The Dream Maker by Jean-Christophe Rufin, Alison Anderson Page A

had not shown up, and word had it that this year again they would not come. The town was divided in its opinion as to the reasons for this defection. The only thing of which they were certain was that products from the Levant were already in short supply, and their prices had gone sky-high.
    I used these days to tour the region and get an idea of the disposition and relative wealth of each town. It was during one of these trips that I first saw the sea.
    The landscape was flat, trees were rare, and groves of bamboo rustled in the wind that brought strange smells. We had lost our way, and our horses advanced slowly along a narrow path of sand and white pebbles. At one point a knoll of earth covered in succulents and clumps of herbs hid the horizon. We climbed the knoll and suddenly saw the shore. All the years that have passed have never made me forget that first moment. In the distance a haze of sunlight and water mingled sea and sky. A wide strip of fine sand separated the last outpost of land from the assault of the waves. Thus, as my dreams had foretold, I had proof that the solid world where we lived our lives did not cover the entire Earth. It ended in this place and yielded to an immense wave from which other realities could emerge. I was eager to rush forward and greet them. At the same time, had I not heard of ships and sailors I could never have believed it was possible to defy this liquid space, thrashed by wind, shaken by waves and swell, seductive and hostile like death.
    We stayed for a long time on the shore that first day, so much so that the sun burned our faces. We saw sails go by some way off from the coast, and I watched this miracle and found it more astonishing than the sea. Of all human activity, sailing seems to me the most daring. To ride the waves, and trust one’s destiny to the wandering of the wind and the turbulence of water, to head off in the direction of nothing, filled all the while with the hope, or even the certainty, of finding something there. The calling of a sailor seemed to be the fruit of dreams even more insane than my own.
    We returned to town. From that moment on I had only one desire: to board a ship, head out to sea, and, since the skill of captains made it possible, sail to the Levant.
    My valet, Gautier, had been very discreet during our journey. He had left me alone and I was grateful to him. But it was only fear and a certain timidity that had induced his silence. It was not his true nature. He was, in fact, rather talkative, and he made friends easily. This quality did not depend on language. In this region where he could hardly make himself understood, he had long conversations with everyone we met. I made the most of his talents to make him my informant. In Aigues-Mortes, he forged friendships with fishermen and all sorts of seafarers. Thus, he learned that an expedition was being mounted to the Ports of the Levant. A galley was being loaded in the port, and it belonged to a merchant from Narbonne by the name of Jean Vidal.
    I went to see the vessel. It was much larger than the fishing boats and even most of the commercial ships. From the wharf it seemed as tall as several houses. A painted wooden panel at the rear blazoned its name:
Notre-Dame et Saint-Paul
. The hull was made of the same wood that had gone to build the roof and walls of my childhood home. But these beams, instead of being placed on solid ground, rose high in the air and danced to the whim of the waves. Men were unloading bales of cloth from a cart and preparing to stow them in the hold. They informed me that the ship would soon be sailing. We hurried back to Narbonne. In my baggage I had a folded velvet suit and the accessories required should I need a burgher to recognize me as one of his own kind. Gautier went ahead to introduce me. Jean Vidal received me amiably. He was a man my age, with a sharp gaze and the small mouth of someone who weighs his words, guarding them in his mind with the same