by Antonio Napoli

Being orphaned from birth, I never met him in person, but I agree with those who say that the only true love is that of a good mother: one who desires nothing for herself except what may be a benefit, an advantage, a right, an opportunity, or a precious life lesson for her beloved child.

We disembarked from the ship without realizing that, throughout the journey, we had been invisibly accompanied by Giscone and Jabir’s cat—perhaps hidden in a crate somewhere. We had no doubt it was him, if only for that distinctive mark: a white cross beneath his chin, in stark contrast with his sleek black fur. When he approached us, rubbing up against our legs and purring loudly, we noticed something odd about one of the ships anchored in the harbor. Timeo recognized it: it was the one that had departed before ours, carrying grandfather and grandson. But what was it still doing in Alexandria? It should have already reached its home port.

We learned that, since among its cargo there were also books, the king—who had all ships’ holds searched—had ordered that the original manuscripts found on board be copied by the scribes of the Library, and only then returned (apparently, copies in place of the originals). In the meantime, the ship was essentially impounded.

Our joy at this news was dampened by the almost insurmountable difficulty of tracking down Giscone and Jabir in that chaotic city, overflowing with people and books. The power of the book would have helped us, but it had fallen into unknown hands and was now lost, just like our hopes for a happy end to our search. We wandered aimlessly until we found ourselves in the temple of all knowledge of our time: the palace of intellectual pride, the place where remedies were gathered for all ailments of the soul.

The Library of Alexandria was housed in two separate buildings: one in the city district called Bruchion, the other in the Serapeum. We were in the first. Then Timeo, noticing our repeated laments about the lost Book of Memory, suggested that perhaps a copy could be found precisely in that place where all transcribed knowledge converged. He offered—strangely—to go in search of it, taking the cat with him, while we remained behind to observe the comings and goings of people, hoping that in that labyrinth of faces, Giscone and Jabir, perhaps drawn by the fame of the building, might appear. So many times I saw Ishara start at the sight of a boy in the distance, only to sink once more into the cycle of disappointment and renewed expectation.

Time passed, and like weary, irritable sentinels, we roamed about more and more restlessly—until we saw Timeo running toward us, preceded by the cat, who carried a scroll tied to its back with a cord.

“Run, run! Don’t let them catch you!” he was whispering.

Two guards were chasing him, but the cat’s speed and cunning left the pursuers dumbfounded.

“What the devil are you doing?” I whispered, keeping an eye on the guards.

“Let’s get out of here before they get suspicious of me,” Timeo replied, breathless.

We quickly moved away, and once safe, Timeo told us he had found the book—or so he believed—and that in order to smuggle it out of the heavily guarded library galleries, he had come up with that plan.

“Brilliant plan…” I said sarcastically. “The cat’s disappeared, no sign of Giscone or Jabir, and…”

“One problem at a time,” Timeo protested with a faint smile. Then he leaned in and murmured in my ear:

“I had time to read the book. I look around, and everything seems strangely familiar. I can almost see the shapes of Giscone and Jabir—like shadows rising from a lost time… but a recent one. I know where to find the cat.”

And indeed, the cat was by a fountain, quenching his thirst. Speusippus, seeing him from afar, worried that he might get the scroll wet. I held him back: the human skin wrapping it ensured it was water-resistant and tough. We were almost at the fountain when the cat darted off again, as if he had spotted a mouse to turn into prey.

I gave chase, bumping into several people along the way, until I finally caught up with him. While running, I kept my eyes low to follow the nimble creature weaving through the legs of passersby. When I finally looked up, I saw Giscone and Jabir—with a surge of emotion so powerful it nearly knocked me down. We embraced with joy, and without wasting time in talk, I led them back to the rest of the group.

“My son…” said the woman, her face twisted with tears, arms open and trembling, chest shaken by emotion.

“You?” said Giscone, a shadow of fear in his eyes. Jabir stood frozen, wary and stunned.

“Isn’t that Ishara?” asked Speusippus.

“Of course she isn’t!” I snapped. “I’ve always had my doubts about her.”

The woman kept weeping.

“Please, my son, come closer. Don’t you recognize me? No, of course you wouldn’t… So much time has passed since I entrusted you to Ishara…”

The power of the book, meanwhile, had awakened my memory. I was about to say her name when the old man cried out:

“Elissa! But where is my daughter? What happened to her?”

“I don’t know…” Elissa replied in a trembling voice. “I was taken prisoner, sold as a slave… But the gods willed that I should find my beautiful boy again… Hasdrubal, my love.”

She reached out to embrace the boy, but he stepped back.

“My name is Jabir, and I don’t know who you are!” he said firmly. “Where is my mother?” Then, suddenly, he burst into tears.

“She’s at home… at home,” I said, lying.

What anguish! That brief moment of happiness had plunged us into a deeper, almost unbearable sorrow.

Then Speusippus stepped in. He picked up the cat and gently placed it in the boy’s arms, leading him away from us.

“Where are you going?” I asked him.

“Trust me,” he replied. “The book caused this pain… the book will heal it.”

I couldn’t see how the book could help us in a situation where a child no longer recognized his birth mother and was instead desperately seeking his adoptive one. After all, isn’t it affection, more than mere blood ties, that truly defines what we call a family?

Meanwhile, we adults, clinging to the fragile branch of reason, tried to contain the storm of our shaken hearts. Giscone agreed with us: it was necessary to mask the anxiety for his daughter and, at least for now, support the lie I had told in good faith.

Finally, Jabir and Speusippus returned. I don’t know how much time had passed—the sun was setting, and copper reflections lit up the cornices of the tall buildings, as if they were catching fire.

Speusippus gently placed his hands on Jabir’s shoulders, then bent down and whispered something in his ear. The boy slowly approached Elissa, with the effort of one who tries to believe in what once was, and the magic of someone beginning to become once more what he used to be.

“My mother!” he finally exclaimed.

The two of them embraced in an endless hug.

“How did you convince the boy?” I asked Speusippus.

“I had him read a part of the Book of Memory,” he said, “and his childhood memories slowly began to surface.”