The Dream Maker (3 page)

Summer came early and was miserable. At the beginning of July the storms began. Pounding rain caused the drainpipes to overflow, adding to the chaos and panic. To the delight of our gang of kids, the streets filled with armed men, who began to prepare our defense. The court of Duke John had always paid more attention to art and pleasure than to combat. Nobles never went around dressed for war. Now the threat hanging over the town changed everything. Noblemen once again adopted the accoutrements that, in a bygone era, had signaled that their ancestors were entitled to the rank of count or baron. And one day, for the first time in my life, I saw a knight up close.

He was riding at a trot up the paved street leading to the cathedral. I ran to his side. It seemed to me that if I jumped up to ride pillion with him he would take me all the way to Arabia, to the land of eternal sun, with the vivid colors of the leopard. The horse was covered with a gilt-embroidered blanket, armor-clad feet in the stirrups. Inexplicably, I felt nothing for the man hiding beneath this carapace; what fascinated me more than anything was the way in which his armor had been designed to make him invulnerable—the hammered steel that went to make up the suit, the shining paint on the shield, the thick fabric covering the horse. A man in simple clothing on an ordinary horse would not have had the fabulous powers I granted this knight.

I was, alas, doomed to dream, for it seemed impossible that I might one day leave behind my station as a simple burgher, something I had only just begun to be aware of.

My father took me more and more often to the Duke's palace when he had business there. He did not hope to make a craftsman of me, because I was extremely clumsy. He saw me, rather, as a tradesman. I loved the atmosphere of these visits—the rooms with their high ceilings, the guards at every door, the luxurious wall hangings, the ladies in their brightly-colored gowns. I loved the jewels in their necklaces, the shine of the pommels on the gentlemen's hips, the light-colored wood of the parquet floors. My interest increased still further when my father explained, during a long wait in the antechamber of one of the Duke's relatives, that the very particular perfume in these halls derived from diluted essences from the Levant.

These visits to the palace, however, had quashed for good any hope I might have of entering their world. My father was treated with despicable scorn, and he tried hard to teach me how to put up with it. In his opinion, it was an honor in itself to sell something to a prince. Nothing was too good for such a customer. Every gift, every effort, the nights spent stitching, cutting, designing models—none of it had any meaning or value until a rich customer voiced his satisfaction. I remembered the lesson and accepted our fate. I learned to find my courage in renunciation. When we left the palace, after a visit where my father had been coarsely treated, I was proud of him. I would take his hand as we walked home. He was trembling, and I now know it was from humiliation and rage. However, in my eyes, the patience he had shown was the only form of bravery allowed us, since we would never be called on to bear noble weapons.

Among my mates I maintained a distant reserve, following my father's example. I rarely spoke, I agreed with what they said, and I played a modest part in the adventures that others conceived. They tended to scorn me, until something happened that changed everything.

In the month of August of the year I turned twelve, we had finished preparing for the siege of the town. We were indeed surrounded. The oldest residents recalled the English sacking half a century earlier. Stories of those ghastly deeds were making the rounds. Children in particular delighted in them. Éloi impressed us every day with horrible tales that customers left behind in his father's shop along with their change. He had set himself up as our captain because, according to him, under these new circumstances we were now a body of troops like any other. He had great ambitions for this little army, starting with procuring weapons. In the utmost secrecy he organized an expedition. For several days he held clandestine meetings, sharing his knowledge and his orders with the members of the group, the better to keep control of it. Shortly before the great day, one of his muttered conversations must have been about me, because everyone but me took part. Éloi came at last to deliver the verdict: I could be one of them.

