The Brotherhood of Book Hunters (7 page)

“Allow me to give it to you. For the ballads you have not yet written.”

Caught off guard, François stammered some formal words of gratitude, suspecting nevertheless that such a tribute was not disinterested. A shrewd merchant like Federico did not dispense such generous gifts without some ulterior motive. Had he himself had not done the same to lure Johann Fust? What was this Florentine merchant, whose acquaintance he had made only a few moments earlier, hoping to obtain from him?

Noticing François's embarrassment, Federico merely gave him a broad smile. He seized a bottle whose exaggerated curves, the red seals surrounding the neck, the small bubbles blown into the glass itself, promised a choice beverage. Expertly pulling the cork out with his teeth, he poured a few substantial glassfuls. As the connoisseur that he was, François breathed in the aroma, getting ready to praise the color, the body, the flavor. But the Italian abruptly withdrew, summoned by Brother Médard whose hairless chin had appeared suddenly amid the plates and pots.

On the table, the wings of the butterfly glittered in the light of the oil lamps. François again examined the immaculate binding, the embossing applied with both confidence and finesse. The unusual style of the ornamentation skilfully combined the sharp lines of the insect with the light curves of the gilt around it. Just like the Aramaic lettering he had seen around the Medici coat of arms.

A
solitary chandelier hung from the ceiling. Brother Médard carefully laid out his inventory books and pencils. Federico took his seat on the other side of the desk, the precious packages at his feet. Although they were alone in the chapel, the two men spoke in low voices.

“You certainly know how to toady. Master Villon was genuinely touched. Have you read his works, then?”

“Not a line, my dear Médard. All I know is that—”

“One moment, please,” the dwarf muttered as he started writing. “On this twelfth day of June, 1464 . . . various consignments . . . provenance . . . Federico . . . Castaldi . . . in his capacity as . . . articles . . . There. First entry?”

“Three manuscripts from the hand of Bishop Nicholas of Cusa, also known as Cusanum, concerning the composition of the universe. From algebraic deductions and observation of the skies, it has apparently been established that, and I quote,
terra non est centra mundi
. . . It seems there are thousands of stars and planets hovering in the ether. We are merely a grain of sand in the midst of that vastness.”

Brother Médard gave a start, almost falling off his stool. “You can't solve the mystery of Creation with an abacus,” he growled.

“My most Catholic lord Medici thinks the papacy has become trapped in the swamps of dogma. It persists in following Aristotle for fear of shaking beliefs that ensure it the blind submission of its flock. It even rejects zero, which both Arabs and Jews use without in any way losing faith in their God.”

“Zero? Neither Pythagoras nor Euclid needed that phantom number. They established the world on solid foundations, not on a fortune-teller's symbols!”

“How can an empty, worthless number threaten the Almighty?”

Federico took a painting from the rough cloths in which it was wrapped. He arranged the five wooden panels on the floor to reconstruct a fresco. Médard was reassured at first. He saw the pale hands of a Madonna, then the rosy-cheeked features of the child Jesus, his head duly crowned with a halo. Behind them, a stone colonnade stood out against the landscape in the background. You could see a blue river winding toward low hills. Trees, painted in astonishing detail, contrasted with a sky filled with hazy clouds. An ancient mausoleum stood on the summit of a plateau. In spite of the Madonna's gleaming robe and the strong colors of the central scene, your eyes plunged into the distance, abandoning the holy characters to wander amid hills and valleys. You felt a kind of dizziness. The Virgin and her child seemed to be sitting quite close to you, but it was the clouds and the trees, their hues at once smooth and deep, that led you into their strange world, and you stopped seeing the mother and son. You sensed them the way you would sense a presence, but your eyes were elsewhere, flowing with the river among the hills, engrossed in little brushstrokes that perfectly echoed the grain of the wood. The division of the panels added to the artifice, leaving it to the eye to weave the very texture of the space and the light. The religious scene was merely a pretext.

This work by the painter and architect Brunelleschi had briefly adorned the baptistery of Florence Cathedral. It had been hastily removed before its creator could suffer the wrath of his sponsors and remained for a long time hidden in the cellars of the Medicis. Only Master Verrocchio was able to see it and teach its secrets to his apprentices. At this very moment, one of his pupils, named Leonardo, had been given the task of mastering this new way of depicting the universe, this other way of seeing, known as perspective.

