The Brotherhood of Book Hunters (12 page)

 

On the third day, the little group reached Beit She'an. Reluctant to enter the town, access to which was guarded by sentries of the watch, Djanoush led his companions to a caravan that was just then bypassing the ramparts. The line of camels and beasts of burden stretched to the horizon, raising a huge cloud of dust. The cries of the people, the lowing of the animals, the hammering of hundreds of hooves, the jingling of the harnesses made an almighty din. Nobody even noticed the four newcomers joining the procession.

The camel drivers had the slanting eyes and weather-beaten skin of men from Asia, while their slaves, tied together by ropes, seemed to come from the four corners of the earth. François looked in amazement at the spices and silks, the studded chests stowed on the embroidered saddles of the dromedaries, the sumptuous cloaks of the merchants as they swayed from side to side on mules adorned with charms and multicolored tufts.

From a promontory, a Mamluk detachment watched the column. François thought he saw an officer point at Aisha and snigger. Turning red, the girl lowered her head and stared obstinately at the ground.

 

François looked intently at the landscapes he passed through, wishing he could shatter the silence of this country. He heard it sometimes whispering in the rustle of the foliage, calling to him with a beating of wings, urging him on with a gust of hot wind. But he did not understand what it was telling him. He listened to the travelers talking, praying, yelling around him, in Syriac or Hindi or Phoenician. Did one of them speak the mysterious language that was still unknown to him?

Aisha rode close by. She moved with ease, her indolent figure swaying as the road twisted, her black hair floating in the heat haze, as if she were letting herself be cradled by a music that she alone could hear. Her eyes peered into the scrub, lingering sometimes on a heap of stones, coming to rest on the tracks of an animal, rising suddenly to look at the branch of an almond tree. She seemed to see many things that escaped François, as if the language of the brambles and the sand were familiar to her.

François gazed at the orchards stretching at the foot of the hills, the slopes' streaked vines and, higher up, the brown rock of a cliff, trying as of now to see this land through other eyes. Those of Aisha.

 

At dawn on the fifth day, Djanoush broke away from the caravan, which continued on its way to the port of Jaffa. He turned left, into a ravine that wound in all directions through the arid rock. It was the dry bed of a
wadi
. With each bend, its walls grew increasingly bare, until all vegetation faded away in discouragement, as if the thorny bushes had at last realized that this bottleneck led nowhere. But Djanoush followed its twists and turns with confidence. He only emerged after several hours, forcing the horses to climb a steep slope covered with fallen rocks, which rolled down beneath the animals' hooves. At the top, the gypsy, half asleep on his exhausted horse, pointed to a plateau in the distance, ablaze with blinding light. On it, a line of fortifications could be made out through the haze. Hoarse with fatigue, Djanoush almost whispered, “Yerusalem . . . ”

T
he narrow alleys twisted in front of them. Furtive figures scurried along the walls. The few children to be seen outside were lame or scrawny with rickets. They played in the dirt, yelling in Arabic, in Hebrew, in Armenian, in Greek. The older ones insulted a pompous-looking passing soldier, then ran off through the courtyards, yelling. The younger ones stood huddled in a doorway, busy torturing a skinny cat. Odors and noxious air whirled through the dark, stifling alleys. The stone of the houses was crumbling, the slates on the roofs were cracked, the few windows were like gaping holes. The sky, glimpsed stubbornly between two gutters, was higher here than elsewhere. At the corner of a covered street, a peasant woman in a plaited hat was kneeling in front of a heap of peppers covered with flies. Disheartened, the visitors followed Djanoush through this gray maze of poverty and neglect.

Bells began ringing out. The gypsy moved faster now, guided by the pealing of the bells, and came out onto a small esplanade where hens frolicked. He tied the animals to a stone boundary. A monk descended from a ladder, a bundle of straw over his shoulder. As soon as he saw the strangers, he threw the bundle to the ground, quickly dusted his habit, rubbed his hands, and, assuming a dignified air, muttered a few words of welcome in bad Latin.

“Come, this is the tomb of Christ.”

