The Dream Maker

by Jean-Christophe Rufin

  It was he who asked me to talk about the Mediterranean. I began by describing the shore in our parts and was quick to remind him that he was one of the four masters who shared its coast.

  “Four! And who are the others?”

  Still smiling, I gave him a suspicious look. With him it was always difficult to ascertain whether his questions concealed traps. What exactly did he know about the Mediterranean? It seemed impossible to me that he did not already have some notions about the situation. At the same time, he had devoted his attention so exclusively to the war with the English, had so many problems with Burgundy, Flanders, and so many other provinces in the north, that perhaps he did in fact have some serious gaps in his knowledge of the way matters stood in the south.

  “Imagine,” I began cautiously, “if we were to continue on our way toward the sea in that direction.”

  I pointed southward, to where the valley opened out. Night had not yet fallen at that point. The king held his eyes wide open as if to dissolve the purplish mist enveloping the river.

  “Once you reach the coast, imagine that if you were to turn right, you would enter the home of the Catalan, for whom you have no great affection: Alfonso, king of Aragon and Sicily. He has his merchant fleet for trade, but also his corsairs who attack and pillage whomever they meet.”

  “More wine!” shouted Charles.

  He drank little, taking tiny sips, but I had already noticed that nervous tension increased if not his pleasure at least his desire to resort to drink.

  “And to the left?”

  “To the left, you will find first of all the port of Marseille, which belongs to the Duke of Anjou, as does all Provence.”

  “René.”

  “Indeed, King René.”

  Charles raised his shoulders and hissed, “King René. Do not forget he is my vassal.”

  “In any case, on these seas, he behaves more like your rival. He may sell his feudal homage to you, but he continues to compete with you mercilessly in the commercial domain.”

  “I am not obliged to let him push me around.”

  “To be sure.”

  I knew he liked the idea. Charles was not a feudal lord. He despised the order which made him the foremost of princes but refused him the means of becoming a king. His alliance with burghers like me, his desire to undermine the great barons, his urge to have a financial instrument at his disposal, to be powerful in trade, and to have his own army—it was all that which I admired in him.

  “And the fourth?”

  “Beyond Provence, farther along the coast, lies Genoa.”

  “Genoa,” he repeated pensively. “Is it a free city? I have never understood anything about Italy.”

  A typical reflection for a king of France. The Duke of Burgundy would never have spoken thus. Of all Charlemagne’s heirs, the one who reigned in Dijon had always looked to the south and was abreast of everything that happened on the Italian peninsula. The king of France, however, kept his eyes on England. But Charles’s question showed that this state of affairs might be about to change. If he managed to rid himself of the English threat for good, the king of France might at last turn his gaze to Italy. I fervently hoped so. I have always thought that France could play a great role in this region. Absorbed by my idea of making the realm the new center of the world, I could not conceive of that center without Rome. Italy was divided, and open to our conquest. The Catalan prince was much less powerful than Charles VII, but had he not conquered Sicily and the kingdom of Naples? I refrained from explaining this too clearly, for fear the king might be alarmed. I merely took a first step in that direction.

  “Genoa has always needed a protector. There are some in that city who would be pleased if it were you, sire.”

  From the way the king, in his unmoving severity, blinked his eyes, I understood that he had grasped perfectly the thrust and impact of my remark. As usual, he concealed his interest, but I was certain that he would bring it up again.

  “And what lies beyond Genoa?”

  “Nothing that matters on this sea. Florence has no fleet and in Rome the pope pays little attention to his port. Genoa’s only rival is located on the far side of the peninsula, on the Adriatic. That is Venice.”

  The king asked many more detailed questions about the four fleets that shared the coast from Barcelona to Genoa. He questioned me at length about the ports of the Languedoc. I told him about Montpellier and its canal, which in my opinion had no future, as far as Lattes. He was curious to hear the glorious history of Aigues-Mortes. But he changed the subject when I described how the port was silting up, as if this evocation of the work of centuries and, perhaps, the memory of Saint Louis plunged him into melancholy. This was not the first time I had noticed his visceral fear of time. He could put up with deprivation, failure, and betrayal, but yielded to utter panic at the prospect of death. In hindsight, I see a certain coherence. His strength lay in waiting, and placing his hope in the changes the future might bring. But the moment he became aware of his finite nature, time was no longer on his side. Deprived of this ally he became vulnerable, and what he had accepted as provisional now became unbearable, since he would no longer have the time to free himself from it.

  It was completely dark out by the time he turned the conversation to the Levant. The serving woman who had brought our wine was still there. I could just make out her form in the semidarkness. It seemed to me that she was standing next to the king, and while he spoke he was stroking her leg.

  “In the Levant,” I said, “there are four of them as well. They are all enemies, two by two.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “It’s very simple. Most people will tell you that in the Holy Land Christianity is confronted with the Mohammedans.”

  “That is generally the significance ascribed to the crusades: you are not of this opinion?”

