The Brotherhood of Book Hunters (3 page)

Still crouching, François opened his pouch and took out a book. A gleam appeared in Fust's eyes, and his hollow cheeks and hooked nose suddenly perked up like those of a bird of prey. François barely held out his hand, forcing Fust to bend very low, at the risk of falling from his chair. Fust managed to seize the volume. Without hesitation, he placed his finger on the name stamped on the cover: Kyonghan.

“The author, I presume?”

François guessed that his interlocutor knew the answer. He nodded briefly.

Fust made an effort to keep calm. He turned the pages with a detached air. Tiny beads of sweat formed on his wrinkled forehead. He had feared at first that this edition of the
Jikji Simkyong
had been printed with the help of terra-cotta or porcelain characters.
 
But no, this was indeed the 1377 edition, composed in
 
Korea using movable metal fonts. He already had a copy, brought fifteen years earlier to Mayence by a Jew from the Holy Land. Fust had been surprised by the quality of the ink, the clarity of the touch, and above all the fineness of the letters. The Jew had wanted to know if Fust, being a silversmith, would be capable of reproducing that alloy of Korean fonts, and if his son-in-law, Pierre Schoeffer, and their associate Johannes Gensfleisch, known as Gutenberg, could make a machine that would allow the use of characters thus obtained. The original press would have been too fragile to print on rag paper, which was more resistant to ink than delicate China papers. The Jew had paid a deposit in cash and promised to supply rare unpublished texts for the first attempts.

Johann Fust put the book down and asked to see a manuscript whose description had intrigued him. François again searched in his pouch and took from it a roll of parchment much worn by time. The writing on it was heavy and full of mistakes. A botched job by an overworked copyist? No, the old bookseller was no fool. He took off his ring and, with one finger, pressed hard on the head of the carved dragon. The gold claws retracted immediately, freeing the cabochon. Fust removed the ruby from its setting and placed it flat on the parchment. Leaning forward, he slowly moved the precious mineral along the sheet, noting that the vellum had been scratched. François realized with astonishment that the big, highly-polished red stone enlarged every detail.

Fust was unable to suppress a start of surprise. Between the clumsily traced lines, he detected the vague outlines of Aramaic letters. So it was not to salvage the parchment that the copyist had scraped it with a knife but to camouflage the original characters, which had been engraved into the hide with a stylet and then concealed beneath the thick ink of an innocuous text. It was in this way that the Jews disguised the works they wanted to save from burning by the Inquisition. This laborious process was only used for Talmudic or kabbalistic writings of the highest importance. At the time of the Crusades, the knights unknowingly carried these works disguised as pious breviaries. They thought they were returning them from Jerusalem to Avignon or Frankfurt, not suspecting for a moment that they were serving as couriers to the rabbis of these same towns. It was then only necessary to dissolve the mask of ink to reveal the secret copy. Today, it was Fust's peddlers who ensured, in all innocence, the distribution of clandestine works cleverly disguised as psalters or other Catholic items.

Again examining the list with a wise air, Fust wondered if he had not been lured into a trap. Only someone powerful could have collected so many rarities. They were worth a fortune! Unless they were items confiscated by the censors. In which case, Villon was probably not a broker, but an agent of the law.

A merchant discusses the sum to be decided on, the methods of payment, delivery dates. But no price had yet been mentioned. The old man looked at the unusual character sitting on the floor opposite him. He was crouching in the middle of a heap of bound volumes and scrolls of parchment, as if selling vegetables at the market. But he was clearly familiar with beautiful books. He manipulated them with dexterity. His slovenly appearance belied the natural elegance of his demeanor, the discreet refinement of his gestures. The frankness of his gaze might have instilled confidence in Fust if it had not been for that impish gleam. A narrow grin, always there even when he spoke, displayed an effrontery that he made no attempt to conceal. This fellow was not one to let good manners and conventional expressions get in his way. He did not pretend. It was Fust who felt he was being sized up, put to the test. The other man was challenging him with that smile that wasn't a smile, inviting him to enter the joust without forcing him to do so completely. Curiosity finally won out over caution.

