The Eye Stone

by Roberto Tiraboschi

  Back in his cell, his thoughts took a logical turn, and were no longer influenced by emotions and feelings. Edgardo started to ask himself a list of questions. Did Ademaro really not know anything about the translation of the Arabic manuscript on optics? And if he knew, why had he kept quiet, especially with him, whose salvation might be found in that very book?

  Slowly, like a slight temperature that rises during the night until it becomes a debilitating fever that makes your limbs shake, all these questions and the answers he could not find took over his mind and multiplied, dragging him into a state of prostration and anguish.

  Was Ademaro, his only friend and point of reference, his support, and a role model of honesty and faith, no longer worthy of his trust? Could the people nearest and dearest to you also lie to you, betray you, fail in the duties dictated by honor?

  His world was crumbling to pieces. The safe fortress he had built himself had collapsed in just one night. Edgardo felt like an empty shell at the mercy of ungovernable forces. Suddenly, the habit he wore lost all its significance and became a symbol of no worth.

  Where was this place in the world where God had put him? Why had he never wanted to take his vows? Was the divinity he had so often named in his prayers his true light? Or had the monastery been only an escape from his deformed body? Had he immersed himself in study and writing because he had no other path? And now this path was also becoming less and less certain. He was not a monk, and he was not a copyist. He was nothing . . . Moreover, he was alone, because he could not even trust his dearest friend.

  In this solitary night, his one glimmer of hope was Segrado. He would be able to advise him, guide him like a father—yes, he imagined him as a father figure, and the feeling surprised him.

  He decided to meet with him as soon as possible the following day. He had to see him, to tell him about the manuscript.

  But was it the glassmaker that he really wanted to meet? Was it not another thought, another desire, an insane restlessness he did not want to confess even to himself, that was slyly insinuating itself like a larva digging beneath bark?

  X.

  CRYSTALLINE GLASS

  Out! Out! Get your asses out of here!” Segrado shouted in a sudden fit of anger. Accustomed to the master’s unpredictable outbursts, Niccolò and Kallis left the foundry without a sound. Whenever he reached a delicate stage of his work, or a new procedure that he wanted to keep secret, Segrado trusted no one. Every master glassmaker who developed, over years of work, a formula for the composition of various kinds of glass was very anxious not to have it discovered by outside observers ready to pass it on to his competitors.

  Many formulas belonged to the public domain, such as the recipe for making glass salt or molten glass, or for manufacturing ordinary glass.

  The others were the specialty of individual glassmakers, such as how to make marbled glass, or deep blue and delicate enamel, or gold and silver mosaic.

  Many other craftsmen were working on the formula Segrado was in the process of testing, in Amurianum, Venetia and Torcellus, but nobody had yet achieved the much coveted result: crystalline glass—a substance so pure, transparent, and clear that it looked identical to rock crystal.

  The latter was a hard and not very malleable stone, difficult to find, very expensive and almost impossible to shape. His ambition was to create glass that had all the qualities of crystal but was also thin, light, colorless, and without cracks. You could use it to craft objects that had been unthinkable up to then. The luminosity of the most important pieces, both in terms of finesse and value, was spoiled by an annoying blue-green or yellow-green tint nobody had ever managed to eliminate. Despite all their efforts, the ovens of Venetian master craftsmen had not been able to produce a substance as pure as rock crystal. Everyone knew that a discovery of this kind would bring wealth and fame. Crystalline glass was the dream of every glassmaker, and especially Segrado, who had been searching for it all his life.

  His oven had been lit for hours, regulated by a light, smokeless flame. In the crucible, coarsely crushed pieces of crystal had been baking for twelve hours. Segrado had introduced great innovations in the preparation of these pieces of crystal, beginning with the raw materials at the basis of glass production.

  Instead of white stone from a quarry, he had obtained several pounds of pebbles that came from the river Ticino, ground and sifted them, then mixed the resulting fine powder with the ashes, also known as allume catina, of certain plants that grew in Eastern Mediterranean countries. Then he had put the mixture into the lime kiln, a reverberation oven, until it was liquefied, in other words, until it became molten glass. Subsequently, he had put the resulting stew on the shelves, covered it with a cloth, and left it to cool so that the actual crystal pieces would be formed.

