The Dream Maker

by Jean-Christophe Rufin

  The pope’s health declined rapidly. His doctor told me that he had been losing a lot of blood during the night. In contrast to his skeletal limbs, beneath his chasuble his stomach was swelling. He often placed his hands on it, in a grimace of pain. During these last days, he confessed to me that he found more consolation in Seneca than in the Gospels. He was a simple man, devoid of any pomp, infinitely vulnerable and solitary, and he passed away on March 24 at the break of dawn, without a sound.

  His end was expected, not to say hoped for, by the council. The cardinals gathered and rapidly appointed a successor, whose name they had probably agreed on long before. This was Alonzo Borgia, Bishop of Valencia, who chose the name Callixtus III.

  Nicholas V had introduced me to him a few days before his death. He was an energetic and indefatigable man of seventy-seven. He was completely lacking in Nicholas’s ancient culture. Unlike his predecessor, he was inhabited by a natural and sincere faith, which left no room for doubt and rendered pointless or even suspicious any culture that was not conceived according to the dictates of God and Christ. To the perfection of the true faith he opposed the pagan world, which for him consisted equally of savages who went about naked and Athenian philosophers from the time of Pericles. He was completely committed to the idea of a crusade, and was bent on succeeding where his predecessor had failed even to try.

  Nicholas V viewed the crusades above all as an opportunity for the kings and potentates of Europe to present a harmonious front to the Turkish threat. This was an unrealistic goal, because no one among those in power was inclined, no matter what he might say publicly, to curtail his own ambitions and eschew vengeance.

  Callixtus III asked for much less: he would leave the monarchs to their quarrels, provided they agree to provide him with the means to arm a fleet bound for Asia Minor. What he wanted was fairly simple and easy to obtain: oriflammes and galleys, knights in full array and troops in modest number, since they must be transported by ship. There were, in the kingdoms and principalities, plentiful numbers of écorcheurs in want of plunder, and brainless petty nobles who concealed their bony horses beneath embroidered carapaces inherited from ancestors. The ships were more difficult to obtain, and the pope did not find as many as he would have liked. And yet when they were all brought together, they made for an impressive show, and it did not seem ridiculous for the pope to bless the armada from the tower above the port in Ostia.

  I was disheartened to see soldiers converging on Rome from all over Europe, men of the likes of Bertrandon de la Broquière, whom I had met in Damascus. In deciding to attack the Turks without the proper means, the pope would incite them to see him as their enemy, and to pursue their conquest of a continent still plagued by internal conflict. Yet I had no choice. Callixtus III had prolonged the hospitality extended to me by Nicholas V. I was now settled in Rome. I lived there in safety, and it was my duty to comply with the requests of the man on whom my safety depended. The pope came to me for funds and he entrusted me with several missions, particularly that of obtaining new ships in Provence and from the king of Aragon.

  At no other time in my life did I surrender so utterly to the luxury of existence and the pleasure of the moment as during those six months I spent in Rome. I do not have a very detailed memory of this succession of happy days. The climate itself, always equal in light and warmth, meant I no longer knew what season it was. All I remember are the beautiful gardens, the splendid feasts, and the inimitable perfume which ancient ruins confer on religion in St. Peter’s city. I remember a few lovely images of women. But the atmosphere in Rome was very different from Florence or Genoa, not to mention Venice. The Romans want to show that they are worthy of the popes’ presence, particularly after the unfortunate episode of the “captivity of Babylon,” as they themselves call the departure of the pontiffs for Avignon. Passions and even vices are no less violent here than elsewhere, but they are more carefully hidden. Étienne was not Marc, and I could not count on him to help me tear aside the veils of virtue behind which the women hid their propensity for sensual delight, however transparent they might be. As a result I was bound to rely on appearances, and must have disappointed any number of women by responding to their cold and elegant manners with polite detachment. To be honest, beyond the respect for propriety and a persistent lack of ease in the domain of gallantry, the truth was that I had no desire to embark on any adventures. The death of Agnès, the death of Macé, my detention and torture—all these ordeals emerged, during those brilliant days in Rome, like stains reappearing on a faded cloth.

