The Lens and the Looker (Book #1 of The Verona Trilogy)

by Lory Kaufman

  "Hey!" Lincoln complained.

  "Giuseppe, what in the . . ." the Signora began.

  "This one! This one!" the Master shouted, pointing at Lincoln. "He broke the Podesta's spectacles. The most perfect lenses I ever made, shattered."

  "He broke the Podesta's commission!" the Signora cried, putting her hands to her face. "But I told you he's coming to get them soon! I invited him."

  "Why do you think I'm yelling?" the Master roared. "To gain grace with Heaven?"

  Shamira looked at the serious faces around the table. All but one. Hansum was acting as if he were watching a delightful theatrical play produced expressly for his benefit.

  "This is a great story," he said out loud.

  "What!" the Master screamed. "You think this is funny?"

  "Sorry, sorry," Hansum said. He cleared his throat and said dramatically, "Master, we can finish the lens quickly enough, can we not? We've almost finished the front part."

  "Hmm. It will take half an hour to finish the lens so it matches the other," the Master calculated aloud, "and an hour to fit it to the frame. Yes, we can do it. Wife, take this meat and keep it for the Podesta. Offer it to him to increase the delay of bringing him to the shop. Don't let it dry out."

  "Hey, that's my chicken," Lincoln complained. "I'm still hungry!"

  The Master's eyes went wide with rage. He looked as if he were about to explode. The Signora intervened.

  "Maruccio, we all must stop our meal. It is very important. The Master is the only spectacle maker in Verona. All other spectacles are made in Venice and Murano. The Podesta there wants our Podesta to close our shop so they can retain a monopoly on discs for the eyes. The pair you broke was a gift to keep the nobleman our friend."

  "But I'm still hungry . . ." Lincoln began, but Hansum kicked him under the table. Then he said dejectedly, "Okay."

  "You can count on us, Master!" Hansum added.

  ***

  Pan, who was perched in Hansum's shoulder hem, was sitting next to Shamira. He had been spying around the room, taking everything in, still working on a plan to disrupt.

  "Bingo!" he said to himself. "Mistress Shamira, I spy by the shelf some herbs that have been hung to dry. The one on the end is called the cassia, or senna plant. Its leaves are most potent in the way of a laxative. Without bringing suspicion upon yourself, grind up some of the leaves, soak them and let the piece of chicken marinate in the senna juices. It will create a very humorous outcome when the Podesta visits and eats the chicken." The edges of Shamira's mouth crept up in a smile. "The rest of my plan for disruption is almost complete. I shall inform you of it when we are all together in the shop."

  "Romero, why do you still sit there by Carmella?" the Master growled. "We've work to do. Andiamo!" he said and hurried the boys out the door.

  ***

  Shamira was once again left in the house with the Signora.

  "Come, Carmella," the Signora said after the men left. "We have work to do."

  "Do you want me to marinate and wrap the chicken in a cloth to keep it moist, like Master Cagliari asked?" enquired Shamira.

  "Why Carmella, what a good girl to ask. Yes, you do that and I will tidy the place. It must be just so for our noble guest. After all, the Podesta lives in a palace."

  So, while the Signora was busy tidying, Shamira used her new herb grinding skills to spice up the Podesta's next meal in a way that the enactors weren't expecting.

  Chapter 16

  Lincoln was back to sweeping in the shop, but occasionally Hansum would ask him to fetch this or that supply so he wouldn't have to leave Master Cagliari's side. And for some reason Lincoln couldn't explain, he actually tried not to make a mistake when fetching things. He was in a better mood too, now that his stomach was full of bread, oil and wine. But it rankled at him that his piece of chicken was being given to that Podesta guy. Then came the first stomach gurgle. 'Wow, that was loud,' he said to himself as he put a hand to where the noise came from.

  A few minutes later, the Master removed the finished lens from the lathe and went over to the assembly table. He methodically began removing shards of glass from the broken half of the spectacle. Then the Master started to install the new lens in the cleaned opening of the frame. Once again, Lincoln found himself fascinated, not only with how neatly the Master worked, but also with his patience. Then it happened again. Lincoln's stomach growled so loudly that both Hansum and Pan heard it.

  "Whoa!" Hansum said.

