The Brotherhood of Book Hunters Read Free Page B

good families who had fallen into debt, soldiers returning from the wars. The best books often met with the saddest fate, abandoned by simpletons surprised that anyone should waste time reading them, let alone want to acquire them for cash. Thus it was that knowledge circulated and spread, through theft, bankruptcy, and inheritance. Much to the delight of booksellers.
    François knew perfectly well that his guest sensed a great opportunity. Nevertheless, he played the game according to the rules, letting Fust believe that he was the craftier of the two or, at least, the more expert. François had never flaunted his knowledge, often taking judges and university masters by surprise. He had learned never to use his erudition as a foil, but to conceal it beneath the appearance of a fool, and use it only at the right moment, like a secret weapon. He would throw a judicious quotation at an eminent rival as you throw a knife at a straw target, casually but going straight for the middle. And always catching him unawares. It was not his reading that had taught him this technique, but the many street fights he had been in, against adversaries for whom, unlike courtiers and clerics, he felt respect.
    Fust, though, would not let himself be overawed—which made François all the better disposed toward him. The old man took his seat with ease, nonchalantly placed his cane on the floor, and calmly removed his mittens. On his finger, as a counterpoint to his otherwise austere attire, he wore a glittering ring with a ruby set in it as a cabochon. The matte gold of the ring was inscribed with a dragon, its tiny rhinestone eyes glittering brightly, a thread of flashing enamel spurting from its open mouth. Its claws held the central gem in a tight grip.
    Still crouching, François opened his pouch and took out a book. A gleam appeared in Fust’s eyes, and his hollow cheeks and hooked nose suddenly perked up like those of a bird of prey. François barely held out his hand, forcing Fust to bend very low, at the risk of falling from his chair. Fust managed to seize the volume. Without hesitation, he placed his finger on the name stamped on the cover: Kyonghan.
    â€œThe author, I presume?”
    François guessed that his interlocutor knew the answer. He nodded briefly.
    Fust made an effort to keep calm. He turned the pages with a detached air. Tiny beads of sweat formed on his wrinkled forehead. He had feared at first that this edition of the
Jikji Simkyong
had been printed with the help of terra-cotta or porcelain characters.
 
But no, this was indeed the 1377 edition, composed in
 
Korea using movable metal fonts. He already had a copy, brought fifteen years earlier to Mayence by a Jew from the Holy Land. Fust had been surprised by the quality of the ink, the clarity of the touch, and above all the fineness of the letters. The Jew had wanted to know if Fust, being a silversmith, would be capable of reproducing that alloy of Korean fonts, and if his son-in-law, Pierre Schoeffer, and their associate Johannes Gensfleisch, known as Gutenberg, could make a machine that would allow the use of characters thus obtained. The original press would have been too fragile to print on rag paper, which was more resistant to ink than delicate China papers. The Jew had paid a deposit in cash and promised to supply rare unpublished texts for the first attempts.
    Johann Fust put the book down and asked to see a manuscript whose description had intrigued him. François again searched in his pouch and took from it a roll of parchment much worn by time. The writing on it was heavy and full of mistakes. A botched job by an overworked copyist? No, the old bookseller was no fool. He took off his ring and, with one finger, pressed hard on the head of the carved dragon. The gold claws retracted immediately, freeing the cabochon. Fust removed the ruby from its setting and placed it flat on the parchment. Leaning forward, he slowly moved the