Balthasar's Odyssey

  Also by Amin Maalouf

  In the Name of Identity

  Copyright © 2000, 2011 by Amin Maalouf and Editions Grasset & Fasquelle

  English-language translation copyright © 2002, 2011 by Barbara Bray

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Arcade Publishing® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are ether products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  First published in 2000 in France by Editions Grasset & Fasquelle

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  ISBN: 978-1-61145-540-3

  CONTENTS

  NOTEBOOK I

  NOTEBOOK II

  NOTEBOOK III

  NOTEBOOK IV

  To Andrée

  NOTEBOOK I

  The Hundredth Name

  Still four long months until the Year of the Beast, and it’s already here. Its shadow dims our hearts and the windows of our houses.

  The people round me can talk of nothing else. The coming year, the signs, the portents … Sometimes I say to myself, Let it come! Let it finally empty out its pouch of prodigies and disasters! Then I change my mind and think of all the decent ordinary years when each day was spent just looking forward to the evening’s pleasures. And I roundly curse the doom-worshippers.

  How did this foolishness start? In whose brain can it have sprouted? Under what skies? I couldn’t say for certain, and yet in a way I know. From where I am I’ve seen the fear, the monstrous fear born, grow and spread. I’ve seen it creep into people’s minds, into those of my nearest and dearest, into my own. I’ve seen it overthrow reason, trample it underfoot, humiliate it, and then devour it.

  I’ve watched the good days vanish.

  Up till now I have lived in peace. I prospered in figure and fortune, every season a little more. I wanted nothing I couldn’t get. My neighbours admired rather than envied me.

  Then suddenly everything started to happen.

  That strange book, appearing and then disappearing, and all my fault…

  Old Idriss’s death. True, no one blames me for it… Except myself.

  And the journey I’m to set out on next Monday, despite my qualms. A journey from which I have a feeling I shan’t return.

  So it’s with some apprehension I write the first lines in this new notebook. I don’t know yet how I’ll record the things that have happened, or those that already loom ahead. Just a simple account of the facts? A journal? A log? A will?

  Perhaps I should say a word to begin with about the person who first made me anxious about the Year of the Beast. His name was Evdokim. A pilgrim from Moscow who came knocking on my door about seventeen years ago. Why “about”? I’ve got the exact date down in my ledger. The twentieth day of December 1648.

  I’ve always written everything down, especially details, the sort of things I’d have forgotten otherwise.

  Before he came in he made the sign of the cross with two outstretched fingers, and stooped so that his head would clear the stone lintel. He had a thick black cloak, woodcutter’s hands with thick fingers, and a thick fair beard, but tiny little eyes and a narrow forehead.

  He was on his way to the Holy Land, but he hadn’t stopped at my house by chance. He’d been given the address in Constantinople, and told it was here and only here that he had a chance of finding what he was looking for.

  “I’d like to speak to Signor Tommaso,” he said.

  “He was my father,” I replied. “But he died in July.”

  “God rest his soul!”

  “And those of your kin likewise!”

  This exchange had taken place in Greek, the only language we had in common, though it was clear neither of us used it much. The conversation was rather tentative, anyhow: my father’s death, still a painful subject for me, was also a shock to my visitor. Moreover, since he was speaking to a “Papist apostate” and I to a “misguided schismatic”, we were anxious not to offend one another’s susceptibilities.

  After we had both been silent a moment, he went on:

  “I am very sorry your father is no longer with us.”

  As he spoke he looked round the shop, trying to make out the jumble of books, antique statuettes, glassware, painted vases, stuffed falcons; and wondering — to himself, but he might just as well have said it aloud — if, since my father was no longer there, I might not be in need of help. I was already twenty-three years old, but my face was plump and clean-shaven and must still have looked rather boyish.

  I drew myself up and thrust out my chin.

  “My name is Balthasar, and I have taken over my father’s business.”

  My visitor showed no sign of having heard. He went on gazing at the thousand marvels around him with a mixture of wonder and apprehension. Our curio shop had been the best stocked and most celebrated in the East for a hundred years. People came from everywhere to see us — Marseilles and London, Cologne and Ancona, as well as Smyrna, Cairo and Isfahan.

  After looking me up and down one last time, my Russian seemed to have made up his mind.

  “I am Evdokim Nikolaevitch, from Voronezh. I have heard great things of your business.”

  I assumed an easy manner — my way, then, of making myself agreeable.

  “We’ve been in the trade for four generations. My family comes from Genoa, but we settled in the Levant a long time ago.”

  He nodded once or twice to show he knew all that. In fact, if he’d heard about us in Constantinople this was probably the first thing he’d been told. “The last Genoese to come to this part of the world” — with some remark or gesture suggesting madness or eccentricity handed down from father to son. I smiled and said nothing. He turned to the door, bawling out a name and an order, and a servant hurried in, a small stout fellow in baggy black clothes, with a flat cap and down-turned eyes. He took a book out of a box he was carrying and handed it to his master.