  "Your digestive system probably isn`t used to only eating bread for a meal, especially with several goblets of wine, watered down or not," Pan whispered. "And the profuse amounts of olive oil must be causing the whole mess to travel through your digestive track with great haste."

  "I never felt like this before," Lincoln groaned.

  "Probably because at home you wouldn't get away with eating such unbalanced meals," Hansum said.

  "There, it's goin' away," Lincoln said, breathing a sigh of relief. Then he hiccupped.

  "You two," the Master ordered without looking up from his work, "stop talking!"

  ***

  Hansum took Lincoln aside and, making like he was talking to Lincoln, mumbled quietly, "Pan, do you have enough input to disrupt yet?"

  "If Mistress Shamira has been able to effect what I asked her to do in the kitchen," Pan whispered back to both of them, "she`ll have done her part. Now, this is what I have in mind for you two." Pan told the boys how each of them was going to cause the best-made plans of the History Camp elders and A.I.s to go bad.

  "That's fantastic," Hansum said.

  "And mean," Lincoln added. "I love it!"

  "I'm finished," the Master said, looking up from his labors. "And no thanks to all your chattering. When I say quiet, I mean no talking."

  The door to the shop opened. The Signora walked in, followed by the tall Podesta della Scalla and Shamira.

  "Husband, look who's here," the Signora said. "Our Podesta."

  Master Cagliari was already on his feet. He went over and kissed the Podesta's hand.

  "Welcome, Excellency. Welcome again to my shop," he said bowing and genuflecting repeatedly.

  "Grazie, Giuseppe, grazie. Is that them? My new discs for the eyes?" he said, looking over at spectacles on the table. "Spettacolare!"

  "Yes, Excellency, the finest discs for the eyes I have ever produced. Just for you. Not even Florence could produce the like."

  "May I?"

  "Of course, Excellency. They are yours." The enactor playing Mastino della Scalla picked up the spectacles from the velvet cloth, perched them on the bridge of his long nose and looked at an open book on the table. He moved his face back and forth to get the right focal length.

  "Spettacolare," he repeated, smiling. "The clearest lenses I ever used. Not a single scratch or bubble in the glass," and then he shook the other enactor's hand enthusiastically. The teens, on the other hand, weren't showing much of anything. They were listening to Pan.

  "The real Podesta Mastino II della Scalla would never have visited a workman's shop and stood around making idle chat. At the height of his powers, Mastino II was the second richest man in Europe. Only the king of France was wealthier. Of course, he did have his comeuppance and his wealth was seriously diminished. But even then he was a force to be reckoned with."

  "When do we get to disrupt?" Lincoln mumbled quietly.

  "If Mistress Shamira thoroughly marinated the chicken with the laxative and the Podesta ate it, then it has all begun."

  "Done and done," Shamira whispered.

  "You children!" the Master said sternly. "Do not speak when we have such a guest! Not unless you are spoken to."

  "Remember to do and say exactly what I tell you all."

  "Giuseppe, thank you so much for such a wonderful gift," the Podesta said. "You are a true craftsman. I shall do everything I can to help you establish a lensmaking business in Verona. Ah, these must be your new apprentices," he said turning to the boys.

  "Let the g
ames begin," Pan whispered.

  Chapter 17

  "Bow. Bow to the Podesta," Pan whispered to the teens with his sonic beam. "Make them believe you're playing along."

  Hansum bowed from the waist. "Buon giorno, Podesta della Scalla. My name is Romero."

  "Romero, I told you to speak only when you are spoken to," the Master chided.

  "That's okay, Giuseppe," the Podesta enactor said. He inspected Hansum. "He speaks well, like an educated young man. This once I shall forgive him his error of etiquette. I thought he is fresh from the country?"

  "Only this morning, Excellency," the Master said.

  "Your Master tells me you have promise as a lensmaker. What do you say to this, young Romero?"

  "However I may help my master. I will do it, Excellency." Pan whispered in Hansum's ear.

  "However I may help, my master, I will do it, Excellency," Hansum parroted.

  The three enactors perked up their ears at these words.

  "Well said, young man," the Podesta offered. He put the spectacles back on his nose and they promptly fell off. He had to lurch forward in a very ungentlemanly fashion, catching them before they fell to the floor.

