Balthasar's Odyssey Read Free Page B

awkwardly suggested I should buy. I leafed through it. An undistinguished anthology of the work of little-known poetasters, copied out in shaky and irregular calligraphy, badly bound and badly preserved.
    â€œA unique treasure,” said the old man. “It’s all I have left from my grandfather. I’d never have parted with it if I wasn’t in such dire ...”
    Unique? There must have been something similar in half the houses in the country. It would remain on my hands till the day I died! I thought. But how could I show the poor wretch the door when he’d swallowed his pride and his shame in the hope of getting some money to buy food?
    â€œLeave it with me, hajj Idriss,” I said. “I’ll show it to some of my customers who might be interested.”
    I knew already how I’d proceed. Just as my father would have done, God rest his soul, if he’d still been in my place. For conscience’s sake I made myself read a few of the poems. As I’d seen at first glance, they were mostly minor works, with a few well-turned lines here and there; but on the whole the book was completely trite and unsaleable. At best I might get six maidins for it — more probably three or four — from a customer really keen on Arabic poetry. But in fact I found a better use for it. A few days after Idriss’s visit, an Ottoman dignitary who was passing through came to buy a few things from me. And as he insisted on having a discount, I got myself a satisfied client by giving him the book free as well.
    I waited for just under a week, then went to see the old man. God, how dark his house was! And God, how empty and poor! After I’d pushed open the rickety wooden door I found myself in a room with a bare floor and bare walls. Idriss was sitting on a mud-coloured straw mat. I sat down cross-legged beside him.
    â€œAn important personage came to my shop,” I told him, “and he was pleased when I offered your book to him. I’ve brought you the money that’s due to you.”
    Please note that I told him the exact truth! I can’t bear to lie, though I may occasionally cheat a little by leaving something out. But I was only trying to save the poor man’s dignity by treating him as a merchant rather than a beggar! So I took three one-maidin coins out of my purse, then three five-maidin pieces, pretending to calculate the total carefully.
    He stared at me wide-eyed.
    â€œI didn’t expect all that, my son. Not even half as much ...”
    I shook my finger at him.
    â€œNever say that to a shopkeeper, hajj Idriss. He might be tempted to diddle you.”
    â€œNo danger of that with you, Balthasar effendi! You are my benefactor.”
    I started to get up, but he stopped me.
    â€œI’ve got something else for you,” he said.
    He disappeared behind a curtain for a few moments, then came back carrying another book.
    What, more? I thought to myself. Perhaps he’s got a whole library in the other room. What the devil have I got myself into?
    As if he’d read my thoughts, he hastened to reassure me.
    â€œIt’s the last book I’ve got left,” he said, “and I want you to have it! You and nobody else!”
    He placed it on my hands, open at the first page, as if on a lectern.
    Good heavens!
    The Hundredth Name!
    Mazandarani’s book!
    I’d never have dreamed of finding it in such a hole!
    â€œBut hajj Idriss, this is a very rare book! You ought not to part with it like that!”
    â€œIt’s no longer mine — it’s yours now. Keep it! Read it! I never could.”
    I turned the pages eagerly, but the room was too dark for me to make out more than the title.
    The Hundredth Name!
    God in Heaven!
    As I came out of the shack with the precious tome under my arm, I felt quite drunk. Was it really possible that this book, sought after by the whole world, was in my possession? How many men had come from the ends of the