tormented by cuts and blows. He had learned to bark in a way that amused the sovereign hugely. If he was still alive, that was probably the only reason why.
“What does he have to say?” asked Langlais.
“Him? Nothing. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t want to talk. But those that were with him—the other slaves—and also those who recognized him, at the harbor . . . well,
they tell some extraordinary tales about him; it’s as if he had been everywhere, this man, he is a mystery . . . If you were to believe all they say . . .”
“
What
do they say?”
He, Adams, motionless and absent, in the middle of the room. And all around him the bacchanal of memory and fantasy that exploded and frescoed the air with the adventures of a life that, they
said, was his / three hundred miles on foot in the desert / he swears that he saw him change into a Negro and then become white again / because he trafficked with the local shaman, it was there
that he learned how to make that red powder which / when they captured them they tied them all to one huge tree and waited until the insects had covered them completely, but he began to speak in an
incomprehensible tongue and it was then that those savages, suddenly / swearing that he had climbed those mountains where the light never disappears, and that’s why no one had ever returned
sane from there, except for him, who, when he came back, said only / at the Sultan’s court, where he had been taken thanks to his voice, which was beautiful, and he, covered with gold, had to
stand in the torture chamber and sing while they went about their work, and all so that the Sultan would not hear the disagreeable echo of the cries of the tortured but rather the beauty of that
song which / on Lake Kalabaki, which is as big as the sea, and there they believed that it was the sea, until they built a boat out of enormous leaves, the leaves of a tree, and used it to sail
from one shore to the other, and he was aboard that boat, I could swear to it / prospecting for diamonds in the sand, by hand, chained and naked, so that they could not escape, and he was in the
middle of them, just as it’s true that / they all said that he was dead, carried off by the storm, but one day they were cutting the hands off a man, before the Tesfa Gate, a water thief, and
so I had a good look, and it was him, yes, him / and that’s why he calls himself Adams, but he has had a thousand names and one fellow, once, met him when he was known as Ra Me Nivar, which,
in the language of that place, meant The Man Who Flies, and another time, on the African coasts / in the city of the dead, where no one dared enter, because there was a centuries-old curse, which
made the eyes explode of all those who
“That will do.”
Langlais did not even raise his eyes from the tobacco jar that he had been nervously toying with for some minutes.
“Very well. Take him away.”
Nobody moved.
Silence.
“Admiral . . . there is another thing.”
“What?”
Silence.
“This man has seen Timbuktu.”
Langlais’s tobacco jar became still.
“There are people prepared to swear to it: he has been there.”
Timbuktu. The pearl of Africa. The marvelous city that may not be found. The chest of all treasures, the home of all barbarian gods. The heart of the unknown world, the citadel of a thousand
secrets, the fantastic realm of all wealth, the lost destination of infinite journeys, the source of all waters and the dream of any heaven. Timbuktu. The city that no white man had ever found.
Langlais looked up. Everybody in the room seemed enthralled by a sudden immobility. Only Adams’s eyes continued to roam, intent on stalking an invisible prey.
T HE ADMIRAL QUESTIONED HIM for a long time. As was his habit, he spoke with a voice that was severe but mild, almost impersonal. Only a patient
procession of brief, precise questions. He did not obtain a single answer.
Adams kept silent. He seemed forever exiled to a world that was
“What does he have to say?” asked Langlais.
“Him? Nothing. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t want to talk. But those that were with him—the other slaves—and also those who recognized him, at the harbor . . . well,
they tell some extraordinary tales about him; it’s as if he had been everywhere, this man, he is a mystery . . . If you were to believe all they say . . .”
“
What
do they say?”
He, Adams, motionless and absent, in the middle of the room. And all around him the bacchanal of memory and fantasy that exploded and frescoed the air with the adventures of a life that, they
said, was his / three hundred miles on foot in the desert / he swears that he saw him change into a Negro and then become white again / because he trafficked with the local shaman, it was there
that he learned how to make that red powder which / when they captured them they tied them all to one huge tree and waited until the insects had covered them completely, but he began to speak in an
incomprehensible tongue and it was then that those savages, suddenly / swearing that he had climbed those mountains where the light never disappears, and that’s why no one had ever returned
sane from there, except for him, who, when he came back, said only / at the Sultan’s court, where he had been taken thanks to his voice, which was beautiful, and he, covered with gold, had to
stand in the torture chamber and sing while they went about their work, and all so that the Sultan would not hear the disagreeable echo of the cries of the tortured but rather the beauty of that
song which / on Lake Kalabaki, which is as big as the sea, and there they believed that it was the sea, until they built a boat out of enormous leaves, the leaves of a tree, and used it to sail
from one shore to the other, and he was aboard that boat, I could swear to it / prospecting for diamonds in the sand, by hand, chained and naked, so that they could not escape, and he was in the
middle of them, just as it’s true that / they all said that he was dead, carried off by the storm, but one day they were cutting the hands off a man, before the Tesfa Gate, a water thief, and
so I had a good look, and it was him, yes, him / and that’s why he calls himself Adams, but he has had a thousand names and one fellow, once, met him when he was known as Ra Me Nivar, which,
in the language of that place, meant The Man Who Flies, and another time, on the African coasts / in the city of the dead, where no one dared enter, because there was a centuries-old curse, which
made the eyes explode of all those who
“That will do.”
Langlais did not even raise his eyes from the tobacco jar that he had been nervously toying with for some minutes.
“Very well. Take him away.”
Nobody moved.
Silence.
“Admiral . . . there is another thing.”
“What?”
Silence.
“This man has seen Timbuktu.”
Langlais’s tobacco jar became still.
“There are people prepared to swear to it: he has been there.”
Timbuktu. The pearl of Africa. The marvelous city that may not be found. The chest of all treasures, the home of all barbarian gods. The heart of the unknown world, the citadel of a thousand
secrets, the fantastic realm of all wealth, the lost destination of infinite journeys, the source of all waters and the dream of any heaven. Timbuktu. The city that no white man had ever found.
Langlais looked up. Everybody in the room seemed enthralled by a sudden immobility. Only Adams’s eyes continued to roam, intent on stalking an invisible prey.
T HE ADMIRAL QUESTIONED HIM for a long time. As was his habit, he spoke with a voice that was severe but mild, almost impersonal. Only a patient
procession of brief, precise questions. He did not obtain a single answer.
Adams kept silent. He seemed forever exiled to a world that was
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