The Brotherhood of Book Hunters

by Raphael Jerusalmy

  This mysterious, bewitching world had been challenging man for thousands of years. But there was another, just as vast and wild, that man had not yet confronted. A world whose doors, as planned by the supreme head of the Brotherhood, were beginning to open just as François was crossing the threshold of this one.

  37

  A large bag over his shoulder, Federico was on his way to the well-to-do quarter near the harbor. Many ship-owners and captains lived there in spite of the incessant noise and pestilential odors rising from the port. Federico held his nose as he approached the fisheries. With a leap here, and a detour there, he avoided the stretched nets, the heaps of dying fish, the garbage, and the seaweed, endlessly fearing to dirty the gentleman’s attire he had donned for the occasion.

  Genoa was the fiefdom of Francesco Sforza, granted to him by Louis XI in order to form an alliance that was as much financial as military with the duchy of Milan. Sforza was determined to extend his maritime trade well beyond the Mediterranean. Promising to supply him with the accounts and maps he needed, the Brotherhood had managed to persuade Duke Francesco to arrange a secret meeting during which Federico would hand over the maritime charts no other fleet possessed. Federico knew his visit was much awaited. The Genoese were excellent navigators but, unlike their colleagues in Oporto and Lisbon, poor cartographers. The pilots of Portuguese vessels had at their disposal meticulously prepared maps that allowed them to find their way easily in the most distant oceans. In order to compete with them, it would not be enough to steal their charts. Nor was there any point in following in their wake since, in order to take possession of a territory and install trading posts there, you had to be the first to land on it. This elementary right of precedence gave rise to a frantic race. And it was on that race that the Brotherhood was counting to launch Christian flotillas against other shores than those of Palestine. But no brave commander or bold shipbuilder would undertake to sail unknown seas without first having consulted a reliable authority. Before anything else could happen, an experienced navigator, recognized and respected by all, had to be convinced. And it so happened that there was one right here, in Genoa.

  Federico knocked at the door of a large building. He was welcomed by the mistress of the house, Susanna Fontanarossa, a good friend of the Sforza ladies. In the main room, the whole family was waiting in front of bowls filled with olives, grapes, and small biscuits: Domenico, the father; Giacomo, the eldest of the sons, a strapping, dark-complexioned lad aged about eighteen; and, to one side, sitting quietly, the daughters, who duly gave the dashing visitor coquettish smiles, and their younger brother, Cristoforo, a timid, reserved-looking adolescent. The usual civilities were quickly dispatched, and the mother retired, taking her daughters with her. Federico immediately opened his bag and laid out, one by one, marine charts that would have been the envy of many captains.

  In Safed, Villon had surprised Gamliel entrusting a papyrus scroll to the Florentine merchant, a kind of map of the world. It was this that Federico was now handing to Domenico. This ancient drawing of the world, inspired by Ptolemy’s geography, came from the library of Alexandria. But by itself, it was far from providing proof. The Brotherhood had other maps in its possession, much more recent ones, which it had acquired from the Turks during the conquest of Constantinople. These Byzantine records, compiled according to the testimonies of Phoenician, Moorish, and Indian sailors, confirmed the existence of vast unexplored lands. The chronicles of Marco Polo also referred to them. But it was the travel writings of Benjamin of Tudela, less well-known to Christian navigators, that had given the book hunters the idea of launching a treasure hunt. A practicing Jew, Tudela had not set off with the aim of exploring and conquering, but of finding the garden of Eden. In the East, he had visited fairy-tale lands, some of them wild, others a lot more advanced than his native Navarre. But he had never found paradise.

  By putting together the information given by Tudela with that contained in Ptolemy’s maps and the maps conserved in Byzantium, the Brotherhood had traced the chart of an El Dorado that all travelers and geographers agreed was situated on the borders of Asia, beyond the Indies and China. And then it had simply reversed the picture, transporting this wonderland to the west. It justified this conjuring trick by reference to Critias, Timaeus, and other dialogues of Plato, all of which mentioned a fabulous land, situated this time in the west and called Atlantis.

