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time, soon fell into a state of depression. For a while, at the time of the first Crusades, the Embriaci had been one of the city’s most prominent families, with their own private mansion in their own quarter of the town, their own followers and supporters, a tower named after them, and the biggest fortune in all Genoa; they had now been supplanted by other families: the Dorias, the Spinolas, the Grimaldis and the Fieschis had all become more eminent than they. My ancestor felt degraded, exiled even. He might be a Genoese — he was one, in his speech, his dress, his way of life — but he was only a Genoese from the East!
    So my people went to sea again, and weighed anchor in various ports — Haifa, Alexandria, Chios — until Ugo, my great-grandfather, had the idea of going back to Gibelet, where in return for services rendered the authorities gave him back a plot of land in what had once been his family fief. We had to abandon our seignorial pretensions and go back to commerce, our original occupation; but the memory of our days of glory survived. According to documents still in my possession, I am the eighteenth descendant in the direct male line of the man who conquered Tripoli.
    So when I go to the booksellers’ district, how can I fail to feast my eyes on the Citadel, where once fluttered the banner of the Embriaci? When they see me coming, the merchants make fun of me and start to call to one another, “Watch out, the Genoese is here to take the Citadel again — don’t let him by!” They come out of their booths and really do stop me, but only to embrace me rowdily and offer me coffee and cordials at every step. They are naturally a hospitable people, but I must say I’m a sympathetic colleague too, and an extremely good customer. If I don’t come to them, they send me any items they think might interest me but which are not in their line — that is to say, mostly relics, icons and old books relating to Christianity. They themselves are for the most part Muslims or Jews, and their customers are chiefly their co-religionists, mainly concerned with their own faith.
    Today, arriving in the city at noon, I went at once to see Abdessamad, a Muslim friend of mine. He was sitting at the door of his shop, surrounded by his brothers and a few other booksellers from the same street. But when, following the usual elaborate exchange of courtesies, and after I’d introduced my nephews to those who didn’t already know them, I was asked what brought me here, I was tongue-tied. Something told me it would be best not to say: it was the voice of reason speaking, and I should have listened to it. Surrounded by these respectable characters, who all had a high opinion of me and regarded me rather as the most senior member of our group, if not because of my age and erudition then at least because of my fame and fortune, I realised it would be unwise to reveal the real reason for my visit. Though at the same time another, less prudent voice was urging me to take a different course. After all, if old Idriss in his hovel had had a copy of this coveted work, why shouldn’t the booksellers in Tripoli have one too? Theirs might be no less of a forgery than his, but it could save me having to go all the way to Constantinople!
    After some seconds of reflection, during which all eyes rested weightily on mine, I finally said:
    â€œI suppose one of you wouldn’t happen to have a copy of that treatise by Mazandarani that people are talking about these days — The Hundredth Name?”
    I’d spoken in as light, detached and ironic a tone as I could manage. But an immediate silence fell on the small company — and, it seemed to me, on the whole city. All eyes now turned on my friend Abdessamad. He was no longer looking at me, either.
    He cleared his throat as if about to speak, but instead he let out a forced, staccato laugh, which he suddenly cut short, to take a sip of