Ghopal had just finished visiting the quarter of the Turquoise Fountains and he had already filled with notes nearly half the papers that he kept in his leather bag.
He had already been in the area of the Emerald Fountains and the district of the Amber Fountains, as well as in what was known as the quarter of the Cerulean Fountains: in this last case, however, one couldn't speak of proper fountains exactly, but rather of springs, which in that part of the city bubbled up from among the rocks – azure, cerulean colored – in the area's various gardens.
But he still had three quarters of the town to go, so he quickened his pace.
Fortunately it was springtime, so there were still a few hours of daylight left: his task couldn't be carried out when it started to get dark, since at that time there would be few people about, and – just as importantly – it would be difficult to distinguish well the color tones.
The city of Javalpur, where Ghopal lived but whose quarters he visited – all of them – only once per year, stood at the far borders of the Kingdom of Doristan, a kingdom so vast that no one could claim to have traveled through it all, from one end to the other.
It was a circular city, to the point that it seemed like it had been designed, who knows when, with a compass. At its center was the the Governor's palace, and circling it stood imposing walls. As the city was quite spread out, twelve gates had been opened in the walls, to match the twelve hours of the night, and all of the gates were indeed closed at nightfall.
It was known as the city of a thousand fountains, because they were innumerable: at every crossroads, in every square, in the gardens and in the courtyards.And in the choice of the tiles which adorned them, the boundary between the order and disorder of the colors was, among other things, always kept in mind, in order to obtain the best possible chromatic harmony for each quarter. They were furthermore built so that the fountains, the water, the tiles, the brass openings – in the form of lions or griffins – from which the water shot out, were all pleasing to the each of the five senses of whoever observed them.
The Purple Fountains, which marked the quarter where he was now headed, were not all in reality covered in tiles of that color, that is to say an intense red. And yet in their redness shined all of the other color tones – amaranthine, vermillion, coral, ruby, scarlet, magenta – so that this was, perhaps, the most festive district of the city.
While he walked, Ghopal listened to the murmuring of the waters of the fountains: at times a simple whisper, at times a roar. For the rhythm with which the water flowed told him much concerning the level of energy present in the city.
He observed the people on the street. How many greeted each other exchanging smiles? How many couples walked hand in hand? How many vases of flowers sat on the windowsills? He examined the tiles of the fountains: was their color cheerful and lively, or did it instead appear drab, or even languid? Because, it's well understood, colors behave like mirrors: just as they can affect our humor, we too, by looking at them, are able to influence them. For this reason they say it's best not to stare at them for too long, if one isn't in the right state of mind.
All these things allowed Ghopal – who had an expert eye – to establish with great approximation the degree of satisfaction, if not to say happiness, of the city and its inhabitants. Or, at any rate, to measure its mood.
One should know, in fact, that Tikrit, the wife of the Governor of the province of Javalpur, had asked her husband many years ago, as a bridal gift, to promise her to do his best not only to make the inhabitants more content, but also the city itself more fulfilled.
To which end she had, over the years, continued to adorn Javalpur with joyful gardens and still more fountains.
She then made it so there were no poor people or beggars in the city. Anyone who, by misfortune or because fate had thus decreed, found themselves in such conditions was, so to speak, adopted by the residents of the quarter, who behaved as though the person were a member of a big family. And this pleased not only the poor, but everyone who lived in that quarter too.
It was only natural that Tikrit wished to know the extent to which the measures she had adopted were having an effect. So she had decided to conduct periodic surveys of the satisfaction of her subjects and the serenity of Javalpur.
And to whom could she entrust such a task if not to Ghopal, the most trusted, the wisest among her husbands Advisors? So much so indeed that he had been named the First Advisor. His vast culture – which ranged from dialectics to mathematics - his judiciousness, his trustworthiness made him, in Tikrit's eyes, the most suitable person for this responsibility. But beyond what Tikrit thought about him, it's necessary to add that, whether for his bearing or for his serious face whose eyes always seemed to be sizing you up, the fact is that he commanded respect from all, and in many even a sense of awe.
He also had the quite rare gift of knowing how to understand others, whoever they were: blacksmiths or high dignitaries. And more than just understand them: her was able to read into their hearts, and always found the time to listen, without ever giving a sign of impatience. Thus he enjoyed the trust not only of Tikrit but also of all of the citizens, and at times that trust was transformed, if not into actual affection, into something quite close to it.
