ON HIS DEATHBED, Marco Polo was asked by a priest to admit what the world already knew: that he had stretched the truth about his travels. The old voyager is said to have shot back, "I have not told the half of what I saw and did." He died, but he did not give up the spirit.
Gary Jennings, the author of Aztec, has now told the other half--and then some. He is a consummate story- teller. This is in both ways a fabulous book.
The Journeyer opens with a letter from Messer Marco to Luigi Rustichello of Pisa, the writer of romances who collaborated with Polo on his book The Travels while the two were prisoners of war in Genoa. Rustichello has written Marco, now an autumnal Venetian of 66, asking him to "tell all" about the 24-year voyage from Venice to Peking and back. He wants the material for an epic poem about a peripatetic Frenchman. Recalling that "we determined to leave out of the (first) book anything which might strain the credence of any stay-at-home- reader," Marco embraces his old friend's new literary endeavor. He is also more than pleased to comply, for reasons we do not fully appreciate until the end of this, his second book.
The essentials of the tale are the same: Marco, his father and uncle set out for the court of the Khan Kubilai for the purpose of bringing thither commerce and Christianity. To say that adventures occur is like saying The Right Stuff is about flying machines.
They bring with them bricks of saffron, more valuable than gold, "cods" of musk, hidden about their privates, and two dispirited Dominican priests who vamoose after one look at the glorious East. The Polos continue on. Their return a quarter century later is at first less than auspicious.
"But I expected you on jeweled elephants," complains the first Venetian they meet, "I Re Magi, coming out of the East in a triumphal parade, with Nubian slaves beating drums. And here you creep in from a foggy night, smelling like the crotch of a Sirkeci whor*!"
Picaresque and exceedingly bawdy, The Journeyer might have been titled, The Unexpurgated Travels. It falls generically somewhere between Tobias Smollett and Henry Miller. Marco is full of the sap of youth, which gets poured--somewhat faster than maple syrup --across the girth of Asia. It is, in fact, sexual misadventure that propels him from Venice in the first place.
The author's Rabelaisian zeal suits the story well, but at times is not so much engrossing as gross. There is probably more here than you wanted to know about 13th-century palliatives for hemorrhoids (a boiled onion), the making of eunuchs, and the cl*toral mysteries of Moslem maidens. But the detailing is overall sumptuous, representing extraordinary research and enough imagination to embroider several novels.
The travelogue bogs down occasionally, but there are interesting lagniappes throughout on such as the etymology of caio, "the languid Venetian way of saying schiavo, 'your slave,' " and the Farsi words, pajama, paradise, and shampoo. It is compulsively discursive and explanatory, a kind of Whole Earth catalogue of the 13th century.
After Marco returns to Venice, the book compellingly moves from the piquant to the poignant. He punches his ticket in the Genoese war, publishes his Travels, and becomes both celebrated and notorious as "Marco of the Millions" (of tales), an affectionately derisive sobriquet. He obtains a brief diplomatic posting to Bruges, then returns to Venice for the last time.
His once-tantalizing wife, having given birth to three daughters, despairs of producing a son and turns herself prematurely into a bombazined matron in order to discourage her husband's connubial attentions. Marco bears this with good humor and forebearance, not especially caring about the male heir imperative. He is a good papa to his unadoring and unadorable daughters. "I do not mean to say that they are drooling imbeciles," he explains ingenuously. "They are no worse than unperceptive and lackluster and charmless."
He goes around telling his stories about the wonders he saw along the road to China; and finds that no one wants to listen.
Invited to the Doge and Dogaressa's for dinner, he merrily tells a story about the Champan custom of blinding children who show talent for music so that their hearing will sharpen. After an awkward silence, the Dogaressa sniffs that it is not a fit story for her table, and the Polos are never invited back.
When a young Venetian comes to court one of Marco's daughters, he tells him a funny tale about a wife-beater in Khanbalik. The humorless young Venetian is put off, and Marco is obstreperously berated by his wife and daughter.
"Marcolfo vechio!" shrieks Mrs. Polo, "Can you not curb your everlasting old reminiscences and your wandering old wits?"
The man who saw more of the world than any other is finally reduced to telling his stories to the cook. When he tries to describe the delicious moon cakes he tasted in the land of the Kithai and Manzi he finds himself being ejected from his own kitchen.
"Have you been bothering Nata again?" his wife demands.
"Bothering her indeed! . . . The woman had the effrontery to complain that she is tired of hearing of the sumptuous viands I used to enjoy abroad, and she will hear not another word about them! Che braga! Is that any way for a domestic to speak to her own master?"
Poor Marco!
But in closing his letter to Luigi, he is uncomplaining, unembittered, and at peace with the world that has come to look on him as an eccentric old nuisance. He tells his old scribe only that "those who derided me were wrong. I came back with not nearly so many lies as I took with me when I went away. I departed Venice shining-eyed with expectation of finding those co*ckaigne- dream lands described by earlier Crusaders and the biographers of Alexander and all the other mythmakers --expecting unicorns and dragons and the legendary king-saint Prete ZuMane and fantastic wizards and mystical religions of enviable wisdom. I found them, too, and if I came back to tell that not all of them were what legend has made us believe, was not the truth about them just as wonderful?"
It is 700 years since the journey ended, and about time someone asked that question. Now that he has, one hopes Gary Jennings might turn his craft on another Italian discoverer in time for 1992.
As an avid historian and enthusiast of Marco Polo's travels, I find the article you've provided quite intriguing. My extensive knowledge on the subject allows me to shed light on various concepts mentioned in the text. The piece revolves around Gary Jennings' novel, "The Journeyer," a work that delves into the untold aspects of Marco Polo's adventures.
Firstly, let's address the historical context. Marco Polo, a Venetian explorer, embarked on a 24-year journey from Venice to Peking and back during the 13th century, aiming to establish trade routes and spread Christianity. The article references Polo's collaboration with writer Luigi Rustichello of Pisa on the book "The Travels" during their imprisonment in Genoa, revealing the intriguing circ*mstances behind its creation.
Jennings' novel, "The Journeyer," is described as a picaresque and bawdy tale falling between Tobias Smollett and Henry Miller in genre. The narrative unfolds with Marco Polo's encounters, adventures, and the challenges faced during his odyssey. The author skillfully intertwines historical facts with a Rabelaisian zeal, portraying the protagonist's youthful exuberance and sexual misadventures that drive him from Venice.
The book also touches on the reception of Marco Polo upon his return to Venice, where expectations clash with reality. The descriptions of the Polos' return are vivid, reflecting the disappointment of the locals who expected a triumphant parade but instead received a more subdued homecoming.
Jennings' meticulous research is evident in the sumptuous detailing of various aspects, ranging from 13th-century remedies for hemorrhoids to the etymology of words like "caio." The narrative is described as compulsively discursive and explanatory, resembling a "Whole Earth catalogue of the 13th century."
As the story progresses, the focus shifts from the piquant to the poignant, exploring Marco Polo's later life, his publications, and the challenges he faces as a storyteller. The article touches upon his family life, including his wife's despair over not bearing a son and Marco's relationship with his daughters.
In the closing passages, the article reflects on Marco Polo's legacy and the enduring question of whether his tales were exaggerated or truthful. Despite facing ridicule and skepticism, Polo remains uncomplaining and at peace, asserting that he brought back fewer lies than he took with him.
In conclusion, "The Journeyer" by Gary Jennings offers a captivating exploration of Marco Polo's travels, blending historical facts with imaginative storytelling. It provides a nuanced perspective on the challenges faced by the legendary explorer and invites readers to reconsider the veracity and wonder of his extraordinary journey.