The travelers obeyed meekly, going in through a rusty gate, stumbling in the gloom, making their way amid the dark recesses of the chapels, the lecterns and pews, past walls laden with blunt-edged stelae, candlesticks without rings, silver censers, frescoes filled with angels and ghosts. François and Colin kept crossing themselves devoutly. Something undefined had entered their bodies. Their eyes peered greedily into the dark nave. He was here, somewhere, in the middle of the spiders' webs and the spent candles: the son of God. They looked for Him in a ray of light falling through a stained-glass window, in the gleam on the gilded frame of a triptych, in the curve of the arches. He must be here. They called to Him from the depths of their souls, hungry for His love. The monk had already reached the sepulcher and was muttering hymns. Colin held himself as stiffly and numbly as if he had just been knighted. François knelt, hands joined, and gathered his thoughts, but found himself unable to pray. He thought about Aisha, whom he was trying in vain to pursue, and about Jesus, whom he was trying in vain to hold on to.

Until he came to this sepulcher, François had not thought he was pursuing a specific aim. He did not care about Chartier's schemes, Gamliel's stratagems, or the interests of the kingdom. He had seen his mission merely as an excuse to roam far and wide. But now he saw the hand of fate in it. And perhaps an end to his wandering. The Holy Land had been awaiting him forever. Its strange landscapes were slowly enclosing him in their folds just like the enchanted letters embracing the Medici coat of arms. François was sure he had come all this way to fulfill a sacred duty. As he bent to meditate, he saw his own face reflected in the silver border around the tomb. An icy breath touched his cheek, like a whisper. He pressed his ear to the tombstone as if the Savior were going to whisper to him the answer he had come looking for. But just as he managed at last to imbue himself with the holiness of the place, the strange, almost complicit intimacy that suddenly linked his fate as a rebel, a man condemned to death, with that of Jesus, two men, their faces hidden beneath large hoods, entered the basilica and signaled to him and Colin to follow them.

 

The two guides strode ahead, leaving no choice other than to scamper hurriedly after them. They went along winding passages, cut through backyards, and crossed vegetable gardens to throw off any possible pursuer. The greyness of the houses, the black holes of the doorways and windows, the sullen air of the sky took on an ever more sinister appearance as they entered the entrails of the city.

At a crossroads, one of the strangers turned right, ordering Djanoush and Aisha to follow him. François intervened. Not knowing in which language he would be understood, he grimaced and gesticulated, holding Aisha back by the sleeve. Colin came to the rescue, fists at the ready. Djanoush brought up the rear, brandishing his knife. The first man threw back his hood, revealing a Mongol's shaved head. He held himself in a strange position, his knees slightly bent, his arms raised to his chest, his open hands quite­ vertical, fingers together, as slender as blades. He twisted suddenly on one foot and struck Djanoush on the wrist with the other. The gypsy let out a roar of pain, and his knife went flying. The Mongol immediately resumed his former position, ready to leap at Colin, but his associate intervened and now also uncovered his head.

“Be reasonable, Master Villon, I beg you.”

François froze, astounded to see Brother Paul's courteous smile. He held Aisha close to him. “This woman has suffered enough!”

“And you intend to protect her, do you?”

It was Colin who replied to the prior's sarcasm. “What do you fear from this slave girl? That she might turn his head? In that case, you're too late!”

The monk looked closely at Aisha, then at François. The Frenchman's openly stubborn air bore witness to a resolve that the prior found not unpleasing. If they ran into any trouble, the presence of a woman might prove useful, whether she served as a decoy, as bait, or quite simply as a bargaining counter. Above all, the girl provided an excellent way of putting pressure on François.

“She can wait outside, she'll be well guarded.”

Brother Paul dismissed Djanoush, slipping a few crowns into his hand. The gypsy took his leave with a brief nod of the head. The Mongol gave him back his knife, pushed him forward, and showed him the way. The prior took the opposite direction.

François followed, Aisha clinging to his arm. With a shrug, Colin brought up the rear.