  Suffering and mourning encourage one to seek out pleasure once one is again able to enjoy it. But the experience of suffering seeps into pleasure, and one can never again fully surrender one’s mind to sweetness, luxury, and love, because to be enjoyed these experiences must be felt as eternal. The moment dark memories impose limits and remind one that if one indulges in them one is only delaying the inevitable return of misfortune and death, any desire to know them vanishes. I had never been the jolliest of guests, and already at the court of France I was invited primarily for my influence, and for the debts that had been contracted with me. In Rome I rapidly acquired a reputation as a taciturn, serious presence, and some people may have concluded that I was perfectly sinister.

  It was my sincere desire to endeavor to appear in a more pleasing light. But I did not succeed. When I tried to unravel the reasons for my inability, I discovered the truth was quite simple, but I had never been aware of it: ever since my escape, I had been unable to put my newfound freedom to good use. My experience in Rome showed me that I did not want to return to the life I had known before my disgrace. To go back to the society of a court, whether it was that of a pope or of a king, to enjoy the favors of wealth and increase them still further—all this would no longer bring what I expected from the unhoped-for reprieve of my escape. On the contrary, it would be a sure way to lock myself up again in a prison that, no matter how gilded, was nevertheless a prison.

  And then my daydreaming led me to a strange decision: I would ask the pope to let me embark on the crusade.

  *

  The idea of leaving voluntarily on the crusade was all the more unexpected in that all through the previous weeks I had been dreading that the pontiff might suggest or even order me to participate.

  Why this sudden change of heart? Because the crusade had suddenly become a means, not an end. If I sailed with this ridiculous expedition, it would not be to embrace their goal or even to take part in it to the end. Quite simply, the galleys of the armada would take me back to the Levant, and I felt the call.

  Of course, I could have sailed on one of my own ships, but that would have meant leaving for scheduled ports of call, in the company of acquaintances who would have watched over me and whom I would have been unable to avoid. The crusade, on the other hand, would take me nowhere, since the pope’s expedition had no precise destination. Its value was that of a symbol of Christianity, and that was enough to satisfy Callixtus III. This naval army was too modest to confront the Turkish armies on land. At the most, it might be able to come to the support of the Christian islands threatened with invasion. In all likelihood it would merely sail aimlessly here and there.

  I had held this confusion to be regrettable, even catastrophic, until suddenly, when I changed my mind, I saw the chance I had not dared hope for. The crusade, in its wandering, would take me into the unknown. And the unexpected goes hand in hand with freedom.

  I had been set free from everything—not just the constraint of prisons, but also the concerns of family and, something even more oppressive, the lofty ambitions of glory and fortune, because I had attained them and had now renounced them for good. I would fuel this total freedom with the unexpected, the unprepared, the inconceivable. Once again I pictured the caravan for Damascus, and I told myself that after this long detour through fortune and ruin, perhaps I would at last be able to take my place in it.

  I
went to announce my decision to the old pope. He embraced me and thanked me with tears in his eyes. If I had been a man of faith, I would have been angry with myself for so deceiving the man who occupied the throne of Peter. But I preferred to surrender completely to the misunderstanding, and I, too, felt sincerely moved, not to be rushing at the enemy Turk, but to be leaving behind this life of splendor to which nothing bound me anymore.

  My plan was simple. As soon as I felt the conditions were favorable, I would disembark, pretend to be ill, and stay on land.

  I mingled with the heterogeneous troop of dignitaries preparing to embark. In another era, I would have been incensed by the commerce of these ambitious prelates, so-called knights, and all the fauna of noble Romans seeking through the crusade an opportunity to acquire some illustrious valor for their family. I shared neither the fears nor the overzealousness of this crowd. I only found myself among them because it was my aim to leave them behind as quickly as possible. Nothing could sway me.

