A waste of time. As he has grown up, Habib has become an incorrigible womaniser. He does nothing but sit at the window of the shop, ogling, smiling and paying compliments, and disappearing at all hours for mysterious appointments the object of which I can easily guess. How many young women who live nearby find, when they go to fetch water, that the quickest way to the fountain passes by our window! Habib means “beloved” — names are rarely neutral.
Jaber stays well inside the shop. His skin grows paler all the time, so rarely does it see the sun. He reads, copies, makes notes, arranges, consults, compares. If his face ever lights up, it’s not because the shoemaker’s daughter has just come round the corner and is sauntering this way. It’s because young Jaber has just read something on page 237 of the Commentary of Commentaries that confirms what he thought was meant by a passage he found yesterday evening in The Final Exegesis. I’m quite satisfied to skim through the most difficult and abstruse volumes out of duty, and even then I often stop for a yawn. Not he. He seems to revel in them, as if in the most delicious sweetmeats.
So much the better, I thought at first. I wasn’t sorry to see him so industrious. I quoted him to his brother as an example, and even started entrusting some of my own tasks to him. I didn’t hesitate to let him deal with the most pernickety customers. He’d spend hours chatting to them, and though he wasn’t primarily interested in business he usually ended up selling them masses of books.
I’d have been perfectly satisfied with him if he too hadn’t begun — and with all the ardour of youth — to irritate me with talk of the imminent end of the world and of the omens heralding its coming. Was it the influence of the books he read? Or of some of my customers? At first I thought I could settle the matter by clapping him on the shoulder and telling him to pay no attention to such nonsense. He seemed a very biddable lad, and I believed he’d obey me in that as in other things. Little did I know him, and little did I know the age we live in, and its passions and obsessions.
According to my nephew, we have an appointment with the end of the world that dates from its beginning. Those alive today will have the dubious privilege of witnessing that macabre culmination of History. As far as I can see, this doesn’t make him feel sad or depressed. On the contrary, I think I detect a sort of pride — tinged with fear, no doubt, but also with a certain amount of exultation. Every day he finds some new confirmation of his predictions in Latin, Greek or Arabic sources. Everything is converging, he says, towards a certain date. The date cited in the Russian book of the Faith — if only I hadn’t told him about it! — 1666. Next year. “The Year of the Beast”, as he likes to call it. He backs up his belief with a whole array of arguments, quotations, computations, learned calculations, and an endless litany of “signs”.
I always think that if you look for signs you find them, and I write this down once again lest, in the maelstrom of madness that is seizing the world, I should one day forget it. Manifest signs, speaking signs, troubling signs — people always manage to “prove” what they want to believe; they’d be just as well off if they tried to prove the opposite.
That’s what I think. But I’m rattled just the same by the approach of the famous “year”.
I still remember a scene that took place two or three months ago. My nephews and I had had to work late to finish the inventory before the summer, and we were all exhausted. I’d collapsed on to a chair, with my arms circling my open ledger and a nearby oil-lamp beginning to dim. Then suddenly Jaber came and leaned over the other side of the table, so that his head touched mine and his hands pressed down painfully on my elbows. His whole face glowed red, he threw a huge shadow on the walls and furniture, and he whispered in a lugubrious voice:
“The world is like this lamp. It has burned its ration of oil. Only a drop is left. See how the flame flickers! The world will soon go out.”
What with being so tired, and with all that gossip about the coming Apocalypse, I suddenly felt quite crushed by these ominous words. As if I hadn’t even the strength to sit up straight. As if I must just sprawl there and wait for the flame to die away before my eyes and the darkness to swallow me up.
Then the voice of Habib rose up behind me, laughing, cheeky, sunny, salutary.
“When are you going to stop tormenting poor Uncle — eh, Boumeh?”
“Boumeh”, meaning owl or bird of ill-omen — that’s what the younger brother has called the elder since they were children. And as I stood up that evening, suddenly crippled with aches and pains, I swore I’d call him that too from then on.
But though I do so, and curse and swear, and mutter to myself, I can’t help listening to what Boumeh says, and his words nest in my mind. So that I too start to see signs where before I saw only coincidences. Tragic or instructive or amusing coincidences — but where once I’d have just exclaimed in surprise, now I start, I’m worried, I tremble. And I even think about changing the peaceful course of my existence.
Admittedly, recent events were bound to unsettle me.
Just take the business of old Idriss!
Just to shrug my shoulders as if that didn’t concern me would not merely have been unwise. It would have been reckless and blind.
Idriss came and sought refuge in our little town of Gibelet, sometimes known as Byblos, seven or eight years ago. In rags, and with practically no belongings, he seemed as poor as he was old. No one ever really found out who he was, where he came from, or what he had fled. Persecution? Debt? A family vendetta? As far as I know he never told anyone his secret. He lived alone in a hovel he was able to rent cheaply.
The old man, whom I rarely came across and with whom I never exchanged more than a couple of words, came to the shop last month clutching to his chest a large book that he awkwardly suggested I should buy. I leafed through it. An undistinguished anthology of the work of little-known poetasters, copied out in shaky and irregular calligraphy, badly bound and badly preserved.
