Suleiman's Shadow: An Imperial Gift and the Cartography of Being
From Lisbon to Vienna, a Royal Elephant embarks on an extraordinary sixteenth-century trek. José Saramago's novel explores power, humanity, and the absurdities of a gift that transcended borders.
In the annals of the sixteenth century, a period marked by the collision of worlds and the redrawing of maps both terrestrial and spiritual, there exists a singular, almost improbable episode: the gift of an elephant. Not just any elephant, but Suleiman, an Asian elephant whose journey from the distant shores of Ceylon to the heart of the Habsburg Empire became, in the hands of José Saramago, a profound meditation on the nature of existence itself.
The facts, as gleaned from the historical record, are skeletal, almost incidental. In 1551, King João III of Portugal, seeking to solidify his alliance with the burgeoning Habsburg dynasty, presented Archduke Maximilian, his nephew by marriage and future Holy Roman Emperor, with a rather unconventional wedding present. It was a gesture of both opulence and political calculation, a living testament to Portugal’s far-flung colonial reach. The elephant, a creature of mythic proportions in the European imagination, was more than just an animal; it was a walking, breathing symbol of power, exoticism, and the unknown.
The subsequent journey of Suleiman – or Salomão, as he was known in Portuguese – is a matter of documented fact, though the details are sparse. We know he travelled from Lisbon to Valladolid, then by sea to Genoa, and finally overland through the Italian peninsula, across the formidable Alps, and down the Danube to Vienna. The logistical complexities alone were staggering, requiring a small army of handlers, provisioners, and diplomats. Each stop along the way – Milan, Cremona, Trent (where the Council of Trent, that great convocation of Catholic authority, was grappling with the seismic shifts of the Reformation) – became a temporary stage for a fleeting drama of human curiosity and bewilderment.
But it is Saramago, the Portuguese master of literary alchemy, who transforms this historical footnote into a timeless fable. In his 2008 novel, The Elephant’s Journey, Saramago does not merely recount the facts; he excavates them, turning them over and over in his hands like ancient, worn coins, searching for the hidden inscriptions, the whispers of meaning that lie beneath the surface. His signature style – the long, sinuous sentences, the deliberate absence of conventional punctuation, the omniscient narrator who dips in and out of the characters’ consciousness – becomes a kind of literary sfumato, blurring the lines between history and fiction, between the external world and the internal landscape.
The elephant, of course, is the central figure, a silent, majestic presence whose inner life remains perpetually unknowable. Saramago wisely avoids the temptation to anthropomorphize Suleiman; he is, and remains, an elephant, a creature of instinct and immense physical presence. But it is through the reactions of those around him – the awestruck peasants, the scheming courtiers, the devoutly religious who see him as either a divine messenger or a demonic apparition – that Saramago explores the vast spectrum of human folly and wisdom.
The true protagonist, however, is perhaps Subhro, the elephant’s mahout, his keeper. Subhro, an Indian man thrust into the alien landscape of sixteenth-century Europe, becomes our guide, our interpreter. He is the outsider, the observer, the one who sees the world with fresh eyes, unburdened by the preconceptions and prejudices of the European aristocracy. His later renaming as "Fritz" by the Archduke is a small but telling detail, a microcosm of the casual cruelty and cultural arrogance that often accompany imperial power.
Saramago's novel, it must be stressed, is not a historical novel in the conventional sense. He takes liberties with the facts, embellishes the narrative with imagined encounters and philosophical asides. He is less interested in historical accuracy than in exploring the deeper currents that run beneath the surface of human events. The elephant’s journey becomes a metaphor for the journey of life itself – a long, arduous trek through unfamiliar territory, filled with unexpected encounters, moments of both profound beauty and profound absurdity.
The Council of Trent, the backdrop against part of this journey, serves as a counterpoint to the physical odyssey of the elephant. The learned men gathered, wrestling the very idea of an individual's path, while this enormous being is dragged, step by step, across a continent. The contrast is pointed, but subtly drawn, a key tenant to Saramago's work.
The historical Suleiman died shortly after arriving in Vienna, his brief life in the imperial menagerie a poignant reminder of the ephemerality of all things. His skin, we are told, was eventually used to make shoes – a detail that Saramago, with his characteristic blend of dark humor and philosophical insight, would surely have appreciated. It is a final, almost brutal reminder of the way in which the extraordinary is often reduced to the mundane, the sacred to the profane.
But in Saramago’s hands, Suleiman’s journey transcends its tragic end. It becomes a meditation on the enduring power of stories, on the way in which we construct meaning out of the raw materials of history. The elephant, in its silent majesty, becomes a mirror reflecting our own hopes, fears, and aspirations. He is a reminder that we are all, in a sense, travellers on an unknown road, navigating a world that is both wondrous and terrifying, and that the true journey is always inward, a constant exploration of the vast, uncharted territory of the human heart. The Elephant’s Journey is not just a story about an elephant; it is a cartography of being, a mapping of the soul. It is, in the truest sense, a masterpiece.