Under normal circumstances, summer was a time of freedom for the schoolboys of the Sainte-Chapelle. The war was yet another reason to set us free. We spent our days together, idle, sitting outside our houses. We were not allowed out at night, and the soldiers on watch would arrest anyone wandering in the streets. Therefore we would have to carry off the exploit in broad daylight. Éloi chose a hot, stormless afternoon, conducive to siesta. He led us down into the tanners' neighborhood, and from there, by crossing a grassy slope, we came to a swamp. He had located a flat-bottomed boat, its pole hidden not far away. There were seven of us on board. With the pole, Éloi pushed the boat, and we drifted slowly out into the stream. The cathedral rose in the distance, towering above us. None of us knew how to swim, and I'm sure the others were terrified. I was afraid until the boat was well away from the shore. But once we were slowly making our way through the algae and the lily pads, I was filled with an unexpected happiness. The sun and the heat of August, the mystery of the water on whose surface all roads are possible, and the reverberant flight of insects all made me believe we were on our way to that other world, even though I knew it was incomparably far away.

The boat slid into a cluster of reeds. Éloi, still standing, leaned over and motioned to us to be quiet. We were still drifting down the narrow inlet bordered with the velvety tips of the stems when suddenly we heard voices. Éloi pushed the boat over to the riverbank. We jumped on land. I was given the order to stay and guard the boat. From behind a hedge we saw in the distance a group of men lying on the ground. They were surely
écorcheurs
1
from the army of Burgundy. A dozen or so soldiers sprawled in the shade of an elm tree, near another bend in the river, most of them asleep. The grunts we had heard were what passed for conversation among those still awake. Their campsite was in full sun, and at some distance from the men. It contained an untidy collection of fur blankets, satchels, water skins, and weapons, spread around the charred circle of what had been a campfire. No one was guarding the camp. Éloi ordered the three smallest among us to crawl through the grass to the weapons, steal as many as they could carry, and then come back. The children did as they were told. They threaded their way to the campsite and noiselessly filled their arms with swords and daggers. Just as they were about to head back, one of the
écorcheurs
stood up unsteadily to go and relieve himself. He saw the thieves and raised the alarm. When he heard the shout, Éloi set off at a run, followed by two other boys who never left his side.

“They've got us!” he cried.

He jumped into the boat with his two right-hand men.

“Come on,” he commanded.

“And the others?”

I was standing on the bank, still holding the rope that served to tie the boat.

“They'll catch up. Come on, now!”

As I stood there without moving, he grabbed the rope from my hand and with an abrupt shove of the pole, pushed the boat out into the reeds. I heard the stems snapping as the boat moved away.

A few seconds later, the other three showed up, sweating profusely. Each of them had made it a point of honor to keep one or two of the trophies they had stolen from beside the campfire.

“Where's the boat?” they asked.

“It's gone,” I answered. “With Éloi.”

Today I think I can safely say that it was at that very moment that my fate was sealed. I was filled with an astonishing composure. For those who knew me, there was no change with respect to my usual demeanor, that of a phlegmatic dreamer. But for me, it was very different. Habitually, my dreaming took me into another world, whereas now, I was truly in this world. I was acutely aware of the situation at hand. I could sense the danger, and identify all the protagonists of the drama. The privilege of knowing how to act like a bird of prey, overlooking everything, gave me a perfectly clear vision of both the problem and the solution. While my companions looked all around, trembling and distraught, without seeing a way out, I said, as calm as could be, “Let's go that way.”

We ran along the narrow bank. The soldiers were calling out, their voices thick. They were not yet very near. They had to wake up, first of all, size up the situation, and agree among themselves, and in all likelihood these mercenaries did not all speak the same language. I saw clearly that our salvation lay in our small size and agility. I led my troop along the riverbank and eventually found, as I had sensed I would, a narrow wooden bridge to cross the inlet. It was a simple, rough-hewn tree trunk, already worn and sagging. All four of us stepped lightly across it. The
écorcheurs
would find it more difficult to cross and, with a bit of luck, it would break beneath their weight. We continued our flight and I kept up a steady rhythm, slower than my companions would have liked. It was out of the question to run until we were exhausted. It might be a long ordeal; we had to preserve our strength.

I will not go into the details of our misadventure. We made it back to the town after two days and one night, crossing canals astride floating tree trunks, stealing another boat, and making our way past a troop on horseback. We arrived home as night was falling, our skin covered in bramble scratches; we were famished but proud. At no time did I lose my composure. My companions had followed my orders to the letter. I had insisted on their keeping the weapons they had stolen. Thus, we were not only safe, but also victorious.

