The Eye Stone

by Roberto Tiraboschi

  “Have you come here to steal the secrets of my mosaics?” Tàtaro smiled with contempt, then turned to Edgardo, who was following the pantomime uncomprehendingly. “Ever since we were apprentices, this honorable gentleman has been trying to copy my brilliant tesserae without ever succeeding.” He took Edgardo by the arm and led him to the lunette in the entrance. “Just look at the flow of the drapery over Saint Peter, how the folds are broken up—they actually look as if they’re moving . . . and look at the halo bursting with light . . . only a master who knows all the secrets of glass is able to produce such perfect mosaics as to transform images into living beings. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tàtaro and I am that master.” He smiled, self-satisfied.

  After listening to Tàtaro’s ramblings without batting an eyelid, Segrado pulled Edgardo away, reclaiming his attention. “You’re a copyist, you’re not expected to know that what this arrogant sack of hot air isn’t telling you, is that what’s important in a mosaic tessera is transparency, and that transparency depends on the layer of glass you spread over the gold laminate. The purer and more transparent the glass, the more alive the mosaic. Right, Tàtaro? Why do you go around boasting you’re the best glassmaker in Venetia when everybody knows that my glass is more limpid and more crystalline? No matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to find the correct formula to match the purity of my glass.”

  Tàtaro’s body stiffened, tall and crisp like the mast of a ship, then he turned to Edgardo and resumed a self-confident, teasing expression. “Don’t listen to this man’s nonsense. Don’t trust him, he’s a braggart. All his life he’s gone around saying he’s going to make who knows what amazing discoveries, but he’s discovered nothing, and created nothing except poverty and failure, so he harbors deep hatred toward all those more successful than him.” Tàtaro cocked his head toward Segrado, like a crane. “Unless I am very much mistaken, the hapless Marco Balbo was your garzone.”

  That was below the belt, and Segrado clenched his fists. “Just what are you implying, Tàtaro?”

  “Nothing . . . I was just trying to remember . . . ”

  “You remember correctly, except that before that he used to work at your oven, but then he left because he wasn’t learning anything . . . Isn’t that true?” Segrado burst out laughing before Tàtaro had the time to retaliate, grabbed Edgardo, and dragged him bodily into the basilica.

  From the floor of the atrium, you walked up a few steps to the floor of the church. This way, it felt as if you had to walk up to enter the church and so your attention was immediately drawn to the splendid, curved surfaces that demarcated the naves. Edgardo found himself immersed in an explosion of spaces, which the reflected lights rendered mysterious and misty. The complex crisscrossing of arches and domes, the decorative mosaics against a golden background, the Moorish-style marbles along the walls, the marble inlays of the flooring—everything contributed to creating a feeling of wonder and mystical vibration.

  Segardo led him as far as the presbytery, which was raised a few steps from the floor of the basilica, then asked him to go down a narrow staircase leading to a wide space right beneath the altar: the crypt.

  The middle of this space was dominated by an imposing stone sarcophagus, which in turn contained a casket of gilded wood.

  “The body of Saint Mark, patron saint of Venetia, is preserved here,” Segrado announced in an inspired voice. “It was two Venetians from the lagoon, Buono da Metamauco and Rustico da Torcellus, who found it. Many years ago, ten Venetian chelandions entered the Port of Alexandria. All contact with Oriental merchants was then forbidden to us Venetians, but the wind pushed the ships to that port against their will. Evidently, it was God’s will. So the two merchants took advantage of the forced layover to go and worship the relics of Saint Mark, who had been martyred in that city. After many devout visits, they persuaded the Greek fathers to give them the saint’s body, since the urn wasn’t at all safe in that church, because it risked being turned into a mosque and profaned. Before Alexandria, Saint Mark had converted Aquileia and Venetia, so the lagoon has a legitimate claim to watch over his remains. After they won the argument, the Venetians carefully hid the relics under chunks of pork meat, and left Alexandria under the indifferent watch of Egyptian guards. The homebound journey was full of difficulties, but finally they were welcomed back with a triumphant ceremony by the Doge, who placed the remains in the basilica that now bears his name.”