  The only upsetting incident prior to my departure concerned Étienne. It pains me to say so, because it would be tempting to laugh, but here was this young man who never slept, and on the day before our departure he did not wake up. I found him early in the morning sleeping in a corridor near my room. He was flat on his back, perfectly calm, his eyes closed. I was stunned to see him sleeping. All the previous days he had seemed very nervous to me. I eventually realized that he was terrified by the idea of boarding a ship. Had his terror so upset him that it had laid him low? In any case, after observing him for a long while, I no longer had any doubt. He was not asleep; he was dead.

  I was sincerely saddened by his passing, because I had grown attached to him. But I did not see it, as I might have done in the early days of my escape, as a deathly premonition.

  Moreover, the safety I had enjoyed in Rome had reassured me. Bonaventure had not spotted any spies in the vicinity for a long time, and I had asked him to reduce his numbers. I did not want to be burdened with him during the crusade, because it would be far more difficult for me to regain my freedom if I was escorted. I had planned only on taking Étienne with me. In the end, I left alone.

  I was allotted my place on board a ship. The departure ceremonies were endless, and a huge crowd turned out. After all, herein lay the essence of the crusade: the fact that it would be proclaimed all over Europe. The festivities lasted all day. The pope’s blessing gave the signal for departure. The galleys set off first. Our vessel had some difficulty unfurling its sails, and we had to tow it along the quay. It was already late in the day when we finally reached the open sea.

  The fleet sailed around Sicily and set its course for the Levant. Our maneuvers were not precise and headwinds often blew us off course. It hardly seemed to matter since, in any case, we did not know where we were going . . .

  We called at Rhodes. My ties with the Knights Hospitallers were too close for me to imagine staying on the island. I re-embarked with the others. From Rhodes, the fleet headed due north past the islands along the coast of Asia Minor. Most of them were little islands where it would be difficult for me to disappear. At last we reached Chios, and I decided that the time had come for me to put my plan into action.

  First of all, I began writhing with pain, kept to my bed, and stopped speaking. Doctors are fairly easy to fool, provided one deploys the same energy in pretending as illness does in devouring the afflicted. The ship’s surgeon quickly proved as pessimistic about my state as I could have hoped. Very soon he declared that I was doomed, which freed him of any responsibility in helping me to recover. Everything went smoothly. I managed to convince the commander-in-chief not to delay the expedition for my sake. My sacrifice, in an adventure where there had been so few, seemed to be one of the only claims to glory such an expedition could make. It must not go to waste. I was taken ashore, with much weeping, and a solemn farewell was organized for me, which I have recorded at the beginning of these memoirs.

  It was only a few days later, as I was wandering through the town, that I came upon Castellani’s henchmen. Thus the fleet, the way it sometimes returns from the tropics with vermin, had now brought these wretches from Italy, determined to kill me . . . The vengeance I had hoped to be rid of for good was only in abeyance.

  *

  That is it.

  I have been able to tell all of my story, and I feel infinitely relieved. Yesterday, after I finished writing these last lines, I went out to the front of the sheepfold. I am alone here at the moment, because Elvira has gone down to the harbor. The wind, high in the sky, seems to be dragging the clouds by the hair; they pass before the moon at great speed. That is my dream of freedom: to be like those clouds, chasing each other without hindrance.

  It is very strange, but against all evidence I feel I have nearly attained that goal. And yet I am hidden away in a tumbledown drystone house, surrounded by brambles, threatened by enemies who are searching for me on an island from which I cannot escape. Why, then, do I have such a powerful feeling of freedom? The answer came all on its own, as I sat on my wooden bench, about to get back up to come and write these lines. This freedom I have traveled so far to find, and with so little success: it awaited me here, in these pages. My life as I lived it was nothing but effort and constraint, struggle and conquest. My life relived, as I wrote it down, has regained the lightness of dreams.

  I was a creature; now I am a creator.

