The Dream Maker

by Jean-Christophe Rufin

  However, the esteem I enjoyed among the boys did have its advantages—in particular, that of making me interesting to girls. Jean and Guillaume brought me daily reports of what this or that girl had said in her brother’s presence, proof of their interest in me.

  The year I turned fourteen, I shot up. I now had a scraggly beard that was brown like my hair, and I had to shave three times a week. The strange deformity on my chest that had been visible from birth became more pronounced: it was as if someone’s fist had punched a hollow in my chest. And while this abnormality had no effect on my breathing, the doctor recommended I avoid any physical effort, and I must never run. These instructions gave me an additional reason to have my right-hand men carry out any tasks that fell to me.

  The girls seemed to appreciate my slowness and immobility. The strength one derives from one’s power over others is incomparably more efficient than the one that comes from within one’s own body. Physical power can arouse animal desire. It is precious for a lover. But at an age where another person’s attraction is measured by the ability to endure (even eternally, when marriage is at stake), a man’s authority is more attractive than his strength. Thus my hidden weakness, this bodily defect I concealed beneath padded doublets and flowing shirts, merely increased my restraint and the flattering reputation that ensued.

  I did not pay a great deal of attention to these issues until I, too, was stricken with love and a passionate desire for conquest.

  In our new neighborhood, a short way from our house, there lived a family whom my parents looked up to. Over time, I was beginning to realize that not all burghers had similar fortunes. In spite of the admiration I had for my father, I was forced to conclude that he was by no means in the upper ranks of our class. Drapers, such as Guillaume’s father, Messire de Varye, were more illustrious. Certain tradesmen, particularly those who dealt in wine and grain, had built houses that were far bigger and more luxurious than our own. Higher still were those whose profession was money. One of our neighbors was a moneychanger; his wealth had enabled him to acquire the position of valet to the Duke. He did not merely go to the palace, like my father did, in order to solicit something and be treated rudely. He had an official place, albeit a modest one, in the Duke’s entourage. This was enough, in my opinion, to give him considerable prestige.

  The man was a widower. He had three children from his first wife. A daughter was born from his second marriage, and she was roughly two years younger than me. She was a sickly girl who went around with her eyes cast down, and she seemed to be afraid of everything. The only memory I had of her was of seeing her scream with terror one day, when a huge black Percheron horse snapped the shafts of his cart after slipping under the weight of a load of wood.

  She disappeared for several months after that. It was said she had fallen ill and her parents had sent her to the countryside to recover. When she came back she was no longer a child. I remember very well my first sighting of her new appearance.

  It was a day in April when the sky hesitated between cloud and sun. I no longer remember what dream I was chasing; in any case, I was lost in thought and hardly looked around. Guillaume was with me, and we were slowly walking somewhere. As usual, he was talking and I wasn’t listening. He did not immediately notice that I had stopped.

  We were on our way up from the Place Saint-Pierre and she was crossing the street slightly farther up. Behind her, the freshly painted wall of a house under construction sparkled with whitewash against a patch of sunlight. She was wearing a black houppelande with a hood against her neck. Her blonde hair curled rebelliously against the chignon that was supposed to keep it in place, and it danced in the sunlight. She turned her head to us and stopped for a moment. The features of the child had yielded to the pressure of an inner strength that had molded her forehead and cheeks and infused her lips with blood, enlarging her eyes around blue irises that I had never seen before, because her lids were always lowered.

  I immediately thought of her name. Not her first name, which I had forgotten, and which I would later repeat so often and cherish so much. It was her family name that came back to me in a flash: Léodepart. This strange name was Flemish. It is, apparently, a distortion of Lollepop. We spoke about it one day at table with my father. In that instant, Léodepart betrayed all at once its relation with “leopard.” The two words, so similar, had burst into my life with the same force, and perhaps the same significance. They were linked to beauty, to light, to a certain brilliance of the sun upon a blonde creature, to dreams of elsewhere. The leopard had gone back into its bag, leaving behind this stuff of dreams, and a name, Arabia. Mademoiselle de Léodepart, although forged from a different essence, was clearly from the same world as the leopard.

  Her Christian name was Macé. I heard it from Guillaume, and that was my first step toward her that day. The weeks that followed were filled entirely with my desire to get closer to her. I led this campaign with the same apparent calm I had displayed during our escapade, but deep inside I was devoured by a far greater fear. By dint of cunning and false pretexts, I managed several times to cross her path. I was determined to speak to her, but every time I felt the words catch in my throat. She walked by without looking at me. One morning, however, I had the extraordinary impression that she had smiled at me. On the days that followed, she was as cold and absent as ever.

  I was desperate at the thought of everything that separated our two families. Previously I had ignored any differences between my father’s condition and that of other burghers and their families, but now I could not help but exaggerate them. Our house, at the corner of two streets, seemed narrow and ridiculous, whereas Macé’s house seemed scarcely less vast and luxurious than the Duke’s palace. I wore myself out trying to come up with a trick to get myself invited to her house. Nothing worked. Macé’s brothers and sisters were much older and I did not know them. We had no friends in common. Our parents did not visit each other. There were times when we were together at a service at the Cathedral, when the bells rang out a holy day. Alas, we were always far apart.