 

A young man was sitting on a rock, in the middle of a small square with granite flagstones. Two olive trees shaded him with their majestic branches. Brown roots and wild ivy wrapped around their giant trunks. This esplanade was at the same height as the ramparts, located on one of the terraced roofs that overlooked the lower town. It was interspersed with barred windows that snatched the light and dispensed its rays to a subterranean world of shopkeepers and artisans, huddled in the booths of a covered market, their backs stooped over stalls and workbenches, forever angry with heaven.

François preferred to forget the galleries of the cursed city into which men and gods, priests and slaves, mangy dogs and prophets were crammed willy-nilly. Instead, he drank in the soft, limpid air of the little square, where swallows fluttered just above the still burning ground. The young man was enjoying himself, throwing them pieces of oatcake. Behind, in the distance, the bright colors of the gardens of Gethsemane danced in the setting sun. Lower down, sickly scrub descended the sunny slope, rolling with the stones as far as the dark recesses of the valley of the Kidron. In the gathering dusk, a salt-laden breeze blew in from the Dead Sea. It was here that an apostle might at last appear, leaning on his stick, take you gently by the hand, and lead you toward the stars.

François could almost feel it, this invisible hand drawing him on, leading him into the heart of Judea. He was certain he was here for something other than to traffic in books. When it came to contraband, Colin could handle things perfectly well by himself. Brother Paul grabbed hold of François, drawing him out of his daydream. Come on, let's go! François let himself be pulled by the sleeve, all the while peering up at the sky in search of a clue.

 

As soon as he saw the little group, the young man jumped down from his rock, handed Brother Paul a key, then, without saying a word, returned to his post. The monk took some pieces of material from his pocket and blindfolded the three visitors. Holding each other by the hand like children, they let themselves be led through an invisible labyrinth. Colin had the distinct impression that the monk was taking them around in circles. The chirping of the swallows faded and returned on several occasions. The last rays of the sun warmed his right cheek and left cheek alternately. Beneath his feet, he could still feel still the hard, flat granite of the flagstones.

A door creaked. The heat from outside gave way to a pleasant coolness. After a few paces, Brother Paul lifted the blindfolds then continued advancing. A narrow corridor led to a spacious room where oil lamps hung from the ceiling on brass chains and a multitude of strange objects jostled for attention on shelves inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl. Indian papier-mâché puppets, ivory abacuses, Venetian masks, Ethiopian javelins, Etruscan vases, fibulas, perfume burners, and jade statuettes basked amid silks from Damascus, carpets from Samarkand, and lace tablecloths from Flanders. Behind a counter carved with imps and unicorns, a white-bearded patriarch was cleaning a binding with wax and a cloth. In between blowing on the precious volume, his lips moved quickly, muttering psalms. Opaque eyes, whitened by cataracts, rolled beneath his lids like two marbles.

“Good evening, Brother Paul. I'm just getting Master Federico's order ready.”

Colin jumped at the mention of the Florentine. François addressed an inquisitive look at Brother Paul, who raised a finger to his lips to indicate that now was not the time.

The old man stroked the covers and breathed in the odor of the leather then, opening the book, sniffed the ink and rubbed his nose on the parchment, his nostrils quivering above the illuminations. He moistened his thumb, passed it over the crimson surface of a miniature, and licked the rubbed-off gouache with delight.

“A fine Byzantine edition, in faith. Somewhat faded in style . . . I doubt these dull, diluted colors would tempt the Italian. They would be better suited to more austere tastes, those of a prelate in Cologne perhaps or a burgher in Ghent. But they are done with a sure hand, trust a blind man's touch.”

Impatiently, Brother Paul entrusted Aisha to the old man, assuring François she would be well treated. The woman would not let go, squeezing François's hand hard, while he furtively kissed hers. Brother Paul went behind the counter and approached a tapestry depicting a Persian banquet in a park with fountains. Barely touching the thick fabric of the tapestry, he inserted his key in the mouth of a lion that was spitting out a jet of water. The wall revolved. Brother Paul immediately reached in through the door and took hold of a torch, thus illuminating the steps of a broad stone staircase.

 

Outside, on the square, the young man finished nibbling his oatcake. The swallows had gone. A low moon had come to rest on the tops of the olive trees. A cat scurried away, frightened by a slender shadow gliding nimbly along the walls, head covered in a kind of helmet.