The Brotherhood of Book Hunters (10 page)

 

Nobody knew when morning came. There were no windows here. Only the length of François's nails indicated to him the relentless passing of the days. Three prisoners had been taken away, and two others had arrived. François was still trying hard to compose his poem. He dreamed of Aisha, of the ladies of days gone by, of the muses. He turned a crack in the wall into a ray of sunlight, the dark and damp wall into a starry sky, wisps of straw on the ground into meadows. The others also seemed to cling to life, even the shriveled old man. He would have loved to know their stories, to know where the youth came from. How long had they been there, these last vestiges of men?

Colin's wounds became hideously infected. François washed them in warm urine, which gave his companion the opportunity to deploy the complete range of his oaths and curses. The steaming, acid liquid seemed nevertheless to work. After a while, healing began. François scratched the circumference with a twig smoothed at length between his fingers to remove the dirt. Overcoming his own disgust, he squeezed the wounds in the middle to make the pus come out. Colin had stopped grumbling. He watched the gestures of his flea-ridden doctor with what might have been an air of gratitude. François, trying to keep up appearances, smiled nervously.

From time to time, a guard introduced a cooking pot and a jug into the cell. In spite of his condition, Colin always managed to be the first to run to it, followed by the youth, who was now imitating his ferocious attitude. The others had to be content with what was left, leaving the old man the privilege of licking the bottom of the pot.

At first the prisoner saw oceans, golden-haired women, giant flowers, snakes. And then, quickly, other images flowed past, one after the other: a piece of meat roasting on a spit, a huge piece of fruit overflowing with juice and sugar. The convolutions of the brain became a labyrinth of intestines, the whole body one big gut. It was then that it came, treacherous but liberating, the thought of dying. The prisoner pushed it away. Death still scared him. And then, one day, it spoke to him. It confided in him. He recoiled in terror, but it did not detain him. It waited . . . It waited for him to finish his poem. But he could no longer write, no longer recite. He stammered, bit his lip, gradually forgetting the words of his ballad. Death attempted a caress. It had the pale fingers of Aisha.

 

An affable, elegant man, surrounded by torches, entered the cell like a flaming star. He cautiously placed an inkpot, a quill, parchment, and candle wax at François's feet. The apparition was short-lived, but François recognized the
qadi
's dark, finely-embroidered caftan.

Later, from out of the darkness, Colin's trembling voice whispered, “The ink is drying. You haven't written a line.”

“I'm hungry.”

“Then chew a little paper.”

François hesitated. His stomach hurt. Gently, he put a sheet in his mouth and chewed. A kind of juice extracted from the wet paste added to his saliva. He handed a piece of paper to Colin, who thanked him with a courtly bow. The two friends feasted. A chorus of snores enlivened the meal. François took up his pen to pick his teeth.

 

Every day, two or three prisoners were dragged to the torture chambers. Their muffled groans echoed through the walls. They came back with bodies lacerated with gaping wounds that soon became infected and stank. François eventually lost all sense of time. For days on end he stared at the empty inkpot and the chewed quill, abandoned on the floor amid the sawdust and excrement. A brawl drew him abruptly from his lethargy. Colin was struggling with all his might and hurling abuse at the guards, who had grabbed him by the feet and were dragging him out into the corridor. An official stood impassively in the doorway of the cell, peering into the darkness as if looking for something, then addressed François.

“Where is your ode to the emir?” he said in surprise.

He made a sign with his finger, and François stood up and meekly followed him along the dark corridors. Ahead of them, Colin continued to stamp with rage and deliver a stream of curses at his jailers. The group walked down a long tunnel. At the end, servants armed with brushes and towels were waiting patiently. They all bowed when they saw the official.

“Get the dirt off these two!”

H
ow could a man as fat as that have such slender fingers? François wondered. He looked at his own wrists, his verrucose palms, his unfiled nails, his skin scrubbed with soap and horsehair to make him presentable. From the low table around which tumblers and musicians crouched with him, François could only glimpse the emir, whose beringed fingers lay crossed over a huge belly. He did not yet know when exactly he would be called on to amuse that faceless mass of flesh sinking beneath brocades and insignia of rank. Glittering on the august belly, the precious stones of the rings were drowning in the heavy folds of a cheap silk robe that reminded François of Chartier's alb. The rolls of fat, whose presence you sensed, evoked casual authority, an indolent, cruel power. How to win over such a paunch?

