The Dream Maker by Jean-Christophe Rufin, Alison Anderson

Regordane Way, I could not take my eyes from the powerful waters. It was as if they were already giving me an idea of what the sea must be like. Spring had come early and it was warm. The riverbanks were bright with blossoming fruit trees. Soon we saw species that were unknown in my region, or found it hard to grow there: cypress trees, planted in meadows like little green steeples; oleander, and olive trees, of a green paler than that of the trees at home; bamboo, growing to considerable height . . . Everything was different from my homeland, the Berry. The forests were not dark; insects, in the meadows, were noisier than birds; the moors were not overgrown with fern and heather but with dry clumps of fragrant herbs. The people we met spoke an Occitan dialect, which was very different from our language, and we could hardly understand them. Like elsewhere, war had spread mistrust and fear of misfortune. And yet the inhabitants’ smiling good nature had been preserved.
    The farther we rode, Gautier and I, the more alike we became. The heat had made us take off our warm clothes, and we were like two brothers in our shirtsleeves. But for the difference in our mounts, nothing would have distinguished servant from master. We were mostly silent along the way, because Gautier was not particularly talkative. Lulled by the horse’s gait, I turned my thoughts over and over in my mind, at random. When I considered the first thirty-two years of my life, I was astonished to see how little they resembled the man who was discovering himself with each step of this journey. Stripped of everything in this scorching landscape, I felt within me an appetite for freedom, which made it all the more astonishing how little freedom I had enjoyed up until then.
    I had only ever known the people from my own town, except for Ravand and a few rare merchants. I knew their background, their family, their position, and I could guess their thoughts. Before my departure I would have said that such references were necessary for human exchange. And yet now, as an anonymous voyager, with no external marks of fortune or position, fearlessly and with great curiosity I went up to the people whom chance placed on my path, knowing nothing about them. These exchanges between stranger and stranger turned out to be infinitely richer than the usual commerce between people who already know everything about each other.
    I had always slept in the shelter of thick walls and closed doors; I had been born in a carapace of a town, one which seemed necessary to survival. Now, in the warm regions we were passing through, despite the cool nights we adopted the habit of sleeping outside. I discovered the sky. Back at home, stars were hidden by clouds most of the time. I used to gaze at them for a moment after supper on a summer’s night before going back into the enclosure of a house. On my journey, I surrendered to the night. Once our campfire had died, leaving nothing but embers, and the earth was completely dark, the stars called to us, blindingly bright against a black sky free of clouds. I felt as if I had broken out of my shell. I might have been the last of those stars, the most insignificant and ephemeral of all thoughts, but, like them, I was drifting in a vast space without boundaries or walls. When we rode into Montpellier, I had become another man: myself.
    In this town I could have made use of numerous contacts, in particular in the circles of moneychangers and other agents of trade. Sooner or later, people would find out who I was and it was not my intention to hide it from them. But I did not want to give a first impression based on who I used to be. My aim was to start all over, to wipe the slate clean. We took lodgings at an inn. As I talked with strangers, I learned a great deal about the town and those who traded with the Levant. A “muda” of Venetian ships came through each year and called at Aigues-Mortes. For the last two years the Venetians