The Eye Stone

by Roberto Tiraboschi

  Ademaro had explained to him that he had to go beyond the canal that cut the agglomeration of smaller islands into two sections. He looked for a bridge or a passageway but could not find one. He did, however, see many scaulas that shuttled from one shore to another, transporting people, goods, and even horses and other animals. He paid a quartarolo* and asked to be taken to the other side of the canal. Here too, there was a multitude of tradesmen crowding beneath the portico of a church. Edgardo made his way amidst the chaos of baskets overflowing with fruit and vegetables, cages with birds, cackling hens, rising pyramids of melons leaning against the pillars, amidst the shouts, disorder and swearing, to the edge of the campo where buildings were scarcer and the landscape was different.

  The view was almost that of the countryside, with fields lush with grass, and privet bushes alternating with mudflats, mushy, treacherous land that emerged just below the water surface. Edgardo stepped gingerly amidst an intersection of streams and rivulets, sometimes crossing shallow waters or using barely visible wooden bridges or simple planks thrown between two banks. Escorted by a powerful stench of putrefying fish guts and rotting grass, he wondered if he would ever find this wretched crystal-maker known as Zoto.

  When he began to despair of ever reaching his goal, he suddenly came out onto a large grassy campo shaded by elms and lime trees, where pigs, geese, and hens were quietly grazing. The far end of the campo was closed off by a church and surrounded by dwellings and warehouses. He approached a group of children who were amusing themselves by dismembering rats and feeding them to a sow in the shade of the bell tower, and asked the way. They confirmed that this was, indeed, the Church of San Giacomo di Luprio, and added, laughing, that Zoto was behind the campo, next to the saltworks.

  The fact that he was on the right path was confirmed by the unbelievable crunching sound made by his every step. It was like walking on a blanket of broken bones. Then came the light. A blinding glow hit him in the eyes. A widespread flash, like an almost unnatural explosion of ice, forced him to shield his face with his hand. As he walked, the glare became more and more unbearable, to the point where he began to fear for his ailing eyes. The air was permeated with a sour, metallic smell that burned his lungs with every breath.

  Before him there were wide swaths of swamp surrounded by banks of earth so as to form pools, while a system of minor canals drained the water coming in and out, making the salty liquid evaporate in the sun and leaving behind large patches of salt crystals.

  At the edge of the saltworks there were buildings made of gray wood, pressed close together both for support and for protection against the saltpeter, as well as a huge windmill with large sails that cast a bit of shadow on that blinding clearing.

  Edgardo plucked up his courage and shouted, “I’m looking for Zoto, the crystal-maker!” but his voice slid away, useless over the white surfaces.

  “Karamago the merchant sent me!” he shouted again.

  Only then did he hear a log rolling inside one of the huts, followed by a rhythmical grumbling like the sail of a watermill.

  “The canker on you! Here I am—who’s calling?”

  A man appeared on the threshold of the hut, short and square like a die, with legs and arms half the normal length, long locks of hair on the nape of his neck that fluttered like a sail in the wind with every step. He walked slowly and with a limp. A severe limp. Karamago was right, thought Edgardo, the nickname Zoto suited him to perfection.

  Together, Zoto and the Crooked One would have made a good team. All they needed was a dwarf, and they could have served as entertainment at the banquet of a prince.

  Perhaps it was precisely Edgardo’s crooked gait, and the hump on his chest protruding beneath his habit, that stopped the crystal-maker from chasing away the intruder.

  “I am Edgardo d’Arduino,” he said, giving him a level gaze, “a cleric from Bobbio.”

  “Jacopo, known as Zoto,” the other man replied, rolling his bovine eyes. “Come inside.”

  They walked into a dark room, lit only by a gash in the thatched roof and an oil lamp hanging by the workbench, to which were attached a grip and an abrasive emery wheel for polishing and shaping the crystal. Zoto studied Edgardo in great detail, cautious and mistrustful.

  “What do you want, monk?”

