolerated, especially for a foreigner. To shave it off after one has had a beard for many long years is a sign of abasement and humiliation. I had no intention of undergoing such an affront.

Would anyone believe me if I were to say that I was ready to die for my beard that year? And not only for my beard, because all the battles were confused in my mind, as in the Pope's: the beard of the clergy, the naked breasts on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, the statue of Moses, with thunderous gaze and quivering lips.

Without having sought it, I became a pivot and symbol of obstinate resistance to Adrian. Seeing me pass by, proudly fingering the bushy hair on my neck, the most clean-shaven of Romans would murmur their admiration. All the pamphlets written against the
Pope would first come into my hands before being slid under the doors of the notables of the city. Some texts were no more than a web of insults: ‘Barbarian, miser, pig' and worse. Others spoke of the pride of the Romans. ‘Never more shall a non-Italian come to sit upon the throne of Peter!' I stopped all my teaching, all my studies, devoting my time to the struggle. It is true that I was handsomely rewarded. Cardinal Julius sent me substantial sums of money as well as encouraging letters. He promised to show me the full extent of his gratitude when the situation changed for the better.

I awaited that moment with impatience, for my situation at Rome was becoming precarious. A friend of mine who was a priest, author of an inflammatory pamphlet, had been shut up in Castel San Angelo two hours after having visited me. Another had been attacked by some Spanish monks. I felt myself constantly spied upon. I no longer left my house, except to make a few swift purchases in the quarter. Every night I had the impression that I would sleep at Maddalena's side for the last time. And I held her even more closely.

929 A.H.
20 November 1522 – 9 November 1523

That year, the Grand Turk found favour in my eyes once more. Of course, he never knew anything about it, but what does that matter? The dispute had raged inside me, and it was within me that it had to be resolved.

I had been obliged to flee the most powerful empire of Islam to protect a child from the vindictiveness of a bloodthirsty monarch, and I had found in Christian Rome the caliph under whose shadow I would so much have liked to live in Baghdad or Cordova. My mind delighted in this paradox, but my conscience was not appeased. Had the time passed when I could be genuinely proud of my own without needing to brag about them?

Then there was Adrian. Then there was Sulaiman. And above everything else this visit from ‘Abbad. On his return from Tunis he had come to see me, faithful to his promise, and even before his lips had opened his eyes were already pitying me. As he hesitated to shock me with what he had learned, I felt I should put him at ease.

‘One cannot reproach the messenger for something which is an act of Providence.'

Adding, with an affected smile:

‘If a man has left his family for many years, he cannot expect to hear any good news. Even if you were to tell me that Nur had just had a child, that would be misfortune.'

Probably thinking that his task would become even harder if he let me go on joking further, my friend made up his mind to speak:

‘Your wife did not wait for you. She only stayed a few months in
your house in Tunis.'

My hands were sweaty.

‘She went away. And left you this.'

He handed me a letter which I unsealed. The handwriting had been executed with care, probably that of a public letter-writer. But the words were Nur's:

If it was only my own happiness that was at stake, I would have waited for you for many long years, if need be until I had seen my hair turn silver in the loneliness of the nights. But I live only for my son, for his destiny, which will come to fruition one day, if it pleases God. Then we shall summon you to our side so that you may share the honours as you shared the dangers. In the meantime I shall go to Persia where, although he has no friends, Bayazid will at least have on his side the enemies of those who are hunting him down.

I leave Hayat for you. I have borne your daughter as you have carried my secret, and it is time that each one of us takes back that which is his own. Some will say that I am an unworthy mother, but you know that it is for her own good that I leave her behind, to protect her from the dangers which attend my own steps and those of her brother. I leave her as a gift for you, when you return; as she becomes older, she will look like me, and at every moment she will remind you of a blonde princess whom you loved and who loved you. And will always love you from the depth of her new exile.

Whether I encounter death or glory, do not let my image tarnish in your heart!

When he saw the first tear fall, ‘Abbad leaned his elbows on the window, pretending to be absorbed by some scene taking place in the garden. Ignoring the empty chairs which surrounded me I let myself fall to the ground, my eyes clouded over. As if Nur was in front of me, I murmured furiously to her:

‘What good is it to dream of a palace when one can find happiness in a hut at the foot of the pyramids!'

After several minutes ‘Abbad came and sat down at my side.

‘Your mother and your daughters are well. Harun sends them money and provisions each month.'

Two sighs later, I handed him the letter. He made a gesture of
pushing it away, but I insisted. Without thinking too deeply, I was anxious that he should read it. Perhaps I wanted him to refrain from condemning Nur. Perhaps, out of self-esteem, I wanted him not to pity me as if I was an ordinary husband deserted by a wife who was tired of waiting. Perhaps I also wanted to share with a friend a secret which from now on I would bear alone.

Thus I heard myself telling, in detail, the story of my Circassian, beginning with the chance meeting at a merchant's in Khan al-Khalili.

‘Now I understand your terror when the Turkish officer took Bayazid in his arms in Alexandria harbour.'

I laughed. ‘Abbad continued, happy to have been able to distract me:

‘I could never explain to myself why a Granadan could be so afraid of the Ottomans, the only ones who promise to give him back his city one day.'

‘Maddalena can't understand it either. She wants all the Andalusians, Jews and Muslims, to rejoice with her every time she hears the news of an Ottoman victory. And she's astonished that I remain so cold.'

‘Are you going to light her lantern now?'

‘Abbad had spoken in a low voice. I replied in the same tone:

‘I will tell her everything in small doses. I could not tell her about Nur's existence before.'

I turned towards my friend. My voice became feeble and thoughtful again:

‘Have you noticed how much we have changed since we came to this country? At Fez I would never have spoken of my wives in this way, even to my closest friend. If I had done so, he would have blushed to the peak of his turban.'

Laughingly, ‘Abbad agreed with me.

‘I myself made a thousand and one excuses before asking my neighbour after the health of his wife, and before answering me, he made sure nobody listened, fearing for his honour.'

After a long burst of laughter and some moments of silence, my companion began a sentence and then interrupted himself, hesitant and embarrassed.