“Another swig?”
François filled the glasses then lifted his high in triumph, like a chalice. Colin threw an embarrassed glance at the neighboring tables. It was easy to spot the foreigners who had come for the Fair, dressed in thickly stitched doublets or woolen cloaks, wearing hoods and hats with preposterous shapes. Whether they came from Flanders or Saragossa, whether they were highwaymen, clerics or merchants, each had a club or a knife, in full view, at their sides. Other weapons were barely concealed beneath their cloaks or inside the legs of their boots. Ill at ease, the locals shrank away, whispering in patois, looking at these strangers out of the corners of their eyes. Only the innkeeper was affable, jovially pocketing the coin of different realms. A maid swayed her hips between the tables, trying to tempt the customers. Colin drank without much conviction, again looking closely at the sheet of parchment. François hit the table with his fist and pointed to the crowded room.
“It’s their future you hold in your hands, brigand!”
The two men spent the night drinking. François tried to make Colin understand what was truly at stake in this mission, but in vain. Colin could not see how this list of books could change the fate of all these people, these peasants and shopkeepers and soldiers of fortune. Much as he examined the inventory and deciphered the titles, it was no good. What confused him all the more was that François kept telling him that it was not the texts that mattered. They had been chosen by Chartier, and by the king, to assuage their ambitions of the moment. No, it was the books themselves, as objects of paper or animal hide, that constituted an extraordinary arsenal. But for what war?
The tavern gradually emptied. Colin meekly received his final instructions from François, then went out to face the rain. As he closed the door behind him, he glimpsed his crony busily making eyes at the servingwoman, who was laughing crazily.
The market square was waking up, warmly wrapped in the thick mist of morning. Sounds, sparse and timid at first, pierced the silence: little bells dancing on the necks of animals, gravel crunching beneath the wheels of the carts, baubles and canvases shaken by the wind. The men, still numb, did not speak, staring with heavy eyes at the few patches of color: red ribbon, green hat, purple cloth. Hawkers and merchants strode in dozens down the alleys leading to the fairground. Soon, they roused workers and mules, mercenaries and bodyguards. Soon, the whine of haggling and the clink of coins echoed on all sides. That morning, a new era began, an era in which everything would be negotiable.
The wooden trestles creaked beneath the weight of the crates and jars. The air was heavy with the scent of spices and perfume and dye and the fumes of wine. Colin was assailed by touts pulling his arm, in no way abashed by his huge frame. He hurried on, cutting through the stream of onlookers, slipping between the carpets and fabrics hanging from the awnings. In the central aisle, he spotted a stand whose sober tones were out of place in the gaily-colored swirl of silks. There, customers and sellers alike argued in low voices, heedless of the cries and laughter all around. A discreet sign announced in Gothic lettering: “Johann Fust and Pierre Schoeffer, printers and booksellers.” Rolls of parchment and leather-bound volumes were heaped up willy-nilly on shelves of rough and hastily varnished wood.
At the back, behind the counter, a slender fellow wearing gentlemen’s attire, although moth-eaten and patched, was putting down a box filled with books at the feet of an old man with a well-groomed beard. The old man immediately plunged his thin hands into the box, skillfully searching and sorting. Then, with a disillusioned expression, he stood up again and stated his price. The squire refused, visibly offended. The old man would not budge. To cut short the performance, he untied a velvet purse, knowing that a feudal lord in debt would not long resist the sight of a handful of silver coins. Crestfallen, the noble pocketed the sum without deigning to count it and quickly turned on his heels, trying to regain the haughty air proper to his station.
Colin went closer. It was the first time he had approached the man he had been watching for months. With a hesitant hand, he held out his list. The old merchant first glanced negligently at it. Then, genuinely taken aback, he looked at Colin for some time, incredulous.
With the few crowns allocated by Guillaume Chartier, François bought new clothes: two pairs of britches, two shirts, and a pelisse lined with otter skin, all in a dull gray that would not show the dirt for a long time. Splendid hats hung from the ceiling, but much as the shopkeeper insisted, François would not abandon his old headgear. It was a piece of crumpled felt, of an undefined color that might once have been an elegant green, the brim of which was turned up in three sections. This curious tricorn had escaped many trials and tribulations. Each of its folds, like a familiar wrinkle, evoked a memory. François refused to part with it. It was the only possession that still tied him to his past. He clung to it like a rope.
Before going back, he paid for a neck-length haircut, a close shave, and a clumsy plastering of his dental cavities. The barber cursed the great fair, which was stealing his customers with all its sales patter. There were even quack doctors there who claimed to be able to patch up teeth better than he could!
Back at the tavern, François climbed the stairs to the attic, a small, meagerly furnished, musty-smelling room. Colin was waiting for him, sitting on a stool. François tapped him on the shoulder, then went and took his pouch from under the bed. The books were all there. Now all they could do was wait.
Toward noon, François heard heavy steps growing louder as they approached, interspersed now and again by imperious knocks with a cane. Colin stood up even before the pommel struck the mildewed wood of the door. Doing his best to appear polite, he gave a kind of bow and motioned the visitor to the only chair that had a back.
“Fust. Johann Fust. Silversmith and printer in Mayence.”
François, sitting cross-legged on a straw mattress, was less welcoming. He studied the newcomer with a suspicious air. The old man’s venerable countenance, his haughty German demeanor, his impeccably correct clothes did nothing to set his mind at rest. Fust stared back at him, momentarily thrown by his host’s less than winning appearance. He even found him insolent and crafty. The fellow was clearly suffering from a terrible hangover. In any case, neither the imposing brute who was standing with his back to the door nor this none too clean vagabond intimidated the old printer. This wasn’t the first time he had dealt with receivers of stolen goods. They were of all kinds: defrocked priests, sons of good families who had fallen into debt, soldiers returning from the wars. The best books often met with the saddest fate, abandoned by simpletons surprised that anyone should waste time reading them, let alone want to acquire them for cash. Thus it was that knowledge circulated and spread, through theft, bankruptcy, and inheritance. Much to the delight of booksellers.
François knew perfectly well that his guest sensed a great opportunity. Nevertheless, he played the game according to the rules, letting Fust believe that he was the craftier of the two or, at least, the more expert. François had never flaunted his knowledge, often taking judges and university masters by surprise. He had learned never to use his erudition as a foil, but to conceal it beneath the appearance of a fool, and use it only at the right moment, like a secret weapon. He would throw a judicious quotation at an eminent rival as you throw a knife at a straw target, casually but going straight for the middle. And always catching him unawares. It was not his reading that had taught him this technique, but the many street fights he had been in, against adversaries for whom, unlike courtiers and clerics, he felt respect.
Fust, though, would not let himself be overawed—which made François all the better disposed toward him. The old man took his seat with ease, nonchalantly placed his cane on the floor, and calmly removed his mittens. On his finger, as a counterpoint to his otherwise austere attire, he wore a glittering ring with a ruby set in it as a cabochon. The matte gold of the ring was inscribed with a dragon, its tiny rhinestone eyes glitte
ring brightly, a thread of flashing enamel spurting from its open mouth. Its claws held the central gem in a tight grip.
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.
3
The 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.
The Brotherhood of Book Hunters Page 2
