“But you don’t even remember where he was killed.”
“God will guide me, and I know the map of Cosmas from memory.
Second debt: I made a sacred promise to my good father Frederick, not to mention to Bishop Otto, and until now I haven’t kept it. I must reach the kingdom of Prester John. Otherwise I will have spent my life in vain.” “But you have had living proof that it doesn’t exist!”
“We had proof that we hadn’t reached it. That’s different.” “But you realized that the eunuchs were lying.”
“That perhaps they were lying. But Bishop Otto could not lie, or the voice of tradition, which declares the Priest is somewhere.”
“But you are no longer young as when you tried the first time!”
“I am wiser. Third debt: I have a son, or a daughter, back there. And Hypatia is there. I want to find them, and protect them, as is my duty.” “But more than seven years have passed!”
“The child will now be over six. Is a child of six perhaps no longer one’s child?”
“But it could be a male, and therefore a satyr-that-is-never-seen!” “And it could be a little Hypatia. I will love that child in any case.” “But you don’t know where the mountains are, the place where they have taken refuge!”
“I will search for them.”
“But Hypatia could have forgotten you; perhaps she won’t want to see again the man with whom she lost her apathy.”
“You don’t know Hypatia. She is waiting for me.”
“But you were already old when she loved you, now you will seem ancient to her!”
“She has never seen younger men.”
“But it will take you years and years to go back to those places, and to go beyond!”
“We people of Frascheta have heads harder than birds’.”
“But how do you know you will live to the end of your journey?” “A journey makes you younger.”
There was nothing to be done. The next day Baudolino embraced Niketas, his whole family, and his hosts. With some effort, he mounted his horse, leading behind him a mule with many provisions, his sword hanging from his saddle.
Niketas saw him disappear into the distance, still waving his hand, but not looking back, heading straight for the kingdom of Prester John.
Niketas went to visit Paphnutius. He told him everything, from start to finish, from the moment he encountered Baudolino in Saint Sophia, and everything Baudolino had narrated to him.
“What must I do?” he asked.
“For him? Nothing. He is going towards his destiny.”
“Not for him, for myself. I am a writer of histories. Sooner or later I will have to set myself to putting down the record of the last days of Byzantium. Where will I put the story that Baudolino told me?
“Nowhere. The story is all his. And anyway, are you sure it is true?” “No. Everything I know I have learned from him, as from him I learned that he was a liar.”
“Then you see,” the wise Paphnutius said, “that a writer of histories cannot put his faith in such uncertain testimony. Strike Baudolino from your story.”
“But at least during the last days we had a story in common, in the house of the Genoese.”
“Strike also the Genoese; otherwise you’d have to tell about the relics they fabricated, and your readers would lose faith in the most sacred things. It won’t cost you much to alter events slightly; you will say you were helped by some Venetians. Yes, I know, it’s not the truth, but in a great history little truths can be altered so that the greater truth emerges. You must tell the true story of the empire of the Romans, not a little adventure that was born in a far-off swamp, in barbarian lands, among barbarian peoples. And, further, would you like to put into the heads of your future readers the notion that a Grasal exists, up there amid the snow and ice, and the kingdom of Prester John in the remote lands? Who knows how many lunatics would start wandering endlessly, for centuries and centuries?”
“It was a beautiful story. Too bad no one will find out about it.”
“You surely don’t believe you’re the only writer of stories in this world. Sooner or later, someone—a greater liar than Baudolino— will tell it.”
The End.
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