  Once again, Edgardo felt that sense of frailty and uncertainty, as though the world around him were about to collapse on top of him. Trying not to give away too much, he told Zoto about the rumors he had heard concerning stones for the eyes, and that Karamago had pointed him in his direction.

  To start with, the crystal-maker listened absentmindedly whilst tampering with his tools, but when he discovered that the cleric was a copyist from the Abbey of San Giorgio, his attitude immediately changed. He began showing off all his wares: buttons, handles, chalices, and candlesticks.

  “I want to show you something that will make your eyes pop out,” he said, opening a trunk he kept hidden under a rug in a dark corner. “Here’s my masterpiece.” From a crimson cloth he pulled a cross carved out of rock crystal. “Have you ever seen anything so wonderful? God himself guided my hand.”

  Edgardo was dazzled. An almost supernatural light glowed through this symbol of Our Lord’s sacrifice.

  “It was commissioned by a Germanic prince for his future bride. See the perfection of the cut, the light. I created it from a single block of crystal. It’s worth a fortune.”

  Edgardo nodded. “And do you know anything about the stone for the eyes? Have you ever seen it?”

  “Yes, of course, I’ve heard it produces miracles, but the first thing you need is crystal—rock crystal. The first element, nature’s purest. The only one that possesses miraculous powers.” He drew closer to Edgardo. “Unfortunately, crystal is extremely rare and so very expensive. If you want your eye stone, monk, we must obtain crystal.”

  Zoto seemed very sure of himself, but wasn’t being very clear about how the stones had to be used. Edgardo became defensive.

  “You need at least ten dinars for that kind of job,” Zoto concluded.

  “That’s a huge sum.”

  “Rock crystal, good quality rock crystal, has its price, but in the end, you’ll see, you’ll be pleased with the job.”

  “As you can imagine, a monk doesn’t have that kind of money . . . ”

  Zoto’s attitude suddenly changed. His muscles stiffened, transforming his body into a block of stone, and his face turned purple. “You lazy monk!” he shouted. “Do you take me for a fool? You come here to beg for a miracle for your sick eyes and you expect me to work without a proper reward?”

  “That’s not what I said—” Edgardo tried to reply.

  “You wasted my time and now you don’t have any money on you?”

  Zoto drew even closer, with an aggressive air, and Edgardo realized, with some surprise, that he himself was walking backwards toward the door, defenseless and incapable of reacting.

  “You pig of a monk, you’ve got to pay me, you understand? You’ve just commissioned a job and now you’re going back on it?”

  “I’ve commissioned nothing . . . ” Edgardo realized that no logical argument would prevail on this man who had fallen prey to senseless, brutal anger.

  Zoto grabbed him with all his might and lifted him off the ground. “Are you going to pay, yes or no?”

  Edgardo felt himself dissolve, overwhelmed by terror.

  “Zoto, how dare you treat a servant of God like that?”

  He would have liked these words to have been spoken from his own mouth, but that was not the case. Behind them, a kind of brown, hairless bear was watching them, motionless. Zoto’s eyes grew wide as though he was hoping they would set fire to the apparition.

  “Stay out of this, Segrado.”

  “Let go of the monk,” the bear repeated.

  There and then, Edgardo felt useless and ridicu
lous. An empty shell with no spirit, no strength, battered by the current. He felt a surge of pride, wriggled free, and stepped away from Zoto who, taken aback, did not react.

  “That’s right, go to hell, freak . . . only remember, if you want your eye crystal then you have to come back to Zoto. Nobody else can help you.” He breathed out through his nostrils like an angry bull, and went back into his hut.

  It had all happened so quickly that Edgardo was shaken and bewildered. He gave a nod of thanks.

  “You’d better be careful with that animal. You mustn’t trust him. He’s a fine crystal-maker but he’d cut his own brother’s throat if there was money in it.”

  “He wanted money for the rock crystal in advance . . . ”

  Segrado burst into a wild laugh. “And you would have waited quite a while for your crystal. Zoto is always up to his neck in debt. He would’ve used your money to save his own ass . . . ” That said, he walked away toward a warehouse on the edge of the saltworks.

