Balthasar's Odyssey by Amin Maalouf Page B

— which is 408.”
    Numerical value! I get angry whenever I hear the notion mentioned! Instead of trying to understand the significance of words, my contemporaries prefer to calculate the value of the letters that make them up. And these they manipulate to suit their own ends — adding, subtracting, dividing and multiplying, and always ending up with a figure that will astonish, reassure or terrify them. And so human thought is diluted, and human reason weakened and dissolved in superstition!
    I don’t think Maïmoun believes in such nonsense, but most of his co-religionists do, and so do most of mine, and most of the Muslims I’ve had occasion to talk to. Even wise, educated and apparently reasonable people boast of their acquaintance with this science for simpletons.
    I express myself all the more vehemently here because during today’s discussion I didn’t say anything. I just looked incredulous whenever anyone mentioned “numerical value”. But I took care not to interrupt the debate. That’s how I am. That’s how I’ve always been, ever since I was a child. When a discussion is taking place around me, I’m curious to see where it will end, who will admit he’s wrong, how all the people involved answer or avoid answering the others’ arguments. I observe and enjoy what I learn, and I register everyone else’s reactions without feeling impelled to express my own opinion.
    During the talk at noon today, while I was provoked into silent protests by some remarks, other things that were said interested or surprised me. As when Boumeh pointed out that it was precisely in 1648 that The Book of the One True Orthodox Faith was published in Moscow, referring without any ambiguity to the Year of the Beast. Was it not because of that book that Evdokim the pilgrim took to the road and passed through Gibelet?; and his visit was followed by a whole procession of scared customers through my shop. So it might be said that it was in that year that the Beast entered my life. Maïmoun’s father used to tell him that something significant had happened in 1648 but no one had recognised its importance. Yes, I don’t mind admitting that something may have started in that year. For the Jews and for the Muscovites. And also for me and mine.
    â€œBut why was an event announced in 1648 that’s supposed to take place in 1666? That’s a mystery I can’t understand!” I said.
    â€œNor can I,” agreed Maïmoun.
    â€œI don’t see any mystery,” said Boumeh, with irritating calm.
    Everyone waited with bated breath for him to go on. He took his time, then went on loftily:
    â€œThere are eighteen years between 1648 and 1666.”
    He stopped.
    â€œSo?” asked Habib, through a mouthful of crystallised apricots.
    â€œDon’t you see? Eighteen — six plus six plus six. The last three steps to the Apocalypse.”
    There followed a most ominous silence. I suddenly felt that the pestilential vapour was approaching and closing in on us. Maïmoun was the most pensive of those present: it was as if Boumeh had just solved an old enigma for him. Hatem bustled round us, wondering what was the matter: he’d caught only scraps of our conversation.
    It was I who broke the silence.
    â€œWait a moment, Boumeh!” I said. “That’s nonsense. I don’t have to tell you that in the days of Christ and the Evangelists people didn’t write six six six as you would today in Arabic: they wrote it in Roman figures. And your three sixes don’t make sense.”
    â€œSo can you tell me how they wrote 666 in the days of the Romans?”
    â€œYou know very well. Like this.”
    I picked up a stick and wrote “DCLXVI” on the ground.
    Maïmoun and Habib bent over and looked at what I’d written. Boumeh just stood where he was, not even glancing our way. He just asked me if I’d never noticed anything