In any case, for all of these reasons, Tikrit had entrusted him the task of determining, collecting and cataloging every year the degree of happiness of the the citizens and the city.
So, for the last three years, in spring, when throughout the entire city there was the scent of jasmine, Ghopal would prepare himself for his mission: he reorganized the statistics of the previous year, made sure that they had been well catalogued distinctly by quarter, and, when he felt ready, in his heart, he exited the Governor's Palace and began his tour.
He had nearly finished his work, and, in truth, he felt tired. But more than fatigue, he felt himself seized by a sort of discouragement, almost a feeling of dejection.Well yes, because last year he'd been able to notice some improvements – in the first place there had been more people smiling on the streets – while this time he seemed to be seeing in many a certain degree of anxiety, a little unease. One could almost go so far as to say discontent.Not to mention the tiles of the fountains: in some cases – few, fortunately – the color appeared decidedly pale, if not downright drab, something that had never happened before since he had began attending to the task. True, he had yet to return to his office and closely examine his notes, but his experience told him that his first impression would match, more or less, the final result.
To return he had taken a solitary street in the district of the Amber Fountains, at that hour there were few people about in that area. The only thing he heard was the murmur of the water from the fountains hidden from sight by the hedges of the gardens: many shutters were already closed, and in a little while the first lights would be lit in the halls of the houses.
A part of the quarter had remained how it was – not exactly, but closely – when Javalpur had first risen up as a city.
It was the oldest part of the city, where it was not easy to find one's way: the narrow streets curved, forked and multiplied, they became wider or little squares, to the point that even they themselves ended up getting confused and would pop out who knows where.
The entire zone, mostly quiet during the day, would become livelier later, with the dark. The locals called that place The Magician's Quarter.Indeed one should know that, for the residents of Javalpur, that which had begun as a hobby, had become – one could almost say – a passion: they sought to know what tomorrow would bring, what the future held for the city. They speculated on which day in spring the first cherry tree would blossom, and with a little money one could acquire the next day's news, sold in paper bags by traveling salesmen.
At the ground floor of many houses – some of which seemed to stay upright only by leaning one another, they were so decrepit – would then light the little red lanterns placed above the front doors made of uneven wood; in some cases, instead of a door, there were wooden fret-worked screens or heavy brocade curtains faded and worn out by time, with the effect that in places strands of golden weaving stood out, in other places spots of crimson red or jasper green, making each curtain a unique fabric, more refined than even the most antique tapestry. In front of the entrances there was a line of slippers in various sizes: whoever entered left their shoes, sandals or any other kind of shoe outside and put on a pair of those slippers.
Inside were small rooms, as intimate as a sitting room, designed to make whoever entered feel at ease, as if they were in their own home.
It was there that they practiced fortune telling and magic arts, and perhaps all those little red lights hanging outside, that shook and trembled at the lightest breeze, acted as a call to the residents of Javalpur: they relit hopes, fed dreams.
No one could have said how many people went to those places. And yet it seemed that, together with the passion for knowing what the future held in store for the city, having one's own personal future predicted had become a fashion that, in recent times, had been catching on more and more. In any case, there were now many who seeking to know – from tarot cards, or from magicians and fortune tellers – whether the future would ever smile on them, whether they could hope to get healthy again or find love. Just as there were also those who wished to learn their destiny and deluded themselves - if they had ever even really known it – that they could change it.
Ghopal continued on his way. He passed next to a high railing behind which he saw an aristocratic building, refined by an arcade with a line of columns next to each of which had been placed a vase of vines, which it seemed no one had looked after for a long time. All of the shutters, of a dark green color that stood out against the pale earthy color of the walls, were closed, and, whether because he didn't hear the slightest noise or because no voice came from the house, he thought that it was probably an forgotten house. He gazed at the flower beds of the garden and said to himself that it this had to be the explanation.
