His held his face up, as if reluctant to let Niketas see his eyes. “It was a little monster,” he said, after a moment, “like the ones we imagined in the land of Prester John. The face had tiny eyes, like two slits, a very thin chest, with little arms that looked like a polyp’s tentacles. And from its belly to its feet it was covered with fine white hair, as if it were a sheep. I couldn’t look at it for long.
I ordered it buried, but I didn’t know if a priest could be called. I left the city and wandered all night around the marsh, telling myself that until then I had spent my life imagining creatures of other worlds, and in my fancy they seemed wondrous portents, whose diversity bore witness to the infinite power of the Lord, but then, when the Lord asked me to do what all other men do, I had generated not a portent but a horrible thing. My son was a lie of nature. Otto was right, but more than he had thought; I was a liar and I had lived the life of a liar to such a degree that even my seed had produced a lie. A dead lie. And then I understood….”
“You mean…” Niketas ventured, “you decided to change your life….” “No, Master Niketas. I decided that if this was my fate, it was useless for me to try to become like other men. I was by now consecrated to falsehood. It is hard to explain what was going through my head. I said to myself: All the time that you were inventing, you invented things that were not true, but then became true.
You made San Baudolino appear, you created a library at Saint Victoire, you sent the Magi wandering about the world, you saved your city by fattening a scrawny cow, if there are learned doctors in Bologna it is also your merit, in Rome you caused mirabilia to appear that the Romans themselves had never dreamed of, starting with the gabble of that Hugo of Jabala, you created a kingdom of supreme beauty, then you loved a ghost, and you made her write letters she had never written, and those who read them went into ecstasy, including the lady who had never written them, and she was an empress; but the one time you wanted to do something true, with the most sincere of women, you failed: you produced something no one can believe in or desire to exist. So it is best for you to withdraw into the world of your portents, for there at least you can decide yourself how portentous they are.”
- Baudolino changes the name of his city
“O poor Baudolino,” Niketas said, as they continued the preparations for their departure, “robbed of a wife and a son, in the prime of life. And I, who could lose tomorrow the flesh of my flesh and my beloved wife at the hand of some of these barbarians. O Constantinople, queen of cities, tabernacle of the Lord most high, pride and glory of your ministers, delight of foreigners, empress of imperial cities, most rare spectacle of things rare to be seen, what will become of us who are about to abandon you, naked as when we came forth from our mothers? When shall we see you again, not as you now are, vale of tears, trampled by armies?”
“Silence, Master Niketas,” Baudolino said to him, “and remember this may be the last time you will be able to taste these delights worthy of Apicius. What are these little balls of meat that have the aroma of our spice market?”
“Keftedes, and the aroma comes from cinnamon and a bit of mint,”
Niketas replied, already comforted. “And for this last day I have succeeded in having a little anise brought to us, which you must drink while it dissolves in water like a cloud.”
“It’s good, it doesn’t dull the mind, it makes you feel as if you were dreaming,” Baudolino said. “If only I could have drunk some after Colandrina’s death perhaps I could have forgotten her, as you are already forgetting the misfortunes of your city as you lose all fear of what will happen tomorrow. But instead, I became heavy with the wine of our parts, which puts you suddenly to sleep, and when you wake you’re worse off than before.”
It took Baudolino a year to emerge from the melancholy madness that had gripped him, a year of which he remembered nothing except that he went on long rides through the woods and over the plains, then he would stop in some place and drink until he plunged into long and agitated sleep. In his dreams he saw the moment when he finally reached Zosimos and tore from him not only his beard, but also the map, in order to reach a kingdom where all newborn infants would be thinsiretae and methagallinarii. He did not return to Alessandria, fearing that his father or his mother, or Guasco and his family, would talk to him of Colandrina, and of the son never born. Often he took refuge with Frederick, paternally concerned and understanding, trying to distract him with talk of the great things Baudolino could do for the empire.
Until one day, he said Baudolino should make up his mind and find a solution for Alessandria, for his wrath by now had evaporated, and to please Baudolino he wanted to heal that vulnus without being forced to destroy the city.
This mission gave Baudolino new life. Now Frederick was preparing to sign a definitive peace with the Lombard communes, and Baudolino told himself that in the end it was all a question of pride. Frederick could not tolerate the idea of a city they had made without his permission and one that, furthermore, bore the name of his enemy. Very well, if Frederick could found that city anew, even in the same place but with another name, as he had done at Lodi, in another place but with the same name, then he would not end up empty-handed. As for the Alessandrians—what did they want?
To have a city and to conduct their business. It was pure chance that they had named it after Alexander III, who was dead, and therefore couldn’t take offense if they now gave it a different name. Hence the idea: one fine morning Frederick would come with his knights to the walls of Alessandria, all the inhabitants would come forth, a cohort of bishops would enter the city, they would deconsecrate it, if it could be said ever to have been consecrated, or they would debaptize it and then rebaptize it with the name Caesarea, city of Caesar, the Alessandrians would pass slowly before the emperor, paying him homage, then they would go back inside, taking possession of their brand-new city, as if it were another, founded by the emperor, and they would live happily ever after.
Obviously, Baudolino was recovering from his despair, with another fine exploit of his fervid imagination.
Frederick did not dislike the idea, but in that period there were some difficulties in his returning to Italy, because he was settling some important matters with his Alaman vassals. Baudolino assumed responsibility for the negotiations. He hesitated before entering the city, but at the gate his parents came towards him, and all three of them dissolved in liberating
tears.
His old comrades acted as if Baudolino had never married, and before he could begin talking of his mission, they dragged him off to their old tavern, getting him good and drunk, but with a tart little white wine of Gavi, not enough to put him to sleep but enough to stimulate his genius. Then Baudolino told them his idea.
The first to react was Gagliaudo: “When I’m with this character, I become as foolish as he is. Now really: do we have to play out this farce, first coming out, then going back inside, and after you, no after you? All we need is a piper and we’ll be dancing the trescone for the feast of San Baudolino….”
“No, this is a good idea,” Boidi said, “but afterwards, instead of being Alessandrians, we’ll have to call ourselves Caesareans, and I’d be ashamed; I couldn’t go and say it to the people of Asti.”
“Enough of all this nonsense! No matter what, they’ll still know us for who we are!” Oberto del Foro interjected. “For my part, they can go ahead and rename the city, but it’s the passing in front of him and rendering homage that I can’t stomach. After all, we’re the ones who put one over on him, not him on us, so he shouldn’t act too grand.”
Cuttica of Quargnento said the rebaptizing was all right, and who cared if the city was called Caesaretta or Caesarona, for him even Caesira was fine, or Olivia or Sophronia or Eutropia. The problem is whether Frederick will want to send us his governor or will he be satisfied to give his legitimate investiture to the consuls we would elect.
“Go back and ask him what he plans to do,” Guasco said. And Baudolino said, “Yes, of course. I keep going back and forth across the Alps until you come to an agreement. No sir. You delegate full powers to two of your people and they come with me to the emperor and they work out something that suits everybody. If Frederick sees another pair of Alessandrians he’ll get a case of worms, and to get rid of the