  "See!" Lincoln said. "It could happen to anyone. And he has a big nose."

  "Maruccio, I said speak only when spoken to!" the Master said gruffly.

  Lincoln glared back at the Master, and then smiled wryly.

  "So tell me, new apprentice Romero," the Podesta continued, "as a young man with a possible future in the lensmaking business, could you imagine a day when discs for the eyes not only help people do their close work, but also help to see far?"

  "Oh, that is impossible, Excellency," the Master interrupted. "A faraway object becomes blurred to the eye, with even the finest lenses. If you hold the lens at arm's length, the image will become sharp, but be upside down and small."

  "Upside down, you say? Truly?"

  "Yes. Hold your spectacles at arm's length and see."

  The Podesta did so and acted amazed. "Fascinating."

  "Oh, our perfect opportunity," Pan whispered with enthusiasm. "Hansum, say, not necessarily, Master."

  "Not necessarily, Master," Hansum repeated.

  "What was that, Romero?" the Master asked.

  "Not necessarily, Master."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "A lens can be ground that would correct a person's vision and allow them to see at a distance." Hansum repeated Pan's words aloud.

  "Don't talk nonsense," the Master laughed. "You've been here a day and already you're an expert? A savant? Ha."

  "Allow me to explain."

  "Allow me to explain," Hansum repeated.

  "It's impossible, boy. Speak no more of it," Master Cagliari ordered.

  "Let's hear what he has to say," the Podesta suggested.

  The Master took a deep breath and looked suspiciously at Hansum.

  "After grinding your regular convex lens . . ." Pan started.

  "After grinding your regular convex lens..."

  " . . . instead of turning the lens over and polishing it flat, you create a concave lens within the convex one . . ."

  Hansum repeated the operation of polishing a concave shape within the convex one.

  "You are talking foolishly," the Master contested. "If the lens is the same shape on both the outside and inside, it will be as if it is flat. It will not bend the image."

  "Ah, but if you make the inner grinding at a different angle, the difference between the outer and inner. . ." Pan continued feeding Hansum lines as he went.

  ". . . will magnify or diminish the image as you wish... So, with the proper adjustments to this configuration... you will create spectacles for people to see clearly at a distance."

  The three enactors stood motionless, all looking suspiciously at Hansum. Then all at once their shoulders seem to droop. The Master and Signora put their heads down, as if to say that all their work today had been a waste. The Signora enactor turned to the other two, "I would say we have a geniuso here."

  The Master grunted.

  "Uhhhhh!" Suddenly the enactor playing the Podesta groaned and grabbed his stomach. He looked up, a pained grimace covering his face, and hyperventilated.

  "What's wrong, Signor Podesta?" Hansum asked sincerely.

  "Stomachache?" Shamira enquired, looking innocent.

  "Something you ate, maybe?" Lincoln asked sarcastically.

  "What's the matter, Georgie?" the female enactor asked the now doubled-over enactor. "Are you ill?"

  "Must have . . ." he managed to say, ". . . been the . . ." he gasped, " . . . chicken."

  "Yeah, my chicken!" Lincoln said angrily. "And I'm still hungry."

  "Find a way to break his spectacles again." Pan urged. "Don't be afraid. Break them."

  "Don't worry about me being afraid," Lincoln said, stepping forward and looking the Podesta in the eye. "Hey, Mr. Podunka, did they tell you how we had to fix your new specs cause I broke them?" He grabbed the tortoiseshell spectacles from the enactor and put them on his own nose. "Just like this!" and he flung out his arms and bowed. This time the spectacles fell to the ground flat. Both the lenses and the frame shattered.

  "Geniuso," the Podesta groaned.

  "For sure," the Signora added, no accent in her voice. She took hold of her pained associate's arm as he began to slump to the floor.

  "What did you hard cases do?" the enactor playing the Master asked accusingly?

  "Did you poison him?" the Signora asked.

  The fellow playing the Podesta now jerked up straight and grabbed his buttocks with both hands. A look of absolute surprise came to his face.

  "Nothing that serious," a grinning Hansum said.

  "Now it's you with the stomachache," Lincoln laughed. "How do you like it?"

  "Are you all right, Georgie?"

  A long, shrill raspberry came from the Podesta's clutched bottom.

