Q by Luther Blissett (most recommended books txt) 📖

Venice, 6th March 1546

Campo Barbaro. The tip of the Giudecca.

The Miquez’ splendid house faces St Mark’s, which, on a clear sunny day like this, looks so close that you could reach out and touch it.

The house is seigneurial, with an internal garden abundant with unfamiliar plants and vegetation. The objects tell a story of endless wandering: carpets, porcelain, furniture, fabrics, from the shores of Africa that abut the territories of Spain and Portugal, to the gates of the Orient, to the Turk who now has his eye on the Adriatic, and the Moorish forms of Iberia, a bizarre and original mixture. Greek crosses, and enormous silver crosses from Spain, but also seven-branched candelabras and reliquaries containing parchment rolls and coins, which look as though they might have come from the tombs of the Biblical prophets.

I am shown to a chair on a wide patio, facing the garden. Jo�o Miquez carefully opens a wooden box and offers me a cigar. I feel a sudden rush of enthusiasm and pleasurable memories.

‘I’m delighted to meet someone who’s capable of appreciating the flavours of the Indies.

A sudden shadow falls across my thoughts.

‘Don Jo�o, throughout my life I have known little of splendour and luxury, and I have always had to trust my intuition.’ A glance around. ‘You must be one of the richest men in Venice. You come to dinner in my brothel, you save my life and invite me to your home. Why?’

A disarming smile, and he nods. ‘At long last, a reaction in the German style.’ He pours me a finger of wine in a little crystal glass. ‘And were it not for the fact that people say that’s what you are, I’d have had trouble believing it. You know, when you turn up in a new city, determined not to sit twiddling your thumbs, you have to work out as quickly as you can what your opportunities are, and who is worth knowing.’ He gives me a telling glance. ‘Your fellow-countrymen call them business dealings. I would be inclined to call them affinities. They are what gives life its flavour, and they open up interesting perspectives.’

I interrupt him. ‘Are you sure that a man working as a brothel-keeper is what you’re looking for?’

‘A German arrives in Venice from Switzerland. His past is mostly unknown, he has a considerable fortune probably accumulated in the Northern ports, he associates on equal terms with the local printers and booksellers, he knows how to keep hotheads at bay, and he opens the finest brothel in the city. And on top of that he bears the name of a heretic whom I saw being burned outside the walls of Antwerp: Lodewijck de Schaliedecker, better known as Eloi Pruystinck.’

My blood is racing like mad. I mustn’t lose control. A deep breath: I exhale, to ease my tension.

I hold his gaze. ‘Where do you think the conversation should go from here?’�

His black eyes contrast with the brilliant white teeth glimpsed occasionally. ‘We’re all merchants and fugitives. We don’t need to beat around the bush.’

‘We agree on that. So tell me who you are.’

He makes himself comfortable in his chair, relaxed, cigar in one hand, glass in the other. ‘My flight began twenty years before I was born, in 1492, when the most Catholic Ferdinand and Isabella, sovereigns of Aragon and Castille, decided to free themselves from the huge debts they had run up with the Jewish bankers, and set the Inquisition on them. My ancestors had to flee in great haste for the first time, reappearing in Portugal, where, obviously for the sake of convenience, we embraced the Christian faith, safeguarding our inheritance. I was born in Lisbon in 1514, and my aunt, Beatriz de Luna, was born four years before me. We were rich, and among the most respected families in Portugal. My aunt, donna Beatrice, whom you will meet shortly, combined her fortune with that of the banker Francisco Mendez, just before 1530. Within a few years history repeated itself: the Portuguese monarchs, dramatically short of funds, called in the Inquisition and set it upon the Jews in order to get their hands on their properties. But this time we were ready, we’d been ready for forty years: my aunt was widowed and inherited the Mendez fortune, just as we were preparing to leave Portugal for good. It was 1536 when we reached the Low Countries.’

A pause. He shrugs. ‘Jo�o Miquez, Juan Micas, Jean Miche, Giovanni Miches, or Zuan, as they call me here. There are as many versions of my name as there are countries that I’ve passed through. For Emperor Charles V I was Jehan Micas.’