  Edgardo listened attentively to the wonderful story, increasingly fascinated by Segrado’s personality. For all his simplicity, he was turning out to be a learned man with a noble soul.

  “But I haven’t brought you here just to show you the remains of our Saint,” Segrado said, approaching one of the niches carved out in the perimeter walls. “There are pieces from Saint Mark’s treasure on display here. Look.” He drew closer. “Here you see a beaker that belonged to the Caliph Al-Aziz Billah. It’s carved from a single block of crystal and trimmed with animal friezes. Look at the purity, the transparency and the luminosity of it. Only rock crystal possesses such properties. There’s nothing as limpid in all of nature . . . It’s with this that Zoto promised to make your stones for the eyes, but he probably didn’t even know how he’d do it.”

  Segrado took a deep breath, and his chest swelled so much that Edgardo thought he seemed even more imposing and gigantic.

  “Man may aspire to reproduce the wonders offered us by nature, in fact, he must. All my life I’ve been chasing after a dream: to go beyond the limits of matter, to equal the transparency of light, and to transform the impure into the pure.” He raised his eyes to the sky. “Only those who can read the signs of Our Lord can succeed in this enterprise. And God has put you on my path . . . ”

  Edgardo stared, confused and rather frightened.

  Segrado continued: “Maybe there’s information in the manuscript Karamago sold to your library—teachings or formulas that could open new roads for us. There are learned men in Arab lands with knowledge far superior to ours. I could never look through the pages of those books, and even if I could, well, I can’t read. But you, you’re a copyist. You have free access to the library. You could find out interesting information and recipes useful for your eyes.” He came so close to Edgardo that even in the darkness of the crypt, the latter could see a flash of madness in his eyes.

  “The abbey rules are very strict with regard to consulting manuscripts, and I don’t even know if that book is actually there.”

  Segrado stared at him, confused, unable to understand his reservations. “At times, Our Lord shows us a way but we don’t want to see it. Do you think it’s pure chance that we met? Think about it . . . ”

  The light seeping through the small windows had assumed a gray tint, and pale mist had spread through the crypt, erasing all contours. Edgardo suddenly felt lost, as though in a deep dark forest, completely alone with his conscience.

  IX.

  THE SCRIPTORIUM

  The procession advanced slowly. Four monks were carrying the plank on which lay the body of their dying fellow brother. The tramontana wind lifted the cowls, swelling them like sails. The slender flames of the oil lamps wavered, projecting warm shadows on the refectory walls. The echo of the chanting that escorted the old, agonizing monk resounded beneath the portico vaults. They reached the field behind the church, where all the abbey brothers were buried. They laid the body on the bare earth and scattered holy ashes over it. In that humble position, a reminder of the transience of earthly life, the dying man would wait until his soul could free itself from his body.

  Not a single moan came out of the old cellarer. After the abbot had administered the last rites, the procession broke up. In solitude, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, enveloped by the wind from the lagoon, soaked by the night dew, he waited for his heart to stop beating. Edgardo waited for the group of monks accompanying Abbott Carimanno to go to the dormitory before he approached Adema
ro. During the day, the whole abbey had gathered around the dying man’s bedside, so he had not found a private moment in which to confide in his friend.

  “I need to speak with you,” Edgardo whispered, leading him toward a forest of cypresses beyond the vegetable garden.

  On that side of the island, which was not as well shielded by buildings, the bora wind was blowing even more strongly, knocking the tops of the trees together, as if in a fight.

  “Do you have any news?” Ademaro asked.

  Edgardo told him about Zoto, the crystal-maker, an untrustworthy, violent man, and about Segrado, who, on the contrary, seemed to be an honest man you could trust, even though it was not at all clear how he would be able to help his eyes . . . He spoke excitedly, skipping from one subject to another. Ademaro tried to calm him down. Above all, he tried to tell him to exercise prudence in every decision he made. Contrary to appearances, Venetia was a changeable, elusive place, where reality was constantly shape-shifting.