  “Yes, of course I am. But by describing it in this way, one is neglecting another rivalry that is just as violent.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “The one that divides each camp into two groups.”

  “The Mohammedans are divided?”

  “Deeply. The Sultan of Egypt, who reigns as far as Damascus and Palestine, has no worse enemy than the Turks in Asia Minor.”

  “Are you implying that we could use one against the others?”

  “Incontestably. The merchants who come from Europe are given a warm welcome in Cairo.”

  “And is it not true that the Christians who are still in the Holy Land are subject to all sorts of harassment?”

  “The Arabs distrust them, that is true. But it must be said, without excusing them, that the partisans of the crusades have not given up, starting with your cousin Burgundy. And they continue to mistake their enemy. They believe the Turks are friendly and they are angry with the Arabs for occupying Jerusalem. However, it is the Turks who prevent the pilgrims from going to Palestine, and they are the ones who are going deeper into Europe, advancing through the Balkans.”

  “And are the Christian kingdoms also divided in this way?”

  “Of course. Anyone who speaks to you of ‘Christianity’ and its struggle against the disciples of Mohammed is thinking of Byzantium and the Turkish armies camped all around it.”

  “And is that wrong?”

  “Not wrong. But this propaganda suits the Basileus first and foremost, for he likes to present himself as the final rampart against Islam. The truth is that he spends just as much time fighting other Christians.”

  “And who dares to attack him?”

  “Our Latin friends, Genoa and Venice. And if the Catalans do not join them it is because they are waiting to lend a hand by means of their corsairs.”

  The moon had not yet appeared in the sky, but our eyes had grown used to the darkness. Now I could see the serving woman, standing behind the king. He had guided her hands
and she was massaging his shoulders. Several of his mistresses had told me in confidence that he had great need of such manipulation. Only in this way could he find relief from the terrible tension that twisted him in every direction. I understood that, far from distracting him from my words, the servant’s gestures enabled him to cast off the burden of his pain, and left him free to listen to me with the utmost attention.

  “While Constantinople is threatened on land by the Turks,” I continued, “it suffers constant setbacks in the islands due to the Latins.”

  The king asked for many details about the commercial and territorial rivalry between Constantinople and the Italian city-states. His questions were so precise and, at times, so trivial, that once again I was under the impression that this was an amusement for him. My own assurance in the matter was a challenge to him, and no doubt he was trying to put me on the spot. And he managed to, on several occasions, when I had to confess that I did not know the answer. Then he would give a little laugh of satisfaction. After one of these lapses, he stood up, thanked the serving woman with a caress on her cheek, and went to bed.

  For the two weeks that our journey lasted, he went on questioning me. In Montpellier he asked to see a galley, and even went on board to inspect the cargo. The town gave him a welcome worthy of a sovereign, but he curtailed the ceremonies, thus increasing the time at his disposal to see the trade facilities, to converse with the ships’ captains, with merchants, and even with the oarsmen on the galleys, whom he questioned about their work. This was before the era of galley slaves, and oarsmen were still free, although it was easy to imagine they were not of the most upstanding sort. They often signed on in order to avoid a prison sentence, or worse; the law would spare them provided they stay on their bench and at their oar for several crossings.

  I came back from this journey feeling I had grown closer to the king. But through some effect of his personality, the more the distance between us diminished, the greater my incomprehension. Everyone assumed that I must now belong to the coveted inner circle. But I myself was certain I had entered a zone of danger, like a man who in order to uncover a secret goes so deeply into an underground passage that any return is blocked, and he finds himself at the mercy of perils that are all the more dreadful for their unpredictability and strangeness. Nor did I have the impression that our time together had induced him to listen any more closely to my opinions. Regarding the situation in the Mediterranean and the Levant in particular, I came to the conclusion that the king had found it amusing to make me talk. He had piled on his questions until he could reveal my ignorance but, after that, never brought up the subject again.

  *

  Upon our return, I took part in the first Council without knowing what the king intended to discuss. Imagine my astonishment when he enumerated a series of measures that derived from the very conversations we had had. He painted a precise picture of the situation in Italy, and the subject surprised everyone, as they had long been accustomed to hear only of England or sometimes Flanders or Spain. He set forth the basis of a policy he would implement methodically in the years to follow, and to which I would contribute. With regard to the Mohammedans, he affirmed that we must place a great price on obtaining the sultan’s good grace in our regard. This element was the result of his conversations with merchants in Montpellier who had met the Arab sovereign in Cairo. The other counselors were impassive on hearing these declarations. After all, the embargo on trade with the Moors, which the pope had proclaimed, was riddled with exceptions, and the Languedoc, for a start, enjoyed a limited right to trade with them. Still, the idea that the king of France might establish cordial relations with the infidel occupying the Holy Land was deeply shocking to those in attendance. The king added that he was putting me in charge of the construction and fitting out of the French galleys that would be trading on behalf of the Argenterie. And he ordered that the recruitment of oarsmen for the galleys would now be a matter for the law. No longer would it suffice for a convict’s sentence to be commuted if he chose to embark; the courts must now include the galleys among the punishments to which the accused could be sentenced, and this in ample number.

