The Dream Maker

by Jean-Christophe Rufin

  I had sent a courier ahead from Montpellier with a message for Macé. I knew that she was waiting for me. These last weeks, I had been consumed with desire for her. My hands stippled with scars served to remind me that I had caressed the devil; the thought of my ordeal made the prospect of the sweetness to come all the more precious. I cried out in my sleep. My good hand reached for Macé’s soft white skin, trying to escape the hurtful fur of the beast that pursued me in the waters of dreams.

  We were headed into the wind as it blew across the plain, and our horses struggled at a weary gait. Our homecoming was an endless trial, for it seemed as if the cathedral, although its towers were visible above the horizon, would never come any closer. At last our steps rang out in the dark and empty streets; we knocked on the door, the spyhole slid open, and there were tears and cries and caresses. The night was full of such long-awaited pleasure that it was almost painful.

  It took us almost a week to weave our lives together again. I told all my story and Macé brought to life for me the myriad events of the motionless little world that had been waiting for me.

  *

  I did not recognize my town. My memories were of a gray and gloomy place, perpetually in the darkness. I had arrived one day at the end of spring, and it was luminous and full of sunlight. Added to the brilliance of the sun was a teasing humidity that gave the warm weather in our parts a quality that was very different from what it was in the Levant. The word “soft” immediately came to mind to describe this sunny well-being.

  Those first days, as I prepared to confront the town, I took long walks through the marshland. I saw this as a way of gently finding my footing in the town again, of growing accustomed to it. As I wandered through the shade of the weeping willows, among the black boats, I saw the light dancing on the flowing stream, long clusters of algae swaying like pennants beneath the surface of the water. Before returning to my house and family, I needed to become reacquainted with the land where I was born, to feel the need to stay there, until I was grateful to Providence for having brought me into the world.

  After my arrival and the outpouring of emotion, the true effect of the journey became clear: everything was familiar and yet it seemed hardly recognizable. Nothing was self-evident. In spite of myself, I began comparing. Our houses, for example, of which I had once been so proud, as any inhabitant of this major town would be, now seemed small, cramped, rudimentary. The corner pillars, exposed beams on the façades, and diamond patterns on the wood gave something of the primitive cabin to our homes. In the Levant I had seen palaces made of stone, and densely inhabited towns where narrow streets wound their way with difficulty through tight clusters of multiple-storied houses. Our wealth seemed very poor to me indeed.

  Another reality that had come to light during this journey was the long presence of time. Before now, all I had ever noticed around me were the traces of a relatively recent past. The cathedral and the principal monuments in our town were no more than a century old, or two at the most. In the Levant I had encountered far more ancient vestiges. In Palmyra I had the leisure of visiting ruins left by the Romans, and on several occasions during the voyage I had seen Greek temples. Now that I was home, I noticed for the first time that our town did have its ancient relics scattered here and there; the most impressive of these were the ramparts that surrounded the hill where the cathedral stood. I had walked a thousand times beneath the tall towers erected here and there, but I had never connected them to those same Romans the Gospel spoke of. This discovery, however insignificant, had a great impact on me. I had only ever conceived of elsewhere as being in space: to see things move, one must move oneself. I now understood that time also affects things. By staying in the same place, one could be present at the world’s transformation. Thus, the ramparts that were reputed to be impregnable had eventually been conquered; now there were streets running along the base of them, and the neighborhoods of new houses built at their foot spilled downhill to the streams below. And someday, perhaps, these houses too would disappear, or would be dominated by taller buildings. This was called time, and when one played a part in it, it became History. It was up to each of us to play our part. No one knew whether the palaces I had discovered elsewhere might someday be built here. In short, I had left this town thinking of it as an unchangeable heritage; and now that I had returned, I could see it was the raw material of a history that depended solely on human beings.

  There had been much talk about my journey, and I received many invitations to share my story. A number of merchants of varying importance expressed their desire to join me should I—as they imagined I should—venture to repeat the experience. I did not accept any of their proposals. My thoughts were strangely clear. I knew what I wanted to do and how to do it. The problem, above all, was to determine with whom I should do it.

  To attain my goal I needed to associate myself with others. But the secret of my ambition could only be shared with someone I could trust entirely. I went through my acquaintances, but could find no one whose support I could rely upon without reticence. But then I thought of our band of children during the siege of the town; perhaps it was superstition to remember that episode which had shown to me and to others who I truly was, but I felt I ought to seek out those comrades who had been with me during the adventure, and who had subsequently shown me their unfailing loyalty.

  I went first to see Guillaume de Varye. He was living in Saint-Amand, and he had not contacted me since my return. I could understand why. He was ashamed. His cloth trade had suffered severe difficulties. Several convoys had been pillaged, a warehouse had been destroyed by fire, a major client had been killed by an armed gang and now his widow refused to pay . . . Business was going very badly. Guillaume welcomed me to a home that was starving. His wife was coughing, gaunt, and pale. You could see in her eyes that she knew she was dying. Her greatest fear was not knowing whether her children would outlive her. Still active, serious, and indefatigable, Guillaume told me of all his efforts to thwart fate. But no matter what he did he seemed to be forever heading into the wind. Just the day before, he had found out that an affair he had placed great hope in had fallen through. I observed him as he spoke to me, his eyes lowered. He was still a small man, thin and nervous. The energy he had bottled up inside could find no other outlet now than despair or sickness. He was like the country around him: full of courage, talent, and goodwill, but circumstances made all such qualities futile. I was no different, save for one thing: I knew that elsewhere conditions existed that could allow talent to prosper.