  “Everything that appears definite and clear at a particular time of the day becomes obscure and unfathomable a few hours later. And the same is true of its inhabitants. They’re difficult to pin down, mysterious men of a thousand faces who’ve learned to adapt to an ever-changing nature, to the sudden movements of the waters, and to the invasions of barbarians who want to conquer them. You must be prudent,” Ademaro insisted. “You must be careful both in your speech and in your actions, like a knight riding through an unknown forest. In every ravine, and every thicket, an enemy could be lurking, ready to pounce.”

  Edgardo always listened to his friend’s words with respect and consideration.

  “Abbot Carimanno asked after you. I told him I’d given you the task of exploring Venetia’s markets in search of manuscripts. He seemed content with that explanation. Still, don’t lose heart. We have time. My work here at the abbey is going to be longer than anticipated. I have many codices to examine before I can decide which ones to take to Bobbio . . . ”

  “Now, on that subject. . . The merchant, Karamago, claims that a treatise in Arabic was sold to the San Giorgio library. Apparently, it actually deals with vision, and eyes, and perhaps with the manufacturing of glass and the transformation of crystal. Is he telling the truth? Have you ever seen that manuscript?”

  Ademaro sank his head into his hood and hid his hands in his habit. Edgardo thought he looked like a man trying to stall, or elude the question. A gust of wind snapped a branch, which landed just a few feet away.

  “Come, let’s leave before the storm carries us away.” Ademaro spoke firmly. “I don’t know all the books in the library. Although there aren’t as many as in Bobbio, there are still too many for me to have had a chance to look at them all during my visits.”

  Edgardo insisted. “So you don’t know anything about any recently acquired Arabic manuscripts?”

  “Venetia is a crossroads for a lot of commerce. Goods from the Northern Countries as well as the Orient arrive here, and there is a constant influx of new manuscripts.”

  “So you don’t know anything about it?”

  “I shall ask our fellow brothers in the scriptorium. I’m sure some of them know the library better than I do.”

  The sea must have risen also in the lagoon, because the gentle swish had turned into a deep roar.

  Ademaro put an abrupt stop to the conversation. “Come, let’s go in before they notice our absence.”

  They parted outside their cells without a single word. Edgardo had the sense that a shadow had fallen between them.

  He threw himself on the bed and wrapped himself in the damp blanket, going over his conversation with his friend. He had found Ademaro’s behavior odd, somewhat distant and reserved, avoiding direct answers to his questions, constantly shifting the conclusion of the discourse elsewhere. The final impression was that of a man trying to avoid the subject. But what possible reason could Ademaro have to keep quiet? After all, it was he who had insisted Edgardo embark on the search for the stone for his eyes. These questions tormented him, preventing him from sleeping. A keen wind that smelled of snow was whistling through the slit in the wall. Sharp pangs of pain, like being cut by red-hot blades, were stabbing him in the back. His thoughts were getting tangled up. He remembered that, soon after he had arrived, he had met a talented Arabic translator in the scriptorium. What was his name? That’s right—Ermanno di Carinzia! It was Ademaro himself who had introduced him. So why had he not mentioned him just now? He could have answered his questions. Why had Ademaro refused to help him?

  It was not so much his curiosity about the contents of that book that triggered Edgardo’s reckless decision as the urge to appease the doubts that had formed over his friend’s behavior.

  He had never ventured into the abbey at night or without a light. The sky was overcast and there was not even any moonlight to guide him. He stepped lightly, wary of any creaking. At the end of the dormitory corridor, he stopped and listened to the sounds of the night. He thought he heard a litany dragged by the wind, knocked from one wall to another. The awareness of committing an act against the rules of the order made him anxious.