The tension has subsided somewhat, my open face says that I trust him.

‘Were you the Emperor’s banker?’

He nods. ‘Yes, but he wasn’t as generous to us as he was to the Fuggers of Augsburg. We had to carve ourselves a little niche in the face of the greed of your fellow-countrymen. They’re not terribly keen on competition. After some time, the Emperor started to look to our fortune as well, and suggested that my cousin marry one of his relations, a gentile, Francis of Aragon. My aunt, who had a healthy mistrust of the Emperor’s matrimonial strategies, refused. And thus it was that the most Catholic one saw fit to accuse us of crypto-Juadaism, and we were denounced to the Inquisition as false Christians. Pretty shameless, don’t you think? First they force us to change religion, and then they throw it back in our faces. But money is money, and the Inquisition in the Low Countries takes particular care of the interests of Charles and his friends the Fuggers…’

He stops, waiting for me to grasp what, I’m almost sure, is more than a mere allusion. He can’t know exactly who he’s speaking to, but he must be at least as troubled by his suspicions and presentiments as I am.

He goes on: ‘We knew that Charles V wouldn’t let us out of his territories without a fight, so we came up with a plan. I faked an elopement with my cousin Reyna, and we headed for France. My aunt, on the pretext of following her wayward daughter, came after us. I stopped at the border and, once I’d brought the women to safety, I returned to Antwerp to prevent the sequestration of my family inheritance. I only succeeded after two years of exhausting negotiations with the Emperor, and after buying off the inquisitors with quantities of gold. And finally, here I am in Venice.’

A servant glides up behind him and whispers something in his ear.

Miquez gets to his feet. ‘Dinner is served. Are you still willing to dine with us?’

I hesitate, looking him right in the eyes.

‘You saved my life today. You weren’t there by chance, were you?’

He smiles. ‘The advantage of having such an extended family is that you have lots of extra eyes and ears. But I hope you’ll learn to appreciate us for all our other qualities as well.’

*

‘How long have you been on the run?’

A luxurious library, long and narrow, inlaid wooden shelves, antique volumes; behind the desk, leaning against the wall, a Moorish scimitar.

‘I told you, ever since priests and prophets claimed a hold of my life. I fought with M�ntzer and the peasants against the princes. Anabaptist in the madness that was M�nster. Purveyor of divine justice with Jan Batenburg. Companion of Eloi Prystinck among the free spirits of Antwerp. A different faith each time, always the same enemies, one defeat.’

‘A defeat that’s left you with a considerable fortune. How did you manage that?’

‘By defrauding the Fuggers, using their own weapons, and paying a price that I’d rather not have paid. Eloi picked me up when I was dead and gave me back a life, possibilities, people to love. And the old instinct for battle, with different goals and different weapons. It worked until the Inquisition swooped on us. The irony is that we were waiting for the cops, and the priests turned up instead. ‘

He interrupts me: ‘And were you surprised? Our history should have told you something about that. I’ve always thought that business about tricking the Fuggers was a fairy-tale. There were rumours about it going around Antwerp, but it didn’t seem possible. How much did you get away with?’

‘Three hundred thousand florins. With false letters of credit.’

A gratified expression. He whistles. ‘And you really thought Anton the Jackal would stand and watch? I’d be inclined to say that he was the one who put the crows of the Holy Office on to you. In the Low Countries, even the Inquisition is a branch of the Fuggers, and it must have suited Anton Fugger to expel you as heretics rather than admitting he’d been cheated. I think it’s a miracle you’re still alive.’

I go on thinking: Miquez’ remarks are so simple and direct that they don’t leave much room for doubt.�

‘What do you learn from it? They’ll get you anyway. You’ve got to stand your ground, you mustn’t stick your neck out.’

Miquez, with a serious face: ‘Exactly the opposite: that you’ve got to move very fast. You’ve got to be faster than they are. You’ve got to blend into the crowd, have a goal to aim for, flatter your enemies