by Antonio Napoli

No man, not even the humblest, completely resigns himself to the idea that the traces of his days vanish like footprints in the desert, chased by the wind. The efforts of the farmer, the risks of the merchant, the deeds of the general, the quarrels of lovers, the sufferings of the unfortunate all reach such intensity that it seems impossible to imagine that, one day, everything could disappear as if it had never happened. Whoever wrote the Book of Memory was perhaps tormented by this thought. However, he should have prefaced it by saying that the power to recall the past, whether one’s own or another’s—a power not inferior to that of passions—must always be tempered by the virtue of prudence. Right judgment, before every word, before every action!

“I’ve long suspected some of my guards,” said the commander, ordering the one I had accused to be disarmed. “But, having solved one problem, another arises: how should I interpret your statements? If you know something, it’s because you are involved in the crimes reported. Not a witness, but in some way an accomplice. I promised freedom in exchange for what I have actually obtained. But how much does the word given to two criminals who do not recognize any moral precept really count?”

Speusippus was already on the verge of unleashing his fury when, from the colonnade, Timeo, the sophist, emerged, having listened to the reasoning.

“If you allow me to intervene,” said Timeo, with his usual sophistic calm, “the issue should not be judged based on the reputation of the one who receives a promise. If it is made in good faith, it remains a commitment, regardless of the morality of the one who benefits from it. And if a promise ceased to be valid simply because the recipient does not recognize any moral precept, we would end up confusing the virtue of the word with the corruption of action.”

Timeo paused briefly, fixing the commander with a penetrating gaze. “In the end, the word given is the foundation on which all forms of justice are built.”

But the commander was not listening to such subtle dialectical nuances and was already giving orders to have us taken back to our cell, while Jabir, clinging to my leg, cried. Just then, a young voice caught our attention.

“Father, is this how you welcome me? You make a child cry in front of my eyes? You know I cannot stand that the world could be unjust to a child.”

The commander’s daughter threw herself into an embrace with her father, then directed her joyful attention even to the molossus, which no longer inspired fear. Soon after, she spoke softly to her father, who—whether due to the veiled reproach from his daughter, or the thought instilled by Timeo about the moral obligation to keep a promise, or perhaps for some other, more cunning than noble reason—let us go free.

Jabir insisted on going back to his house: his grandfather had made a mistake and needed to apologize. But I had something else on my mind: the scroll clenched between the jaws of the stray dog. The worry of finding it gave me no peace.

We began a fruitless search, filled with questions here and there, repeated passes through the same places, and exhausting waits. Jabir had set his peers loose, a merry band of boys who played in the street, scrutinizing everything with curious eyes. Could it be that finding a dog with a scroll in this city was harder than finding a grain of colored sand in a desert storm? When we were tired and almost resigned, the stray dog reappeared… but in its jaws, it was holding a bone!

“One always trades an aspiration of the spirit for a desire of the belly,” said Timeo humorously, observing the dog chewing the bone with satisfaction.

There was a subtle truth in those words. As often happens in life, the dog, with its prey, seemed to embody all those who find pleasure in simple and direct things, while few others struggle in the pursuit of lofty ideals. And now, we too felt the need to satisfy an equally fulfilling instinct: the appetite for flatbreads, legumes, honey, and wine.

Jabir didn’t need to insist on inviting us to lunch at his house; Timeo didn’t hesitate to follow us.

During the short walk, I tried to explain to the sophist the extraordinary virtue of the book.

“I’ve heard of it at the Library of Alexandria,” he commented. “They say that the divine Plato wrote it in his later years, for whom knowledge is based on memory: knowledge is recognition, a painstaking recognition. In the end, this is how things stand: what is found at the end was already at the starting point,” he concluded, as Jabir ran ahead, skipping in front of the house entrance.

The kitchen door was open, the table already set, and the old man, unaware of our entrance, was placing a scroll on a shelf that I had no trouble recognizing.

The old man owed us many explanations, but I was already learning them through his silent memories.