"The water doesn't descend the second time because it rose the first, and a body cannot make a movement opposed to the first if it doesn't receive a new stimulus. Now listen to this. Stick a needle into a swollen bladder, allow all the air to escape, wffff, immediately close the hole made by the needle. Then, put your fingers on both sides of the bladder, as you might pull the skin here on your hand. And you see that the bladder opens. What is there in that bladder whose walls you have widened? The vacuum."
"Who told you the walls of the bladder will part?"
"Try it!"
"No, not I. I'm not a mechanic, I'm a philosopher, and I reach my conclusions on the basis of thought. Anyway, if the bladder opens, it's because it has pores, and after it is deflated, a bit of air has entered through the pores."
"Oh, really? First of all, what are pores if not empty spaces? And how can the air enter on its own if you have not imposed a movement on it? And why—once you have taken the air from the bladder—doesn't it swell up again spontaneously? If there are pores, then, when the bladder is swollen and well closed and you press it, imposing a movement on the air, why doesn't the bladder deflate? Because the pores are, true enough, empty spaces, but smaller than the corpuscles of air. Keep pressing harder and harder, and you'll see. Then leave the swollen bladder for a few hours in the sun, and you'll see that, little by little, it deflates on its own, because the heat transforms the cold air into hot air, which escapes more rapidly."
"Then take a flask..."
"With a hole on the bottom or without?"
"Without. Immerge it completely, tilted, into the water. You will see that, as the water gradually enters, the air emerges and goes plop plop, thus manifesting its presence. Now pull out the flask, empty it, suck out all the air, close its mouth with your thumb, put it tilted into the water, remove your thumb. The water enters but without your hearing or seeing any plop plop. Because inside there was the vacuum."
At this point the Poet yet again interrupted them to remind them that Ardzrouni should not be distracted, because with all that plop plop and those flasks everybody was growing thirsty, their bladders were now empty, and it would be wise to head for a river or some other place more damp than where they were.
Every now and then they heard something of Zosimos. This man had seen him, another had heard of a man with a black beard who was asking about the kingdom of Prester John. At which our friends would ask eagerly: "And what did you tell him?" The answer was almost always that they had told him what everyone in those lands knew, that Prester John was to the east, but it took years to arrive there.
Foaming with anger, the Poet said that in the manuscripts of the Saint Victoire library you could read that those who had traveled in those places did nothing but come upon splendid cities, with temples whose roofs were covered with emeralds, and palaces with golden ceilings, columns with ebony capitals, statues that seemed alive, golden altars with seventy steps, walls of pure sapphire, stones so luminous that they cast more light than torches, mountains of crystal, rivers of diamonds, gardens with trees emanating scented balms that permit the inhabitants to live by simply breathing in their odor, monasteries where only highly colored peacocks are bred, whose flesh does not undergo corruption, and, taken on a journey, that flesh lasts for thirty days or more even under a blazing sun, never causing a bad smell, and then glittering fountains whose water shines like the light of a thunderbolt and, if you put in it a salted fish, the fish would return to life and dart off, a sign that this is the fountain of eternal youth. But they so far had seen desert, scrub, massifs where you couldn't even rest on the stones because they would cook your buttocks, the only cities they had encountered were made of wretched hovels inhabited by repugnant rabble, like Colondiophontas, where they had seen the Artabants, men who walk prone like sheep, or like Iambut, where they had hoped to rest after having crossed seared plains, and the women, if not beautiful, weren't too ugly, but they discovered that, faithful to their husbands, they kept poisonous snakes in their vagina to defend their chastity—and if they had at least mentioned it beforehand, but no: one woman pretended to give herself to the Poet, who came close to having to accept perpetual chastity, and he was lucky because he heard the hiss and sprang back. Near the Catardese swamps they encountered men with testicles down to their knees, and at Necuveran, people naked as wild animals, who mated in the street like dogs, the father coupled with the daughter and the son with the mother. At Tana they met anthropophagi, who fortunately would not eat foreigners, whom they found revolting, but only their own children. By the river Arlon they came upon a village where the inhabitants danced around an idol and with sharpened knives inflicted wounds on themselves, in every limb, then the idol was placed on a wagon and borne through the streets, and many of the people joyfully flung themselves under the wagon's wheels, breaking their bones to the point of death. At Salibut they crossed a wood infested with fleas as big as frogs, at Cariamaria they met hairy men who barked, and not even Baudolino could understand their language, and women with boar's teeth, hair to their feet, and a cow's tail.
