and papers, a feathered pen in an inkpot, a decanter filled with red liquid, a half-full glass, more books in an open chest on the floor. A smaller table with three chairs, a rug, a chunky wooden bureau with an ornate silver lock. A low divan in the corner is covered with an unexpectedly rich sapphire blue velvet quilt and long silk cushions embroidered with flowers and peacocks.
‘This is where he wrote,’ says Laforche. He points at the divan. ‘And lay there, for times of reverie. Not the same divan, unfortunately. Although we let people think it is.’
A book with a cracked red wooden cover is open on the nearest desk, its yellowing pages covered with large meticulous writing in ink. The date at the top catches my eye: Abu N’af. September 30, 1890 . I read:
When I was lost in the desert, among sands the colour of saffron, I raised my head and saw on the horizon, monks moving in the spaces between the dust spirals. These travellers were frail, their robes full of wind. By their presence, you see the wind. They walked backwards against the furious air, their heads down. Clouds swirled around them, the sun glinted off the metal crosses of the novices, the gold cross of the abbot. I thought they were a mirage until I came to Abu N’af.
A silverfish or some creature has crawled across the right-hand page and expired. Its body is long gone but there is the faint spiky outline of brown bones pressed into the yellowing paper.
‘Rimbaud wrote in English?’ I say.
Laforche grins. ‘You would be astounded, Monsieur, how few of our tour groups ask that question.’
‘So this is – ?’
‘A translation,’ he says smoothly. ‘For display, since the late 1970s.’
The page has scorch marks, as though made by a candle. I touch the skeletal stain with my finger. ‘The silverfish is a nice touch.’
‘Sister Antony is very dedicated.’
‘Sister Antony did this translation?’
‘Sister Antony did all our translations. She could already see the benefits of the never-ending curiosity of the English tourist.’ He half-bowed in my direction. ‘And American, of course.’
‘Of course.’
I turn the page, reading at random:
Entering the desert is like entering the ultimate book, in which the voice is that of ourselves, alike but different, a radical stranger . . . In the desert madness is an asset . . . It is tedious when a journal is filled with doom and premonitions. Who’s to say that gaps weren’t left in the beginning and filled in later, to retroactively forecast momentous events, national disasters? There’s no point spinning elaborate scenarios about loneliness and rage and revenge. Just say it plainly. Just say: I frequently dreamed that my hair was a cold flag of rain and my hands were coated with tomb dust.
‘Your tour groups would appreciate it more if they couldn’t touch it,’ I say. ‘Human nature.’
‘That is why,’ says Laforche, ‘reluctantly we show them this.’ He goes to the bureau, takes out a large key and fits it into the silver lock. He lifts out a silver box studded with small rubies. The hinged lid is elaborately patterned. Laforche raises it and carefully takes out a book wrapped in ivory silk. On top are two gloves of white kid leather. Putting on the gloves, he delicately opens the book.
The cover is made of black leather, cracked now in places but still supple enough to show it is of the finest quality. The pages are almost translucent. I am reminded of onion skin; there are faint lines running through the waxy surface.
‘Wax weave pressing,’ says Laforche. His voice has a hushed quality as though he is speaking in a church. ‘A very old process. Very slow. Traditional.’
I bend. The pages are covered in black ink. The writing is in French.
Laforche says, ‘Arthur Rimbaud’s diary.’
‘He left it here?’
Laforche hesitates. ‘It was gifted to us, by a relative of the last owner.’
‘And the English one, the one translated by Sister Antony, is an
‘This is where he wrote,’ says Laforche. He points at the divan. ‘And lay there, for times of reverie. Not the same divan, unfortunately. Although we let people think it is.’
A book with a cracked red wooden cover is open on the nearest desk, its yellowing pages covered with large meticulous writing in ink. The date at the top catches my eye: Abu N’af. September 30, 1890 . I read:
When I was lost in the desert, among sands the colour of saffron, I raised my head and saw on the horizon, monks moving in the spaces between the dust spirals. These travellers were frail, their robes full of wind. By their presence, you see the wind. They walked backwards against the furious air, their heads down. Clouds swirled around them, the sun glinted off the metal crosses of the novices, the gold cross of the abbot. I thought they were a mirage until I came to Abu N’af.
A silverfish or some creature has crawled across the right-hand page and expired. Its body is long gone but there is the faint spiky outline of brown bones pressed into the yellowing paper.
‘Rimbaud wrote in English?’ I say.
Laforche grins. ‘You would be astounded, Monsieur, how few of our tour groups ask that question.’
‘So this is – ?’
‘A translation,’ he says smoothly. ‘For display, since the late 1970s.’
The page has scorch marks, as though made by a candle. I touch the skeletal stain with my finger. ‘The silverfish is a nice touch.’
‘Sister Antony is very dedicated.’
‘Sister Antony did this translation?’
‘Sister Antony did all our translations. She could already see the benefits of the never-ending curiosity of the English tourist.’ He half-bowed in my direction. ‘And American, of course.’
‘Of course.’
I turn the page, reading at random:
Entering the desert is like entering the ultimate book, in which the voice is that of ourselves, alike but different, a radical stranger . . . In the desert madness is an asset . . . It is tedious when a journal is filled with doom and premonitions. Who’s to say that gaps weren’t left in the beginning and filled in later, to retroactively forecast momentous events, national disasters? There’s no point spinning elaborate scenarios about loneliness and rage and revenge. Just say it plainly. Just say: I frequently dreamed that my hair was a cold flag of rain and my hands were coated with tomb dust.
‘Your tour groups would appreciate it more if they couldn’t touch it,’ I say. ‘Human nature.’
‘That is why,’ says Laforche, ‘reluctantly we show them this.’ He goes to the bureau, takes out a large key and fits it into the silver lock. He lifts out a silver box studded with small rubies. The hinged lid is elaborately patterned. Laforche raises it and carefully takes out a book wrapped in ivory silk. On top are two gloves of white kid leather. Putting on the gloves, he delicately opens the book.
The cover is made of black leather, cracked now in places but still supple enough to show it is of the finest quality. The pages are almost translucent. I am reminded of onion skin; there are faint lines running through the waxy surface.
‘Wax weave pressing,’ says Laforche. His voice has a hushed quality as though he is speaking in a church. ‘A very old process. Very slow. Traditional.’
I bend. The pages are covered in black ink. The writing is in French.
Laforche says, ‘Arthur Rimbaud’s diary.’
‘He left it here?’
Laforche hesitates. ‘It was gifted to us, by a relative of the last owner.’
‘And the English one, the one translated by Sister Antony, is an
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