The Brotherhood of Book Hunters (4 page)

The old printer turned his ring nervously. The golden dragon plunged beneath his finger in search of the ruby cabochon, then reappeared, its claws digging into the bright red stone, as if sucking its blood.

“I have informed my patrons of your demands,” he said at last. “They are honored by the interest you have shown in them. And somewhat intimidated . . . ”

Guillaume Chartier was surprised to discover that, like him, Fust was only an intermediary. But he forbade himself from uttering reassurances as to the intentions of the crown. Louis XI owed the deference shown him by Fust's mysterious masters to the fear he inspired in them, and that was all to the good.

“In order not to offend His Majesty, they are ready to receive an envoy.”

“Where and when?”

“The date is up to you, monsignor. The place is not at all near.”

“No matter. We will supply good mounts.”

“I fear that will not be necessary. The Holy Land is a lot easier to reach by sea than by land.”

The bishop gave a start, which he suppressed. Then, with ecclesiastical calm, he turned slowly to François. “Do you have sea legs, Villon?”

 

Chartier was obviously not expecting an answer from François. He ordered a prompt departure, dictated conditions, fixed dates, and demanded guarantees, especially as Fust stubbornly refused to reveal the identity of his patrons. Nor did he mention their place of residence. Jerusalem? Tiberias? Nazareth?

François was to travel to Genoa, accompanied by Colin. There, somebody would be waiting to give him further instructions. Only if the negotiations bore fruit would Fust's patrons break their anonymity. Chartier took offense at this, proclaiming that such secrecy was an insult to the crown of France, since it cast doubt on the probity of the king. But he had to face facts. Fust was far more afraid of attracting the disapproval of his superiors than of wounding the pride of Louis XI, even if it meant rotting in one of his jails. That of course made a great impression on the bishop.

Chartier brought the interview to an abrupt end and withdrew without even bidding François farewell. Fust and Schoeffer hastened to escort the bishop to the door of the works. Alone in the office, François threw a last glance at the shelves, trying to spot the emblazoned volume that Pierre Schoeffer had hurried to hide from him. The Medicis were the declared allies of Louis XI. He had persuaded them to transfer to Lyons, at the very time when François had been meeting Fust there, the branches they maintained in Geneva. In addition to these commercial relations, it was likely that they advised the king in matters of erudition and letters. They were great book lovers, and their library was one of the most prestigious in the West. But what was the meaning of the Hebrew signs placed beside their emblem? Just like Louis XI, the Medicis were famous for their scheming. If need be, they would not hesitate to make a pact with the devil himself.

Schoeffer came striding back, seized François by the elbow, and dragged him quickly toward the exit. Dumbfounded, François found himself outside again. A gentle breeze caressed his cheeks. He tried to recover his composure. What had he gotten himself involved in? He had never been afraid of the unknown. On the contrary, he hated predictable things, foregone conclusions. But he didn't like to feel himself being moved like a puppet, at the whim of fortune. He had always tried hard to be master of his own fate, his own choices, even the bad ones. So far, in fact, he had never made any good ones. He could quite well run away, join a band of brigands in the forest of Fontainebleau or Rambouillet, or go to ground in a village in Savoy, far from Chartier and the Parisian judges, who would lose all trace of him in the end. So why were all his thoughts of that ship waiting for him in the port of Genoa, white sails swelling in the wind, a prow cutting through the waves and rending the horizon?

Schoeffer was still standing in the doorway of the printing works, making sure that the intruder left the area. François walked more quickly and turned the corner of Chaussée Saint-Jacques. He had to inform Colin as soon as possible. They would both have to present themselves at dawn at the police conciergerie to receive the passes and money they would need for the journey.

The streets were deserted. The rain had stopped. A pale sunset could be glimpsed between the roofs. François pressed ahead, a curious shiver going through his body. To chase away this feeling of cold, he immersed himself in the warmth of familiar details: muddy cobblestones, milestones turned green with moss, signs swinging above the doors—the sign of the boar, of the pitcher, of the sundial. He had been banished, that was what it amounted to. He was leaving Paris, that noble city where jailers and torturers prized the antics of the poets they imprisoned and tortured. In any case, he no longer felt at ease here. Everything had become too refined and pedantic. Too complacent. He was hungry for something else, for vigor and boldness. For a place where every step counted, where every moment brought a new challenge, where neither body nor soul had the right to drop their guard. Did such a place exist on this earth? If it did, it was certainly a place filled with passion and torment . . .

