di Antonio Napoli
“You are a belligerent old baboon,” said the son to the king of a vast African kingdom, who was intent on planning new conquests.
The sovereign, a sensitive father now advanced in years, endured the offense with secret sorrow, but despite his son’s contrary opinion, he still ordered war to be waged against a small state on the northwestern border.
Upon returning from the hardships of war, the king, already much tried, summoned the court scribe into his presence and, before the dignitaries and the prince, spoke these words:
“It is no longer time for me to make history, but to write it. With the support of my testimony and the help of the rich archives of the library, you shall compose an orderly account of my life, in which all the most important events, from childhood to old age, are linked together in a marvelous example of linearity.”
The scholar, honored by the task, asked for permission to approach. The king nodded slightly, and the scribe whispered a long discourse into his ear.
At first, the sovereign’s expression was one of bewilderment, oscillating between shame and indignation, then his face softened, and finally, he burst into thunderous laughter.
Regaining his composure, he announced that if the greatest scholar of his court had refused the task, he could do nothing but renounce it as well. He dismissed the gathering.
The prince observed the scene with growing curiosity. He knew his father well: he knew how stubborn he was, and he knew that the scholar was not a man to withdraw lightly.
Yet, this time, he repressed his inquisitive ardor.
That same evening, however, the scribe had no time for second thoughts: he died from the bite of a mamba.
When the time of death came for the king as well, he summoned his son to entrust him with his final wise recommendations on the art of governance. But the young man was restless for another reason.
“Father, tell me: what did you and the sage say to each other? Why did he refuse?”
The king coughed several times, then replied in a faint voice:
“The reason why he refused and I did not insist has to do with the problem of truth. The scholar said to me:
‘The history of a man is a thousand times more complex and obscure than any natural phenomenon. It is impossible to reconstruct it in an orderly manner, no matter who the protagonist is, not even if he retained the clearest memories of his words and actions. And even if a linear account were possible, the effort to find connections between events would always be tainted with arbitrariness. Who could ever know all the causes and all the consequences in a man’s life?
But to convince you of the impossibility of your project, my lord, I shall give you an example.
If, through a door, into a great dark hall where everything is scattered, you saw someone enter and then, after some time, exit, would it be possible for you to trace the trajectory of his steps—or perhaps his leaps—as he moved blindly, back and forth?
Now, try to imagine that this someone is, for example… a baboon.'”
The king burst into irrepressible laughter, which shook him until his final breath.
The son remained silent, paralyzed by remorse.
With tears in his eyes, he begged his father for forgiveness—who could no longer answer him.