Consolaçam 3

By Ron Singer

Chapter Three

In the event, my meeting with the Captain proved to be even easier than Demo had anticipated. Since the ship’s need for a new carpenter was pressing, once Michalopoulos had ascertained my competence, he could not have cared less about my religion. In fact, he raised the matter, himself, but only to reassure me.

“I realize you are a Sephardic Jew, Abreu bey, and not even a marrano [convert who secretly practices Judaism]. I also know that my predecessor, the former captain of my vessel, the αρχάγγελος, used to pretend to carry to safety those of you who were attempting to escape the Inquisition, and then, perfidiously, to sell them into slavery in north Africa. In fact, I also know that you, yourself, were among the few who managed to avoid this misfortune. Please understand that it was my predecessor who was guilty of the terrible crime of trading in fellow human beings, and that when I assumed the captaincy, two months ago, it was with the understanding that the practice would immediately cease.”

To conclude this part of the story, when the contract proved exactly as Demo had described it, I promptly signed on. Did I believe the pious Captain’s apologia? There were so many arguments as to why it might, or might not, have been true that I did not bother my head with them. Is anything in this world certain? In a sense, even my co-religionists, the rich Jews of Selânik, had played me false, so whom could I trust? Only Demo and myself. (And I was less sure of the latter.) I decided just to wait and see.

My new job began propitiously enough. Every two months, or so, when the Archangel would dock at Selânik, I would repair, as needed, worn or broken ship’s furniture, a bulkhead, spar, or section of decking. Between times, I was a man of leisure, or as close to that as I had ever been, in my nineteen years in this vale of tears and illusion.

This comfortable pattern lasted for almost a full year, during which time the Archangel completed some two-dozen circuits between Lisbon and Selânik. Then, when the ship arrived once again, during Elul [August-September], its foremast had apparently shown ominous signs —splinters, cracks, and such— of imminent failure. This meant that I was contractually obliged to join the return voyage to Lisbon, where the company maintained its facility for major repairs.

You may be surprised at my reaction to this news: I was glad! You see, my life in Selânik had become rather gray. For that matter, without any close ties, it could even be said that I had no life, at all! For I was still a bachelor, my parents had probably both died, back in Cordoba, and the whereabouts of Chana Jael, my older sister and sole sibling, were unknown to me. Yes, a fourteen days’ sea voyage might put some color back into my life.

During the first four days and nights, the voyage proved pleasant and uneventful. Without any shipboard duties of my own, I volunteered to stand some of the watches of Demo and his friends, which made me a very popular man. But, on the fifth day, things took a dramatic turn for the worse.

Having contracted an intestinal “bug,” Demo was confined to the crew’s cabin, where he tossed so feverishly in his hammock that I feared he might fall out, and possibly suffer broken bones. At this point, my nemesis, one Diego Scaramanga, struck. This was the same man who had threatened me when I interceded on behalf of the women and girls he had been attempting to molest on the way to Africa the previous year.

Now, this hulking, greasy fool, possibly knowing that my principal protector, Demo ,was out of the way, renewed his threats against me. The ugly incident took place on the deserted top deck during one of my surrogate night watches.

“I remember you, ‘Carpenter’ bey,” he sneered. “And I know what you are! Unless you let me do as I please with you, I intend to report you, as a fugitive from Christian justice, to the authorities of the Spanish Inquisition.” And to clarify what he meant by “do as I please with you,” he began to unbutton his flies.

Unfortunately for Don Scaramanga, I was well prepared for just this kind of trouble. For, shortly before the voyage, I had visited the shop of an acquaintance, a Jewish gunsmith. The man had sold me, at a very moderate price, an ingenious weapon that had recently been designed by another co-religionist. This was a tiny pistolet [pistol] attached to a silken cord, so that it could be hidden up one’s sleeve, and accessed in a matter of a second, or two.

“Should I shoot this miscreant in the heart, or in his ugly face?” I wondered. Instead, I aimed directly at his groin, and I did not miss. The man was so grievously wounded that, when we reached Lisbon ten days later, he was still delirious. I did not learn if he ever recovered full use of the offending member.

Since the violent incident had occurred on his ship, it fell to Captain Michalopoulos to adjudicate. The good Captain gave credence to the testimony of my friend, Demo, that the injured man had previously threatened me. Accordingly, even though there were no witnesses to the present incident, the Captain accepted my testimony about its provocation. His verdict was to exonerate me fully, and to cashier the injured Scaramanga.

The remainder of the voyage passed without further incident. When we reached Lisbon, I supervised the replacement of the mast and, by the middle of the following month, Tishrei [September-October], I was back in Selânik, where I gratefully resumed my gray existence.