In the town there was considerable talk about our adventure. On the basis of the heroic self-aggrandizing tale Éloi had spun, everyone had thought we were dead. He claimed he had followed us to try to hold us back. “I wanted so badly to save them, alas . . . ” and so on. Our return suddenly brought the truth to light. He was punished severely, and, above all, his prestige evaporated instantly. He became the first of many enemies I would make throughout my life, simply by virtue of having exposed their weakness.

My parents had wept so bitterly at my disappearance that they could not scold me when I turned up. Moreover, the Duke had gotten wind of our adventure and had personally congratulated my father.

The other three survivors were responsible for my reputation. They described, in all honesty, their own helplessness and my clear-sightedness. Henceforth, although nothing changed in my behavior, everyone began to view me differently. I was no longer taken for a dreamer, but a thoughtful boy, not timid but reserved, not indecisive but cunning. I did not refute these new opinions, but grew accustomed to eliciting admiration and fear with the same indifference that had enabled me to endure scorn and distrust. I gleaned useful reflections from those opinions. Éloi's defeat allowed me to perceive the existence of a form of authority other than mere physical superiority. Through our entire adventure I had not displayed any particular resilience; several times over my companions had even had to hold me up or help me to my feet. However, I had never stopped being their leader. They deferred to my decisions and did not question my orders. So, there was power and there was strength, and the two things were not always one and the same.

Strength came from the body, whereas power was the work of the mind. And while I did not clearly distinguish these concepts, I did explore them a bit further, and my thoughts led me, in a way, to the edge of a precipice. While I may have seized power during our adventure thanks to my mind, it was not owing to any particular knowledge. I did not know where we were, nor had I ever been in a similar situation, nor were my decisions based on reason, except perhaps to make us choose the paths that were inaccessible to the roughnecks stalking us. For the most part I had used my intuition, that is, by finding my way through the usual world of my dreams. So, it was my experience of something that did not exist that had enabled me to act and take command in the real world. In a word, dream and reality were not completely separate. This conclusion made me light-headed, and at the time I took it no further.

At the end of the month, a truce was called and the siege was lifted. Our town breathed deeply. Life could go on as before.

 

*

 

While the war may have spared us, it was still being fought elsewhere. I had no idea what other towns were like, particularly the one known as the capital. Paris seemed to me to be a great tormented body. All one ever heard were tales of murder, massacre, and famine. This curse, in my opinion, could only be explained by the city's proximity to the mad king who lived there and spread his insanity all around him.

Oddly enough, it was my mother who gave me the opportunity to get a more precise idea of Paris, and yet she was a timid woman who hardly ever left the house and had never ventured outside our town. She was tall and extremely thin. Averse to drafts, cold weather, and even light, she lived in our dark rooms and kept the fires going all year round. Our wooden house was tall and narrow and served as the décor to her days, providing her with any number of plans which she implemented as the day went by. Her bedroom was on the second floor. She stayed in bed until fairly late then dressed carefully. The courtyard and the kitchen occupied her for the rest of the morning until it was time for lunch in the adjacent room. In the afternoon she generally went to see my father in his workshop to help him with the bookkeeping. Then, when the canon arrived, she went upstairs to take mass in the small chapel she had arranged on the top floor near our bedrooms. Our house was built in the fashion of the era: each floor spread wider than the one below, in such a way that the room at the top was also the biggest.

It was a reclusive life, and it seemed infinitely monotonous to me, but my mother did not complain. I learned much later that she had been a victim of violence in the best years of her youth, perpetrated by a gang of lepers and
écorcheurs
. They had plundered the village where my grandparents lived, and my mother, who had only just gone through puberty, was taken hostage by those thugs. She had come away with a deep horror of war and at the same time a great interest in it. Of all of us, she was always the best informed of the situation. No doubt thanks to visitors, she garnered precise information about the latest events in the town, the neighboring regions, and even beyond. She had a vast network of informants, because through her father she belonged to the powerful butchers' brotherhood.