Chapter 81: The Island Vacation: II
At the first words, the men around the fire stood and approached the landing. They seemed satisfied and returned to the fire, except one who remained on shore. When the boat came within twenty paces, the man raised his carbine like a sentinel.
"Who comes there?" he called in Sardinian.
Franz cocked both barrels of his gun. Gaetano exchanged words with the sentinel in a language Franz didn’t understand.
"Will your excellency give your name or remain anonymous?" Gaetano asked.
"Keep it anonymous. Just say I’m a Frenchman traveling for pleasure."
After Gaetano relayed this, the sentinel signaled to someone at the fire. A man rose and disappeared among the rocks, then reappeared from the opposite side. He nodded to the sentinel.
"Come aboard," the sentinel called.
The sailors didn’t wait for a second invitation. Four strokes brought them to land. Gaetano sprang ashore and exchanged words with the sentinel while his companions disembarked. Franz came last, one gun slung over his shoulder, Gaetano carrying the other, a sailor holding his rifle. His half-artist, half-dandy appearance raised no suspicion.
They advanced to find a comfortable spot to rest, but the sentinel redirected them. "Not that way, please."
Gaetano apologized and moved to the opposite side while two sailors lit torches from the fire. They walked about thirty paces and stopped at a small clearing surrounded by rocks that had been carved into seat-like formations. Dwarf oaks and myrtle bushes grew in the rock crevices.
Franz lowered his torch and saw accumulated cinders, he wasn’t the first to discover this retreat. Once on solid ground, having seen the indifferent if not friendly demeanor of his hosts, his anxiety vanished. At the sight of the roasting goat, it transformed into appetite.
He mentioned this to Gaetano, who replied they had bread, wine, and partridges in the boat, everything needed for supper.
"Besides," Gaetano added, "if the smell of their meat tempts you, I’ll offer them two of our birds for a slice."
"Try it."
The sailors gathered wood for a fire while Gaetano departed. Franz waited impatiently, inhaling the aroma, until the captain returned looking mysterious.
"Well? Do they refuse?"
"On the contrary. The chief, learning you’re a young Frenchman, invites you to dine with him."
"I see no problem with that."
"There’s one condition, a peculiar one. You must be blindfolded and cannot remove it until he permits."
Franz studied Gaetano’s face, trying to read his thoughts.
"I know it’s serious," Gaetano said, guessing Franz’s concern.
"What would you do?"
"I have nothing to lose, I’d go."
"Out of curiosity?"
"Yes."
"There’s something unusual about this chief?"
Gaetano lowered his voice and glanced around. "I don’t know if it’s true, but they say this chief lives in a cavern that makes the Pitti Palace look like nothing."
"What nonsense!"
"It’s no nonsense. Cama, the pilot of the Saint Ferdinand, went inside once. He came back amazed, swearing such treasures only exist in fairy tales."
"Like Ali Baba’s cave?"
"I only tell you what I’ve heard."
"Do you advise me to accept?"
"I won’t advise you either way, excellency. That’s your decision."
Franz pondered. A man so rich wouldn’t bother robbing him of his meager possessions. The prospect of a good supper decided him. He accepted.
While Gaetano departed with the reply, Franz turned to a sailor who was calmly plucking partridges. "How did these men arrive? I see no vessel."
"I know their ship," the sailor replied.
"Is it impressive?"
"I wouldn’t want better to sail around the world."
"What’s its tonnage?"
"About a hundred tons. Built to withstand any weather. The English call it a yacht."
"Where was it built?"
"I believe Genoa."
"And how did a smuggler leader build such a vessel in Genoa?"
"I didn’t say the owner was a smuggler."
"But Gaetano implied-"
"Gaetano only saw the vessel from a distance."
"Then who is he?"
"A wealthy gentleman who travels for pleasure."
"What’s his name?"
"He calls himself Sinbad the Sailor, though I doubt that’s his real name."
"Sinbad the Sailor?"
"Yes."
"Where does he live?"
"On the sea."
"What nationality?"
"I don’t know."
"Have you seen him?"
"Sometimes."
"What’s he like?"
"Your excellency will judge for yourself."
"Where will he receive me?"
"In the subterranean palace Gaetano mentioned."
"Haven’t you been curious to search for this palace?"
"Many times, but we never found an entrance. They say the door opens by magic word, not key."
Franz muttered, "This is like the Arabian Nights."