  "I'm doing a spectral analysis of the enactor's sweat," whispered Pan with a laugh. "His discomfort should be relieved soon. Any moment now."

  "Stand back, he's gonna blow!" Lincoln shouted.

  "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh!" the now pale enactor squealed. He bunny-hopped towards the door, his buttocks even more firmly clenched. "Oh my, oh no, oh no!" he said with fear and absolutely no Italian accent. He hopped again. Then he penguin-walked quickly out the door, a long, whining fart escaping from him. The woman enactor ran out with him.

  All three teens were doubled up in fits of laughter. The enactor playing the Master took off his specs and looked deep in thought. He tapped his temple and looked down to his right, obviously getting a message on his implant. He grunted, took a breath and stood up straight. He glared at the children and started shouting in character again.

  "You shame me? You insult me? You disgrace yourselves in front of our noble guest?"

  Lincoln stopped laughing and stood his ground.

  "You gave him my dinner!"

  "You're hungry?" the enactor shouted back. "You'll get no food from my table! Get over there with your ungrateful friends." He pushed Lincoln away. "You're all thankless, monstrous children," the Master raged.

  "Listen, Giuseppe, or whatever your name is," Hansum said, "you seem like a nice guy and you're a hell of an actor, but we don't want to play anymore."

  "I want to go home!" Shamira insisted.

  "You gave away my chicken!"

  "You think this is play?" the Master spat. "This is work! You must do it! If you do not work, you do not eat. If you do not eat, you perish! There are many starving youths who ask me every month if I will become their master. And you won't work?"

  "Giuseppe, give it up," Hansum said.

  "And don't dare call me by my Christian name," he yelled. "You haven't earned the right. I am your MASTER!!" His face had become a deep purple. The veins on his neck bulged out. He took a half step forward and towered over Lincoln. Looking down at him, he growled his next command. Spittle flew in the boy's face. "All of you go to the loft
. Stay there till I say otherwise. I must think what to do with you."

  But Lincoln wouldn't have any of it. "No way, Giuseppe!" he cried, and then he stomped on the Master's foot.

  "Owww!" the enactor screamed, accentless. His big hands became like claws as he curled his blush-stained fingers with the pain. Then he opened one of them a slapped Lincoln on the head.

  "Aaaaaaaah!" Lincoln screamed. "That hurt!" and he hurled himself at the Master, pummeling the large man's abdomen. Hansum grabbed Lincoln and pulled him back toward the open shop door. Lincoln struggled and almost got free, till Shamira jumped in and helped Hansum pull him away. The enactor rocked back and forth on his heels, trying to take his weight off his bruised toes.

  "Come on, man," Hansum urged. "Let's get outta here."

  "You'll have some explaining to do when I tell on you," Lincoln screamed. "You'll be in big trouble! You hit me! You not supposed to hit! I'm going to tell my mom!"

  "Go to the loft and STAY there!" the Master shouted. "Get out, get out! Get out of my shop!" And then he picked up a chair and threw it against the wall. It splintered into pieces. The three teenagers had never seen an adult so out of control. But Lincoln kept struggling.

  "Stop," Shamira urged Lincoln. "You've really made him mad! He's not acting."

  "I said go to the loft!" the Master screamed. "NOW!" he bellowed in a voice so loud the teenagers froze on the spot. "GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

  Chapter 18

  Several hours later, the sun was setting and the children were still in the loft of the barn. Hansum was looking out the haymow door, keeping an eye on the house to see if and when the enactors were coming to see them.

  Shamira was drawing. She had taken a piece of paper from the kitchen and slipped it in her apron pocket. Using a piece of charcoal she found in the barn, she was sketching a picture of the holographic imp. Pan, though only a projection and not beholden to the laws of the universe, was making it look as if he were swinging on the top rung of the loft's ladder, occasionally doing a handstand, till Shamira chided him to pose again.

  "They just lit a lamp," Hansum informed the others. "I can see them through the window now. They're sitting at the table, talking." He turned to Pan. "What do you think they're discussing?"

  "How should I know? I'm a hologram, not a mind reader."

  "What do you mean, I'm just a hologram?" Hansum asked. "You're the one who got them so mad at us."

  "Isn't that what you wanted?"

  "But the game didn't last very long," Hansum complained. "It wasn't much fun."