Act VII All Roads (Part 10)
ten
This year's mild winter meant spring arrived early in the south. Just after February, the streets of Constantinople were already filled with the fragrance of roses, lilies, and irises. Before even disembarking, Schumeer saw those beautiful flowers blooming within the railings of the harbor—planted in the gardens of wealthy families; no matter how high the walls or how sturdy the fences, they couldn't stop the exquisite, fragrant aroma from reaching the nostrils of outsiders. Schumeer looked around and noticed that there seemed to be more ships at the dock than in the previous days.
"There are so many people traveling lately," he said, trying to strike up a conversation with other passengers on the ship. "Spring is here, and people can't resist going out for a stroll?"
His fellow countrymen in Galata sat quietly in the cabin, some clutching ledgers, others carrying medicine chests, ignoring him completely. The boatman sneered at Schumeer, a smile that seemed both mocking and defusing. The neglected outsider could only keep quiet, clutching his bundle full of paintbrushes and paints.
The small boat crossed the Golden Horn and stopped at the smallest, most peripheral of all the docks. Schumeer counted out a few coppers for the boatman and hurried off to the painters' guild. His previous commission had ended prematurely—the owner of the house hadn't initially noticed that his steward had hired a Jew to paint on their walls. Schumeer hadn't received payment, and the steward had lost his job; it was hard to say who was more unfortunate—Schuumeer pushed open the guild's narrow wooden door. Behind the counter stood a young man, looking disdainfully at Schumeer's curly braids.
"Thank goodness, Fernando! The guild hall is still open." Schumacher, carrying his painting supplies, casually leaned against the counter. "I see many small shops are locked up and closed for the holidays."
"Only cowardly fence-sitters would run back to Venice," the young man scoffed. "The guild isn't afraid of those fancy-looking Greeks, nor will it be intimidated by the paranoid Genoese."
“That makes sense, thanks to you all.” Schumeer cleared his throat, his voice lowered by half. “Did I get any work today? You know, my grandmother is sick at home…”
"Alright, alright, it's all here, take a look for yourself." Fernando ignored him and simply pointed to the notice board behind him, "Recently, there have been more and more customers indicating they don't want Jewish artists."
Schumacher pretended not to hear the rest of his sentence, and went straight to pull a papyrus from the side pocket of his parchment to copy the names and addresses of the patrons onto the board. He wrote very quickly and skillfully, and soon had a list ready. He turned to leave, but Fernando called him back.
"The Kanakakis family is hiring painters recently. I heard that many masters haven't been chosen." The young man, resting his chin on his hand, suggested with a mix of sympathy and amusement, "If you were really famous twenty years ago, why don't you give it a try?"
Upon hearing the surname, Schumacher's face broke into an extremely unpleasant smile. "...Thank you for your recommendation, Fernando." He pushed open the door and shuffled outside. "I'll think about it."
There was no work to be found in the Venetian concessions—or rather, it was just as illegal for a Jew to earn a living by painting in the Venetian concessions as it was on the main island. But the Greeks outside the concessions weren't so particular. They disliked Jews just as much, but they didn't like other people either: the empire had so many different races and faiths living together, and even allowed mosques for visitors to be built outside the city walls. Thinking of this, Schumacher felt that Constantinople truly deserved its reputation as an all-encompassing metropolis. He confidently hoped to earn a few silver coins that day to buy food for himself and the Muse, and to pay the rent—his donkey had lost its appetite since disembarking, forcing Schumacher to walk the streets himself, and a portion of his earnings would have to go towards its treatment.
He arrived at a circular plaza and planned his route by the fountain, trying to minimize detours and wear on his shoes. The first patron on his list was a shareholder businessman who lived south of the Arc de Triomphe, the closest to him—Schumel arrived at the courtyard shortly afterward: it was a brand-new and luxurious house, suggesting that making money from money must be quite lucrative, though Schumacher couldn't appreciate its vulgar aesthetic. He thought, this is nothing; he'll paint whatever the patron asks.
“I’m currently in a period of working capital crisis,” the fat, greasy shareholder said. “How about offering shares as compensation?”
Schumacher politely refused him, not even bothering to ask about the details of the commission, and went to the next household without looking back.
The second client on the list lived on the banks of the Lycus River near Piazza della Signoria, and was a silkworm breeder—a noble profession, the trade in raw silk reserved for a select few within the Empire. The client walked with his head held high, as if he were an imperial noble or official. Schumer thought, "But the silk your silkworms produce isn't worn by you."
“My business is exclusively for royalty, and the craft has been passed down through generations.” The man checked Schumacher’s identity documents and then curled his lip impatiently. “Foreign Venetians are not qualified to do business with me.”
Schumacher silently mocked him. Business? What business? I'm not some big client trying to smuggle raw silk; I'm just an artist applying to decorate your walls. Who are you trying to impress? But he said nothing, simply bidding farewell and leaving.