"His excellency awaits you," said a voice, the sentinel, accompanied by two crew members from the yacht.
Franz drew his handkerchief and presented it. Without speaking, they blindfolded him carefully, making him promise not to attempt removing it.
The two guides took his arms and led him forward, preceded by the sentinel. After thirty paces, he smelled the roasting kid, they were passing the bivouac. They continued another fifty paces toward the prohibited area. Soon the atmosphere changed, indicating they’d entered a cave. After a few more seconds, he heard crackling sounds and the air became balmy and perfumed. His feet touched thick, soft carpet, and his guides released him.
After a moment’s silence, a voice speaking excellent French with a foreign accent said:
"Welcome, sir. Please remove your blindfold."
Franz didn’t wait. He pulled off the handkerchief and found himself facing a man of thirty-eight to forty years, dressed in Tunisian costume, red cap with long blue silk tassel, black vest embroidered with gold, deep red pantaloons, embroidered gaiters, yellow slippers, splendid cashmere around his waist, and a small curved dagger in his belt.
Despite pallor that was almost deathly, the man had a remarkably handsome face. His eyes were penetrating and sparkling, his nose perfectly straight and Greek in form, his teeth white as pearls set off by a black mustache. His peculiar pallor suggested someone long entombed, incapable of resuming life’s healthy glow. He wasn’t particularly tall but extremely well-proportioned with small hands and feet characteristic of southern men.
What astonished Franz most was the splendor of the apartment, exactly as Gaetano had described. The chamber was lined with crimson brocade worked with gold flowers. A divan occupied a recess, surmounted by Arabian swords in silver scabbards with gem-studded handles. A Venetian glass lamp hung from the ceiling. A Turkey carpet covered the floor. Tapestries hung before both doorways, the second leading to another brilliantly lit chamber.
The host gave Franz time to recover, returning his stare without blinking.
"Sir," he finally said, "a thousand apologies for the precaution. This island is deserted most of the year. If my abode’s secret were discovered, I’d return to find it disturbed, which would annoy me, not for any loss, but because I’d lose the certainty of separating myself from mankind at pleasure. Let me make you forget this temporary unpleasantness and offer what you probably didn’t expect, a tolerable supper and comfortable beds."
"No apologies necessary," Franz replied. "I’ve always observed that people’s eyes are bandaged when entering enchanted palaces. What I see reminds me of the Arabian Nights."
"If I’d anticipated your visit, I would have prepared. But my hermitage is at your disposal, my supper yours to share. Ali, is supper ready?"
A Nubian dressed in white appeared from behind the tapestry, signaling that all was prepared.
"I don’t know your opinion," the unknown man continued, "but I find nothing more annoying than spending hours together without knowing how to address each other. I respect hospitality laws too much to ask your name. Just give me something to call you. As for myself, I’m generally called Sinbad the Sailor."
"Then I’ll be Aladdin," Franz said with a smile. "I only lack the magic lamp to complete the role. It keeps us in the Eastern spirit."
"Well then, Signor Aladdin, your humble servant will show you to the dining room."
Sinbad moved aside the tapestry and led Franz into another chamber. The dining room was entirely marble with priceless antique bas-reliefs. Four magnificent statues stood at the corners holding baskets filled with pyramids of splendid fruit, Sicilian pineapples, Malaga pomegranates, oranges from the Balearic Isles, French peaches, Tunisian dates.
The supper consisted of roast pheasant garnished with Corsican blackbirds, boar’s ham with jelly, kid with tartar sauce, turbot, and a gigantic lobster. Silver dishes and Japanese china covered the table.
Franz rubbed his eyes, wondering if he was dreaming.
Only Ali attended them, performing his duties admirably.
"Yes," Sinbad said when Franz complimented the service, "he’s devoted to me because I saved his life. He remembers that."
Ali approached, took his master’s hand, and kissed it.
"What happened?" Franz asked.
"Simple enough. He was caught too near the Bey of Tunis’s harem, inappropriate for someone of his color. He was condemned to have his tongue cut out the first day, his hand the second, his head the third. I’d always wanted a mute servant. Learning his tongue would be cut out, I visited the Bey and offered a splendid double-barreled gun I knew he desired. He hesitated, he wanted to complete the punishment. But when I added an English cutlass with which I’d shattered his yataghan, the Bey yielded. He agreed to spare the hand and head on condition that Ali never return to Tunis. Unnecessary condition, whenever the coward glimpses African shores, he runs below deck."