François and his companions in misfortune hastened to devour the leftover food the slaves abandoned to them. They joyfully plunged their hands into the steaming entrails of a sheep and hulled chickpeas, almonds, and dates. François looked desperately for Aisha amid the throng of guests, but in vain. He could barely remember her face. Glimpsed in the space of one night, her white face was fleeting and hazy, like that of someone met once a long time ago. Only her dark eyes shone through the fog of forgetfulness. In the din of the banquet, the prison was also gradually moving away, toward the other end of another world. The old man, the youth, the guards were all ghosts now. Even death had withdrawn with dignity down the dark corridors, back to its lair. It was death, though, that was defied here, in the arrogance of the banquet, in this pathetic luxury. And to challenge it in this way, you had to stuff yourself like an emir. Or eat rat.

 

Women danced with snakes wound around their arms, dwarves rang little bells, brown fingers plucked at meager strings. The eye of a calf rolled to the ground. A guest picked it up and swallowed it.

The sound of the tambourines stopped abruptly. The only thing heard now was the solemn beating of a gong. From the far end of the hall, a huge warrior, his oiled body glistening in the torchlight, advanced to the percussive rhythm. He bowed briefly to the emir then turned. He was a Turkish slave, captured during a battle against the Ottoman sultan. His opponent followed, tall and thin, chin raised high, like a rooster. A cotton top covered his scars. He seemed less sturdy than the other man.

Most of the guests continued to scoff from the dishes. Performers and gladiators alike froze, tense, ill at ease. If the Christian won the day, the emir of Nazareth would not be pleased.

They nevertheless hoped secretly that the big Turk would bite the dust. As soon as he came within distance of his rival, Colin gave him a slap on the left ear followed by a poke in the groin. The Turk gripped Colin with force but the Coquillard, furious now, headbutted him. It was like a combat of stags, with its silent clash of heads, and it was only a matter of time before one of the two skulls burst. Just as the Turk seemed to be bearing up best under this unbridled hammering, Colin plunged his teeth into his opponent's nose and bit it off, much to the delight of the spectators. He spat out the piece of flesh, while the guests clapped and laughed. But the Turk held on, his big arms holding his rival tight, his fists crushing his back. Suddenly, Colin flopped backwards like a puppet, his eyes empty, his arms dangling. François sat up on his stool, helpless to do anything. His friend had stopped moving. The Turk was pummeling him with punches. Colin, quite limp now, was about to fall to the floor. But in the middle of his fall, he suddenly leapt at the Turk's throat, again using his teeth, while his hands pulled the big man's ears, which seemed to amuse the emir. François clearly heard the Turk's throat crack under the pressure of his opponent's jaws. Lower down, Colin was hitting the Turk's belly with his knees, first the right then the left, as if he were running on the spot. It was nevertheless to his face that the Turk raised his arms. It was as if the pulling of his ears was the most intolerable thing for him, the most humiliating. The emir gave the signal, and guards separated the two fighters and took them promptly offstage. The music resumed.

Still openmouthed, François saw the
qadi
advance toward him.

“Your turn, poet!”

The instruments fell silent.

 

Even though they had dressed him in a long Egyptian robe and slippers, François had been determined to wear his tricorn. He made a questionable bow, immediately spoiled by his half smile. He remained prostrate for a little too long, and in too exaggerated and ambiguous a fashion, which made the audience feel ill at ease. The emir, too, was showing signs of irritation. Total silence fell. His tricorn sweeping the floor, François slowly raised his head to confront the tyrant's dark eyes. They shone with the same caustic gleam as those of Guillaume Chartier. François knew that expression well. Whether they wore helmets or skullcaps, whether they pouted condescendingly or turned up their noses, whether they had well-cut beards or hairless chins, prelates and knights, informers and tax collectors all seemed to come from the same mold, as if, beneath their various titles and appearances, there was only in fact one man. Yesterday, he had had the pale countenance of a bishop. Today, the pink complexion of a fat emir. But it was indeed him, always him, that François fought, under all of his masks, and whom he now decided to fight in his own way. The emir was no more fooled than François. He too had recognized, beneath the stranger's falsely affable face, that gleam in the eye, that hint of defiance at the corners of the lips. He had tamed more than one recalcitrant subject. This one was no different than the others.