The third patron lived far away, near the city walls close to the Golden Gate; he was a Russian slave trader. Schumeer hurried along Via Messer in the early spring, even breaking into a sweat. The nearby alleys were a melting pot of scoundrels, filthy and rife with bandits and swindlers—Shumer wasn't bothered by this; he thought it wasn't shameful to do this for money. But when he went to the address left at the guild, he discovered it was a horrible brothel.
“You can paint all sorts of things here that will get your guests' blood pumping.” The slave trader led him into a dimly lit room filled with cheap incense, constantly fiddling with a sharp knife in his hand. “Anything is fine, go too far, be blasphemous, be terrifying.”
Schumer caught a glimpse of some young Slavic girls huddled in a corner, staring at him blankly; some were still children but heavily pregnant. He made up a flimsy excuse to flee this horrific place and felt a lingering sense of remorse for witnessing the terrible crimes.
The fourth patron lived furthest away—it was a fish sauce factory. The law stipulated that such factories must be built two blocks away from town to prevent nearby residents from being nauseated by the daily stench. Schumeer went out of town, his feet muddy from walking on the dirt roads. He didn't need to look; he could find the factory by his nose. The stench of rotting, fermenting fish entrails constantly assaulted his throat, making him gag even when he pinched his nose—a worker, seemingly oblivious to his sense of smell, greeted him nonchalantly.
"This job is very simple," the worker said. "You just draw this mark on each bottle, and you get five silver coins a day. You can come and go as you please. Isn't that great?"
Schumeer glanced down at the sign he was handed—a simple line drawing of several sardines lying side by side. Such a drawing didn't require the hard work and effort of painting a mural, which could take more than a year to complete; but it had neither technical content nor a sense of accomplishment, not to mention doing this work in hellish conditions.
“…I need to think about it.” Schumeer was almost out of breath. “I’m going out to catch my breath.”
He vaguely overheard the worker saying behind his back that he was a spoiled and arrogant painter—Schumel didn't bother to refute it. He pulled out the list he had copied, wanting to see if there were any other options: the last job was for the Christian church. He didn't even need to think before crossing it off. No Christian church would ever hire a Jewish painter.
Schumeer took a deep breath of the outside air and turned back into the fish sauce factory. "Finish today, get paid today?" This time he didn't pinch his nose; the terrible stench assaulted his skull.
"It's already noon. If you start working now, I can pay you for half a day's work," the worker said coldly.
As evening fell, Schumeer boarded a small boat in Golden Horn Bay with a bag of copper coins in his pocket. All the passengers held their noses and avoided him, many disembarking directly. "You should take someone else's boat!" the boatman couldn't help but advise him. "If you sit here, I won't be able to make any business this time!"
“That’s discrimination, that’s differential treatment!” Schumacher stood up, glaring at him, causing the small boat to rock. “How can you kick out passengers who are already on board?”
"It's not that I'm targeting you, but look for yourself, everyone's run away!" The boatman refused to leave, his face full of bitterness. "If you insist on taking my boat, you'll have to pay ten times the fare, consider it a charter!"
Schumer glanced quickly at the empty seat next to him. “Five times!” he blurted out in a flash. “How can your boat possibly fit so many people? With just me as a passenger, you'd have to row with less effort!”
The boatman, taken aback by his eloquence, hesitated for a moment before finally sighing and agreeing. The two sailed alone into the brilliant waters of Golden Horn Bay, navigating the busy, congested waterway. "Don't lie there like that, your stench is seeping into my boat!" the boatman reluctantly reminded him. "What bad luck, this trip is a complete waste."
Schumeer's amber eyes reflected the crimson clouds and sky, the sound of crashing waves filling his ears and drowning out the boatman's complaints. He lay there contentedly, stretching out in the cramped cabin—a pleasure he rarely had the chance to experience. A seagull perched on the bow, seemingly drawn by the scent, its shifty eyes fixed on him.
"Everyone has their bad days," Schumacher said, looking at the seagull. "But no one is unlucky forever."
His lodging in Galata was a cramped bungalow, with straw covering both the bed and the floor. Schumeer pushed open the door and found his muse curled up motionless in the bed, terminally ill. Schumeer recalled that he hadn't seen it defecate for several days.
“Sometimes I really wonder, what am I taking care of you for?” He dragged over a clump of tender green grass, grabbing handfuls at the donkey’s mouth. “You saved my life, but you’re still just a donkey. I should take you to the market and sell you while you’re still alive.” Schumeer muttered to himself, watching as Muse, as if refuting him, struggled to snatch the grass from his hand. “If you die, I’ll make a little bag out of your skin and carry it with me every day. That’s not a bad end, is it?”
The donkey couldn't speak. Its dark eyes stared at him without any emotion.
"I hope a miracle healer will appear tonight and suddenly cure you, so you'll be lively and energetic again tomorrow!" Schumeer piled the hay near Muse's mouth, then got up and went to the bed to count all the remaining possessions.
He had fifty silver coins left, enough to live here for a month.
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