{"id":25566,"date":"2016-12-08T12:00:14","date_gmt":"2016-12-08T11:00:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/?page_id=25566"},"modified":"2017-08-03T14:43:51","modified_gmt":"2017-08-03T13:43:51","slug":"sample-translation-the-devils-handwriting","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/foreignrights\/authors\/donald-nolet\/donald-nolet-the-devils-handwriting\/sample-translation-the-devils-handwriting\/","title":{"rendered":"Sample translation – The Devil’s Handwriting<\/em>"},"content":{"rendered":"

Donald Nolet – The Devil\u2019s Handwriting<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

[pages 7-12]<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Prague, November 1610<\/em><\/p>\n

It was a city of heights and depths. Spires reached up towards the sky. Bridges bedecked with spikes leaned across the Vltava. Yet at the same time, each visible structure had roots reaching back hundreds of years. In the bold, indomitable houses of Prague entire dynasties had been born, vilified, become extinct and had sometimes risen from the ashes again. As for the city, so too for the five men who had gathered in the gardens of Strakova Akademie this afternoon. They had spent their entire lives reaching for the stars, driven by a hunger entrenched deep in their innermost beings. Today\u2019s host led the troupe past a field, pointing to the places where he had sown medicinal herbs due to sprout next spring. He halted and looked around. It was a cold, blustery afternoon and save for the small group the garden was empty.<\/p>\n

\u2018Your presence here saddens me.\u2019<\/p>\n

Jacob Horcicky de Tepenec kept a sharp eye on the reactions of the four men. No shock, fear or suspicion. He was not surprised. Curiosity was in their nature. It was the reason they were here, in this city, in this location. They had travelled here from their comfortable homes, and having arrived there was no way back.<\/p>\n

\u2018Why does it sadden you, Mr De Tepenec?\u2019 a young man with fleshy cheeks asked. \u2018Is our company so disagreeable to you?\u2019<\/p>\n

The four were no strangers. Some worked together on an almost daily basis. And all were aware of the others\u2019 reputations.<\/p>\n

\u2018I am sorry, because you came here of your own free will. But in so doing, you have inadvertently saddled yourselves with a certain obligation.\u2019<\/p>\n

A man of around forty with razor-sharp features took a step forwards.<\/p>\n

\u2018Please explain. I assume you are speaking on behalf\u2013\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Let\u2019s not mention his name here,\u2019 De Tepenec cut him short. \u2018But I understand your question and the answer is yes.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018That\u2019s what I wanted more clarity about. This is a most unusual course of affairs.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Clarity is not what we are here for. That which will be divulged to you, you must not discuss, neither amongst yourselves nor with your nearest and dearest. You must not write about it either, even if every fibre of your being may implore you to do so. You will only do what I tell you to do. And that will demand the utmost of your many talents.\u2019<\/p>\n

A brief silence descended on the group.<\/p>\n

\u2018Is that why we have gathered in this particular place?\u2019 asked one of the two men who had not yet spoken. He scratched his beard, which was just as unkempt as the unruly tufts of hair on his head. \u2018Walls have ears. The sky overhears everything, but never breathes a word.\u2019<\/p>\n

De Tepenec nodded in agreement.<\/p>\n

\u2018Ah, very shrewd of you,\u2019 the man resumed. \u2018I have only just arrived in this most beautiful city, and already I cannot stop marvelling.\u2019 He winked at his compatriot standing beside him. The man failed to react. Broad-shouldered, he effectively occupied the space of two men.<\/p>\n

\u2018Your words intrigue me,\u2019 he said, his voice as bronzed as his body. \u2018And yet they carry a flavour of something distasteful. I am a free man. This sounds as if you seek to change this.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Nobody is free, Mr Spranger,\u2019 De Tepenec replied. \u2018We are all tied to the past, present and future.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018And tied to the person you do not wish to name.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018To him too.\u2019<\/p>\n

De Tepenec pointed a finger to the upper part of the city where he had lived his entire life.<\/p>\n

\u2018In recent years, this city has grown into a refuge for people like you. Artists, scientists, alchemists. Freethinkers. Whatever a man believes, here he is free to believe it. Prague is the light. But I need not tell you that there are many who wish to put an end to this. Dark clouds of fanaticism and intolerance are gathering over us.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I think we all understand what you are referring to,\u2019 the youngest man present said. To both him and the others this had been the principle reason for leaving their homeland and family.<\/p>\n

\u2018Understanding is not enough,\u2019 De Tepenec responded. \u2018I ask of you \u2013 nay, demand<\/em> that you do something about it. As of today, you will pass your days as you are wont to pass them. Your days are yours. Your nights, however, are mine.\u2019<\/p>\n