It was then that he caught sight of it. He thought it was a dog. He could see that it was tied to a chain and lying down. The animal had noticed his presence, but hadn't gotten up – as if it had been expecting him – or begun to bark: all it did was lift its head and turn it towards him , as though it was sniffing him at a distance.He tried the gate with his hand and it gave way, without any creak. He came near and, a little hesitantly, reached out as if to pet the dog. It was only at that point that he realized it wasn't a dog at all, but a fox.He recognized it from the sharp nose, the long white whiskers, and its thick tawny fur that gleamed in the dim light. He thought about what he should do. He couldn't leave it there, tied up, especially as the house was uninhabited: it would certainly die. And he noticed the fox, showing no signs of fear, continued to watch him closely, probably wondering what his intentions were.He approached, his fear overcome, and released the chain. To his surprise the fox didn't run away, but rather stayed put staring at him, and when he headed back towards the gate it followed him, just like a dog would. They set off together, he in front and the fox behind. Ghopal was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't notice that, for the people who saw them, they made a truly strange spectacle.
He was thinking of his next meeting with Tikrit, and the thing that was making him feel uneasy. How would he tell her that, despite all of the actions taken by her, things had not improved, indeed perhaps had even worsened? He felt like he was indirectly responsible, as though he hadn't performed the duty entrusted to him with enough diligence. He had meanwhile reached the entrance to the Palace, where he too resided, and only than did he feel embarrassed by the way the guards had looked at him: they had obviously only saluted him, without daring to speak a word.
The apartment where Ghopal lived was located in the rear wing of the Palace, on the ground floor, and looked out on a garden that, in a certain kind of way, resembled him. It had been designed with eye to order and geometry, though this wasn't what one first noticed, thanks to the trees that created a sort of little grove, with plenty of shady areas, in which were placed seats made of granite, their backs adorned with elegant tiles of flower patterns on a background of a deep azure.In the middle of the garden there was an octagonal fountain, whose northern sides were covered in moss.All of these things, and its design which combined rigor with imagination, rendered it an extremely pleasant and relaxing place, just what Ghopal had had in mind when he'd first imagined it, and then created it.
Ghopal was sitting there, going over in his mind the meeting he had just had with Tikrit. The fox, meanwhile, had remained squatting next to him, alert as foxes always are.
In truth Tikrit had indeed seemed bothered by what Ghopal had related to her, but she had immediately begun to think – and this was part of her character – of how to remedy the situation, before it got any worse, and to understand the reasons behind it. They had discussed things at length, she and Ghopal, but the remedies they'd thought of were many, as none of them seemed like the right one. Like with certain illnesses, for which there are a hundred different cures, precisely because not one of them works.
A thought had then come to Tikrit.
Everyone knew that in the capital was to be found the famous Oracle of the Kingdom, called the Oracle of Amara from the name of the hill on which it sat. Its answers were held in the highest consideration, even by Melkise, the Great King, because they had shown themselves over time to be of absolute certainty. So if it suggested a remedy, one could be certain it was infallible.
Perhaps then the famous Oracle could suggest what to do. But there was a problem, an insurmountable problem.
Javalpur was – as we have seen – located on the farthest border of Doristan, a distance so far from Kersifonte, the capital, that caravans, in order to reach it, took entire years, if they ever made it at all.
It was necessary, among other things, to cross the Desert of Time. The wind of desert – which never ceased to blow – moved the dunes, randomly, and together with the dunes moved the oases, which could be found one day here, the next thousands of miles away. Consequently the days too ended up getting moved, since that which you thought would arrive tomorrow arrived – if it arrived at all – the day after tomorrow, or in a week, or who knows when.Just like what happens at times in life: the days come and go, and chance seems to decide the destiny of men. But perhaps it's not like this – Ghopal would sometimes think – perhaps that which we call chance is a design hidden to us: chance does not move the dunes randomly, it may move them as it pleases, yes, but according to a logic that we are unable to understand.
Going to Kersifonte to consult the Oracle was therefore out of the question.
So Ghopal was thinking when he heard the voice of Zakir, the Palace Calligrapher, invested with the title of Grand Master, who was calling his name from the garden gate.
Ghopal and Zakir were united by a profound friendship based on mutual esteem, but also on the fact that, even if it may not have seemed so, they shared a very similar vision of the world.Ghopal was a pragmatic person: for him what was important was reasoning, logic. But he believed that reasoning and logic should serve to pave the way to the harmony around which, according to his way of seeing things, the universe itself turned.Zakir was instead an aesthete of refined tastes: for him the foremost thing was always artistic beauty. But how could there be artistic beauty without gracefulness and harmony? And it was this that united them, though they probably did not realize it.
“I've just come to say hello.” Zakir was saying. “We haven't seen each other for days.”He had taken a few steps and stopped suddenly.“Is that a fox? Where did you buy it?”“I didn't buy it, I found it. And I brought it here because, if I hadn't, it would have died.”