  Segrado was very pleased with his work. He removed the crucible from the furnace. The molten glass was white, but not white enough. Greenish shadows were still soiling its purity. It occurred to him that the only way to cleanse it and purge it of old impurities would be to swish it in water until it was clear and transparent. He washed it obsessively, over and over again, so that the water would make it spit out the salt that made the glass cloudy.

  He felt close to achieving the result. He had followed every step with care and the glass mixture seemed limpid and clear, as though it had been purified by a ray of divine light. A light that brings purity, peace, and the salvation of the soul. If Segrado succeeded in creating crystalline glass, he would offer his secret up to God. He was certain that God would accept it with a magnanimous gesture and, finally, would forgive him.

  There was only one thing left to do—the fire test. He put the crucible into the oven. After the washing, the new fusion would produce the definitive result. To kill time while he was waiting, Segrado came out of the storehouse. The bora wind had swept away the fog and the blue reflection of the sky colored the stretches of salt, transforming them into an ocean of ice. Niccolò and Kallis were talking to the man who was operating the windmill. As soon as they saw him, Niccolò ran toward him, while Kallis remained apart.

  “So, Maestro, have you figured out the secret of crystalline glass?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I hope so.”

  “It’ll work out for sure with the river Ticino pebbles . . . ”

  Segrado’s face clouded over. “How do you know about the Ticino pebbles?”

  Niccolò hung his head, embarrassed, and tried to justify himself. “You told me when you brought them, don’t you remember?”

  Segrado could not remember. Maybe he had inadvertently let it slip. “You haven’t told anyone else, have you?” he asked.

  “Of course not, Master. You’ve ordered me never to tell anything to anyone about what we do at the oven.”

  “Not even to Tàtaro?”

  “Tàtaro? That son of a bitch! He hates us and burned down our oven.”

  Segrado did not seem surprised. “What makes you say that?”

  “Tàtaro is burning down the ovens of the glassmakers in Amurianum. He’ll stop at nothing to be the only glassmaker in Venetia—even if he has to kill everybody.”

  Segrado frowned. Since Balbo’s death, he, like all the other glassmakers, had felt unsafe. “Have you heard any rumors about the eye murderer?” he asked. “Have they found him?”

  “Not yet. They’re saying it’s the devil . . . If it is, then we’ll have to smoke him out of hell . . . ”

  Segrado glanced at the oven.

  “How much longer do we have to wait, Maestro?”

  “We have to wait for it to melt.”

  “And then we’ll know?”

  Segrado did not reply, but let his eyes wander over the expanse of salt. His lips barely moved, as though uttering a silent prayer.

  Edgardo had left the abbey shortly after Terce, trying to avoid Ademaro. He was confused and tormented. The first light of day had scat
tered his darkest thoughts and the search for an explanation had emerged like a beam of hope. Maybe Ademaro knew nothing of Ermanno di Carinzia’s translation work or, if he did, then he was not aware of the contents of the Arabic manuscript. Or perhaps he did not think that it would be useful in his search for the eye stone. The more reasons he found to justify his friend’s behavior, the more relief he felt. Still, he preferred not to encounter him face to face, in case he was unable to conceal his thoughts from him.

  The sharp air had a metallic smell. The cold light had tinted the water a dark blue, heavy with bad omens. It was like sailing through a hostile universe, about to be swallowed into nothingness. The gondola deposited him at Rivoalto, like the first time. There was even more of a bustle this morning. Where the banks of the canal were close together, something was being built. Standing on a row of barges, anchored side by side and tied together securely, workmen were leaning over the water, sticking logs into the bottom. Edgardo imagined they must be stilts on which an enormous platform would be erected—an imposing and difficult task. He stood there, fascinated, admiring these people’s ability to build on water as skillfully as on solid ground.

  He resumed his walk, allowing himself to be guided more by instinct than memory, and found the path that led to Segrado’s workshop. The small campo in front of his storehouse was deserted and the foundry door was open. He looked in and was blinded by the glow of the flames. The room was permeated by a sour, vinegary smell. There were dark shadows moving around the oven: blazing trails, movements that cut through the air, canes that twirled as if dancing during a knightly tournament. After a while, his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and he recognized Segrado, his upper body naked, about to slide a crucible out of the mouth of the oven. Niccolò was next to him, sweating, a mold in his hand, and behind them, in the semidarkness brightened by a blade of light, Kallis was pestling in a mortar.

