Chapter 22
It felt so normal. Jean was driving a little green car, wearing a reddish T-shirt, his dark hair falling across his forehead and short in the back.
His face was clean-shaven, and he was wearing sunglasses with red frames.
I sat beside him, my legs up on the dashboard.
There was a booster seat installed in the back, but no child in it.
It was nighttime, and we were driving toward Jerusalem, to my parents.
We rolled a joint and listened to some old jazz, and then I woke up.
For some indeterminate length of time, I observed the flickering, unyielding darkness.
When I started trying to recollect who I was and where I was supposed to be, it was still quite dark, a bluish gloom over me, and the surrounding walls looked unfamiliar.
Strange figures appearing before my eyes made me sit up straight.
I looked around and realized that the figures were woven into a tapestry, and then I remembered: I was in one of the rooms at the inn in the Venetian quarter of Acre, and somewhere in this city, not far away, Jean d’Ibelin was reposing in the house of Rohard, Count of Haifa, and the father of Alice, his wife.
I approached the big window. The dawn began to rise, and I could already distinguish the outlines of several buildings.
The sea was a gray blanket at the foot of the city.
When I had collapsed into bed the night before, my muscles were still sore from the ride, and only the faint light of a lantern lit the room.
I could hardly discern where I was. I had just a moment earlier finally understood that Jean and I would not be spending the night together, and out of exhaustion and disappointment, I scarcely glanced out of the window, from which I saw the pitch darkness dotted here and there with faint flickers of light from the windows of nearby houses and ships anchored in the bay.
Now, a pale light began to spread outside.
I was cold and shaking in my cotton shift, and my whole body hurt from the previous day’s strenuous ride.
In a moment’s inspiration, I looked under the bed, and with a feeling of victory I found a pot.
After peeing, I got back in between the warm, fluffy blankets and closed my eyes.
I fell asleep for a while, waking up several times.
Every time I dozed off, strange sounds filled my ears, and I awoke in a panic.
I wanted to resume my odd dream, which stirred up a sadness and a strange longing, of the modern Jean and me, together in a little green car.
I lay looking out the window at the day, which was gradually growing brighter.
Even in the midst of such a wonderful and extraordinary adventure, I mused wistfully, I am yearning for some man who does not really exist.
I sat up in bed and looked around. The room was pleasant and comfortably furnished—the canopied bed was positioned along the inner wall of the room, a woven carpet was spread on the stone floor, and by the window were two wide wooden chairs with armrests, piled with pillows.
The fire in the small wood stove was now extinguished, but beside it was a chest with chopped wood and tongs.
I didn’t know how I was supposed to light the fire.
On the walls hung tapestries depicting white birds and peacocks.
I rose and approached the wash basin and the tin jug beside it.
I sniffed the water and was surprised to discover that it was not entirely stagnant.
I washed my hands and face and smoothed my hair with my fingers, then wove it into a thick braid.
I dressed with great care, gathering all of the things that I had cast on the floor before falling asleep.
Even without a mirror to observe myself, I felt that I had already acquired a degree of skill.
I checked that the door was locked and then rummaged in my cloth bag.
I got out my daily contact lenses and put them in.
Then, I stared at my dead cell phone for a few moments.
Someone knocked on the door, and I swallowed in fear.
I threw my phone back into the depths of the bag and tossed the robe that Jean had left me on top of it before I went to open the door.
It’s probably a servant, bringing me breakfast or something.
But at the door stood Thibaut, in a carelessly belted woolen tunic, without a cloak.
In place of his usual leather boots, he wore a kind of cloth shoe.
His long hair was a little unkempt, and he wore a white cotton cap on his head that made me bite my lip in a desperate attempt to not burst out laughing.
Beside Thibaut stood his squire, Philip, neat and polished, but somewhat bleary-eyed.
“Your Royal Highness, Seigneur Philip,” I said with a bow when I came to my senses. Thibaut nodded his head at me.
What is the protocol, what is the protocol? I asked myself frantically. To be silent until he speaks? But he came to my room! And why did he come here? I envisioned the worst possible scenarios. How could Jean leave me here alone?