  As he went down into the cloister, the litany became clearer. It was the lament of his fellow brother, abandoned to his solitude in the middle of the field, waiting for Sister Death to come. Edgardo’s first impulse was to join him, to comfort him and keep him company in his final moments. He considered abandoning his foolish idea of going to rummage through the scriptorium and, instead, following the impulse of Christian charity that had reawakened in his heart. Something stopped him. A languor and a sense of unease. His legs refused to obey him, and he began to breathe heavily. He leaned against a pillar and took a deep breath, trying to gather his strength. The lament became fainter and more hesitant. Perhaps he was dying and his destiny had been fulfilled. There was nothing more he could do, so he pretended not to hear. He listened to the voice of the wind and retraced his steps toward the library. He felt something heavy weighing on his chest.

  For the first time he thought of a word he had never used: coward. There was only one truth: that he was afraid of looking death in the face.

  The scent of the library greeted him like a warm and welcoming bed: the acetate aroma of the inks, the acrid wilderness smell of the parchment, the perfume of dust and resin that had impregnated the wooden shelves . . . How he loved this place! It was his life, his breath, his refuge, his heaven, the very essence of his existence. When he was there his body would transform: the hunch would vanish, his hip straighten, his back lengthen and grow strong. And Edgardo the Crooked would turn into an intrepid knight illuminated by Divine Grace.

  He groped his way to the staircase that led to the scriptorium. He took a tallow candle stub from the pocket of his habit and, after several attempts at striking the flintlock, managed to light it.

  He remembered that Ermanno di Carinzia’s work station was near the first window. He held up the light. The lectern was empty. Usually, after the day’s work, the monks put the manuscripts away and then took them out again the following morning. Even if they followed the same rules here as in Bobbio, there had to be a bookshelf for all the books currently being worked on, whether copied or translated. He was right. He found the manuscripts arranged in order on the long wooden plank leaning against the south wall, which was drier than the others. With extreme care, he picked up the first volume. The pages had not been bound yet and were gathered between two pieces of parchment tied with ribbons. He untied them and brought the candle to the frontispiece, possessed by a kind of feverish excitement.

  He shivered and felt a pang in his heart. His, weak, miserable, trembling eyes. He had forgotten the poor state they were in. Out of habit, he had acted like back in the days when, at first glance, and without any difficulty, letters would parade before him like a merry dance.

  In a fit of anger, he wanted to throw everything up in the air, but managed to rest
rain himself. Very careful to avoid starting a fire, he brought the flame closer to the page and leaned forward so that he was almost touching the words with his nose.

  The Ophtalmicus by Demosthenes Philaletes. He picked up another one: Explanationes in Ciceronis Rhetoricam by Victorinus. Nothing to do with the manuscript he was looking for. One more attempt. Unfamiliar signs, flourishes, and a huge, indecipherable drawing: it was Arabic—pages of an Arabic parchment. He had found the manuscript on which Ermanno di Carinzia was working. Still, he had no way of knowing if it was the one he was looking for, and certainly could not tell by these doodles. He shifted his nose onto the adjacent attached pages. These certainly sounded a different note . . . He recognized the writing, the strokes, the regular, round shapes. It was the familiar Carolingian minuscule, it was Latin.

  He began to peruse the pages, trying to decipher their contents. On the first page of the colophon, he found the name of the translator: Ermanno di Carinzia, the date, MCVI, and the complete title of the book and its author: De Aspectibus by Alhazen Arabis.

  Edgardo read on as quickly as he could, afraid that someone would discover him.

  He had in his hands the translation of the Arabic manuscript Karamago had told him about. The translator had not finished his work yet, but evidently the treatise concerned optics. Perhaps he would find useful information about his eye stones among these pages. Segrado was right. He would have to read the entire manuscript, and that would take time.

  He heard footsteps and subdued voices. Somebody was crossing the cloister. Edgardo saw the reflection of lanterns flashing at the windows. He quickly replaced the papers in the order in which he had found them, put out the candle, and rushed to the staircase that led down from the library. The scriptorium did not have an external exit, as though they had wanted to isolate it from the rest of the abbey, leaving only one obligatory passage in and out, thereby monitoring all those who came and went. When he was beneath the portico, he leaned out toward the garden and saw a group of monks walking to the church. You could not hear the lament anymore. The cellarer must have given up the ghost.