  These material obstacles were driving me mad. I began to envision the most desperate solutions. I observed the locks on the Léodeparts’ house, and the number and habits of their servants. I imagined stealing into the courtyard one night, going upstairs, and declaring my love to Macé, abducting her if I had to. I wondered how we would live, whether my friends would agree to help me, and how my parents would react. Not for a moment did I doubt her feelings. In hindsight, that is what seems most extraordinary. We had hardly set eyes on each other, and we had never spoken. I had absolutely no idea of her opinion and yet I was sure I was right.

  The matter came to a head one autumn morning I will never forget. The chestnut tree on the small square outside our house had turned yellow, and passersby walked through the leaves scattered on the ground. We were waiting for a delivery of fox pelts from the Morvan region. Suddenly, the tall figure of Messire de Léodepart filled the doorway to the workroom. My father rushed to greet him. I stayed back and could not hear their conversation. It seemed probable that he had come to buy a piece of fur or have something made to measure. The only thing out of the ordinary was that he should come in person. Our customers, for the most part, were women, and most often they merely sent their servants. A mad theory raced through my mind, but I banished the thought as a manifestation of the lovesickness that was eating away at me, and which, by reasoning with myself, I was gradually curing. I went up to my room and closed the door. A new little dog, which my mother had acquired at the beginning of the year, had come in with me. I played at teasing him, caressing him roughly. He nibbled at my fingers and gave out shrill little yelps. Therefore I did not immediately hear my father calling me. I hurried down the stairs. When I came into the parlor, I found Léodepart standing silently next to my father. They were both looking at me. It was an ordinary workday, and I had not taken any particular care with my appearance.

 
“Say hello to Messire de Léodepart, please,” said my father. “He has just taken office as provost, and we craftsmen must show him our respect.”

  I greeted him awkwardly. Léodepart motioned to my father that he need not continue with that subject. He seemed eager to attenuate anything that might increase the distance between them, and his demeanor was one of good-natured simplicity. He was looking at me with a strange smile.

  “You have a fine boy, maître Cœur,” he said, nodding his head and smiling.

  The introductions went no farther, and he took his leave.

  After seeing him out, my father remained silent and gave me no explanation. My mother came back from a visit shortly before the midday meal. They sat together for a long time behind closed doors, then sent for me.

  “Do you know Léodepart’s daughter?” asked my father.

  “I’ve seen her in the street.”

  “Have you spoken with her? Have you sent her messages through a servant, or by any other means?”

  “Never.”

  My parents looked at each other.

  “We will go to their house on Sunday,” said my father. “You will try to be well-groomed. I shall finish the new fur tunic I promised you by then and you shall wear it.”

  I thanked him, but my desires were elsewhere and I could not resist asking the question.

  “What do they want, exactly?”

  “To marry the two of you.”

  And so it was, thanks to a few words my father uttered through his teeth, that I was told of my destiny. I had been mistaken about everything, except the most important thing: Macé shared my feelings. She had succeeded where I had only come up against the wall of my circumstances. I later learned that she had been interested in me for a long time, even when she was still a child. She been charmed by the story of my adventures during the siege of the town, and had discreetly obtained information about me through her friends who had brothers my age. Obviously she had seen my confusion when at last I did notice her, and yet she had enough composure not to let anything show. As soon as she was sure of my feelings, she took charge of things, with a view to making both of us happy.

  First she had convinced her mother. Then together they had besieged the provost. He had other plans for his daughter, but all with a view to her happiness. If she made another choice and persisted with it, despite his words of warning, he would not have the heart to force her against her will. Léodepart had imposed his ambition upon the three eldest children: they were all well married and unhappy. So he had agreed that the youngest could opt for happiness, at the risk that the object of her love might be good for nothing. Even if I was not a fine match, at least our family was honorable. No one could call it a misalliance.

  We were engaged three months later. The wedding took place the following year, the week of my twentieth birthday. Macé was eighteen. The Duke sent two gentlemen to bless us on his behalf. It was, it seemed, a brilliant wedding. All the merchants and bankers in our town, and even several noblemen who were among my father-in-law’s clients (and who, in truth, were in his debt), followed the procession. I hardly had time to enjoy myself, because all I wanted was for the crowd to vanish and leave us alone at last.

  It had been agreed that we would move into the Léodeparts’s private residence, where we would occupy a suite on the upper floor of the left wing. The apartments had been carefully prepared, decorated with furs from my father. We arrived late in the evening. The wedding party was still in progress in the hall my father-in-law had rented on the outskirts of town, near the mill by the Auron.

  Everything I knew about physical love I had learned from observing animals. I had not gone with my comrades when they visited the whores, and they were too afraid of my opinion to tell me what they did there. And yet I was not worried. It seemed to me that Macé would guide us, that she would express her desires and anticipate my own.

