I loved this simple gesture of yours and how nostalgic I felt at the same time at the thought of losing you! And then he grunted:
‘Stranger, you’re crazier than a madman . . . And believe me I’ve seen a few, unless I’m crazy myself, that is . . .’
I began to laugh softly, so as not to disturb the dead, while we pretended to tidy our mattresses, thumping them like large, clumsy children.
A candle was still burning, lending those who were alive the same waxen pallor as the dead and concealing them among the living. Shadowy figures came and went, dispensing unction, whispering consolation and empty promises in the ears of the sick. Arnold crossed himself and avoided them as if they were the devil. Beneath the archway at the entrance, an elderly monk dressed in black gazed at us as though we were ghosts.
Down the length of the broad street that leads down to the Seine, shopkeepers were waking up. Along the route from Saint-Denis to the Cité, on the days of the great pilgrimages, from all over Europe there came a procession of the wise and the sick, clerks, or simply men who have hope in their hearts. And when the insane arrive in a drove, bleating like sheep, there are fortunately thieves and shopkeepers to reassure the righteous man and put life back on course again.
‘Look, look!’ said Arnold as if he were inviting me to share in a drink, extending his arms towards the horizon.
Jewish and Lombard moneychangers were checking their balances and poring over their books. Butchers were returning, heavy footed, from the Grève abattoirs, covered in blood and bearing carcasses around their necks; dealers from Flanders and Lorraine were spreading out their cloths, letting the material run through their fingers; cobblers were kneading leather for sandals, while saddlers weighed down by saddles were inching forward like horses that were too small.
Everywhere there were hordes of men disappearing beneath their baskets; Italians, Moors and men in turbans whose eyes gleamed in the early morning darkness were unpacking goods whose names alone transported you to distant climes: the finest woollen items from Syria, leathers from Phoenicia or Cordoba, spices and wines from Greece, streams of silks, powders with which to colour the days, pieces of steel you could use to stab someone through the heart, little animals made of gold and ivory that looked as if they might come to life if you breathed on them correctly, amulets and spells to induce love, or death, parchments and magical rings – that morning the whole world had decided to set out its treasures, its baubles, its most incomparable arts as well as the most grotesque creations of man.
Arnold was filled with wonderment. He conversed in every language, he gesticulated, he spoke to tight-lipped Blacks, to melancholy Saracens, to conjurors who with a wave of their hands could make doves carrying small silver coins appear, to elderly dwarf women who could walk upon their hands and who had nothing to sell but a single sandal; he talked to loiterers who were preparing their wiles and their ruses. He juggled with the jugglers; he tumbled better than the tumblers. Oh, the fibs he told and the people he took up with and later dropped! – and I just followed behind, happy merely to be in the shadow of the showman.
People confided in him, they told him packs of lies, they suggested all sorts of deals, and he made light of everything, making promises in turn, leaving behind cries and jokes, songs and little gold pebbles as his pledge.
Walking at a different pace to us were the water-sellers, the swine and the soldiers. A frisky horse had unseated its rider and there were cries of ‘Watch out!’ Children wearing ill-fitting shoes went about on their own, begging for a coin, a sou, or twice as much, with varying degrees of impudence. Servants who were so well dressed that it was hard to imagine how their masters might be attired were, with a wave of the hand, claiming the very best objects, which would then disappear immediately. Beneath tents that were being unfolded men would arrive sweating under the weight of blocks of ice; they were inviting us to drink – certainly it was already hot enough. There were fragrances in the air that gave you a longing for life, a life of cravings, a craving to travel and to be sick. The sky was empty, blue and without hope, and all these people were already perspiring.
By the time we reached the île de la Cité the day had well and truly dawned, a day of burning heat that would not end without miracles or without crimes.
There were vines and fruit trees: the bishop’s garden was very much the garden of the Lord. The apse of the church had also fallen into ruin. We sat down beneath a plum tree and ate ripe black plums whose juices dripped from our fingers.
‘This evening, after Vespers, we’ll go and see the master,’ said Arnold in a delightfully solemn tone.
I didn’t reply. I let myself be lulled by the breeze that wafted through the trees and caused leaves and fruit to rustle and sway. Between the branches of a cherry tree I could see flat barges making their way down the Seine; the haulers were standing, their hands shading their eyes, their muscles tensed; the sounds of the cries and the stampede reached us in muffled bursts. Under the Grand Pont, the waters of the Seine were low and sluggish. We shall not be driven out of paradise: nobody would dream of finding us here.
Arnold continued to daydream as he thought of his hero.
‘You know, in the evening he’ll stay and drink and sing with us . . . He says that his poems are worth more than his philosophy.’
I smiled. I thought of the girl I’d rescued. I opened the palm of my hand and inhaled her lingering fragrance. Arnold looked at me, taken aback.
We left the garden, crossed the square and went down to the river bank in silence. Arnold bent down and cupped some river water in his large palm. It remained in the hollow of his hand, and he swirled it round as if it contained a secret or a treasure, or as if a spirit would emerge from it. Then, suddenly, he called to me:
‘William! William!’
He snapped his fingers shut and opened them again; his hand looked like a fish drying in the sun. His expression was serious, like that of children; afterwards, he shook his hand and burst out laughing. He moved in circles around me, dancing some strange dance:
‘William! William!’
It must be the most wonderful and funniest thing in the world to dance while you wait for it to rain. Once he had twirled me round and round, he stopped and placed his hands on my shoulders.
‘William, promise me you’ll be my friend.’
He misunderstood my silence.
‘Don’t you want to?’
‘I don’t want to hurt my friend. And what kind of friend is it who will soon leave?’
‘You’ll stay.’
I ought to have laughed at his confidence, but it warmed my heart.
V
I saw her first, at the entrance to the Close, just as I was arriving with Arnold. She was walking in silence with a servant, a woman with skin as black as coal. She was wearing that blue cloak which had first caught my eye – and I was not surprised to admit that I fell in love with her before I had really set eyes on her. Arnold caught me looking at her and gave me a slap.
‘Heloise,’ he said. ‘So you already know Canon Fulbert’s beautiful niece, do you?’
‘I scarcely knew her before I was clasping her to