T
he shrill prattling of the women, the hoarse cries of the men, and the rumble of the carts woke François at dawn. Genoa was a noisy, feverish city. People never stopped yelling, from one window to another, from within the carriage entrances, from the tops of terraces. A thousand untimely echoes whirled about the narrow streets, bounced off the stone, slipped in through the dormer windows and tickled your eardrums, without ever taking flight into a sky that was too calm, too blue, too distant.

François kicked Colin, who grunted, stretched, and dipped his hand in a bowl of water on the floor. With a grimace of disgust, he sprinkled his face and beard, then slowly opened his eyes to reveal his bleary morning-after look. François was already busy tying his bundle. With a moan, Colin turned his back on him.

“Our ship doesn't sail until tomorrow . . . ”

Colin had not stopped cursing François since they had left Paris. He owed Chartier nothing. His mission was over. Fust had opened his printing works. He didn't see why he should go halfway across the world and throw himself into the jaws of the hydras and cyclopses that were surely awaiting him in those distant lands. He imagined those ancient monsters salivating with pleasure at the thought of devouring a nice pink Frenchman, all soaked in brandy and good wine. And besides, he hated the sea.

François would have been worried to see Colin enchanted by such a journey. Colin was a grouch who enjoyed his constant bad humor. He wallowed in it like a pig in shit. He swore and spat, stamped his feet and shrugged his shoulders, and was constantly looking for a fight. To comfort him, therefore, would have been a mistake. He was dying to meet those hydras and cyclopses and smash their jaws.

François tore down the stairs without further ado, his bundle on his back. He heard Colin groan, yell curses after him, and smash the shaving mug against the wall of the attic. In other words, he would be following him soon enough.

 

On the gangway, the stevedores bustled, some rolling big barrels, others hauling crates and equipment with the help of ropes, all gesticulating and yelling with that Latin good humor, that unbreakable spirit of the common people, who refused to be cowed by poverty and were philosophical in spite of everything. The sailors, who were less destitute, being fed and lodged onboard, observed these comings and goings with a false air of detachment.

By late in the afternoon, everything seemed properly stowed. Exhausted, the sailors lay down in the shade of the sails. The din of the loading gave way to a serene silence that gently cradled the ship. The warm hues of sunset slowly climbed the masts, staining the dark wood a deep red. Ropes stood out against the sky in straight, clear lines, as if drawn with a chisel. In the distance, a confused tangle of buildings and bell towers swayed in the dimming light. The storehouses and wharves dissolved into an orange-colored mirage. A solitary seagull addressed the sun with its overdramatic cries.

François turned his head to the open sea. He stared at the horizon as it faded, the vast expanse of sea and sky stretching as far as the eye could see, inviting, exciting. The daylight was lazily sinking, dragging the past down with it into the depths. Good and bad memories receded without a sound, slowly buried by the advancing night. François was distressed by the ease with which he was burning his bridges. However hard he tried to recall a street corner, a river bank, a cathedral square, all he saw were yellowing, shriveled images. However hard he tried to keep holding on for a while longer to the ghosts he had loved so much, Jeanne, Catherine, Aurélia, all those faces of women, suddenly aged, dissolved immediately, chased away by the mute promises of the wind. He hated himself for yielding so easily, like an innocent ship's boy, to the scent of adventure carried on the sea breeze.

Colin joined François on deck, chewing a piece of dry bread. He leaned over the rail and burst out laughing. Below, the captain was yelling at those of the sailors who had returned tipsy from the brothels, cheerfully kicking their backsides. The men, too drunk to protest, let themselves be pushed and prodded like cattle. Colin pointed at the shore. A shadowy figure had just come running onto the quay. A young monk, an overlarge cowl floating around his scrawny body, trotted in small, jerky steps toward the ship. Once he had nimbly climbed the gangway he came straight toward Colin and François and, without any preamble, began giving them whispered instructions. He had the self-confident demeanor of a novice from a good family. There was nothing humble about his attitude, on the contrary he was quite affected.