  I assumed he wanted to sell it to me, and was immediately on my guard. In my trade you soon learn to beware of people who start by putting on airs about their fancy origins and acquaintances, give orders right, left and centre, and in the end just try to palm off some old piece of bric-à-brac on you. Unique in their own eyes, and so naturally unique for everybody. If you offer them a price that’s less than they had in mind, they take offence and claim you’re not only cheating them but insulting them too. And go off breathing fire and slaughter.

  But this visitor soon reassured me: he wasn’t here to sell or haggle.

  “This book was printed in Moscow a few months ago. And everyone who can read has read it already.”

  He pointed to the title, which was in Cyrillic characters, and began reciting earnestly, “Kniga o vere,” before realising he needed to translate for my benefit: “The Book of the Faith, unique, genuine and orthodox.” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye to see if the words had made my Papist blood run cold. I remained impassive, inside and out. Outside, the polite smile of the merchant. Inside, the wry smile of the
sceptic.

  “This book tells us the apocalypse is at hand!”

  He showed me a page near the end.

  “It is written here that the Antichrist will appear, in accordance with the Scriptures, in the year of the Pope, one thousand six hundred and sixty-six.”

  He kept repeating the figure, slurring over the words “one thousand” a bit more every time. Then he looked at me to see my reactions.

  I had read the Apocalypse of St John the Divine the same as everyone else, and had paused over the mysterious passage in Chapter 13: “Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.”

  “It says 666, not 1666,” I ventured.

  “You’d have to be blind not to see such an obvious sign!”

  “Sign!” How often had I heard that word, not to mention “portent”! Everything is a sign or a portent to someone always on the look-out for them, ready to marvel at and interpret anything and imagine parallels and coincidences everywhere. The world is full of such tireless seekers of omens — I’d had them in the shop, some of them quite delightful, some really appalling!

  Evdokim seemed vexed at my lack of enthusiasm, which he saw as reflecting ignorance and impiety. Not wishing to offend him, I made an effort and said:

  “It is certainly all very strange and disturbing ...”

  Or something of the kind.

  “It is because of this book that I am here,” he answered, evidently reassured. “I am looking for other texts that may help me to understand it.”

  Now I understood. I’d be able to help him.

  I should explain that the success of our business in recent decades was largely due to the craze throughout Christendom for old Oriental books — especially those in Greek, Coptic, Hebrew and Syriac — which seemed to contain the most ancient truths of the Faith, and which the royal courts, particularly those of France and England, tried to acquire in order to back up their point of view in the quarrels between the Catholics and the supporters of the Reformation. For nearly a century my family scoured the monasteries in the East in search of such manuscripts, hundreds of which are now to be found in the Royal Library in Paris or the Bodleian in Oxford, to mention only the most important repositories.

  “I haven’t many books dealing specifically with the Apocalypse,” I said, “and especially not with the passage about the number of the Beast. But you might care to look at…”

  And I listed ten or twelve titles in various languages, indicating their contents and sometimes the chapter headings. I like this aspect of my profession, and think I have a gift for it. But my visitor didn’t seem as interested as I’d expected. Every time I mentioned a book he would show his disappointment and impatience by fidgeting with his fingers or gazing around.

  Finally I understood.

  “Oh, you were told of a particular volume — is that it?”

  He mispronounced some Arabic name, but I had no trouble making it out. Abu-Maher al-Mazandarani. To tell the truth, I’d been expecting to hear it for some while now.

  Anyone with a passion for books knows Mazandarani’s. By reputation, that is, for very few people have actually held it in their hands. I’m still not sure, as a matter of fact, if it really exists, or ever has done so.

  Let me explain, for it will soon look as if I’m talking in contradictions. When you study the works of certain famous and recognised authors, you will often find them mentioning the book in question, saying that one of their friends or teachers had it in his library once. But I have never come across a reputable writer who clearly confirms he’s seen it. No one who says, “I own it”, “I’ve looked through it”, or “I’ve read it”. No one who actually quotes from it. So the really serious merchants, and most scholars, believe the book has never existed, and that the few copies which show up from time to time are the work of forgers and hoaxers.

  The title of this legendary volume is The Unveiling of the Hidden Name, but it is usually known as The Hundredth Name. When I’ve explained what name that is, you will see why it has always been so much sought after.

  As everyone knows, the Koran mentions ninety-nine names of God, though some prefer to call them “epithets”. The Merciful, the Avenger, the Subtle, the Apparent, the Omniscient, the Arbiter, the Heir, and so on. And that figure, confirmed by Tradition, has always provoked the obvious question in curious minds: Must there not be a hidden, hundredth name to round off the number? Quotations from the Prophet, which some doctors of the law contest though others recognise them as genuine, say there is indeed a supreme name that someone has only to utter to avert any kind of danger or obtain any favour from Heaven. It is said that Noah knew it, and so was able to save himself and his family at the time of the Flood.