These and other most horrendous things had they seen, but the wonders of the East never, as if all those who had written about them were great bastards.
Ardzrouni urged patience, because he had also said that before the Earthly Paradise there was a very savage land, but the Poet replied that the savage land was inhabited by ferocious animals, which luckily they hadn't yet seen, and therefore it was still to come, and if the lands they had in fact seen were the not savage ones, they could imagine the rest. Abdul, more and more feverish, said that it was impossible that his princess would live in such Godforsaken places, and perhaps they had taken the wrong road. "But I certainly don't have the strength to turn back, my friends," he said faintly, "and therefore I believe I will die on the road to happiness."
"Oh, be quiet. You don't even know what you're saying," the Poet shouted at him. "You made us waste a thousand nights listening to you sing the beauty of your impossible love, and now that you see it really couldn't be more impossible, you should be happy, in seventh heaven!" Baudolino pulled at his sleeve and whispered to him that Abdul was delirious by now and it was wrong to make him suffer even more.
After a time that seemed endless, they came to Salopatana, a fairly wretched city, where they were received with amazement, the people moving their fingers as if to count the arrivals. Clearly, the fact that they were twelve made an impression: everyone knelt down, except for one man, who ran off to spread the word among the other inhabitants. A sort of archimandrite came towards them, chanting in Greek and bearing a wooden cross (a far cry from silver crosses encrusted with rubies, the Poet grumbled); he told Baudolino that here they had long awaited the return of the most holy Magi, who for thousands of years had experienced a thousand adventures, after they worshiped the Child in Bethlehem. And this archimandrite was in fact asking if they were returning to the land of Prester John, from whence they surely came, to relieve him of his long labor and resume the power they had once had over those blessed lands.
Baudolino was exultant. They asked many questions about what lay in store for them, but they realized that these people also did not know where the Priest's kingdom was, except that they firmly believed that it lay somewhere towards the east. Indeed, since the Magi actually came from down there, the local people were amazed that they themselves did not have accurate information.
"Most holy masters," the good archimandrite said, "you are surely not like that Byzantine monk who passed through here some time ago, seeking to return to the Priest some relic or other that had been stolen from him. That man had a suspect look, and was undoubtedly a heretic, like all the Greeks of the lands along the sea, because he constantly invoked the Most Holy Virgin Mother of God, and Nestorius, our father and light of truth, has taught us that Mary was the mother only of Christ the man. How would it be possible to think of a God in swaddling clothes, a God two months old, a God on the cross? Only pagans give a mother to the
ir gods!"
"That monk is truly suspect," the Poet blurted, "and I must tell you that he stole that relic from us."
"May the Lord punish him. We allowed him to go on his way, not telling him anything of the dangers he would come upon, and therefore he knew nothing of the Abcasia, may God punish him and plunge him into that darkness. And he will surely come upon the manticore and the black rocks of the Bubuctor."
"My friends," the Poet murmured, "these people could tell us many valuable things, but they would tell us only because we are the Magi; however, since we are the Magi, they don't think it's necessary to tell us anything. If you'll heed my advice, we'll leave here at once; because if we talk with them a little longer we'll end up making some slip and they'll understand that we don't know what the Magi should know. Nor can we offer them a Baptist's head, because I just can't see the Magi practicing simony. Let's clear out fast, because for all that they may be good Christians, nobody can assure us they're tender with anyone who tries to outsmart them."
Whereupon the friends took their leave, receiving many provisions as gifts, and wondering about that Abcasia whose darkness can so easily engulf you.
