The Brotherhood of Book Hunters (29 page)

The venerable rabbi had doubted the legitimacy of the negotiations that had been set in motion to bring Villon to the Holy Land. He was now forced to admit how clear-sighted his superior had been. As soon as he had learned of the existence of this poet of the suburbs, “neither completely mad, not completely wise,” then read the manuscript of his ballads brought from Paris by a zealous book hunter, the head of the Brotherhood had sensed the undeniable asset this inveterate rebel would mean sooner or later for the success of the operation.

Many relevant texts had been gathered, those of the Roman orators for the Medicis, those of the Sophists of Athens for the guidance of King Louis, but they were merely the gunpowder. What had still been lacking was the spark that would set it alight. All these fine texts had been holding themselves in readiness to enter the arena against dogma. The printers deployed on the ground had simply been waiting for a signal to step up to the firing line. It was Villon who had given this signal. It was he who found, between two glasses of wine or marc, the watchwords, the right tone, the emotions that would set in motion that awakening of souls on which the Brotherhood was counting to go into action. That was what Cato and Virgil, Lucretius and Demosthenes had lacked, a living language that roused burghers and monarchs, solid citizens and students alike. It had only remained for the Brotherhood to season that talent with a sharper spice and a few reliable herbs—Palestine, the desert, a woman of the dunes—and let it simmer.

Eviatar was surprised by the expertise displayed by the bookseller. And by his self-assurance. The dapper Florentine he had embodied had completely disappeared, as if flown away. This bedridden man, stripped of his extravagant attire, his body covered in wounds and blisters, was nevertheless just as radiant as the Federico of the old days. But in another way. Firmer, more imposing. So much so that Eviatar hesitated to pursue the conversation without being given permission. There was one last question, though, that he was itching to ask. How was it that Villon could move about freely with his bag over his shoulder and the precious manuscript rolled up with his linen and his traveling things?

As if he had read his thoughts, the convalescent leaned toward him. Coughing, squeezed between pillows, he informed him that the Brotherhood had unfortunately never possessed the original of Annas's minutes. The high priest had hidden that in one of the seven branches of the sacred candelabra, the menorah, which Titus had carried to Rome in triumph after the destruction of the Temple.

What Villon was carrying in his bag was merely the hasty transcript of a scribe, censored by the rabbis of the Sanhedrin and intended to persuade Pontius Pilate to spare the Jewish community the reprisals with which he had threatened it. But however truncated, they were the words of Jesus Christ.

Only Villon could reconstruct the message of the Savior that so many had sought to distort. An agitator and visionary like the Nazarene, he had been able to hear the very voice that everyone wanted to stifle. He had perceived the suffering that voice expressed on behalf of all men. He had felt it in his guts. Not as a believer, nor as a scholar, but as a poet and a brother.

“Villon will return to the Holy Land. You can be sure of that. You will stay here to assist me.”

Eviatar was surprised by the confidence with which this was said. Wasn't Villon unpredictable? He could just as easily set off for Paris with Colin. Or at least flee somewhere other than Palestine.

All Federico said was, “He left his tricorn there.”

T
he rain had stopped just before dawn. Colin and François had slept on benches, nursing their ciders. Helped by the stable boys, the innkeeper threw them out, threatening to summon the constabulary. He only refrained out of respect for François's habit.

Still half asleep, Colin could barely grumble. His head and guts hurt too much. François, who felt more cheerful, warmed his limbs in the first rays of the sun. It was a glorious day. The cobbles smelled good, freshly washed by the shower and brushed by the wind. The road, dotted with puddles, stretched between the last hovels that clung to the walls of the city. Colin, who hated farewells, strode northward, toward the duchy of Milan, and then France. Let the damned poet go wherever he liked, he'd brought him enough bad luck!

His footprints were already fading in the mud.