At that he resumed his stroll down one of the many paths crisscrossing the garden, followed after a moment\u2019s hesitation by the four others.<\/p>\n

\u2018I do not appreciate being spoken to in this manner!\u2019 the man with the bony face exclaimed. Having caught up with De Tepenec, he was now walking beside him. \u2018I am busy unravelling the mysteries of life. It is both my vocation and my profession. Neither of them allows any other pursuits. I wish you all a good day and the very best of luck in your endeavours, whatever they may be.\u2019<\/p>\n

The man prepared to leave.<\/p>\n

\u2018Mr Kepler, sir, you will stay.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Are you forcing me?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018If I do not express myself clearly enough,\u2019 De Tepenec said forcefully, \u2018then please allow me to make amends. Any one of you who walks away now, no matter how exalted his reputation, any one of you who trumpets what I am about to divulge to you effectively signs his own death warrant. It is a fate you will share with all the unfortunate ones you confided in.\u2019<\/p>\n

The four men were used to intimidations: their work, their ideas, they all provoked resistance. This time, however, the shock quelled any form of protest. He understood their bewilderment. They knew him as an erudite botanist and art lover \u2013 an ally in their quest for truth and beauty.<\/p>\n

\u2018I am sorry to have demanded your full attention in this manner,\u2019 he resumed quietly. \u2018But I am glad I have it now.\u2019<\/p>\n

The man with the fleshy cheeks looked at the fearful faces around him.<\/p>\n

\u2018What do you want from us?\u2019 he asked timidly.<\/p>\n

\u2018Your accomplishments have preceded you. That is what brought you here, to the heart of the nation, the centre of civilisation. And that is certainly no mean feat. But it pales into insignificance compared to the task that awaits us. Remember those dark clouds I referred to earlier?\u2019<\/p>\n

All those present nodded. De Tepenec smiled as he looked up at the grey sky.<\/p>\n

\u2018It is your task, gentlemen, to cleave them with an eternal ray of light.\u2019<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

1<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Rotterdam, the present<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Three months, five days and this final, wakeful night \u2013 that\u2019s how long Zina Welter has not set foot outside the house. This is where she has been eating, sleeping, screaming and crying. This is where she has lost herself and found something else in return. From a few metres away she looks at the 243 sheets of paper that cover the living room wall. There\u2019s handwritten text on each one of them, accompanied by illustrations. She walks over to the wall. Only then does it become clear that the texts have not been written in Roman script, nor in Arabic, Cyrillic, Chinese or whatever known alphabet. An age-old manuscript, consisting of hundreds of pages covered in assured, flowing handwriting that nobody\u2019s ever been able to decipher. She starts ripping the sheets off the wall, one after the other, and stacking them up. The top page boasts a stamp with a crest: Lux et veritas<\/em>. Underneath it are the words Yale University<\/em> Library. Gift of Hans P. Kraus. <\/em>Something else has been added in pencil in the top left-hand corner of the card: Beinecke Library <\/em>MS <\/em>408<\/em>. Yale\u2019s university library is home to the original. Not so long ago, the study of unique manuscripts such as this one was the preserve of a handful of scholars. In the digital age, it\u2019s a question of downloading and printing a PDF. The stack disappears into her wheeled suitcase. Done. Now all that\u2019s left on the wall is a print-out of a black-and-white photograph of a man with a severe profile and a goatee. For months now, he\u2019s been peering at her scornfully through small round glasses. She gives him a wave.<\/p>\n

\u2018See you in a couple of days, Wilfrid.\u2019<\/p>\n

She looks at the curtains, made of blackout fabric. When did she last open them? Her memory, so accurate in many areas, fails her now. Curtains. Walls. They\u2019ve done their job. Perhaps a bit too well. It\u2019s the kind of gradual process that sees something protective turn into something obstructive. Abruptly, she yanks both sides apart, the sliding runners sounding fresh to her ears.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s already light outside. She squeezes her eyes when confronted with the rising sun. Zina takes her suitcase and walks into the hallway. A slight tremor in the hand that rests on the door knob. A last moment of doubt.<\/p>\n

Then she opens the door. Step by step, she shuffles down the garden path. On the screen of her phone she can track the red dot of an approaching Uber. When she looks up, she sees a Volkswagen the size of a tank pulling up. According to the app, the driver\u2019s name is Yussuf. He turns out to be a friendly looking, skinny man, who takes her suitcase without a word and places it in the boot of the car. From the back seat, she watches real life pass by: a man walking his dog, a bike secured to a lamp post. These normal things are strangely overwhelming, as if she\u2019s seeing and hearing them all for the first time. It was a good decision to take a taxi for this first part of her journey. The window screens the outside world, allowing her to slowly get used to it again.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