The fox had lifted his head to gaze at the new arrival, and in the light Ghopal noticed that its eyes were light blue, instead of dark like he would have expected.
“Then you did well to bring it with you, though I can't imagine what you'll do with it.” He looked at him in silence and then added:
“Am I mistaken, or is there something bothering you?”Ghopal told him about his discussion with Tikrit, and how both of them had come to the conclusion that only the Oracle of Amara could suggest the best way to improve the humor of the city and its inhabitants.
“But you know as well as I do how it's nearly impossible to reach Kersifonte from here.” Ghopal added.
“Indeed. Nevertheless, concerning that I had encounter a little while ago that has left me quite perplexed. I'd tell you about it now, but I absolutely must finish a job that's been occupying me for months, and I promised the Governor that I would present it to him by the end this week. As soon as I finish I shall come visit and tell you all.”
After which they said goodbye and Zakir went to shut himself up in the room that he used for what we'd call today a study or laboratory.
It was quite a big room. A door, in the back, opened out into the large room beside it, where the amanuenses and calligraphers worked.Whoever entered was initially blinded by the flood of light coming in from two tall corner windows and from a skylight. The room was completely white, as were all of the sparse furnishings.There was a very long table totally empty of objects. Anything that was needed had been put on the floor, or leaned against the walls, or placed inside the niches, big and small, that opened up in the walls. On the floor, slightly inclined, were rolls of parchment and a few wooden frames: it was on these that Zakir would roll out a piece of parchment when he began working.For someone wishing to site down there was a sole stool, varnished in a harsh red, which was the only note of color in the room. Zakir worked standing up straight, with brushes of the softest marmot fur, attached to long bamboo sticks. But when he had to do a miniature he would sit on the stool, at the table, and use brushes so tiny that their point was thinner that a single strand of hair.
Someone had once offered him brushes made with badger fur, that last longer, but are - according to some – slightly less delicate: he had looked at him with surprise, because he was convinced that the art of calligraphy would consider such a thing a grave offense.
In some of the niches were placed the brush cases and the black ink, of various shades – from grey to ebony – contained in brass inkwells chiseled in silver, or of zinc mounted with turquoises and pearls. In other niches were cruets, pitchers and tiny amphoras where the colored inks were kept.Then there was, in a niche apart form the rest, a container of translucent jade: it contained gold dust, which Zakir used to illuminate certain miniatures.
Zakir, in addition to considering calligraphy a true art, was aware that it had on him – and, he was certain, not only on him – a relaxing, reassuring effect. The letters, the words would form under his brush coming together fluidly, and in their flow, in their rhythm, Zakir could discern a profound musicality.He was sure that the words communicated amongst themselves, like the notes in a musical piece do, and thus created a true conversation.And as in conversation the pauses are important, the words unsaid, the silences, so too in writing – Zakir was convinced – the pauses between the lines, the blank spaces between one word and the next: it is these that transform a written page into something visually pleasing: gazing upon it, the text becomes an image to caress with the gaze.
At the least, he told himself, it could be interesting to stare at a entirely blank page and imagine what is written there. Like what happens with blank music too, that is composed of all the notes put together: adding themselves up they sometimes end up canceling each other out, causing the music to turn into silence.
A few days later, as promised, Zakir went to find Ghopal. He found him in the garden once again, immersed in a book, next to him sat the fox.“How did the job go? Finished?” Ghopal asked.
“Yes, I'll show it to you later: I'm convinced it will be of interest to you. But now I'm here to talk to you about that encounter I mentioned to you. Last week, just outside the gate, I came across a dervish.”“A dervish? One of those monks that wear white tunics that go down to their feet and tall hats shaped like truncated cones?”
“Yes exactly. He asked me for directions, and when he saw that I was looking at him a bit surprised, he told me that he was a rotating dervish. You know, the kind that pray rotating around themselves, in a sort of mystical dance.”
“Yes, I know the kind you mean, but I thought that the last dervish community had left our city long ago.”
Indeed. He also explained to me that he intended to stay only a few days on our city, before going back to Mervan, where he had come from.”“From Mervan? But that's nearly as far from here as Kerisfonte is. It will take years.”
“Well his response left me truly dumbfounded: I'm certain that you too will be surprised, when I tell you what he said. In any case, at the time I made the same reasoning you have and asked him how many years it had taken him to arrive here.”