“The purpose of your visit to the Holy Land must remain a secret. You will travel as simple pilgrims. I see you already wear the shell of the pious penitents of Santiago de Compostela.”

François and Colin merely exchanged smiles of complicity. The shells they wore around their necks on leather laces did not bear the sign of the cross. Their edges were of fine gold, and in the middle was carved the image of a dagger piercing a heart. This pendant did not commemorate any martyrdom or calvary. Only fearsome bandits and shrewd men-at-arms would unsheathe their weapons at the sight of this trinket, recognizing it, often too late, as the sign of the Coquillards.

The messenger held out a closed letter. François gave a start. The document bore the seal of Cosimo de' Medici entwined with a motto in Hebrew, just like on the bound volume he had glimpsed at the back of Fust's printing works. François immediately questioned the young monk about the meaning of the emblem. The novice seemed embarrassed. All he knew was that this seal came from Cosimo's personal library. It was used only for works from Palestine.

Colin crossed himself and muttered a pious blessing. The word “Palestine” awoke mixed feelings in him. It revived memories of the catechism. Not having the faintest idea what the land of the Bible looked like, he imagined it to be mysterious and splendid. In his mind, Carmel was a huge mountain, its peaks adorned with giant crosses piercing the clouds, and Samaria was a Garden of Eden filled with many-colored flowers, where white donkeys and curly-haired sheep frolicked. Not to mention hydras and cyclopses.

Once the monk had left, François hastened to break the seal. The wax crumbled into small red pieces that spread across the deck. He unfolded the letter. A simple penciled sketch indicated an itinerary leading from the port of Acre, not to the Mount of Olives, but to an isolated plateau in Lower Galilee. Disappointed, François contemplated the pieces of wax as they were blown toward the fore of the ship. He was angry with himself for destroying the seal so hastily. At his side, Colin cursed and moaned. Wasn't there even going to be a banquet to welcome the envoys of the King of France?

 

The vessel cast off at dawn. A leading seaman yelled orders. Half awake, the men let out a stream of curses before climbing to the yards. As soon as they had left port, the swell grew stronger, causing the sails to crack like whips. The captain remained in the shade of the foresail, making sure they avoided the reefs. Once he was certain they had reached the open sea, he yelled at the mate:

“Set sail for the Holy Land, Monsieur Martin!”

The captain's cry echoed in François's head: “Set sail for the Holy Land, Holy Land, Holy Land . . . ” Just like Colin, he imagined great ocher-colored spaces strewn with palm trees and thick thorny plants, age-old olive groves, a blue sky from which the sun was never absent, a sky where only white doves flew, in silence, a rocky land with clear, sharp outlines, without moss or mud. It was a land of marvels, almost chimerical, which he had no difficulty in peopling with all kinds of angels, bearded prophets, bad genies, and Madonnas, but whose real inhabitants he could not imagine at all. Were they short and dark, or tall and slender? Muscular or skinny? Did they look like the Italians, the Moors, the Greeks? Were the women veiled, or did their curly hair fly in the wind? Not that it mattered. This land was much too fabulous to belong to anyone. And it was because it did not belong to anyone that everyone took turns seizing it. Even the gods fought over it. The current masters were the Mamluks, former mercenaries and slaves from Egypt, just like the Hebrews. They had replaced the Crusaders, who had replaced the Byzantines, who had replaced the Romans, the Greeks, the Persians, the Babylonians, and the Assyrians. And already the Ottomans were beating at the gates of Jerusalem, hoping to chase out the Mamluks. They were all only occupiers. Their presence was doomed to be precarious, transitory, quite simply because they had all made the same mistake, one after the other, for centuries: they constantly asked the wrong question. Who did the Holy Land belong to? To those who owned it? To those who occupied it? To those who loved it? If it was really as holy as they said, such a land could not be conquered by arms. It could not be a possession, a domain, a territory. And, in that case, shouldn't the question be inverted: What people belonged to it, then? For good. The Mamluks?