No matter how many times I told myself that to my mind such crates must only contain salted fish, my heart skipped a beat every time I read the stencil. They certainly didn’t give off the odor offish. Every once in a while, I’d catch the fragrance of lavender or cloves from between the slats. And the crew had an easier time hoisting this lighter burden from the tenders over the sides of the ship and into the hold than they ever would have had with fish.
Still, the planks of a ship were not like a convent garden, not like noble drawing rooms where I felt young and awkward. I was first mate here; I was at home, and the accustomed work, the rapid obedience by the crew of every order I gave, made me remember my betrayal in the halls of the Foscari in a different light. Here, I knew what was expected of me and did it. I did it well. That put the weight of all of Venetian society on my side. A disobedient young girl had no hope of having her way against such a weight. I had no need to be unnerved by her like a landlubber in his first storm.
“Now that is one thing I have always liked about Turkish,” Husayn interrupted my thoughts with his again. “They are not so particular as either Italian or Arabic about the gender of things, so similes can be many things at once.”
“Come, my friend,” I said, elbowing him more impatiently than was necessary toward the spot where he could better oversee the stowing of his cargo. “You must be careful how you speak of your native tongue. One of my oarsmen might have heard you just now, Husayn, and no one must know you are not what you seem.”
“Surely you are afraid of pirates, my friend?” Husayn smiled.
“Turkish corsairs? Not with you on board.”
“I had in mind more certain Christian crusaders.”
“You mean, perhaps, the Knights of Malta?”
“Truly no better than pirates.”
“All right, no better.” I agreed with him to hasten our exchange along.
“They don’t want anyone going to Constantinople. They are opposed to all trade and free enterprise.”
“It’s not the trading they oppose.”
“The idea of material gain offends their spirituality.”
“The material gain of Christians presents no problem.”
“That of Muslims, on the other hand—”
“I apologize for my co-religionists,” I said.
“As I apologize for mine.”
“My point is, Husayn, you are a Syrian, a subject of the Turks.”
“You find fault with my Venetian?”
“Your Venetian is nearly perfect—as is your Turkish and your Arabic and your Genoese and your French. Being plump and rather fair-skinned, you need only a change of costume to make a proper merchant of the Republic out of you.”
Husayn laughed at my appraisal of him and shifted the taut waist of his gold-worked doublet with vanity so the hem of it reached properly below his knees again.
“Granted, you love the clink of ducats more than the niceties of religion. You think nothing of drinking wine, eating pork sausage, crossing yourself, or even saying a ‘Hail Mary’ or two when the need arises. Still, when a longing for home hits you, I can detect the Muslim beneath the gloss.”
Husayn thoughtfully smoothed his moustache into his beard.
“I didn’t give it a second thought when Uncle Jacopo agreed to transport you, seventy bolts of textiles, and four dozen carefully straw-packed crates of glassware to Constantinople on this voyage. I only rejoiced, thinking of the company.”
“My friend, I thank you.” Husayn’s exaggerated gracious -ness was not devoid of sarcasm, but good-natured enough. “You and your uncle will always display the most lavish gratitude for my business.”
“I would like to keep this company.”
“And the business. As I appreciate the season’s earliest possible return to trade and escape from this land of ignorance.”
“My uncle knows you are harmless, I know you are harmless.”
“Now, is that a compliment or not?”
“You are only trading in the finished product, after all, not in the technical secrets that made Venetian glass the wonder of the world.”
“Secrets for which men have lost their lives in your serene Republic.”
“All I’m saying is that with self-righteous pirates on the seas, it is prudent not to burden any more souls than necessary with your true identity.”
Husayn flashed me one of his guileless smiles, sparked with the vanity of gold teeth, and said, “Very well, my friend. No more Arabic or Turkish lessons on this voyage.”
“Thank you, Husayn.”
“But then you must stop calling me Husayn.”
I blanched at my slip. “Enrico,” I stammered. “Enrico.”
Husayn smiled. “You are but young in this sort of business, my friend, to be lecturing me of pirates and disguise. But you will do well in time. Enrico is my name, if you please. Enrico Battista. Until we reach Constantinople. Then I may well call you Abdullah, the servant of Allah—”
He suddenly cut short what had all the makings of another long discourse to scurry across the deck like a well-fed rat and yell at the careless seaman he’d caught manhandling his crates. “Ho! You clumsy oaf! Watch how you toss that glassware around!”
Curses are the first thing a trader learns in any tongue and my friend acquitted himself flawlessly, progressing from “Son of a cow!” to “The Madonna of your quarter is a whore! Not worth two tapers!” and “Your saint couldn’t work a miracle to save his life!” Had anyone guessed he was a Muslim, the entire town would have been up in arms. But such blasphemy was taken lightly enough between Christians and, since things soon settled back to business on deck, I felt my earlier fears unfounded.
“And now shall we see if we can tame this sultry, watery mistress of ours?” Husayn said with a wink when his attention returned to me.
“Aye, aye, Uncle Enrico, sir.”
I joined in Husayn’s laughter and he clipped me heartily on the back as he set off about his business and left me to mine.
VI
I’m afraid my activity