  Once again the king was showing us that he had vision. He was opening France to the Mediterranean and the Levant, and involving the country in Italy’s affairs. These decisions confirmed that he had listened to me and understood my point, and they surpassed even my own expectations.

  I set about eagerly implementing the king’s wishes. I called on Jean and Guillaume as well as my most important agents from the Argenterie to inform them of these revolutionary changes.

  By opening the route to Italy, the king was endorsing a project we had often spoken of at the Argenterie but had feared we would not be able to implement any time soon. As merchants, we were well aware that we depended on those who produced our goods. If we could become manufacturers ourselves, it would be to our great advantage. And for the most precious substance, which was silk, and which we were now buying in great quantities, we must follow the example of the Italians. They had discovered this material in China, and for centuries had been bringing it from there at great expense and with significant losses. One day they uncovered the secret of its fabrication, and now they were producing it locally. Florence had become the greatest silk making city in all of Europe. If we in turn could enter the closed circle of silk producers, we would no longer be dependent on others to supply us. We could control the quality, the quantity, and the prices.

  In order to obey the king’s political desires and, at the same time, pursue the interests of the Argenterie, I turned to Italy. In the spring I left for Florence.

  This time I would have to make an impression on people I did not know, and win them over. I had only a few contacts in the milieu of moneychangers. Guillaume had dealings with two major Florentine merchants regarding a cargo of spices, but he had never been there. Therefore, contrary to my usual habit, I decided to arrive in grand style and flaunt my titles. From what I had heard, the Italians were less inclined toward simplicity than we were; rather, they considered it belonged elsewhere. Politeness, for them, meant maintaining one’s rank, and what seemed like ostentation to us was to them merely a convenient signal one gave so that others would immediately know where to situate one’s role in the great comedy of society. Once this was established, affable, natural behavior was possible, and even appreciated. In France the process was often just the reverse. Notables might put on a show of simplicity, but to make sure their importance was acknowledged, they sprinkled their words with insolence and marks of vanity.

  As soon as we had crossed the Alps, I adorned myself in splendid garments. My horse was groomed and harnessed in velvet, with a host of gold curb chains and sparkling pom-poms. My escort of ten lansquenets were wearing identical livery of tawny leather. When we came in sight of Florence, we displayed our banners. One bore the coat of arms of the king of France and the other my personal blazon, featuring three hearts and scallops. I had taken the precaution of providing for an interpreter. He was an older man who had once served a Lombard banker in Paris, before the Armagnacs expelled all the Italian financiers from the capital. He had accompanied his master to various towns all over the peninsula and he provided me with useful descriptions of Florence.

  I was prepared for what I would see. However, it was still a shock to discover the city. I could even say that my surprise and wonder were equal to or even greater than what I had experienced in the Levant. I found myself in a city that expressed harmonious development, that had been spared by the wars that had ruined France. The beauty of her palaces and churches, beginning with the marvelous Duomo of colored marble, was stupefying. The same refinement I had appreciated in the Levant could be found here in this gentle, sunny climate, but instead of the arid deserts that surrounded the cities of the Levant, Florence was encircled by verdant hills. Wherever one looked there were ancient relics to remind one that civilization had existed here for centuries.
It is true that civilization in the Levant also had distant origins, but now it seemed frozen in its refinement, whereas in Florence it was alive, constantly evolving and improving.

  The city was overflowing with energy, activity, and novelty. In every street one could hear the sound of new construction. Stone masons, brick masons, roofers, and carpenters were constantly adding new palaces to the already tight warren of buildings. I rapidly understood that there was no difference in this free city between what at home we defined as noblemen and burghers. One could see this constantly reflected in the customs governing fortune and construction in particular. In France, palaces and castles are primarily the legacy of nobles, who in fact have neither the means to maintain them nor to build new ones. As for the burghers, their ambition is more constrained than their finances: they are always fearful of rising to a height forbidden by their birth. In Florence, wealth knows neither modesty nor prohibition. The only precaution taken by those who display their wealth is to ensure that it wears the appearance of art. Beauty is the means whereby the powerful share their wealth with the people.

  I had never seen so many artists, and they were widely celebrated. Crowds would gather around to admire every new statue on squares and crossroads. You could see workers rushing all over town carrying the huge paintings intended for new palaces, and everyone stood respectfully out of their way. Believers hurried to church not only to say mass but also to admire the new retable on a high altar or hear the latest oratorio composed for a choir. I discovered that several of the city’s renowned artists had come from Constantinople or fled the cities of Greece and Asia Minor. The link I had made intuitively between the splendors of the Levant and those of Florence was not, therefore, altogether fortuitous. The movement of civilization from the Levant to the West was not a dream: it had already begun. All that remained was for France to be inspired, too.