They soon learned what the black rocks of the Bubuctor were. They lay for miles and miles on the bed of that river, and some nomads they met shortly before had explained that whoever touched the rocks became as black as they were. Ardzrouni said, on the contrary, that they must be very precious stones, which the nomads sold at God knows what distant market, and they told this fairy tale to prevent others from collecting them. He had rushed to garner a good supply, and showed the friends how shiny they were and how perfectly shaped by the water. But, as he was speaking, his face, his neck, his hands quickly became as black as ebony; he opened his shirt and his chest was now totally black, he bared his legs and feet, and they also seemed made of coal.
Ardzrouni flung himself naked into the river, rolled around in the water, scraped his skin with gravel from the riverbed. ... Nothing could be done. Ardzrouni had become black as night, and you could see only the whites of his eyes and his red lips beneath his beard, also black.
At first, the others laughed themselves sick, while Ardzrouni cursed their mothers; then they tried to console him: "We want to be taken for the Magi, don't we?" Baudolino said. "Well, at least one of them was black; I swear that one of the three lying in Cologne is black. And now our group becomes even more credible." Solomon, more considerate, remembered having heard of stones that change the color of the skin, but there are remedies, and Ardzrouni would be even whiter than before. "Yes, in a week of Fridays," Bonehead sniggered, and the hapless Armenian had to be restrained, because he wanted to tear the man's ear off with one bite.
One fine day they entered a forest thick with leafy trees, bearing fruit of every description, through which a river ran, its water white as milk. In the forest were green clearings, with palms and vines laden with splendid bunches of grapes the size of citrons. In one of these clearings there was a village of simple, sturdy huts, of clean straw, from which men emerged naked from head to foot, and some of the males chanced to have long and flowing beards that covered their pudenda. The women felt no shame in displaying their breasts and womb, but they gave the impression of doing so in a very chaste way: they looked the newcomers boldly in the eyes, but without prompting unsuitable thoughts.
These people spoke Greek and, politely welcoming the guests, they said they were gymnosophists—that is to say, creatures who, in innocent nudity, cultivated learning and practiced benevolence. Our travelers were invited to move freely in their sylvan village, and at evening they were bidden to a supper consisting only of foods produced spontaneously by the earth. Baudolino asked some questions of the oldest of their number, whom all treated with special reverence. He asked what they possessed, and the man replied: "We possess the earth, the trees, the sun, the moon, and the stars. When we are hungry we eat the fruits of the trees, which they produce by themselves, following the sun and the moon. When we are thirsty we go to the river and drink. We have one woman each and, following the lunar cycle, each man fertilizes his companion until she has produced two sons, then we give one to the father and one to the mother."
Baudolino was surprised not to have seen a temple or a cemetery, and the old man said: "This place where we are is also our grave, and here we die, lying down in the sleep of death. The earth begets us, the earth nourishes us, beneath the earth we sleep the eternal sleep. As for the temple, we know that temples are erected in other places, to honor what they call the Creator of all things. But we believe that things are born through charis, thanks only to themselves, just as they maintain themselves on their own, and the butterfly pollinates the flower that, growing, then nourishes it."
"But, if I understand correctly, you practice love and reciprocal respect, you do not kill animals, and, still less, your similars. By what commandment do you act?"
"We do this to make up for the absence of any commandment. Only by practicing and teaching good can we console our similars for the lack of a Father."
"No one can do without a Father," the Poet murmured to Baudolino. "Look at the state to which our beautiful army has been reduced by the death of Frederick. These people wave their cocks in the air, but they don't really know how life works...."
Boron, on the contrary, was impressed by this wisdom, and he began asking the old man a series of questions.
"Which number is greater, that of the living or of the dead?"
"The dead are greater, but they can no longer be counted. So those you can see are more than those you cannot see."
"Which is stronger, death or life?"
"Life, because when it rises, the sun has luminous and splendid rays, and when it sets, it seems weaker."