  Our uncertainty gave our bodies a shivering restraint which enhanced our pleasure. I could already tell that Macé was as taciturn and dreamy as I myself was. Our gestures, in the silence and nakedness of that first night, evoked the masked dancing of two ghosts. The instant I possessed her I also realized I would never know anything about her. In the same instant she revealed what she would always give me—her body and her love—and also what she would withhold—her dreams and her thoughts. It was a night of happiness and discovery. Upon waking, I felt the slight bitterness, as well as the great relief, of knowing that there would always be the two of us, but that each of us was alone.

  *

  In my new family I discovered an activity I had known nothing about: the commerce of money. Hitherto I had never taken the slightest interest in those little discs of bronze, silver, and gold that circulated among the merchants in exchange for their services. I viewed money as an inert thing, and, had they been rarer, the white pebbles in the garden might just as easily have replaced those coins.

  Through Léodepart I learned that money is a thing apart and, in its way, it is alive. Those who deal in it learn the complicated rules governing its exchange, for money is a common species that can be subdivided into innumerable families. Florins, ducats, and livres bear the mark of their birth. They are stamped with the effigy of the sovereign who reigns over the land where they were minted. Then they go from hand to hand and into strange countries. Those who encounter them question their value, as one does with servants when deciding whether to employ them or not. Those who work with money—metalworkers, bankers, changers, lenders—constitute an immense network, spread all over Europe. Unlike my father, who was skilled in one particular trade, men who work with money touch no single product but can acquire them all. Those shiny little coins, worn smooth by the rubbing of eager fingers, contain an infinity of possible worlds. One ducat, if the person holding it so desires, can turn into a feast, a jewel, an ox, a carriage, happiness, revenge . . .

  Money is pure dreams. To contemplate it is to cause the endless procession of the things of this world to parade before one’s eyes.

  My father-in-law tried very patiently to teach me the art of exchange. Very quickly he reproached me for not being sufficiently attentive to what I was doing. With money, as if I were staring into the fireplace, I tended to let my mind wander. For such a precise, meticulous activity as an exchange transaction, a disposition to daydreaming is not an asset: I made mistakes that could cost dearly. Even though my father-in-law handled important business, his margins were slim. The slightest negligence when weighing the metal or calculating proportions could severely affect his profit.

  But he was a good man, and indulgent. I was his son-in-law. He saw my faults but did not withhold his trust. It was his conviction that each of us is capable of discovering the employment that suits him, provided he knows exactly what his aptitudes are. Mine would certainly not make me a moneychanger. It remained to be seen whether I would be good at anything else.

  On thinking back on this era, I tell myself that it was dark and painful, yet fruitful. I was not getting on in life. In the opinion of my fellow citizens, I owed my position to my in-laws and not at all to my own merit. My father-in-law had settled us in a house he had expressly built for his daughter. Our first child was born the year after our wedding. He was a fine boy whom we called Jean. Three more were born in turn. Macé was happy. In our house, which still smelled of cement and fresh wood, the children’s cries and the servants’ chatter drowned the silence between Macé and myself. We loved each other sincerely, with that rather sad distance that both unites and separates people who lead lives of the mind.

  I was full of doubts, plans, and hope. Many of my ideas were mere daydreams, but some of them would determine my life later on. Those years between the ages of twenty and thirty were a time when my idea of the world and the place I hoped to have in it would be decided, laboriously but forcefully.

  As I made my way in my father-in-law’s milieu, I began to
have a broader and clearer view of the state of the country and those who exerted power. Prior to this, given my father’s humble position, I had known only people whose lot it was to be submissive. The vagaries of war, the conflicts among noblemen, the uprisings among the people, were events we never perceived as anything other than the result of a destiny to which we had no choice but to submit. The Lords asserted that their power was God-given, as it had been with their ancestors in the days when a laborer entrusted himself to a knight for his defense. They were still arrayed in the immense prestige of the crusades, which had returned the true Cross to the heart of Christianity. My rebelliousness in the face of the humiliation my father was forced to undergo was mere schoolboy childishness: I knew, even though I did not accept it, that in becoming an adult I would also have to bow my head. The order of things seemed immutable to us. But as soon as I was at my father-in-law’s, I understood that fear and subservience need not be inevitable.

  When I went with Léodepart to visit nobility, I was able to see the difference between the treatment they reserved for him and that which was given to a simple furrier. My father-in-law was a link in the solid chain of money, however invisible. The noblemen feared him and were careful not to humiliate him.

  I had been married for two years when at last the mad king died. His passing did not bring peace; on the contrary, it seemed as if his madness, which he had held captive in his person, was now spreading throughout the country. The nobility fought among themselves more than ever. No one seemed capable of assuming the sovereign’s legacy. The Dauphin, Charles, stood by as John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, was assassinated; he was hounded, fought by all, including his own mother. Shut away in her Paris mansion, she schemed with her son’s enemies to entrust the throne of France to a three-year-old English sovereign.