  “Do you work with him?” Edgardo asked, following him.

  “No, God help me. Zoto was the last card I had to play. I’ve lost everything in a fire and he was the only man left in Venetia who could hire me out an oven. He’s a nasty piece of work and people don’t want to do business with him, but I had no choice.” He paused on the threshold and indicated the oven. “Look, it’s in a really bad state but we’ll get it to work again . . . ”

  Inside, limonium bushes had grown on the dirt floor, the wall beams had come apart and were rotting, and you could glimpse large gashes of cloudy sky through the roof made of reeds and thatch. Only the oven, in the middle of the room, had withstood the ice and the salt. Edgardo heard something rustle inside the furnace, like a rat rummaging among the twigs. From the loading hole a head, an arm, and finally, with an acrobatic move, a body appeared. A slim, lithe body covered in ash and coal. An indescribable being, a cross between an exotic snake and a segment of creeper vine bursting with bluebells, like those he had seen drawn in the miniatures of his beloved manuscripts. Only after it had shaken off the layers of soot did Edgardo realize that the being in question was female.

  “Now empty it and clean it all out,” Segrado ordered.

  Kallis obeyed without even raising her head, almost as though, Edgardo thought, he was a mere ghost she had not seen.

  “So how did a cleric like you end up in the clutches of someone like Zoto?” Segrado asked. “Forgive me, I don’t even know your name.”

  “Edgardo. I am a copyist cleric at Bobbio.”

  “My name is Angelo Segrado, master glassmaker.”

  It felt natural for Edgardo to turn toward the girl, expecting to hear her name, but neither she nor the master seemed to consider that possibility, as though neither of them deemed her presence to be a reality.

  “Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but what does a copyist need with crystal? Surely not to make jewelry or buttons . . . ”

  It was such a far-fetched story. If he told everything to a stranger, he would be taken for a madman. And yet the hairy bear had something good-natured and reassuring about him. Moreover, he had saved him from that brute. If nothing else, courtesy demanded that he respond.

  He decided to let it out. “I’m losing my eyesight, and I’ve been told there is a stone for the eyes that can cure me.” A strange silence, like an empty pause, lay spread before him, so much so that Edgardo felt he had to add, “Without writing, my life has no sense.”

  His words created an opening. Segrado’s expression altered. A wave of understanding colored with melancholy seemed to break out of his animal body. Even Kallis looked up, surprised, and stared at him, trying to understand the reason for this transformation. That was when she saw Edgardo, perhaps for the first time.

  Segrado tightened his lips, as though trying to keep the words in, then said: “What exactly do you know about this stone?”

  “Nothing, just a story. Perhaps I’m clinging to a dream, perhaps God no longer wants my eyes to drink from the pages of a manuscript.”

  “God gave glassmakers the power of breath, and you the sharpness of the eyes, and to both of us He gave nimble fingers.” He turned the palms of his hands, as large as oars, toward the sky. “Our hands, though,” he said, “are like waves against the cliffs of a stormy sea: coarse and violent, while yours are like a clear stream that laps, penetrates, and shapes. The eyes of a scribe are a gift from God that men must keep and safeguard.”

  “May Our Lord hear you.” Edgardo thanked him, marveling at the glassmaker’s profound words. He looked like a simple man of humble origins, and yet he showed uncommon sensitivity, wisdom, and eloquence.

  Kallis had interrupted her work and gone to sit at his feet like a loyal dog, unwilling to move. She listened without taking her eyes off Edgardo. Maybe she had never seen such a poorly formed creature: crooked, hunchbacked, a shock of red hair exploding over a face as white as a baby’s bottom, dusted with freckles, and eyes so transparent you could see through into his very thoughts.

  “Maybe I could help you,” Segrado suddenly said. His knobbly hand slid over the girl’s head, slowly caressing it. “I’ve devoted my life to the search for the impossible,” he said, a look of defiance in his eye, “and I like people who follow their dreams . . . ”

  The cleric was astounded and puzzled. “Thank you. I’m prepared to risk my life in order to recover my sight.”