[\u2026]<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

[Pages 17-21]<\/p>\n

2<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2018Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Losers\u2019 Ball. Welcome to the Voynich Weekend.\u2019<\/p>\n

There are some forty people in the room, predominantly white men, mostly middle-aged, with receding hairlines and baggy sweatshirts to hide the excess weight. Among them, a few stand out: a pale, lanky man, who\u2019s sharply suited and booted; a woman with blue hair and full sleeve tattoos on both arms; the man next to her in a washed-out brown T-shirt sporting a combination of letters and digits.<\/p>\n

NTF131755.<\/p>\n

NTF could be an abbreviation. Is there a logical sequence in the numbers? 1-3-1-7-5-5. It\u2019s not Fibonacci. Something else perhaps?<\/p>\n

\u2018My name is Simon Walcott,\u2019 the speaker resumes. Zina puts him in his late thirties. His right hand moves from the lectern to his head and ruffles his slightly greying curls.<\/p>\n

\u2018You\u2019ll notice that I crack lots of bad jokes when I\u2019m nervous. My apologies in advance. I\u2019m at my best when I\u2019ve got my nose buried in a book. However, as the organiser it appears to be my duty to welcome you to this event. As you probably all know, I\u2019m the man behind voynichvoices.com \u2013 a website, or perhaps I should say online platform, entirely dedicated to the Voynich Manuscript. Worldwide, it\u2019s the biggest stage for discussion of this mystery, which plays such an important role in our lives. In that capacity I\u2019m also the forum moderator.\u2019<\/p>\n

He pauses a moment during which time he rolls up his shirt sleeves to reveal a pair of muscular underarms.<\/p>\n

\u2018Our quest began more than a hundred years ago when, tradition has it, Polish book dealer Wilfrid Voynich unearthed the manuscript in an Italian monastery. With that, he both discovered and lent his name to the greatest puzzle of all time. More than two hundred unreadable pages of riddle, enigma and mystery. Whatever the outside world may think, the fact remains that this is the Mount Everest of cryptology. And we\u2019re the mountaineers. This is no easy voyage. Since Voynich\u2019s discovery, the world\u2019s greatest cryptographers have been working on it, all trying to decipher the manuscript. To no effect. We can\u2019t blame them. The Voynich appears to have materialised out of thin air. A singularity. No other document using the same writing system has ever been found. We have no Rosetta Stone. We don\u2019t know if the symbols can be translated into Latin, medieval Italian or whatever language. The illustrations are equally mysterious. Hundreds of plants, but what are they? Nobody knows. Objects of which we can\u2019t say with any certainty what they represent, curious astrological tables \u2013 the list is endless.\u2019<\/p>\n

Walcott looks up from his notes and glances around the audience.<\/p>\n

\u2018The Voynich, as you can see around you, is something for born losers. Masochists. Hopeless romantics. People who gain satisfaction from unending pain and humiliation. We\u2019re scum, my dear guests, working on a doomed mission. The laughing stock of the scientific world. Let\u2019s be honest, faced with these odds it\u2019s nice to be surrounded by people who\u2019re just as deranged as we are. A short break from our computer screens, spent among likeminded folks. That\u2019s why I came up with the idea for an actual Voynich Weekend some years ago. Since then, I\u2019ve organised this great event at this dream location once a year.\u2019<\/p>\n

His words draw some isolated chuckles from the audience. When the taxi pulled up outside the building in Brixton in South London, Zina wondered briefly if she got the address wrong. A drab community centre, with windows covered in a thin coat of dust and grime. Tentatively, she had walked in. A plasticized poster affixed to the flipover in the lobby welcomed her to the Voynich Weekend in a swirly font. The arrow underneath had pointed her to one of the rooms in the back.<\/p>\n

\u2018We have three speakers with us this evening,\u2019 Walcott resumed. \u2018Tomorrow, when we have our expert-led workshops, we\u2019ll be looking more closely at various aspects of the manuscript. The programme is concluded with a drinks reception. Have an exciting weekend, ladies and gentlemen, before you all return to your humdrum lives.\u2019<\/p>\n

He extends his arm invitingly to someone in the front row.<\/p>\n

\u2018Our first speaker needs no introduction. Please put your hands together for the mammoth among Voynichologists, the first among equals, Professor Svoboda.\u2019<\/p>\n

