The Dream Maker by Jean-Christophe Rufin, Alison Anderson Page B

From the way in which they wore their clothing, it was only too obvious that it did not come naturally to them. The moment they opened their mouths, there could be no further doubt: they were two Franks in disguise.
    The elder, a man with thinning ginger hair, introduced himself with the sort of haughty pride I had been familiar with since childhood, from the hours spent waiting with my father in the antechambers of nobles’ houses.
    â€œBertrandon de la Broquière, first esquire to his lordship the Duke of Burgundy,” he said.
    We were mere merchants, and he invoked his right to inform us of his name and title in a lofty manner. However, his outfit was so ridiculous, and our informal attitude, which we had not altered since his arrival, colored his self-assurance with a certain awkwardness, even fear. We introduced ourselves in turn, not deferring to him in any particular way, and he and his companion sat down on the cushions reluctantly.
    We were waiting for the sorbet our errand boy had ordered for us. A discreet servant with a grave manner placed a finely carved copper tray before us. We offered some to the esquire, but he refused.
    â€œI will never eat such rubbish! You are taking a great risk, mark my words.”
    And he explained how the snow used to prepare the sorbet was brought by camel from the mountains of Lebanon.
    â€œI have heard that they send it as far as Cairo,” I exclaimed admiringly.
    Our interpreter confirmed this. Previously the snow was shipped by boat to Alexandria, but now the Sultan Barsbay had established order on his roads, and small caravans of five camels could transport the precious ice cream to the capital.
    â€œIt is astonishing that it does not melt . . . ”
    â€œIn every caravan, there is one man who is instructed with the technique to keep it intact during the voyage.”
    We marveled at this additional proof of the Arabs’ expertise. But Bertrandon shrugged his shoulders.
    â€œNonsense! They lose three-quarters of it and the rest is contaminated. It is pure disease they are transporting, not ice cream.”
    He gave a coarse laugh. Yet he had not managed to put us off our sorbet. Mine was perfumed with orange flower water.
    While we were delighting in our treat, the esquire began to pontificate. However, he occasionally shot a dirty look at the Sarrasin who was our interpreter. With a great deal of tact, the Sarrasin claimed he had an errand, in order to leave us alone. Now the esquire no longer withheld his virulent criticism with regard to the Arabs. He exalted their treachery, their violence, their immorality. The effect of his sermon, and no doubt the aim of it, was to make us feel what wretches we were, to enjoy the company of such savages.
    â€œThen why,” I dared to ask, “are you wearing their clothing?”
    After all, we may have been seduced by the charms of life in Damascus, but at least we still had the courage, through our finery, to proclaim that we were Christians.
    The esquire lowered his tone and, leaning closer, confided that this travesty was necessary for him to carry out his plans. We understood at that point that he must be on a secret mission on behalf of his master, the Duke of Burgundy. This putative discretion was all the more ridiculous in that, from the moment they saw him, the Mohammedans could hardly ignore whom they were dealing with. Nevertheless, on the strength of his supposed invisibility, Bertrandon was gathering as much information as possible on the countries that hosted him. He asked many questions about the towns and villages we had gone through. He insisted, without the slightest shame, on the military details: Had we met any troops? Who was guarding this bridge or that building? How many men-at-arms were accompanying the great caravan? (I refrained from telling him that I had almost joined it.) As the interrogation progressed, we understood more clearly the nature of the mission with which he had