“May I make you an offer?”

“The seller does not want money.”

Fust's whole body stiffened. He was ready to make a run for it, but François reassured him with a little tap on the arm. The corners of his mouth creased even more, accentuating the mischievous expression of his face.

“But he is ready to graciously give you all these volumes in return for your services.”

Taken aback, the German stammered. François immediately explained Guillaume Chartier's wish to enrich his diocese with a printing works and a few banned books. In order not to scare off his prey, he avoided mention of the king.

Fust quickly did his sums, even though he was hesitant to close a deal that seemed too attractive to be without pitfalls. He asked for time to think, to consult his associates, to obtain guarantees, but it was clear that he now had only one idea in his head: to get his hands on the books heaped at François' feet.

Fust took his leave, promising to give his answer within a short period of time. As soon as he left the room, Colin leaped for joy. François remained sitting. He put the precious volumes back in his pouch, without saying a word. He did not have any sense of victory. He hated himself for being Guillaume Chartier's broker, for obeying that two-faced churchman so meekly. And above all, for betraying books.

T
he Bishop of Paris crossed the street, cursing and grumbling, hopping to avoid the puddles. Two hooded clerics trotted beside him, trying in vain to protect him from the rain beneath a canvas canopy that the wind twisted and shook in all directions. The gutters of Rue Saint-Jacques carried mire and refuse, which the disgusted prelate prodded away with his episcopal crozier. Johann Fust rushed to open the door of his new shop while his son-in-law, Pierre Schoeffer, a brush in his hand, held himself ready to clean the mud-spattered miter.

As soon as he entered, Chartier held his nose. A rough smell of ink and sweat made him retch. Fust stopped the banging of mallets and ordered his workers to be silent. François Villon stood with his elbows on a handpress, smiling wickedly as he observed the bishop's authoritarian expression, Fust's obsequious gestures, the distressed faces of the apprentices. It was as if each of these people were trying very hard to conform to the character they had been assigned.

Schoeffer kissed His Excellency's ring and, without further ado, proudly launched on a guided tour of the printing works. Guillaume Chartier resolved to follow his host amid the maze of machines and piles of paper, listening to the explanations with only half an ear. The printers stood stiffly, their caps held tight in their hands. Once the tour was over, the bishop blessed the premises with a hasty sign of the cross while one of his clerics energetically waved a big brass censer. Beaming with pride, Schoeffer handed Chartier the very first book printed in Paris, in the Year of Grace 1463, by permission of the King. He declared pompously that this was the cornerstone of an edifice that would enlighten the world as much as the lighthouse of Alexandria, spreading the glory of France among the nations. Unmoved, Chartier put the book down negligently on a workbench all sticky with birdlime.

François felt a certain bitterness at seeing the bishop dispose of the ceremony so casually. An event of such importance deserved a special effort of protocol. Angrily, he walked to the back of the room, where the presses were at rest. There were twelve in all, arranged in two parallel rows that François walked along slowly as if inspecting the troops. Massive, made of a heavy, robust wood, bristling with levers covered in grease, they exuded a disturbing power. They were solidly nailed to a platform to avoid any shifting during the printing process. This raised position made them as imposing as statues of Roman emperors. François sensed the hold they might have on men in the future. They were also a little like him, docile in appearance, giving the impression of being easy to handle. But also like him, they could not limit themselves to serving a Fust or a Chartier, to being merely the instrument of their ambitions, political or financial, their pitiful plans. There was too much strength in them for these people to keep them to themselves, to confine them in a prison or a shop. François suddenly saw in these presses a possible ally. For him, and for poetry. They reminded him of the horses he had stolen, opening their enclosure in the middle of the night, taming their spirit, disciplining their trembling muscles, riding them into the dark woods, ever faster, ever further. Were these machines also capable of kicking and snorting?