“And what did he say?” “He smiled and shook his head.”
At this point Zakir stopped to look at the fox, who had straightened its ears and was looking at him with attention. That fox made him a little uneasy: it was as though it were listening to him.
“And so what did he say?”He said: “I don't know exactly how much time it took me to arrive here, but it wasn't very long, certainly not years.” And then he added:“I know it doesn't sound very believable. But it's only a question of being able to concentrate one's thoughts on the place where one wants to go. When one reaches the necessary level of concentration, our body is no longer an encumbrance, it's thought itself that carries us.”“Consider a shadow” - he told me: “a shadow, as mathematicians and astronomers well know, is not a thing: how can we define it? The shadow is present and it's not present, it is – if I may use the word – a non-thing.The same thing happens with thought: hence both a shadow and a thought can move at a speed that we cannot even imagine. Faster even than that of light. It's simple: in effect it's a kind of meditation. The image of the place where we intend to go continues to form in our mind and guides our thought. One just mustn't lose one's concentration.”
“Well, I have to admit that it has something of the unbelievable,” Ghopal whispered, as if to himself. “In any case, I believe I have read something somewhere about this theory of shadow, that can move even faster than the speed of light. I must, however, talk about it with Tikrit and the Governor and ask their permission to try.”“Think about it, and as far as the Governor and Tikrit are concerned, if you decide to try they'll certainly agree to let you. In the meantime, come see that work I was telling you about, which I have just finished.”
When Ghopal saw what Zakir was capable of he was left with much admiration, to say nothing of amazement. As far as he knew, no one had ever even thought of something of the kind. For Zakir had drawn an actual Map of the Clouds and the Winds, and he had done it as only he was able.“I'll make a copy of it, so should you ever leave you'll be able to take it with you, who knows but that it might not turn out to be useful.”
Ghopal returned to his apartment confused and with a great many thoughts whirling about in his mind. For even if it were possible to reach Kersifonte in little time, the prospect of such a voyage, even if made by allowing thought to carry him, did not entice him. Indeed for him staying in one place was sign of wisdom and standing: the periphery stirred, the center stood still, it was said. Was not The Divinity absolute immobility?
In any case, in this case he would certainly not be able to send another in his place, even if it were possible to do so.
He was thinking about all this, when the fox, which since they'd met had never opened his mouth, spoke for the first time.
And the nice thing was that Ghopal did not marvel at it, indeed he found it only natural, as he had gotten so used to its presence that he considered it a person.The fox raised his head to get a better look at him, as was his wont, and said to him:
“Don't leave me. Take me with you.”Ghopal looked at it, and this time did indeed marvel. His mind had been so preoccupied in recent days that he had never thought of the fox, to whose presence he was by now accustomed to. And then, probably, the fox had in its own way grown fond of him.“But how could I ever take you? As you heard – oh but what am I saying? And yet, if you speak, it means that you also understand what you hear – as you heard, I was saying, reaching the capital, Kersifonte, is only possible by transporting oneself by thought, and you are a fox, and, as far as I know, foxes don't think.”
“That's what men believe, in their presumption.And yet when I am hungry, for example, I think of how to find food, and I always succeed. In the woods, I think about where I might find dangers, and so I know how to avoid them. And if I come across another fox, or even a man, all I need is one look to understand what they have in mind, like I did with you when you found me. If then I want to return home, it's not even necessary that I think it: I go and that's all, without fear of making a mistake. So you see, I do indeed think, I just do it in a different way than you do.”“But do you think you'd be able to use your concentration – like my friend Zakir said – to go to Kersifonte? Added Ghopal, who, in truth, didn't really know what to say.“Just tell me in what direction this place is to be found, and let me try.”“Well, I shall think about it, but for now I can't promise you anything. I don't even know yet whether I shall try it myself.
And it was at that moment – he remembered it well – that he decided to call the fox Hilla, after the city where he lived as a child.
It wasn't easy reaching the level of concentration that the dervish had spoke of, but in the end Ghopal succeeded, just as he was at the point of giving up. He had sat there – for how long? - immobile, completely absorbed in the thought of the place he wanted to reach, Kersifonte, when he had the impression of no longer perceiving his body, as sometimes happens when one is on the point of falling asleep, and has the sensation of sinking into nothingness.
(Continued in Part 2)