  Domenico and Giacomo examined the precious documents, their deep sailors’ eyes fixed on the lines and arrows crisscrossing the faded blue of the sea. The father seemed surprised by the size of the continents, almost annoyed to see them encroach on the ocean in that way. His son Giacomo found that there were far too many brown patches, as if a painter with a deranged mind had thrown them there at random. Tiny, spidery islands rubbed shoulders with huge bear paws, of which two were as large as continents. Less worried about geography, the younger son amused himself endowing these unknown or imaginary places with whimsical nicknames. Instead of being repelled, like his elders, by this disrespectful confusion that disturbed the order of the world, Cristoforo mutely applauded the jokes of this somewhat mad cartographer. By thus remolding the planet as he wished, he had made it more beautiful, more mysterious, an invitation to adventure and dream. The young man followed with his eyes these lines that led to infinity. He imagined a ship blindly following their twists and turns until it finally dropped anchor at the other end of the world, among the stars. A real ship was not made to lead from one port to another, like a wagon arriving at a way station. It had quite another destination, always the same one, which bore the sweet name “elsewhere.”

  Domenico Colombo politely promised Federico that he would study the maps. In fact, the Genoese did not trust these maps any more than he trusted the gossip of a ship’s boy. Mariners were known to be inveterate tellers of tales. They described mountains higher than clouds, claimed to have seen monsters gobble up a whole ship with one snap of their jaws, stated that they had visited golden beaches where naked young women offered themselves fearlessly to strangers, covering them with giant flowers and amorous caresses. No serious ship-owner believed in the nonsense put about by drunken sailors.

  Federico had not expected to be taken at his word. This meeting had been only a first step. The rumor of a route leading to a land of cockaigne would, however, slowly insinuate itself into the corridors of the Spanish Admiralty, onto the landing stages of Flemish ports, and into Venetian trading posts, Portuguese colonial headquarters, and French harbormasters’ offices. Whether or not they believed in such stories, the princes of Christendom would soon see them as a good excuse to raise new funds and enlarge their fleets. Anxious for their bankers to take the bait, they would take it upon themselves to make the story plausible.

  Pleased with what he had achieved, Federico thanked the Colombos and took his leave. Once the stranger had left, Domenico burst out laughing. Even if these lands existed, it was out of the question to risk a ship to reach them. There was not a single port of call within sight. Giacomo agreed. He was the heir. His father’s reputation with Italian shipbuilders ensured him a certain future. But Cristoforo was thinking like a younger son. When it came to birthright, he was last in line. His sisters would need good dowries to marry. The sons-in-law would join the business as associates, reducing Cristoforo’s meager share even further. Dependent relatives would require expenses that his big brother would be certain to cover by drawing on the common chest. Like all younger sons of good families, Cristoforo would then have to make a difficult choice between a career in the army and entering the Church. He did not feel that he had the soul either of a soldier or of a priest. The sea was his one escape route. To the east, it belonged to his brother and all well-to-do elder brothers. All that remained to Cristoforo was the west, which nobody seemed to want.

  Federico was at last able to leave this rough world of sailors and fishermen and return to the sweetness of Florence and his shop close to the Ponte Vecchio
, and meditate over the grave of his dead master, Cosimo de’ Medici. He was not displeased with the seed he had sown. Jerusalem had given him a whole sack full of them. This one, however, would germinate differently than the others. The Brotherhood was encouraging the Gentiles to rediscover the wisdom of the ancients, to study the discoveries of the astronomers and doctors, in the hope of guiding them toward a new world. But this seed would widen their horizons in quite another way, by offering them a New World.

  38

  A shepherd emerged from a wadi bristling with tall rushes unruffled by any breeze, driving his herd of goats toward the marshes that lined the Dead Sea, and walked, a slightly vague figure, beside the huge oily pool held prisoner by the mountains. The water, petrified into an ice floe of light and salt, barely glittered. The rays of the sun sank onto it, marbling the matte indigo of the surface for a moment before being sucked down into the depths. The reflection of a solitary cumulus skated over the water, skidding like a fly on the polished pewter of a mirror. It moved laboriously, contracted by the heat, while up above, the cloud of which it was the shadow continued on its way, gliding easily over the face of the sky. Nothing else moved. The image of the surrounding cliffs lay flat on the motionless sheet of water. Every detail was drawn on it as distinctly as on an engraver’s plate. It was the real hills that seemed to shimmer, their outlines veiled by an excess of light, their slopes blurring in the heat of the rock.