“A unique treasure,” said the old man. “It’s all I have left from my grandfather. I’d never have parted with it if I wasn’t in such dire ...”
Unique? There must have been something similar in half the houses in the country. It would remain on my hands till the day I died! I thought. But how could I show the poor wretch the door when he’d swallowed his pride and his shame in the hope of getting some money to buy food?
“Leave it with me, hajj Idriss,” I said. “I’ll show it to some of my customers who might be interested.”
I knew already how I’d proceed. Just as my father would have done, God rest his soul, if he’d still been in my place. For conscience’s sake I made myself read a few of the poems. As I’d seen at first glance, they were mostly minor works, with a few well-turned lines here and there; but on the whole the book was completely trite and unsaleable. At best I might get six maidins for it — more probably three or four — from a customer really keen on Arabic poetry. But in fact I found a better use for it. A few days after Idriss’s visit, an Ottoman dignitary who was passing through came to buy a few things from me. And as he insisted on having a discount, I got myself a satisfied client by giving him the book free as well.
I waited for just under a week, then went to see the old man. God, how dark his house was! And God, how empty and poor! After I’d pushed open the rickety wooden door I found myself in a room with a bare floor and bare walls. Idriss was sitting on a mud-coloured straw mat. I sat down cross-legged beside him.
“An important personage came to my shop,” I told him, “and he was pleased when I offered your book to him. I’ve brought you the money that’s due to you.”
Please note that I told him the exact truth! I can’t bear to lie, though I may occasionally cheat a little by leaving something out. But I was only trying to save the poor man’s dignity by treating him as a merchant rather than a beggar! So I took three one-maidin coins out of my purse, then three five-maidin pieces, pretending to calculate the total carefully.
He stared at me wide-eyed.
&
nbsp; “I didn’t expect all that, my son. Not even half as much ...”
I shook my finger at him.
“Never say that to a shopkeeper, hajj Idriss. He might be tempted to diddle you.”
“No danger of that with you, Balthasar effendi! You are my benefactor.”
I started to get up, but he stopped me.
“I’ve got something else for you,” he said.
He disappeared behind a curtain for a few moments, then came back carrying another book.
What, more? I thought to myself. Perhaps he’s got a whole library in the other room. What the devil have I got myself into?
As if he’d read my thoughts, he hastened to reassure me.
“It’s the last book I’ve got left,” he said, “and I want you to have it! You and nobody else!”
He placed it on my hands, open at the first page, as if on a lectern.
Good heavens!
The Hundredth Name!
Mazandarani’s book!
I’d never have dreamed of finding it in such a hole!
“But hajj Idriss, this is a very rare book! You ought not to part with it like that!”
“It’s no longer mine — it’s yours now. Keep it! Read it! I never could.”
I turned the pages eagerly, but the room was too dark for me to make out more than the title.
The Hundredth Name!
God in Heaven!
As I came out of the shack with the precious tome under my arm, I felt quite drunk. Was it really possible that this book, sought after by the whole world, was in my possession? How many men had come from the ends of the earth in search of it, and I’d told them it didn’t exist when all the time it was in that dilapidated hut a stone’s throw away! And a man I scarcely knew was making me a present of it! It was so disturbing, so unimaginable! I found myself laughing aloud in the street, like an idiot.
I was still like that, tipsy but incredulous, when a passer-by hailed me.
“Balthasar effendi!”
I recognised the voice straight away: Sheikh Abdel-Bassit, imam of Gibelet’s mosque. But how he could have known who I was, when he’s been blind from birth and I hadn’t said a word?
I went over to him, and we exchanged the usual greetings.
“Where do you come from, dancing along like that?”
“I’ve been to see Idriss.”
“Did he sell you a book?”
“How did you know?”
“Why else would you have gone to see the poor fellow?” he laughed.
“True,” I said, laughing too.
“An irreligious book?”
“Why should it have been?”
“If it wasn’t, he’d have offered it to me!”
“To tell the truth, I don’t know much yet about what’s in it. It was too dark to see in Idriss’s place. I’m waiting to get home to be able to read it.”
The sheikh held out his hand.
“Show me!”
His lips are always half open as if he’s about to smile. I never know when he really is smiling. Anyhow, he took the book, leafed through it for a few seconds as he held it in front of his closed eyes, then handed it back.
“It’s too dark here too,” he said. “I can’t see anything!”
This time he laughed aloud, looking up at the sky. I didn’t know if politeness required me to join in. That being so, I just gave a little cough, halfway between a stifled laugh and a clearing of the throat.
“So what sort of book is it?” he asked.
You can hide the truth from a man who can see; lying is sometimes a necessary skill. But to lie to someone blind is base and unworthy. A certain sense of honour, and perhaps some superstition, obliged me to speak the truth. Though I did wrap it up in some careful conditionals.
“It may be the book that’s attributed to Abu Maher al-Mazandarani. The Hundredth Name. But I’m waiting until I get home to check that it’s genuine.”