The audience, which could feel the tension rising, was delighted. This skirmish promised to be as exciting as the barefisted fight earlier.

“It is in the French language that I wish to declaim the present ballad.”

 

Brother men who live when we have gone

Against us do not let your hearts grow stern . . .

 

The emir took all this without flinching. Nobody present understood a damned word of French.

Chanting the lines of his
Ballad of the Hanged Men
, François let their rhythm sway him. The prosody, combined with the softness of the language, the secret spell of the intonations, and adorned with the Latinate gestures performed by the reciter's frail hands, seemed to cradle the audience, breaking with the vulgarity of the banquet and the violence of the fighting. The rhymes echoed from the walls, glided among the hangings, made their way between the tables, flowed along the candelabra. They were the melodious petition of a poor troubadour, but also the supreme act of arrogance of a condemned man, as if François were offering his neck to the hangman—an idea that was not disagreeable to the emir.

 

For if some pity on us poor souls you take,

The sooner then God's mercy you will earn . . .

 

François, having struck the fish, now reeled it in. He raised his voice, became more spirited, exaggerated his incisive urban accent. In an instant, he transported his audience to Paris, a Paris of the imagination, a Paris sure of its genius and its charms. The regular delivery of the lines evoked a trip on a river. The turns of phrase wound through the heart of the intrigued audience, just as the Seine plies its course across the valleys.

 

The wind changes, and we are blown

Hither and yon, at its behest without . . .

 

With the final verse, uttered in a grave, slow voice, the waters poured out into a wide estuary leading to an ocean of silence. François ended his melancholy recitation by addressing a broad smile to the ceiling, confident of the effect he was having. His lines had captivated many drunkards and prostitutes, innkeepers, gravediggers, carters, courtesans, and notaries, who knew no more about meter and prosody than did this emir and his henchmen. The force of a ballad did not lie in fine words or complicated rhymes, but in the voice that spoke, that sang, that caressed. It was the voice that brought men together, like a bridge. Or an outstretched hand.

The audience waited nervously. The emir was well aware how much everyone had appreciated the performance. Better to show mercy than to play the despot, which would cast a chill over a splendid evening. Torturing this prisoner would bring him no benefit. He applauded loudly, almost sincerely, which in turn provoked the audience to wild applause. Was he not a man of taste and discernment?

The Chinese acrobats came onstage. Escorted to the wings, François got his breath back. He was always surprised by the effect his verse had on even the most mean-spirited souls. Simple words, a good-humored tone, a soft, barely accentuated melody, overwhelmed them much more than a tragedian's monologue or a tribune's passionate oration. His rondeaus had saved him from the gallows on more than one occasion—after attracting the wrath of the magistrates, admittedly. For they disturbed the officials far more than did the knife hanging from his belt. That was why he constantly refined them, just as if he were sharpening a blade. But were they sharp enough to sever the bonds that still tied him to Chartier? And to cut through the net of schemes and stratagems laid from Nazareth to Florence, behind which his true destiny was concealed?

As he left, François noticed a familiar figure among the guests. From a distance, he could not make out the features, but the elegance certainly stood out in this crowd uniformly dressed in Eastern tunics. All frills and brocades, and a broad hat with a plume—the attire of an Italian gentleman.

 

The next day, Colin and François appeared again before the court. A grim-faced Mamluk officer stood behind the
qadi
, a man with the hair and the arched back of a wild beast. His piercing eyes were separated by a pointed brass strip soldered to the rim of his helmet in such a way as to hide his nose. He looked the prisoners up and down, as if measuring them for coffins. Colin stared back at him defiantly. The Mamluk would happily have sunk his saber into Colin's belly. He put his hand to the pommel, threateningly. Delighted, Colin rose to his full height, ready for a fight. The officer, although also champing at the bit, restrained himself. But it was the other man's twisted grin that annoyed him the most. Beneath his ridiculous tricorn, he was looking at him with such an air of imbecility as to make him lose his temper. It was obvious that this good-for-nothing was used to both soldiers and judges. And it was equally obvious, by the way he was taunting one of the caliph's most feared representatives, that he wasn't afraid of them.