  Segrado laughed heartily. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask you that much. If you like, meet me tomorrow at Terce at the foot of the tower, in front of the Basilica of San Marco, where there’s a market. I’ll be there, and I hope I’ll be able to prove my good intentions.”

  Edgardo looked at the girl and thought he could see in her dark, narrow eyes a promise of hope, but also something he had never seen before: a gentle sweetness and a yearning that took his breath away.

  “Very well, I’ll be there.”

  VIII.

  THE BASILICA

  There were bodies strewn on the ground, dumped on top of one another, twisted, heads bowed, eyes full of suffering. The square in front of the basilica of San Marco was overrun by a multitude of slaves waiting to embark on a galley about to sail to Constantinople. As soon as he got out of the scaula at the dock, Edgardo felt as though he was on a battlefield following a fierce clash. He stepped over backs and heads, amid lamentations and insults, and managed, with difficulty, to reach the watchtower where he found Segrado waiting for him. The glassmaker was looking around as though searching for someone. Then he decisively walked up to a group of men engaged in a lively discussion near Rio Bataro. Among them, Edgardo immediately recognized the merchant Karamago. For a moment, they stared at each other in disbelief at meeting again, this time in the company of a man like Segrado. The merchant stepped away from the group.

  “Are you already acquainted with this young cleric?” Segrado asked.

  Karamago took a clumsy bow, impaired by his prominent belly. “I’ve had the honor of welcoming him to my shop.”

  “Good,” Segrado cut him short, “so then you know what the problem is, since you sent him to Zoto.”

  Caught red-handed, Karamago grimaced and started toying with his long beard.

  “A while back,” the glassmaker said, “you mentioned a manuscript you’d bought from a Cairo merchant . . . a treatise describing experiments performed with glass globes, experiments with lights, recipes, and all kinds of witchcraft. You were hoping I’d know someone able to read it and who’d be interested in the subject. Well, I’ve found the right person.” He looked at Edgardo. “The scribe would like to see that manuscript.”

  Karamago fidgeted, clearly embarrassed. “I’d be truly delighted to help you,” he said.

  “So where do you keep it, then?”

  “Unfortunately,” he said, gazing insistently at Edgardo, “it’s no longer in my possession. I’ve sold it.”

 
Segrado muttered an unintelligible curse. “And who did you sell it to?”

  “Well, let’s see, I don’t know if I can, it’s just that I promised not to say . . . The material has truly valuable value, and I was paid very well.”

  “Come on, speak,” Segrado threatened him. “I want to know who you sold it to.”

  “I sold it to them.” The merchant blurted, pointing innocently at Edgardo.

  All the attention was suddenly focused on the cleric, who looked lost and almost offended. For a moment, they waited for an explanation that did not come, so Karamago continued: “I sold it to a monk from the library of San Giorgio. It was in Arabic and had to be translated. Nobody else wanted it.”

  “Do you know anything about this, scribe?” Segrado asked aggressively.

  “No, nothing at all. I’m not a copyist at that scriptorium . . . and I’ve only just arrived here.”

  Segrado fell silent and Karamago took advantage of his uncertainty.

  “I’ve told you nothing.” He gave Edgardo a honeyed smile. “And now I must go. I’m expected elsewhere to close a deal. May God bless you.” He rolled up his beard in an exaggerated bow and sneaked away. Segrado followed him with his eyes as he tried to blend in with the crowd that filled the piazza between the dock and the basilica.

  In addition to the merchants and sailors, there were a large number of workers attached to the now ongoing building site established for the construction and embellishment of the basilica of San Marco. Under the guidance of Master Tàtaro, various mosaic-makers from Constantinople, together with young Venetian apprentices, were on the scaffoldings, working on the faces of apostles above the central door of the narthex.

  Tàtaro had called Karamago to him. Segrado watched them talking conspiratorially, and very obviously discussing them. He could not stop himself from walking up to them.

  “I’m here, Tàtaro. If there’s anything you want to know, you can ask me to my face.”