  *

  Elvira came back at nightfall. I saw her from a distance, climbing up the winding path to our sheepfold. She was carrying a heavy basket, which obliged her to stop frequently. The effort caused her to sweat, and she wiped her brow with her forearm. While she was climbing, I thought of the affection I feel for her, and told myself that, in spite of my reservations and all the reticence of the beginning, her kindness, loyalty, and tenderness have made her, in the end, a true love. I was eager for her to arrive so I could hear the news she was bringing, but even more so to take her in my arms. I went down to meet her, running, and as soon as I reached her I relieved her of the basket and put my arm around her waist. We went the rest of the way breathless and silent, holding each other close. It seemed to me that Elvira, who was holding my elbow, was squeezing it more tightly than usual. I had the feeling she was bringing bad news.

  Once we were in the house she went to wash her face and arms in the barrel that fills from the gutter, and I waited for her. When she came back, it seemed to me that she had also washed the dried salt of her tears from her cheeks. We sat down on the wooden bench, leaning against the stone wall. She took a deep breath and told me in a trembling voice what she knew. The ship from Genoa had arrived. It did indeed carry a message for me, which the captain had conveyed to her orally. Campofregoso, because of a new political revolution, had lost any influence in the city, and for the time being he was in prison. The new strongman was a young notable who also preached rapprochement with France. But to him I was nothing more than a fugitive whom he would be only too happy to hand over to Charles VII. There was nothing to be hoped for from the Genoese.

  I began thinking very quickly. The king of Aragon, the Knights of Rhodes, and even the Sultan: I drew up a list of all the powerful people I might yet turn to for help.

  As if she had read my thoughts, Elvira shook her head and looked at me. Her eyes were red, and her swollen lids could not restrain her tears for long. She took my hand. The mountain, she said, was surrounded. Castellani’s men had found us. They had the collaboration of both shepherds and hunters. Down below, behind the large boulders scattered across the plain like knuckle bones on a baize mat, several dozen armed men were waiting, ready to begin the assault. They had let her through, but they had ordered her not to stay with me for long, under pain of suffering the same fate.

  I stood up and looked out into the distance. Everything seemed calm, but I did not doubt that she was telling me the truth. We had gained some time by hiding up on this promontory, but the momen
t we were tracked down it had become a deadly trap. The only path that led here was the one Elvira had just climbed. All around, boulders and brambles prevented flight. And the cave behind the house was a poor hiding place that would not stand up to a thorough search. It was all over.

  *

  I left off my writing one last time to put my affairs in order. We had decided that Elvira would leave in the morning, as the assassins had recommended. In the beginning she would not listen, refused to abandon me, moaned and cried with anguish. I calmed her with long caresses, and we spent the greater part of that beautiful night loving one another. It is rare that one is aware, when loving, that it is for the last time. But anyone who has knowingly experienced the final moments of passion will be aware that such an ordeal, combining the ignorance of what the next day will bring and the power of the moments shared, is more beautiful than anything, more painful and more intensely felt. Elvira had also brought some candles from the market. We lit all of them, to illuminate our cabin. In this light the rough-hewn acacia beams, the harsh surface of the stone walls, the wooden furnishings polished by shepherds’ calloused hands gave off a pale glow, a golden sheen. We drank some light red wine from the jar and ate some olives. Elvira sang in her deep voice, and as we listened to the even sound of the Greek words, we danced barefoot on the smooth dirt floor, softer than any waxed parquet in any palace in Touraine. Late in the night, Elvira fell asleep in my arms and I laid her on the rope mattress. Then I went out with a candle, and on the wooden bench I used as a desk to write these memoirs, I composed a few letters. They recommend Elvira to my agents. With the money I still have, she can sail to the first available destination and from there, with the help of those who are loyal to me, try to reach Rome, Florence, then Marseille. A letter for Guillaume instructs him regarding the inheritance of my fortune. Some of it will go to those of my children who can use it and the rest, a considerable amount, will be for Elvira.