The Brotherhood of Book Hunters by Howard Curtis, Raphaël Jerusalmy Page B

lines evoked a trip on a river. The turns of phrase wound through the heart of the intrigued audience, just as the Seine plies its course across the valleys.
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    The wind changes, and we are blown
    Hither and yon, at its behest without . . .
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    With the final verse, uttered in a grave, slow voice, the waters poured out into a wide estuary leading to an ocean of silence. François ended his melancholy recitation by addressing a broad smile to the ceiling, confident of the effect he was having. His lines had captivated many drunkards and prostitutes, innkeepers, gravediggers, carters, courtesans, and notaries, who knew no more about meter and prosody than did this emir and his henchmen. The force of a ballad did not lie in fine words or complicated rhymes, but in the voice that spoke, that sang, that caressed. It was the voice that brought men together, like a bridge. Or an outstretched hand.
    The audience waited nervously. The emir was well aware how much everyone had appreciated the performance. Better to show mercy than to play the despot, which would cast a chill over a splendid evening. Torturing this prisoner would bring him no benefit. He applauded loudly, almost sincerely, which in turn provoked the audience to wild applause. Was he not a man of taste and discernment?
    The Chinese acrobats came onstage. Escorted to the wings, François got his breath back. He was always surprised by the effect his verse had on even the most mean-spirited souls. Simple words, a good-humored tone, a soft, barely accentuated melody, overwhelmed them much more than a tragedian’s monologue or a tribune’s passionate oration. His rondeaus had saved him from the gallows on more than one occasion—after attracting the wrath of the magistrates, admittedly. For they disturbed the officials far more than did the knife hanging from his belt. That was why he constantly refined them, just as if he were sharpening a blade. But were they sharp enough to sever the bonds that still tied him to Chartier? And to cut through the net of schemes and stratagems laid from Nazareth to Florence, behind which his true destiny was concealed?
    As he left, François noticed a familiar figure among the guests. From a distance, he could not make out the features, but the elegance certainly stood out in this crowd uniformly dressed in Eastern tunics. All frills and brocades, and a broad hat with a plume—the attire of an Italian gentleman.
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    The next day, Colin and François appeared again before the court. A grim-faced Mamluk officer stood behind the
qadi
, a man with the hair and the arched back of a wild beast. His piercing eyes were separated by a pointed brass strip soldered to the rim of his helmet in such a way as to hide his nose. He looked the prisoners up and down, as if measuring them for coffins. Colin stared back at him defiantly. The Mamluk would happily have sunk his saber into Colin’s belly. He put his hand to the pommel, threateningly. Delighted, Colin rose to his full height, ready for a fight. The officer, although also champing at the bit, restrained himself. But it was the other man’s twisted grin that annoyed him the most. Beneath his ridiculous tricorn, he was looking at him with such an air of imbecility as to make him lose his temper. It was obvious that this good-for-nothing was used to both soldiers and judges. And it was equally obvious, by the way he was taunting one of the caliph’s most feared representatives, that he wasn’t afraid of them.
    The
qadi
, on the other hand, seemed well-disposed. François remembered that nonchalant, almost amused, strangely benevolent pout. It was the condescending pout sometimes adopted by those who have the power of life and death over others. As during the first audience, the
qadi
neither raised his head nor spoke until he had given the documents spread in front of him a proper examination. He pointed out a paragraph to the officer, who nodded