"Which is more, earth or sea?"
"Earth, because the sea rests on the bed of earth."
"Which came first, night or day?"
"Night. Everything that is born is formed in the darkness of the womb and is only later brought into the light."
"Which is the better side, left or right?"
"Right. Indeed, the sun rises on the right and follows its orbit in the heavens to the left, and a woman suckles her babe first with the right breast."
"Which is the most fierce of animals?" the Poet asked then.
"Man."
"Why?"
"Ask yourself. You, too, are a wild beast, you have with you other beasts, and in your lust for power you want to deprive all other beasts of life."
Then the Poet said: "But if all were like you, the sea would never be sailed, the earth would never be tilled, the great kingdoms would not be born to carry order and greatness into the base disorder of earthly things."
The old man replied: "Each of these things is surely fortunate, but it is built on the misfortune of others, and that we do not desire."
Abdul asked if they knew where the most beautiful and most distant of all princesses lived. "Are you seeking her?' the old man asked, and Abdul answered yes. "Have you ever seen her?" Abdul answered no. "Do you want her?" Abdul answered that he did not know. Then the old man entered his hut and came out with a metal dish, so polished and gleaming that it mirrored everything surrounding it like a surface of clean water. He said: "We received this mirror once as a gift, and we could not refuse it out of courtesy towards the giver. But none of us would want to look into it, because that could lead to vanity of our body, or to horror at some flaw of ours, and thus we would live in fear of the others' scorn. In this mirror, perhaps one day you will see what you are seeking."
As they were about to fall asleep, Boidi said, his eyes moist: "Let's stay here."
"A fine figure you'd cut, naked as a worm," the Poet replied.
"Maybe we want too much," Rabbi Solomon said, "but at this point we can't help wanting it."
They set off again the next morning.
27. Baudolino in the darkness of Abcasia
After leaving the gymnosophists, they wandered at length, always askin
g themselves which was the path that led to the Sambatyon without passing through those horrible places that had been mentioned. But to no avail. They crossed plains, they forded streams, they struggled up steep cliffs, as Ardzrouni from time to time made calculations based on the map of Cosmas and declared that the Tigris or the Euphrates or the Ganges should not be far off. The Poet told him to shut up, nasty black creature! Solomon repeated to him that sooner or later he would be white again; and the days and the months went by, each like the last.
Once they camped beside a pond. The water was not very clear, but it would suffice, and the horses specially benefited by it. All were preparing for sleep when the moon rose and, in the light of its first rays, they saw in the shadows a sinister teeming: an infinite number of scorpions, all with the tips of their tails erect, in search of water, and they were followed by a band of snakes of a great variety of colors: some had red scales, others black and white, still others gleamed like gold. The whole zone was a single hissing, and an immense terror gripped the men. They formed a circle, their swords pointed outwards, trying to kill those malignant plagues before they could approach their barrier. But the snakes and the scorpions were more attracted by the water than by them, and when they had drunk their fill they gradually withdrew to their lairs in cracks in the earth.
At midnight, as the men were thinking they might get some sleep, crested serpents arrived, each with two or three heads. With their scales they swept the ground and they kept their jaws wide open, within which three tongues darted. Their stink was perceptible at a mile's distance, and all had the impression that their eyes, which sparkled in the lunar light, spread poison, as, for that matter, the basilisk does. ... The men fought them for an hour, because these animals were more aggressive than the others, and perhaps were seeking meat. They killed some and other snakes attacked the corpses, feasting and forgetting the humans. The friends were by now convinced they had overcome this danger, when, after the snakes, the crabs arrived, more than a hundred, covered with crocodile scales, and their armor repelled the swords' blows. But then Colandrino had an idea inspired by desperation: he approached one of them, gave him a violent kick just below the belly, and the animal rolled on its back, wildly waving its claws. So they could surround them, scatter branches over them, and set them afire. Then they realized that, once stripped of their armor, they were good to eat, and so for two days they had a supply of sweet and chewy meat, actually quite good and nutritious.