  Perched on a promontory, François watched the shepherd disappear into the distance, then entered the cave. It was refreshingly cool in there. Aisha was rocking back and forth on a swing hanging from heavy chains. Out of breath, François sat down on a sheepskin pouffe. The dwelling, even though meagerly furnished, was comfortable. The rough ground, leveled by pickax, was covered with a raffia mat woven from a thousand colors. A recess hidden by a canvas curtain served as a closet. Stocks of oil, medicinal balm, candle wax, almonds, dried fruits, biscuits, brandy in kegs, fresh linen, and all kinds of utensils were piled there in no particular order. A large table and two benches made up a dining room. At the far end, there was only a single bed, a large one protected by a tent-shaped tulle net. A standing writing case and two lecterns occupied the rest of the room. A few books were neatly arranged in a niche hollowed out of the rock. A big piece of wood, painted with stripes to imitate the bumps in the stone, was propped against one of the walls. It was cut in such a way as to camouflage the entrance to the cave, its outlines perfectly matching the shape of the cliff.

  François had not yet decided if this residence was a prison or a refuge, a place of torment or a safe haven. Much as Eviatar might boast of the benefits of such a retreat, the strength imparted by the desert, the revelations whispered in the silence, François remained bewildered. And not very inspired. He had always written surrounded by the bustle of taverns, matched the rhythm of his verses to the stammering of the drinkers, the laughter of children, the noises of the street, the jokes exchanged by the wagoners. It was in that deafening din that he had found his words, from it that he had derived their music. Eviatar agreed about the need for noise. Nobody learned the Torah as an anchorite closed up in an ivory tower. It was in the rooms of the yeshivot, filled with rowdy pupils arguing over points of exegesis, bawling hymns, throwing quotations from the Talmud in each other’s faces, that the word best echoed, was transmitted loud and clear. But then there came the moment of wisdom, reserved only for the masters. The moment that went beyond.

  That moment was now being offered to François Villon. It was here, in this corner of the desert, that Providence had made an appointment for him, one that he had previously made every effort to postpone. True, it had done so by forcing his hand. But whatever the reason for this confrontation with himself toward which Eviatar was urging him, François had no intention of running away. Quite the contrary, he saw in it an unhoped-for opportunity to regain control. Since his release from the jails of the Châtelet, he had felt himself being shaken from one place to another by a capricious and whimsical swell, and he had done nothing to resist the drift. Out of a taste for adventure, he was willing to admit. But an adventurer was only worthy of the name if he kept going in the direction he wanted. He did not let himself be bewitched by the unknown lands through which he passed, nor by the beautiful strangers he met on his route. And certainly not captured by the natives.

  Eviatar raised his gourd, drank a mouthful of water, then abruptly took his leave. He promised to return the next day at dawn, when he would take François to see Gamliel. The rabbi, who had come for that express purpose from Safed, should be reaching the Dead Sea by this evening. François did not have time to react. Eviatar was already running down the slope, jumping from one rock to the other, hugging the ground, his body bent to maintain balance, his right hand in front of him, holding an invisible ramp. His shadow ran behind him, waving over the brambles, like that of a cormorant over the waves. He plunged into the bed of a wadi, reemerged for a moment, then disappeared in the distance amid the dunes.

  Setting the sky ablaze with a final glowing salvo, the sun sank behind the plateaus, like a sentry in a hurry to leave his post. A biting wind immediately seized the opportunity to emerge from its lair. Crouching all day long, it had waited for this moment to pounce on the dunes left defenseless, the shrubs abandoned to their fate. It howled through narrow ravines that served as its organ pipes. François watched the sky darken. Night did not fall here as it did in Paris or Champagne. It rose. It overflowed from the black chasm of the Dead Sea, like a river in full spate, and spread slowly over the sand like ink on blotting paper. The stars lit up one by one, sharp and piercing. They did not shimmer timidly in the mist, or twinkle amid the treetops. Here they stretched to infinity, deployed in a huge armada.