“Trompe-l'œil, that's all it is. Does it make the Madonna any holier?”

Federico put away his notes and concentrated on establishing the inventory. In any case, the monk's voice didn't count. The final decision was taken elsewhere, by his masters. They would only affix their mysterious mark to the Medici coat of arms if they approved Cosimo's choices. It was then up to them to decide whether they confined them to a library or disseminated the contents. Otherwise, Federico would have to take back the rejected books and paintings and sell them at the back of his shop as mere curiosities.

The consignment went on late into the night. The merchant opened the cases, held out the manuscripts one by one, without saying another word, yawning with exhaustion. The dwarf kept writing, looking offended but not daring to open his mouth. Author, title, date, author, title, date . . . Until the early hours of the morning.

E
ven before the first light of dawn, the coachmen were busy, checking the horses' harnesses, inspecting the straps on the mules, kicking the wheels.

Brother Paul had received marching orders on behalf of the emissaries of the King of France. The date of their first interview with one of the Medicis' discreet allies had been fixed. They were expected in Safed. The way there was strewn with pitfalls. Saracens and Turkish brigands dispatched many a lost traveler to the other life, and diseases and noxious air took care of the rest. The hospitals set up by the various orders were overflowing with the dying and the wounded. Mamluk squads had been seen in the vicinity. Brother Paul did not know the reason for these patrols but such troop movements were common. Whether pale-faced knights or dark-complexioned mercenaries, the conquerors of this land were doomed to be constantly on the lookout.

The prior had decided to add François and Colin to Federico's convoy, which would be stopping at Safed and Tiberias to pick up supplies of Hebrew works for the Italian universities. It would not arouse suspicion. After all, it was carrying nothing but books. If it was stopped, the soldiers could easily be bribed.

François and Colin plunged their heads into the drinking trough, then shook their soaked hair like dogs. Colin donned a thin leather cabasset that flattened his skull. François put on his crumpled tricorn. They could already feel a burning wind on the backs of their necks. Federico appeared in the doorway of the refectory, lit by a first ray of sun. Clad in all his gleaming finery, he waddled like a court favorite on his way to a ball. Dazzled, the Mongol sentries stood aside to let him pass, unwittingly forming a comical guard of honor. Brother Paul, suddenly stern, whispered a few words in his ear. Federico nodded and half knelt to receive the prior's blessing. He dusted off his sleeves, and, with the help of a ribbon, tied his hair behind his neck. Throwing a satisfied look at the men and the horses, he gave the order to leave.

 

It was going to be a very hot day. A leaden light poured down on the arid plain, the motionless shrubs that no breeze stirred. In the distance, a solitary sparrow hawk soared. Distorted by heat haze, the countryside seemed to scowl. The bad-tempered shadow of a cloud splashed the line of the horizon then spread its grey stain over the ocher blanket of the fields. The riders went more quickly, abandoning the monks to their precinct of stone.

An air of freedom blew over their cheeks. The horses galloped, intoxicated by the light, tearing joyfully across the gilded brambles, cutting through the clouds of midges, shaking their loads from side to side as the terrain changed. The water lapped gaily in the gourds. François inhaled the scent of the scrub and let his eyes wander over the eroded curves of the plateaus, the winding roads, the paths trodden by the apostles, the valleys where the prophets were buried, at last discovering the Holy Land. He allowed it to permeate him. At first, he looked avidly for signs, inscriptions on the pediment of some temple. There was not even a milestone. Only stony tracks that seemed to lead nowhere. And yet this land was whispering a vague message in his ear, a secret from deep in the soul. He sensed intuitively that it had been waiting for him forever.

 

When night fell, Federico looked for a place to camp. Fabulous Galilee offered only the shelter of meager undergrowth. Emaciated pines, skeletal cypresses, and dwarf oaks barely concealed the horses. The moon was in its first quarter. Federico decided not to light a fire. The men sat down in the gloom, their whispers mingling with the mournful howling of jackals. François took his place on a flat rock, and grabbed a jug of Falernian wine and a smoked chicken thigh. Federico crouched in order not to soil his clothes.

“We'll get to Safed by tomorrow evening. A piece of oatcake?”

The Italian's pale smile glittered in the darkness. François passed him the jug then cleaned his hands with twigs moistened with dew.

