Chapter 23 #3
“Seigneur Jean,” I said quietly, standing before it for a few minutes as I tried to imagine the Acre of my time and where such an impressive cathedral might be.
“I dreamed about you this morning, as if you lived in my time.” Jean, who was waiting, patient and relaxed as I surveyed the cathedral, turned to me as if bitten by a snake.
“The same dream, again?” he nearly shouted, and two flower peddlers looked at him with interest.
“You too?” I whispered breathlessly.
“We were in a tiny, cramped carriage, and I was holding its wheel,” Jean murmured.
“You were sitting beside me, and we were borne speedily by some invisible force that was yet natural and self-evident!” He leaned on me to steady himself.
“I woke from the dream at the break of dawn and could not return to sleep. Then, I became distracted by my own matters and forgot about it entirely. Did you dream something similar?”
“It was evening, and the stars were twinkling in the sky, and we were passing hashish between us and listening to beautiful music,” I said.
The cathedral blurred before my eyes. Jean’s hand closed around mine.
“Come, let’s go inside,” I heard him say through gritted teeth.
He began to walk and pulled me after him.
He dropped my hand at the door. I followed after him to one of the prayer benches, and we both knelt down together.
Jean murmured something from the depths of his heart, and I pretended to pray.
When he crossed himself, I crossed myself too.
Then, we rose, and Jean led me through a side corridor before knocking on a big wooden door.
The door was opened by a very young man, and when Jean introduced himself, he left the door open and disappeared inside.
Jean took my hand and kissed it hastily, then abandoned it quickly.
An older man approached the door. He wore a brown woolen robe belted with a simple string, his hair was cropped, and he wore a black cap on the crown of his head.
“Young Master Ibelin,” said the monk or priest, whatever he was, and then corrected himself, “That is, dear Seigneur Arsur.” Jean smiled and patted the monk on the back affectionately. “Dearest Father Jerome,” he said in turn, “does the Good Lord shine his light upon you?”
“Indeed, we enjoy his marvelous grace,” replied Father Jerome and motioned to us to follow him into another narrow corridor.
“In the winter, two young and very promising apprentices came to us. One specializes in penmanship, and the other is a natural talent at painting the works of God and his miracles.” We walked after him into his study; a large escritoire stood in the middle of the room, and next to it were shelves full of manuscripts and scrolls of parchment.
Light from the large window lit up the dust in the room.
Jean introduced me as his cousin. Then, he explained that he had come to collect the manuscript that King Navarre had commissioned.
“We had hoped that the king might come to collect it himself,” said Father Jerome in a tone of insult, then tried to play it down by nodding. “Many of the monks worked on the manuscript for days and nights so that it would be ready in time for his Royal Highness.”
“Of course,” said Jean in a conciliatory tone.
“And he did intend to do so, but his many obligations prevent him. He longs to see the result of your glorious work in his precious free moments.” I recalled the figure of Thibaut, singing and playing the lute while occasionally popping grapes into his mouth, and I looked down at the floor.
“I understand, my lord, of course. I will take you inside,” said Father Jerome respectfully.
He led us into a large, chilly hall that smelled strongly of glue.
Lanterns hung from the ceiling and illuminated pale circles of light on wooden tables where monks and apprentices worked, some copying texts, and others embellishing them with illustrations and flourishes.
Men were busy straightening scrolls of parchment, drying paper pages, and sewing and gluing and binding the prepared pages.
I observed one of the monks at work as if hypnotized; he was immersed in painting complex embellishments in gold, crimson, and blue.
I have to tell Simone about all of this, I thought excitedly.
This is exactly her subject of research, the workshop of manuscripts in Acre.
I tried to engrave every detail into my memory.
Then, at once, I felt the impossibility of my situation.
Of course, I cannot tell Simone anything.
My thoughts raced. But what if she has some connection to all of this?
Maybe she is actually responsible for my being here right now?
She’s the one who filled my head with stories about the Crusaders and their kingdoms. And Halimi was with her when he found that coin from the house of Ibelin, with which I was able to travel through the space of time …
The solid boundaries between things began to dissolve, and the black spots reappeared before my eyes.
The royal blue and the rich crimson on the pages, the puddles of pale light from the hanging lanterns, the quiet commotion and the smell of glue—the entire scriptorium swirled around me within itself, and I lost my balance.