 

The fair had been set up on the banks of the Arno, near an old bridge. Men and animals waded through the sludge. Squares of straw marked the positions of the booths. An old priest was blessing customers for a duck's leg or a sausage, stuffing his alms in a bag sewed from a rough ecclesiastical badge. Near the stage where the traveling acrobats would perform, a book peddler was arranging his meager merchandise on a wooden tray hung around his neck by two leather straps. On one side of the tray, the shop. Two or three soiled missals, a pious engraving, a few ex-votos with blessings for the home, for good health, for mercy, to be hung on the door or over the stove. On the other side, the office. The paraphernalia of a public letter-writer, consisting of a box of pens, a salt cellar to dry the ink, and a few sheets of vellum. The man was young but looked as if he knew his business. He first solicited a local dignitary and sold him the engraving for a good price. In between writing a request from a tenant farmer to his lord and a will for a bankrupt cloth merchant, he disposed of his ex-votos to passing women, hailing only the fattest, or the oldest, with honeyed words and sly smiles. He praised the exceptional calligraphy of one of his missals to a pork butcher who couldn't even read. With a discreet sign of the finger, he called over an onlooker who had been observing him disdainfully and, almost in secret, took out a small bound volume he never showed anyone. Grumbling about how hard times were, almost weeping, he sold it off cheaply to this great connoisseur.

François waited patiently for the young man to fill his coffers. He watched him pocket his earnings, one by one, and tried to calculate how much they came to. It wasn't until the end of the day that he approached, greeted him amiably in polished schoolboy Latin, and handed him a manuscript filled with crossings-out. The young man looked through the text, in a detached way at first, then appearing more intrigued. From time to time, his face lit up with delight at a good rhyme, a clever turn of phrase. The story was amusing, and the title as convoluted as you could wish:
In which is recounted the ill fortune of Master François, born of the many difficulties he had with Mother Justice, the Holy Father, and good King Louis, as well as with priests, rabbis, Moors and Mongols, all put into rondeaus according to the taste of Paris and dedicated to the gentle Jesus, who truly saved him.

With a friendly smile, the merchant handed back the manuscript and began to pack up, ready to leave.

François caught him by the sleeve. “I'd like a little for it. Just enough to get to the nearest port.”

The peddler rubbed his chin. The takings had been good today. You had to eat, though, find lodgings, buy paper and ink. There wasn't much left after that. True, the text hadn't been lacking in quality. But he could only resell it to a merchant from the rich part of town or an informed connoisseur. He suggested a sum at random. François frowned and made a timid counter-offer. The peddler scoffed. That was far too much. He was ready to make a bit of an effort, but no more than that. This expense was totally unplanned. He wasn't even sure he could make a profit on it. At least not in the short term. He took out a handful of coins, counted quickly, put part back in his pocket, and showed the rest in the palm of his hand. François accepted, with a contrite air, but then tried to extort a few more pennies. He'd had enough of wearing this moth-eaten habit. He needed fresh clothes. Or rather, a new disguise.

“I also have this.”

François searched in his bag and took out a bundle of shriveled pages. The peddler inspected the parchment with an expert eye. The surface was dry and covered in illegible scribbles. If you scraped it well and then dipped it in oil, it might regain its texture. The material was thick enough. Cut up and stuck to wooden boards, it would make an excellent leather for binding. The scraps could be used as straps to tie around the covers to keep the book straight and properly closed. But in the state it was in, it wasn't worth more than half a sou. François hurriedly pocketed the coin, as if the peddler had paid him in gold crowns. The young man threw his purchase into his sack, along with the old papers and pots of ink. François watched him until he disappeared in the distance, taking with him the last wishes of Christ. The testament of Jesus was in good hands. The peddler was as much the heir to it as anybody. The Savior didn't need a certificate from a notary. Beyond all words, wasn't it from His legend that all men drew their own?

François touched the coin in his pocket. Half a sou. It wasn't much and it was a lot, to save the Word. And give it back its freedom.

 

Just before nightfall, François went into a secondhand clothes shop and chose some new garments. As he walked up and down the shop in the gathering dark, he noticed a crate full of old canes and blunt sticks near the door. He rummaged through it blindly and took out a long rough club. He handed his half a sou to the shopkeeper, who did not even thank him.

Outside, it had started raining again. François gazed up for a moment at the few stars visible through the drizzle, then, with his bag secured over his shoulder, set off along the road that led to the sea.

Villon's ballads were printed for the first time in 1489 by Pierre Levet, Paris, under the title
Le Grand Testament Villon et le Petit.
This edition is unfortunately incomplete, as are all subsequent ones. Villon's manuscript has never been found.

Raphaël Jerusalmy was born in Mont­martre, France in 1954. After receiving diplomas from the Ecole Normale Supérieure and the Sorbonne, he worked with Israeli military intelligence. He currently sells antique books in Tel Aviv.