  I suggested to Guillaume that we work together, and as his first salary I offered to pay off his debts then and there. He began trembling from limb to limb. Had it come from anyone but me, he would have feared such an offer, would have hesitated to surrender to the will of someone he did not know well. But I had saved him once, and he had not forgotten. All this meant was that we would set out again together, as at the time of our adventure. He stood up, embraced me, and then went down on one knee before me like a lord swearing allegiance. Chivalry, in those days, was still our only reference. When at a later time we would think back on this first contract, it made us laugh. The fact remains that it was stronger than a signature, and no one ever contested it.

  The second man I needed was Jean, whom we called Little Jean, his real name being Jean de Villages. This would require still greater tact. Jean was younger than I. He had belonged to that troop of boys who were enthralled by Éloi, our former comrade who claimed to be the ringleader. Our adventure during the siege of Bourges may have put Éloi out of the picture, but it meant that Jean was left to seek out even less commendable role models. Initially Jean turned to me—unfortunately, in those days I had no inclination to dictate the conscience of others, and I had refused. I sensed a bad energy in him, a destructive enthusiasm that compelled him to attack any form of authority. He was a rebel by nature. He was one of those people—and I would meet several like him later in life
—in whom an invisible wound had never healed, a wound sustained in childhood through the violence of someone close, and which would cause this person to scream with an indistinct hatred all through his life. No matter how violent they are, the result is the same: violence ends up unleashing the bad temper painfully accumulated in their wounded souls. At the age of fifteen he killed a man for the first time.

  It was during the turbulence of war, on behalf of his captain, and no one held it against him. He had followed a gang leader and joined the army of King Charles. He was seen in Orléans when the Maid Joan reconquered the town, and he was present at the king’s consecration in Reims. The very next day, as if he found it loathsome to serve a man who was now a legitimate monarch, as if he could only find his place in resistance and lost causes, he left the army. It was rumored that he had returned to our parts. He started a wine business and sent several convoys to his former companions-at-arms to quench their thirst. Then he disappeared. Guillaume, who had remained his friend—and this was one of the first instances where he would prove himself useful—had reason to believe that Jean had gone to work for a mad lord in the region of Lyon by the name of Villandrando. He had been wounded in the thigh and come back to the Berry to recover. He lived under the protection of the lords of Aubigny, for whom he rendered services too shameful to mention. I went there to meet him. Guillaume had warned him of my visit. I expected to find an écorcheur and, to be honest, I was afraid that the drink and debauchery so common to men of war would have ruined him.

  To my great satisfaction, I found a man who was in perfect health. He was a head taller than I. His body, in his close-fitting smock, was slim and muscular. A life in the outdoors had tanned his skin and on his cheeks were the shining traces of a blond beard. The wound in his leg was almost healed and he limped only slightly. All that remained of the child I had known were his blue eyes, full of joy in that way of people who suffer and who are troubled in body or soul. I knew that the first minutes of our meeting would be decisive: either we would find we had become strangers, and I would have nothing to expect from him; or, as I had imagined, our former friendship would be intact, and he would be the right man for me.

  A servant woman hovered nearby. Jean spoke to her gently and I saw this as a favorable omen. Nothing would have disturbed me more than to find him gruff in manner, the way soldiers can often be.

  “So,” I said, “you have become a warrior?”

  “It is what I wanted, Jacques, it is what I wanted,” he replied pensively, with a constant smile in his sad eyes.

  He described at length his time fighting with the French troops. Only the noblemen had a role to play; they decided everything, even if it meant imposing their mistakes. The others were mere carcasses, fattened for the sacrifice.

  Unlike other commoners, whom I would meet later in life, he had no liking for the art of war.

  I understood that Jean had been looking for a leader and had never found one. He told me about the siege of Orléans, the only fray where he had been able to use his energy to the full. He had fought under Joan of Arc, about whom he knew nothing other than that she claimed to have been sent by a God in whom he did not believe. He had seen her in the camp when they were removing her armor; he had seen her thin, bare leg, and she had lowered her eyes. I understood that he would have been capable of following her to his death. He liked leaders who were weaker than him. With anyone else, sooner or later he would direct his violence against them; he left so as not to tear them to pieces.

  I sat down opposite him, to seem even smaller, and spread my white hands on the table. My nails were always well groomed, and I had been told I had a woman’s hands. Now I was disarmed, and as I sought to have a hold on him, these hands signified my weakness.

  He came closer and grabbed them. His face lit up and I thought I could see tears welling from his eyes.

  “Jacques,” he said, “Providence has brought you to me.”

  Our childhood friendship was intact, the same friendship that had defined our roles once and for all. He was ready to follow me, now and forever. I had won him over.