“Life is just a dream,” Thibaut sang softly, still standing on the threshold. Could he read my mind?
“Would you like to come in, your Highness?” I finally said and stepped out of the way. Thibaut grunted a sort of yes, quite kindly, and came inside. I looked at Philip questioningly. “Shall I join you, your Majesty?” Philip asked Thibaut.
“No need,” Thibaut replied and approached the window. “Wait for me outside the door.” Philip nodded and turned his back to me. I closed the door softly, hoping not to insult him, and turned to face the room.
Thibaut sat on one of the chairs and ran a hand through his hair, which was loose under his funny white hat. He looked around the room, inspecting its length and width.
“Arsur made sure you got the best room. It is second only to the rooms in which I reside,” said Thibaut coolly, as if praising his favorite student.
I nodded, still unsure of how to comport myself in his presence.
“But why have they not yet lit the fire for you?” Thibaut was angry. I had no idea what to say.
“Ah, yes,” he said, with that friendly, arrogant twinkle of his.
“You don’t have people—servants—for some reason.
” I had no idea whether he was just pointing out a fact or whether there was some hidden meaning.
My eyes darted around the room and finally landed on the bottle and small clay cups.
Here was a comfortable escape from my embarrassment.
“Shall I pour you a cup, your Highness?” I asked softly.
“Certainly,” Thibaut said with satisfaction.
He called to Philip, who opened the door at once, and instructed him to light the fire.
In less than a minute, Philip brought what looked to me to be a small torch and skillfully piled the wood.
Soon enough, the fire crackled, and I thanked Thibaut for his consideration.
He nodded distractedly, opened his mouth and closed it again, and then drained the cup of wine.
It appeared that he wanted to start a conversation but was not sure how to do it.
This was clearly out of the ordinary for him—to feel unsure about something.
“Might I be of assistance in some way, your Majesty?” I gambled finally. What will he do to me anyway, kill me on the spot?
Thibaut cleared his throat. “I am just asking myself, my lady, if indeed you can help me.”
I looked at him with a full willingness to help. The heat that spread from the wood stove through the room relaxed my limbs, which were rigid with cold.
He poured himself another cup of wine and one for me too. I knew that if I drank wine first thing in the morning, after yesterday when I had eaten almost nothing, I would likely faint.
“I am a little weak,” I said when his eyes wandered reproachfully from my full glass to my eyes. “I fear I ate almost nothing yesterday.” Thibaut clicked his tongue, sighed, and called to Philip again.
“See to it that the lady gets her morning meal,” he said. Philip nodded and disappeared. Thibaut sipped from the wine, and I sat in a rigid position, staring helplessly at the door.
“I have written many songs of love,” Thibaut said suddenly, which brought me back to life. This confused me completely, and evidently my expression amused him. “You don’t believe me, my lady?” he asked with a boastful grin.
“Of course I believe you,” I replied at once, and almost added, “I’ve even heard a few,” but I stopped myself in time.
Thibaut opened his mouth to say something, but a light knock on the door distracted him.
Philip entered, accompanied by a young man who bore a tray with cheese, bread, a little bowl of olive oil, a mound of salt, a bowl of olives, and a cluster of grapes.
The youth set the tray down on the table painstakingly, and Philip glanced at Thibaut.
He nodded lightly, and without a further word, Philip left with the youth.
I tried not to devour the food, but when I saw that Thibaut was wolfing it down with abandon, I started to chew and swallow whatever I could get my hands on.
After we’d spent several minutes eating heartily together, Thibaut leaned back on the armchair.
I continued chewing and swallowing, but more elegantly.
“I have written many songs about love, and I am a great admirer of women,” Thibaut began, still watching me eating.
“I always dreamed of meeting a fairy, and I never would have imagined that I would encounter such in the Holy Land, of all places,” he went on.
I stopped chewing and swallowing reluctantly. There was no point in protesting. He was there when I passed through the spring the first time and had evidently simply accepted the fact that my presence was enchanted. What do I do? Start explaining to him that I am from another time?