looked at him in amazement. It seemed odd to me that he should use the word ‘bandits’, and odder still that he knew
where I had come from.
‘And the overnight stop in that horrible place certainly won’t have been very reassuring for you,’ he went on. ‘You are young and enterprising, but you are often afraid;
you wouldn’t make a good soldier, perhaps cowardice would get the better of you.’ He looked at me indulgently. I don’t know why, but I felt a deep embarrassment which prevented me
from replying. But how did he know about my trip, I thought, who had told him?
‘Don’t worry,’ said the old man, as if guessing what I was thinking. ‘I’ve got plenty of informers, I have.’
He pronounced this last remark in an almost menacing tone, and this made a strange impression on me. We were speaking in Portuguese, I remember, and his words were cold and dull, as if a great
distance lay between them and his voice. Why did he speak like that, I wondered, who on earth could he be? The long room was in semi-darkness and he was at the other end, quite a distance from me,
his body partly hidden by a table. All this, together with the surprise, had prevented me from seeing his face. But now I saw that he wore a triangular hat of soft cloth and had a long grey beard
that brushed against his chest which was covered by a corset embroidered with silver thread. His shoulders were wrapped in a roomy black cloak cut in an antique style, with puffed-out sleeves. He
read the uneasiness on my face, shifted his seat and sprang up toward the middle of the room with an agility I would never have suspected. He was wearing high boots turned down at the thigh and had
a sword at his hip. He made a somewhat ridiculous theatrical gesture, tracing a generous spiral with his right arm which he then placed over his heart, exclaiming in a booming voice: ‘I am
Afonso de Albuquerque, Viceroy of the Indies!’
Only then did I realise that he was mad. I realised it and at the same time, in an odd way, I thought that he really was Afonso de Albuquerque, and none of this surprised me: it just made me
feel tired and indifferent, as if everything was predestined and unavoidable.
The old man looked me over warily, suspiciously, his small eyes gleaming. He was tall, majestic, arrogant. I realised that he was expecting me to speak; and I spoke. But the words came out of
their own accord, involuntarily. ‘You look like Ivan the Terrible,’ I said, ‘or rather the actor who played him.’
He said nothing and put his hand to his ear.
‘I mean in an old film,’ I explained, ‘you made me think of an old film.’ And while I was saying this, a glow spread across his face, as if a fire were blazing in a
hearth nearby. But there was no hearth, the room was getting darker and darker, perhaps it had been the last ray of the setting sun.
‘What have you come here for?’ he shouted suddenly. ‘What do you want from us?’
‘Nothing,’ I said, ‘I don’t want anything. I came here to do some archive research, it’s my job. This library is almost unknown in the West. I’m looking for
old chronicles.’
The old man tossed his large cloak over one shoulder, just as theatre actors do when they’re about to fight a duel. ‘It’s a lie!’ he cried vehemently. ‘You had a
different reason for coming here.’
His violence didn’t frighten me, I wasn’t afraid he would attack me: yet I did feel a strange sense of subjugation, as if he had uncovered some guilt that I had been concealing from
him. I lowered my eyes in shame and saw that the book open on the table was Saint Augustine. I read these words:
Quo modo praesciantur futura.
Was it just a coincidence, or did someone
want me to read those words? And who, if not the old man? He had told me he had his informers, that was his word, and this I found menacing and inescapable.
‘I’ve come here to search for Xavier,’ I confessed. ‘It’s true, I’m searching for
where I had come from.
‘And the overnight stop in that horrible place certainly won’t have been very reassuring for you,’ he went on. ‘You are young and enterprising, but you are often afraid;
you wouldn’t make a good soldier, perhaps cowardice would get the better of you.’ He looked at me indulgently. I don’t know why, but I felt a deep embarrassment which prevented me
from replying. But how did he know about my trip, I thought, who had told him?
‘Don’t worry,’ said the old man, as if guessing what I was thinking. ‘I’ve got plenty of informers, I have.’
He pronounced this last remark in an almost menacing tone, and this made a strange impression on me. We were speaking in Portuguese, I remember, and his words were cold and dull, as if a great
distance lay between them and his voice. Why did he speak like that, I wondered, who on earth could he be? The long room was in semi-darkness and he was at the other end, quite a distance from me,
his body partly hidden by a table. All this, together with the surprise, had prevented me from seeing his face. But now I saw that he wore a triangular hat of soft cloth and had a long grey beard
that brushed against his chest which was covered by a corset embroidered with silver thread. His shoulders were wrapped in a roomy black cloak cut in an antique style, with puffed-out sleeves. He
read the uneasiness on my face, shifted his seat and sprang up toward the middle of the room with an agility I would never have suspected. He was wearing high boots turned down at the thigh and had
a sword at his hip. He made a somewhat ridiculous theatrical gesture, tracing a generous spiral with his right arm which he then placed over his heart, exclaiming in a booming voice: ‘I am
Afonso de Albuquerque, Viceroy of the Indies!’
Only then did I realise that he was mad. I realised it and at the same time, in an odd way, I thought that he really was Afonso de Albuquerque, and none of this surprised me: it just made me
feel tired and indifferent, as if everything was predestined and unavoidable.
The old man looked me over warily, suspiciously, his small eyes gleaming. He was tall, majestic, arrogant. I realised that he was expecting me to speak; and I spoke. But the words came out of
their own accord, involuntarily. ‘You look like Ivan the Terrible,’ I said, ‘or rather the actor who played him.’
He said nothing and put his hand to his ear.
‘I mean in an old film,’ I explained, ‘you made me think of an old film.’ And while I was saying this, a glow spread across his face, as if a fire were blazing in a
hearth nearby. But there was no hearth, the room was getting darker and darker, perhaps it had been the last ray of the setting sun.
‘What have you come here for?’ he shouted suddenly. ‘What do you want from us?’
‘Nothing,’ I said, ‘I don’t want anything. I came here to do some archive research, it’s my job. This library is almost unknown in the West. I’m looking for
old chronicles.’
The old man tossed his large cloak over one shoulder, just as theatre actors do when they’re about to fight a duel. ‘It’s a lie!’ he cried vehemently. ‘You had a
different reason for coming here.’
His violence didn’t frighten me, I wasn’t afraid he would attack me: yet I did feel a strange sense of subjugation, as if he had uncovered some guilt that I had been concealing from
him. I lowered my eyes in shame and saw that the book open on the table was Saint Augustine. I read these words:
Quo modo praesciantur futura.
Was it just a coincidence, or did someone
want me to read those words? And who, if not the old man? He had told me he had his informers, that was his word, and this I found menacing and inescapable.
‘I’ve come here to search for Xavier,’ I confessed. ‘It’s true, I’m searching for
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