  *

  The next two years were strange. Inside myself, I knew exactly where I was going, and never doubted the success of my undertaking. And yet, viewed from without, my situation was most precarious. I had been to prison. Then, with no explanation, I had left everything behind to go to the Levant. My only excuse might have been that I had gone there to make my fortune; I had come home penniless. I was over thirty years of age, and I had accomplished nothing on my own. It was not that anyone ever called me a “good for nothing” to my face, but I could sense that the words lingered in the thoughts of those around me—with the exception of Macé, who, in her silent and absent way, always trusted me. She sincerely hoped for my success, even if I suspect she had always known that success would take me away from her. She told the children marvelous stories where I played the hero. But my son Jean was already thirteen, and he could judge for himself. And when, in spite of his natural reserve, he asked me questions about my life, I had the distinct impression that he had his doubts about me.

  My father-in-law was aging well. Although he complained incessantly, deep down he was happy that he was still—perhaps for a long time yet—the one on whom the family’s survival depended. I was sufficiently sure of my ground not to fear his judgment. I just wanted him to agree one last time to lend me the money I needed to launch the enterprise I had in mind. I gave up trying to convince him of the legitimacy of my endeavor. No matter the argument I set forth, his mind was made up: he expected nothing but failure on my part. I asked Macé to intercede on my behalf, and at last he yielded.

  We rented a warehouse in the tanners’ district. Our first meeting was held in the middle of June on a day of extreme heat. The smell of the hides came in through the open casements and we understood why the rent we had obtained was so cheap. Around a cheap pinewood table, sitting far back for fear of splinters, Guillaume, Jean, and I surrounded the young notary who had drawn up our first contract. We signed it, and the lawyer, who had been holding his breath ever since he arrived in the room, hurried away, choking. Our meeting lasted until late at night. Jean went out to fetch some wine and supper. I did almost all the talking. All the notes, references, and ideas I had stored up during my months of travel now emerged all of a sudden. Time had put them in order and given them a shape. My companions adopted the project as it stood. Their only questions were of a practical nature. Who would do what? And how? And with what means? The complementary nature of their characters immediately guided the distribution of tasks: Guillaume would take care of the administration, paperwork, and accounts; Jean would be the one to take to the road, to convince our partners, and, if need be, to break down barriers.

  What was the nature of our business? Quite simply, it was a trading house. It would specialize in the Levant, yet be open to all of Europe. At first glance, this was nothing original. After these years of war and insecurity, to want to buy and sell in faraway places was simply proof of honest optimism. I had taken notes all through my journey. I had recorded the names and addresses of all those who might be useful to us. The Corsican ruffian who had robbed us after the shipwreck had not found it worth his while to make off with my scribbling. In addition to the notes regarding the activities of Mediterranean ports, there was a vast amount of information I had collected during my less glorious years. Starting with my father-in-law, then Ravand, and even in the depths of the jails where I had been confined, I had been constantly listening, questioning, and learning.

  Now it all made sense. Instead of conceiving a modest activity which fortune, perhaps, might gradually enhance, my plan was to establish, right from the start, a network on the scale of France, the Mediterranean, and the Levant. If I wanted my catch to be miraculous, I must first spread my nets very wide, very quickly. This would require an enormous effort of organization, and my two comrades understood this. Unlike t
he ordinary merchants who had offered to go into business with me in hopes of gaining from my experience, Jean and Guil­laume were not prosperous burghers. They had everything to gain and nothing to lose. Above all, they were of a nature to be exalted by the sheer size of the task.

  The only time I feared they might lose heart was when I revealed the exact amount I had at my disposal to start the business. But I had foreseen their objections. We would not proceed like other houses, opening branches or appointing representatives. We would only ever sign provisional contracts, contingent on a current transaction and terminating with that transaction. If there were people who wished to join us and act as agents in the towns where we traded, they were free to do so, but they must not count on us to pay them. They would find compensation in the business they brought to us. In short, the most important thing was to establish our name wherever we went, to inspire trust, to build a reputation that would, at first, be largely overrated. As the number of those willing to place their trust in us grew, our reputation would become solid. Jean was very enthusiastic about this aspect of the business. He was someone who loved to talk, charm, and show off, and this was a part made to measure for him. He began describing the wardrobe he would need and I commended all his suggestions. I had traveled humbly, the better to observe those around me, but I knew that when the time came to implement our system, we would often be required to forego modesty, and seek to impress by any means at our disposal.

  Therefore we agreed that Guillaume would leave quickly to settle in Montpellier, where he would organize the expeditions to the Levant. To begin with, we would have to rely on those merchants already trading, and use their ships. As soon as Jean had his gentleman’s wardrobe, he would head for Flanders, which belonged to the Duke of Burgundy. He would see if it was possible for us to import cloth. Part of his shipment would be sold there and then, in the king’s territory, the profit of which would go to finance the transport of what remained to the east. As soon as he could, Jean would go to Germany and even to Rouen, the last region in France that still belonged to the English, in quest of the goods on the list we had drawn up together. Then he must head for Lyon without delay, where important fairs were held, in order to secure the cooperation of a local agent.