  A golden light attracted François’s gaze. Crouching in front of a meager fire of twigs, of which she was fanning the flames, Aisha was roasting bean dumplings rolled in oil. She took one out, well browned, with a crackly crust, sprinkled it with thyme, and handed it to François. The feast proceeded in silence. This sudden intimacy brought about an unexpected embarrassment. Up until now, Aisha and François had teased each other beneath the watchful eye of chaperones: Moussa, Colin, Gamliel, Eviatar. Now they were faced with one another like spouses in an arranged marriage, isolated for a moment in an antechamber just before the wedding ceremony. They would spend the night together, nobody doubted that. Except them. Precisely because it was what everyone expected.

  It was Aisha who rose first and, taking François’s hand, led him to her bed. François hesitated for a moment. Was she following the rabbi’s instructions?

  Outside, the howling of the jackals mingled with the breath of the wind. The Holy Land lay there in the darkness, consenting, and the starry night accepted its offering.

  When morning came, François rose, taking care not to wake Aisha. He went and sat down in front of the lectern, his back to the cave entrance. In the pale light of dawn, he carefully laid out the parchment, the inkpot, and the quill, without making any noise. And, for the first time since he had left Paris, he began to write.

  39

  The sun was also rising over Florence, but the sky there was cloudy, the air heavy. A short shower came out of nowhere to lash the paving stones, joyfully spattering the gaiters of the passersby as they ran to take shelter in doorways. Women laughed and shouted as they hurried to the arcades of the Via Por Santa Maria, where the shopkeepers were ready and waiting for them. If the rain lasted, they would have to buy something. On the Ponte Vecchio, pounded by the turbulent waves of the Arno, peddlers covered their goods with thick oilcloths and cursed the bad weather.

  Unlike Colin, who had left in secret for Paris, Federico operated proudly and openly. Whereas the Frenchman had to take endless precautions to deceive the vigilance of the papal informers, the Italian announced his latest finds to all and sundry. It was in the very heart of Florence, on a shopping street, that he gave battle.

  Si
nce his return, Federico had grown noticeably richer. Potbellied bankers in frills and basques and powdered ladies in muslin veils were snapping up his old books, thus unwittingly spreading the boldest doctrines, the most fearless ideas, the most adventurous theories. It was a matter of who could best surprise the other by opening a drawer and displaying a mysterious essay whose provenance he could not divulge for fear of attracting the wrath of the Inquisition. These excited bibliographic conspirators leafed through compromising pages without necessarily reading them, but inevitably it was they, rather than the austere members of the faculties, who spread the revival of philosophy, from drawing room to drawing room and all the way to the antechambers of princes. And by thus defying the censors, they were gradually discovering their own power. What began as an underground current was becoming a veritable fashion. In order to be in vogue and to shine at court, burghers and nobles were now adorning their palaces with the best editions of the Corpus Hermeticum or the speeches of Demosthenes, much to the displeasure of their confessors.

  A man with a woolen hat pulled down over his ear was walking fast between the stalls, lost in thought, heedless of the large drops dripping down his cape, wading through the pools of mud, stumbling over boundary stones, so distracted that he passed right by the place he was meant to be going. He stopped at the end of the street, turned with a surprised look on his face, then shrugged and retraced his steps.

  “Master Ficino!” a clerk standing in front of a wide door called to him. “Master Ficino! It’s here!”

  “Yes, yes, I’m perfectly well aware of that . . . ”

  Marsilio Ficino was an old friend of Federico’s. Both had had the same patron and mentor, Cosimo de’ Medici. They were continuing his work, each in his own way. One unearthed rare manuscripts, the other translated them and wrote commentaries on them in Latin. Whenever the papal censors banned the edition of a work by Ficino, Federico arranged for it to be published clandestinely in Lyon or Frankfurt. The Brotherhood had been counting on his collaboration for a long time. It knew perfectly well that Federico’s shop could not by itself modify the way the great and the good saw things. But the Academy founded by the Medicis, of which Ficino was the director, was an institution of renown which had every chance of attracting their favor. Known as far afield as Paris, Liège, and Amsterdam, it was considered just as authoritative as the Sorbonne. However, unlike the universities, it was the fiefdom not of the clergy, but of the nobility. Thanks to it, princes could defy cardinals without compromising themselves. So what if their choice of reading matter displeased the Church? Whose fault was that? Marsilio Ficino’s.