To polite applause, a man in the front row rises to his feet. He has a full, dark beard, and his stocky body is dressed in a classic tweed jacket. Svoboda. Zina knows the name from the online forum. He signs off each of his commentaries with his full name and position. So this is Professor Jan Svoboda, professor in Medieval History at Masaryk University in Brno in the Czech Republic. Nerves are starting to get the better of her. Not long now and she\u2019ll be standing there. Her article is good, but having lived digitally for so long she\u2019ll have to present it with unpractised vocal chords. For ages she didn\u2019t utter more than a couple of sentences at a time: an exchange of pleasantries with the neighbours, a few words to the supermarket delivery guys \u2013 that\u2019s it.<\/p>\n

Svoboda\u2019s presentation reaches her in snippets. A powerful baritone holding forth on his latest approach, in which he aims to find blocks of text that may or may not be in the manuscript. Popping up on the screen behind him is a piece of text from the Voynich that looks like a poem. In a tone that suggests he has all but won the race, the man drones on about well-known poems from the renaissance, which he intends to superimpose, one by one, on this text, in search of a match. The professor rounds off his talk and, to more polite applause, stares defiantly at the audience.<\/p>\n

Simon Walcott announces a short coffee break. A few tables line the back wall of the room. Two chrome tea and coffee urns are waiting for them. Zina feels uncomfortable as she joins the gathering, half of whom clearly know each other, while the rest is made up of loners like her. Small islands in the ocean, jealously watching the chatty continent beside them.<\/p>\n

The Voynich is real.<\/em><\/p>\n

The thought keeps repeating itself, like a mantra. The manuscript is not a figment of her imagination. It actually exists. And she\u2019s not the only one for whom its mystery is irresistible. She knew that, but apparently needed to have it confirmed.<\/p>\n

The Voynich is real.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u2018Pardon? Zina?\u2019<\/p>\n

Zina spins on her heels and finds herself staring into two friendly, grey-blue eyes. Simon Walcott.<\/p>\n

\u2018Hello. I\u2019m Simon.\u2019 He extends his hand.<\/p>\n

\u2018Oh… hello,\u2019 Zina stammers, while shaking his hand. \u2018How did you know it was me?\u2019<\/p>\n

Walcott points to the little blue sticker with her name. Like everybody else here, she slapped it onto her chest upon arrival.<\/p>\n

\u2018Oh.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018You don\u2019t have a profile picture on the forum, so you left me no choice but to resort to these kinds of tricks.\u2019 He flashes a grin.<\/p>\n

\u2018I forgive you.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I wasn\u2019t entirely sure if you\u2019d come. I mean, I only know you through the forum. And through email, of course. I actually tried to call you.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I haven\u2019t been answering my phone recently.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Ah.\u2019<\/p>\n

Her first real conversation. So far so good.<\/p>\n

\u2018Do you mind if I ask you a question, Simon?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Shoot!\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018The man sitting next to me is wearing a T-shirt with the letters NTF, followed by 131755. Do you know what that means?\u2019<\/p>\n

Simon smiles. \u2018That\u2019s Chester. He literally lives in that shirt. It\u2019s to do with Yamamoto.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018What\u2019s Yamamoto?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018The Japanese General Yamamoto. The mastermind behind the surprise attack on Pearl Harbour. By breaking a Japanese code the Americans managed to ascertain when Yamamoto would be paying an inspection visit to occupied New Guinea. It\u2019s the number of the intercepted message that led to the downing of his aircraft.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Interesting.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018He\u2019s a real freak about that sort of thing. Privacy, that kind of area. Extremely distrustful of our beloved government. I personally don\u2019t really buy into all that paranoid stuff, but he\u2019s right about one thing. In the course of history, codes have claimed as many lives as they\u2019ve saved. I\u2019m curious to see what the Voynich code will mean to us.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Me too.\u2019<\/p>\n

Walcott has a brief look around before leaning towards her.<\/p>\n

\u2018And you think your plan will succeed?\u2019 he asks softly.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translated by Laura Vroomen<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Donald Nolet – The Devil\u2019s Handwriting \u00a0 [pages 7-12] \u00a0 Prague, November 1610 It was a city of heights and depths. Spires reached up towards the sky. Bridges bedecked with spikes leaned across the Vltava. Yet at the same time, each visible structure had roots reaching back hundreds of years. In the bold, indomitable houses…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1135,"featured_media":0,"parent":26335,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-25566","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/wpg-api\/wp\/v2\/pages\/25566","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/wpg-api\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/wpg-api\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/wpg-api\/wp\/v2\/users\/1135"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/wpg-api\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=25566"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/wpg-api\/wp\/v2\/pages\/25566\/revisions"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/wpg-api\/wp\/v2\/pages\/26335"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/foreignrights.debezigebij.nl\/wpg-api\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=25566"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}