“You are linked to the noble house of the Medicis. I thought I saw their arms on one of the volumes kept in the monastery.”

“That may be so.”

“They differ from the famous emblem by the addition of kabbalistic symbols whose meaning escapes me.”

“I don't read Hebrew,” the merchant replied curtly.

An owl hooted in the distance. Frightened, one of the horses gave a start. Federico stood up and went to calm it with a pat on the spine, making sure that its reins were firmly tied around a dead trunk. François followed him with his eyes, convinced that the Italian knew much more than he was prepared to admit. He had clearly been expecting to see François in the monastery, and had already planned to give him that splendid book with the butterfly. Brother Paul had nevertheless assured the two Frenchmen that the bookseller knew nothing of the mission that had brought them here. Federico's coming had been planned long before their arrival. He was a regular in the place and often came there for supplies. In any case, there was nothing to fear from a man in the pay of the Medicis. But François felt a kind of anxiety around the Italian. The fellow was clearly playing a part. His unctuous merchant's gestures, the way he exaggerated his distinction to make its falseness clear, his showy attire, were so many layers beneath which to bury the person that François detected in spite of everything. There emanated from him the self-confident authority of a leader of men, the rigidity of a soldier, and an intransigence that was frightening. This was no courtly hypocrite, but rather someone who held a secret. Yet he did little to conceal his game. The aim of that half-open, half-closed mask he offered to people's gaze was not to disorientate, but to discourage any desire to remove it from him and discover his real face. It was a tactic that François knew well, one the Coquillards had used, to warn anyone who might pry too closely into their affairs that the result might be a knife in the gut. That was why François mistrusted Federico. And it was also why he respected him.

 

Colin took the first watch. François came to keep him company. He did not tell him about his suspicions, fearing that the fellow might relieve him of them in his way—by smashing the Florentine's head against a wagon wheel, or thrusting a bottle of wine down his throat, if not elsewhere. Colin seemed in a bad enough mood already. He stamped his feet and swore that Chartier would just have to wait. The Bishop hadn't even taken the trouble to write a letter of introduction. If things went badly, he would wash his hands of them. François mocked his friend. Since when did an honest bandit wager on the assurances of a clergyman? Colin shrugged. He crushed a mosquito in his hand, cursing all the saints in heaven, then went and leaned against a rock and began sharpening a branch with his knife to use as a toothpick. François took advantage of this brief lull to reassure his companion. He had absolutely no intention of following Chartier's orders. But it was too early to act. However much François claimed that he was concocting one of those brilliant coups only he seemed able to pull off, a really clever trick, Colin couldn't see anything good coming of this business. François stretched his hand toward the countryside as if the undergrowth and the sand agreed with him. It wasn't Chartier, or Fust, or anyone else who would tell him the way and guide his steps. It was this land. This country was calling to him. He felt it. And for quite another mission.

Colin, who was used to these lyrical flights, especially when François had been drinking, stood up without saying a word, his own response being to piss noisily on the undergrowth and the sand. And on this damned country.

T
he afternoon was already well under way by the time the convoy began its climb toward Safed, roasting up there in the sun. The line of roofs shimmered slightly, giving the town a dreamlike appearance. The horses struggled up the last part of the ascent until their hooves struck the burning stones of the alleys. Here, there were no inns or taverns. No good Catholics either. The shadows of wretched-looking Muslims and Jews glided past the blue and green house fronts, thus painted to ward off the evil eye. There being little to pillage, the Mamluks were nowhere to be seen. Their detachments were content to patrol the outskirts and bivouac in open country, close to water sources and farms. Even the Church did not deign to favor this place with a monastery or a shrine. And yet this isolated town, devoid of the luxury that gave the cities of the East their reputation, was home to a number of important figures whose spiritual influence spread beyond the sea. Jews everywhere, hiding from the Inquisition or missing an appointment with their landlords, would hasten to their quarters in Seville or Prague to gather in a clandestine place of study. There, one of their people would be waiting for them impatiently in order to read aloud a missive, an instruction or a commentary newly arrived from Safed. Each word was drunk in like a comforting potion, each turn of phrase was applauded as if it were an exceptional acrobatic feat. It was as if the scholars of the Holy Land had come to recite them in person, their shoes still coated with sand, their eyes shining with the sun. Could such a peaceful, isolated town really conceal such wisdom?