  It is easy to see the attraction of a book that claims to reveal such a secret nowadays, when men live in fear of another Deluge. I’ve had all sorts of people through my shop — a barefoot friar, an alchemist from Tabriz, a Turkish general, a cabalist from Tiberias — every one of them looking for that book. I’ve always thought it my duty to tell them why I thought it was only a mirage.

  Usually my visitors resign themselves once they have heard my explanation. Some are disappointed, but others are relieved: if they can’t have the book, they prefer that nobody can.

  The Muscovite reacted neither one way nor the other. At first he looked amused, as if to convey that he didn’t believe a word of my patter. When I got annoyed at this and stopped short, he suddenly grew serious and begged in a low voice:

  “Sell it to me and I’ll give you all the gold I possess without a murmur!”

  “My poor fellow,” I felt like saying, “think yourself lucky you’ve come across an honest merchant! There are plenty who’d relieve you of your money in no time!”

  I patiently started explaining again why, to the best of my knowledge, the book didn’t exist, and how the only people who claimed otherwise were either naive and gullible authors or swindlers.

  As I spoke, his face grew flushed; like that of a doomed man whose doctor is airily explaining that the medicine the patient hoped would cure him has never been invented. I could see in his eyes not disappointment or resignation, not even incredulity any more, but hatred, the daughter of fear. I cut short my explanations with the cautious conclusion:

  “What the truth of the matter is, God only knows!”

  But he had stopped listening. He stepped forward, grabbed at my clothes with his mighty hands and crushed my chin against his giant chest. I thought he was going to strangle me, or smash my skull against the wall. Luckily his servant hurried over, touched him on the arm and whispered something in his ear. Soothing words, I suppose, for his master let go of me at once and thrust me disdainfully away. Then he left the shop, muttering imprecations in his own language.

  I never saw him again. And I’d probably have forgotten all about him, even his name, if his visit hadn’t marked the beginning of a strange procession of callers. It took me some time to realise it, but I’m certain now: after Evdokim, the people who came to the shop were different from before, and behaved in quite another way. Hadn’t the pilgrim from Moscow had a look of terror in his eye, a look of the sort of terror some might describe as “holy”? I could see it now in everyone. And with it the same attitude of urgency and impatience, the same mixture of persistence and apprehension.

  These are not mere impressions. It’s the merchant speaking now, with his hand on his ledger. After the Russian’s visit, not a day went by without someone coming and talking to me about the Apocalypse, the Antichrist, the Beast and the number of the Beast.

  Why not admit it outright? It’s the Apocalypse that has brought in most of what I’ve earned in the last few years. Yes, it’s the Beast that clothes me and the Beast that feeds me. As soon as its mere shadow crops up in a book, buyers come running from all over the place, purses at the ready. It all sells for a fortune, learned treatises and far-fetched squibs alike. A
t one time I even had on my shelves a tome called An accurate description of the Beast and many other monsters of the Apocalypse — in Latin, with forty drawings into the bargain.

  But while this morbid enthusiasm makes me well off, it also makes me uneasy. I’m not the kind of man to go along with the follies of the moment. I keep my head when others are losing theirs. On the other hand, I’m not one of those arrogant fools who form their opinions as oysters form their pearls, and then shut them away where nothing can touch them. I have my own ideas and beliefs, but I can hear the rest of the world breathing. I can’t ignore the fear that’s spreading everywhere. Even if I thought the world was going mad, I couldn’t ignore its folly. I may smile and shrug my shoulders and execrate foolishness and frivolity, but I can’t help being disturbed.

  In the struggle that goes on inside me between reason and unreason, the latter has won some points. Reason protests, mocks, insists, resists, and I’m still clear-sighted enough to observe the confrontation more or less impartially. But it’s precisely this vestige of lucidity that forces me to admit that unreason is gaining ground in me. One day, if things go on like this, I’ll no longer be able to write as I’m writing now. I might even turn back through these pages and erase what I’ve just set down. What I call unreason now will have become what I believe in then. If that Balthasar should ever come into being, which God forbid!, I hereby hate and despise him, and muster all the intelligence and honour I have left to curse him.

  I know this all sounds rather wild. That’s because the rumours that are dinning around the world have seeped into here. The sort of thing Evdokim said then I hear in my own house now.

  It’s my own fault.

  Eighteen months ago, as business was still flourishing, I decided to ask my sister Pleasance’s two sons to come and give me a hand. My idea was that they should get to know the antiquities trade so that eventually they could take over from me. I had high hopes of Jaber, especially. He was the elder of the two. A diligent, meticulous, studious youth, already almost a scholar before he was a man. The opposite of his younger brother Habib, who neglected his books to roam around the back-streets. I didn’t expect much of him. But at least I hoped he might settle down a bit if I gave him some unaccustomed responsibilities.