 

Fust signaled to his employees to resume work and invited his eminent visitor into his office. Schoeffer and François followed, taking care to close the door behind them. Fust told Chartier that he had rented all the vacant premises on Rue Saint-Jacques. Several German printers were ready to join him, apart from his former associate Gutenberg, who persisted in his refusal to open a branch in Paris because of an old quarrel. The poor man was in debt up to his neck. He was living on a meager income allocated by the Archbishop of Nassau even though he too could have benefited from the generous patronage of Louis XI or Charles of Orléans, who were much shrewder when it came to letters than the curates of the Palati­nate clergy.

Uninterested in Fust's report, François let his gaze wander over the rows of books lining the walls. In a dark corner, the flickering light of a candle made the surface of an emblazoned binding gleam. The coat of arms, struck in fine gold, was easily recognizable. It was one of the most famous in Christendom: the coat of arms of the Medicis of Florence. Curiously, these resplendent arms were deprived of their motto. In its place, the escutcheon was interspersed with motifs in matte gold that had nothing Italian or heraldic about them. François looked closely at the sinuous border, thinking suddenly he could make out Semitic characters. Hebrew and Arab themes were often used to give a biblical or Eastern connotation to the holy books. Scenes from the life of Christ were strewn with Judaic letters, as were portraits of Satan. But here, the mixture of marks of nobility and Jewish figures seemed to bear witness to an unusual union, a kind of pact. The two symbols, the Italian and the Jewish, intertwined to form a single symbol.

Noticing François's surprise, Pierre Schoeffer got abruptly to his feet, came over to him, and stood there with his back turned for a moment, doing something. When he sat down again, the book had disappeared, hidden among the others. The volumes that had been lying about everywhere were now lined up in serried ranks. The little candle had been extinguished.

 

The bishop was growing impatient. A mere manufacturing process could not be enough. The crown expected much more of Fust than merely to run a printing works. He had not been chosen for his skill at handling pots of ink but because, unlike his colleagues, he had first refusal on banned texts that might give Paris a head start over the other capitals. It was with the quality of the books published here on Rue Saint-Jacques that Louis XI intended to ensure the influence of France. Patronage of the arts was the surest sign of a monarch's prosperity, as well as the manifest expression of his power. That at least was what Chartier gave them to understand, taking care not to reveal the true purpose of this whole undertaking. He had not even said a word of it to François, who was surprised by this sudden infatuation of the king for the things of the mind.

The monarch's true motives were much more down-to-earth. It was a simple matter of finance. At this time, everything coming from Byzantium, Alexandria or the Levant had to pass through the valley of the Rhone. The Pope having sovereignty over Avignon and the Comtat, the papal legate reaped huge profits from imposing rights of passage and taxes on foodstuffs, which went to fill the coffers of Rome rather than those of Louis XI. The king wanted to force the Vatican to cede this source of revenue to him. It so happened that the works published by Fust greatly antagonized Rome, undermining the Church's hegemony over men's souls. The young monarch's plan was simple. After letting Fust flood the market with texts that corrupted believers, Louis XI would set himself up as defender of the faith and undertake to avert the danger. But, in order to stem this deadly tide of publications, it was essential that he gain control of Provence. Such blackmail could only work if the Holy See felt genuinely threatened by works of undeniable significance capable of shaking the foundations of the dogma. And it was up to Fust to supply the necessary ammunition. But all he had done so far was extol the virtues of his machines. No more than that.

His fist clenched over the handle of his crozier, Chartier frowned and glared at François, who immediately felt a tightness in his throat at the point where they placed the rope. Although Colin had been watching the German for months, he still had not been able to discover where Fust acquired the books the crown needed in order to achieve its ends. Chartier was within his rights to demand an explanation. The agreement reached with Fust clearly stipulated that the granting of patents and privileges to his printing works went hand in glove with the publication of rare and influential writings, to which he so mysteriously had access.

A fragile silence now hovered over the room. Fust knew perfectly well what the bishop was expecting of him but he had to follow his instructions to the letter. His superiors had not authorized him to negotiate further. Even though a possible alliance with the King of France was an unexpected godsend, they seemed reluctant to commit themselves. Paris had to remain unaware of what was truly at stake in their actions, or years of preparation would be put at risk.