He tapped the ground three or four times with his stick, breathing heavily.
“Why does anyone need a hundredth name? I was taught all the names I needed to pray with when I was a child. What would I want a hundredth one for? Tell me, you who’ve read so many books in every language!”
He took a string of prayer beads out of his pocket, and started telling them rapidly as he awaited my answer. What could I say? I had no more reason than he to champion the hidden name. But I felt obliged to explain:
“As you know, some people claim the supreme name allows you to perform miracles ...”
“Miracles? Idriss has had that book for years, and what miracle has he performed for himself? Has it made him less poor? Less decrepit? What misfortune has it saved him from?”
He didn’t wait for my reply to that, but went off lashing at the air and the dust with his angry stick.
My first concern on reaching home was to hide the book from my nephews. Especially from Boumeh: I was sure if he actually saw and touched it he’d go out of his mind. So I slipped it under my shirt, and when I got indoors I hid it safely under an old and very fragile statuette that no one was allowed even to dust, let alone move.
That was last Saturday, 15 August. I promised myself I’d spend Sunday examining Mazandarani’s book closely.
As usual I rose rather late on Sunday — an infidel hour, some would call it. But as soon as I was up I went along the little corridor that leads from my bedroom to the shop, got the book out and sat down at my desk as nervous as a child. I’d bolted the door on the inside so that my nephews shouldn’t take me by surprise, and drawn the curtains to discourage visitors. So I had quiet and cool, but when I opened the book I realised there wasn’t enough light. So I decided to move my chair nearer the window.
While I was doing so, someone knocked at the door. I let out an oath and listened, hoping whoever it was would tire of waiting and go away. Unfortunately he knocked again. Not just a timid tap — an imperious thump, and then a volley of them.
“Coming!” I shouted. I quickly put the book back in its hiding-place, then went and opened the door.
My caller’s insistence had made me think it must be someone important, and so it was: Chevalier Hugues de Marmontel, emissary of the court of France. A most cultivated person, a connoisseur of Oriental literature and objets d’art, who had often come to my place in the course of recent years and made substantial purchases.
He was on the way from Saida to Tripoli, he told me, whence he would take ship for Constantinople. And he could not possibly pass through Gibelet without knocking at the door of the Embriaci’s noble dwelling. I thanked him for his compliments and his concern, and naturally asked him in. After drawing back the curtains, I let him browse about at leisure among the curios as was his habit, following him at a distance so as to be able to answer any questions, but not bothering him with any unsolicited comments.
He began by glancing through a copy of Samuel Bochart’s Geographia sacra.
“I bought it as soon as it was published,” he said, “and I keep referring to it. At last a book that deals with the Phoenicians, your ancestors — that is to say, of the people of this country.”
He moved forward a pace or two, then halted.
“These statuettes are Phoenician, aren’t they?” he asked. “Where are they from?”
I was proud to say that I myself had found and excavated them, in a field close to the beach.
“I’m very fond of this one,” I admitted.
The Chevalier merely said, “Oh”, surprised that a merchant should speak so of something offered for sale. I was slightly offended at this, and said no more, merely waiting for him to turn and ask me to explain my attachment. When he did so, I told him that the two statuettes had once been buried side by side, but with time the metal they were made of rusted in such a way that a hand of each had become welded to a hand of the other. I like to think of them as two lovers separated by death, but reunited for ever by time, rust and the earth. Everyone else who sees them speaks of two statuettes, but
I prefer to speak of them as one: the statuette of the lovers.
The Chevalier put out his hand to take hold of it. I begged him to be careful, as the least shock might break them apart. No doubt thinking I had been rather abrupt with him, he signed to me to handle my statuette myself. So with the greatest possible care I started to carry it nearer to the window. I expected him to follow, but when I turned round he was still standing in the same place. In his hands he was holding The Hundredth Name.
He was as white as a sheet. I too turned pale.
“How long have you had it?” he asked.
“Since yesterday.”
“Didn’t you once tell me you didn’t think it existed?”
“That’s what I’ve always thought. But I must have told you forgeries appeared from time to time.”
“Is this one of them?”
“Probably. But I haven’t had time yet to make sure.”
“How much do you want for it?”
I almost said “It’s not for sale!” but I changed my mind. One should never say that to an important personage. He’ll only say, “In that case, I’ll borrow it.” And then, for fear of giving offence, you have to lend it to him, and of course it’s highly likely you’ll never see your book again, nor your customer either. I’ve learned that to my cost.
“As a matter of fact,” I stammered, “it belongs to a crazy old fellow who lives in the most broken-down hovel in Gibelet. He’s convinced it’s worth a fortune.”
“How much?”
“A fortune, as I said. He’s insane!”
At this point I noticed that my nephew Boumeh had come up behind us and was observing the scene in stunned surprise. I hadn’t heard him enter. I asked him to come over and be introduced to our eminent visitor. I hoped this would allow me to change the subject and escape from the trap closing in on me. But the Chevalier just nodded briefly and repeated: