an oasis of calm, rest and cool, enlivened by a gentle stroll or two. But today hasnât been in the least like that: fatigue, one scare after another, and an as yet unexplained mystery is all this Monday has produced.
Having woken up early, I left the inn and went to the old tannery district to look for an Armenian wine-merchant whose address I still had. I found him quite easily and bought a couple of pitchers of malmsey from him for the journey. As I left his shop I suddenly had a strange feeling. On the steps leading up to the door of a nearby house there was a group of men, talking and glancing furtively in my direction. Something glinted like a blade in the eyes of one of them.
As I walked on through the narrow streets I felt more and more as if I was being followed, spied on, encircled. Was I just imagining it? I was sorry now that Iâd ventured here alone, without my clerk or my nephews. I was sorry I hadnât gone back to the Armenianâs shop as soon as I scented danger. But it was too late. Two of the men were now walking in front of me, and when I turned round I saw two more of them cutting off my retreat. The street I was in had emptied as if by magic. A few moments before it had seemed quite busy â not crowded, but not empty either. Now there was no one. A desert. I could already see myself being stabbed and then robbed of all I had. This is where my journey ends, I thought with a shudder. Iâd have shouted for help, but I couldnât utter a sound.
Looking round desperately for some way of escape, I noticed, on my right, the doorway of a house. With a last effort I clutched at the door-knob, and it opened. Inside, all that was to be seen was a dark corridor. To hide there would be no better than choosing the place to have my throat cut. So as my pursuers followed me into the passage at one end, I hastened along it towards the other. There I came upon a second door, slightly ajar. I didnât have time to knock. I just shouldered it open and burst in.
I can hardly find words to describe the scene that then unfolded. I can smile at it now, but at the time it made me tremble almost as much as the blades of the rascals behind me.
There lay prostrate before me a dozen men, barefoot and deep in prayer. And I, not content with interrupting their ceremony and trampling on their prayer mat, tripped over someoneâs leg, let out a fruity Genoese oath, and measured my length on the ground. My two pitchers of wine crashed together as I fell. One of them broke, and its unholy contents splashed with a loud gurgle over the rugs on the floor of the little mosque.
God in Heaven! Before I had time to be afraid I was ashamed. How could I, in such a few seconds, have been guilty of so much profanation, boorishness and blasphemy? What could I say? How could I explain? What words could express my regret and remorse? I hadnât even the strength to get to my feet. Then the eldest of those present â he was in front of the rest and leading the prayer â came over, took me by the arm, and helped me up, disconcerting me further by saying:
âForgive us, Master, if we finish praying before attending to you. Be kind enough to wait for us behind the curtain.â
Was I dreaming? Had I misunderstood? This affable tone might have reassured me if I hadnât known how the sins Iâd just committed were usually punished. But what could I do? It was impossible for me to go out into the street again, and I didnât want to make matters worse by perturbing their orisons further with apologies and repinings. All I could do was withdraw obediently behind the curtain. There I found a bare room lit by a small window looking on to a garden. I leaned against the wall and folded my arms.
I didnât have long to wait. When theyâd finished praying they all came into my cell and gathered around me in a half-circle. They gazed at me silently for a moment, exchanging glances with one
Having woken up early, I left the inn and went to the old tannery district to look for an Armenian wine-merchant whose address I still had. I found him quite easily and bought a couple of pitchers of malmsey from him for the journey. As I left his shop I suddenly had a strange feeling. On the steps leading up to the door of a nearby house there was a group of men, talking and glancing furtively in my direction. Something glinted like a blade in the eyes of one of them.
As I walked on through the narrow streets I felt more and more as if I was being followed, spied on, encircled. Was I just imagining it? I was sorry now that Iâd ventured here alone, without my clerk or my nephews. I was sorry I hadnât gone back to the Armenianâs shop as soon as I scented danger. But it was too late. Two of the men were now walking in front of me, and when I turned round I saw two more of them cutting off my retreat. The street I was in had emptied as if by magic. A few moments before it had seemed quite busy â not crowded, but not empty either. Now there was no one. A desert. I could already see myself being stabbed and then robbed of all I had. This is where my journey ends, I thought with a shudder. Iâd have shouted for help, but I couldnât utter a sound.
Looking round desperately for some way of escape, I noticed, on my right, the doorway of a house. With a last effort I clutched at the door-knob, and it opened. Inside, all that was to be seen was a dark corridor. To hide there would be no better than choosing the place to have my throat cut. So as my pursuers followed me into the passage at one end, I hastened along it towards the other. There I came upon a second door, slightly ajar. I didnât have time to knock. I just shouldered it open and burst in.
I can hardly find words to describe the scene that then unfolded. I can smile at it now, but at the time it made me tremble almost as much as the blades of the rascals behind me.
There lay prostrate before me a dozen men, barefoot and deep in prayer. And I, not content with interrupting their ceremony and trampling on their prayer mat, tripped over someoneâs leg, let out a fruity Genoese oath, and measured my length on the ground. My two pitchers of wine crashed together as I fell. One of them broke, and its unholy contents splashed with a loud gurgle over the rugs on the floor of the little mosque.
God in Heaven! Before I had time to be afraid I was ashamed. How could I, in such a few seconds, have been guilty of so much profanation, boorishness and blasphemy? What could I say? How could I explain? What words could express my regret and remorse? I hadnât even the strength to get to my feet. Then the eldest of those present â he was in front of the rest and leading the prayer â came over, took me by the arm, and helped me up, disconcerting me further by saying:
âForgive us, Master, if we finish praying before attending to you. Be kind enough to wait for us behind the curtain.â
Was I dreaming? Had I misunderstood? This affable tone might have reassured me if I hadnât known how the sins Iâd just committed were usually punished. But what could I do? It was impossible for me to go out into the street again, and I didnât want to make matters worse by perturbing their orisons further with apologies and repinings. All I could do was withdraw obediently behind the curtain. There I found a bare room lit by a small window looking on to a garden. I leaned against the wall and folded my arms.
I didnât have long to wait. When theyâd finished praying they all came into my cell and gathered around me in a half-circle. They gazed at me silently for a moment, exchanging glances with one
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