  Segrado approached the crucible and, with a slow and loving gesture, poured the molten glass into the mold Niccolò was holding with long pincers. In the unreal silence, it was possible to hear the voice of the glass sliding into the receptacle: a gentle melody, a liquid note that quivered through the air, infusing everything around it with profound peace.

  Edgardo stared, stupefied, as though witnessing the birth of something primordial and absolutely miraculous: the very magma from which man was created.

  They were all so engrossed that they took no notice of him. When the mold was filled, Niccolò brought it up to Segrado’s face, and the latter motioned him to the exit. They fell into the full daylight, blinded and confused. Then the master bent over the mold to examine the result of his experiment: crystalline glass, transparent as rock crystal, pure as the eyes of God, who cleanses your soul of every sin.

  Segrado studied the glass chalice he had crafted. He lifted it to the light to check for imperfections. No, it was perfect. No bubbles, no froth or cracks, but the color and transparency . . . No, he still had a long way to go. A green, opaque shadow, like a sickly, pestilent complexion, had contaminated his glass. Neither the Ticino pebbles nor the repeated washes in the basins had been enough to achieve the real crystalline glass. Something else was missing . . . but what? Segrado hurled the chalice against a mound of salt. Shards scattered around. Kallis tried to approach, but Segrado pushed her away with a brutal gesture. Niccolò was bending over the fragments, staring at them as though refusing to accept that yet another attempt had failed.

  Edgardo had watched the scene without understanding. Only then did the master seem to notice him.

  “What do you want, scribe?” he asked.

  Edgardo waited briefly before replying. “I’ve found the Arabic manuscript the merchant Karamago told us about.”

  Niccolò turned, attentive and inquisitive. Segrado, on the other hand, manifested no reaction, still lost in the nightmare of his failure.

  “It’s a treatise on optics by an Arab scholar. It’s thick and complex.”

  “Is it about glass and crystal?” Segrado asked, as though waking from a nightmare.

  “I don’t know, maybe . . . I didn’t have much time. Besides, the manuscript hasn’t been translated in its entirety yet.”

  Kallis was listening to him with a feverish intensity, picturing the hidden meanings and miraculous powers books must possess.

  “Can you find out more?” Segrado asked. “Can you read more?”

  “Monks are forbidden to look at manuscripts without asking permission. Abbott Carimanno doesn’t know the true reason for my trip.”

  “So you won’t do it?”

  “I’d be breaking the rules.”

  “Then you must do as your conscience dictates. I don’t want to push you to commit a sin you might come to regret.” All of a sudden, Segrado’s voice had turned melancholy.

  Kallis glared at the glassmaker darkly, with an air of defiance. Segrado went back into the storehouse without dignifying her with so much as a glance. Niccolò picked up the mold and followed him.

  Edgardo remained alone with the girl. He felt uneasy but did not know the reason. He had a sense that her eyes were dismembering him, investigating him, digging deeply into his heart, his head, searching for something. Two slits, long and narrow, dark and deep, piercing through him like blades. Her slim, frail body managed to stay alive only because she stored the whole world’s hatred in those eyes.

  “You have to teach me to write,” Kallis suddenly said. She had a harsh, vibrating voice, like a breath of wind in the reeds. “Can you do it?”

  She had caught him unawares, as if in a trap. He felt himself blush.

  “Can someone like me learn to write?” Kallis insisted.

  Edgardo did not know how to respond. It had never occurred to him that someone outside a monastery should want to learn to write—and a woman at that! He had heard that there were nuns in some convent or other, but he had never seen them, so perhaps it was just fantasy.

  “It’s a long, arduous path, and you have to do a lot of studying,” he stuttered.

  “Look at me,” she said, standing straight before him. “I’m strong as an ox, and I have the endurance and stubbornness of a mule.” She raised her arms. “Look at my hands and tell me—are they suited to writing?”

  Long, fine fingers worn away by water and work. Hesitantly, Edgardo brushed them. It was the first time in his life he had touched a woman. He should not have, and he immediately pulled away.

  “It’s not about hands or strength but, yes . . . It’s about endurance and constancy, willpower . . . and love.” He was embarrassed to utter that word. “The love of knowledge.”

  “Then I am able,” Kallis decreed.

  Edgardo smiled, touched he knew not why, and thought he saw that Kallis too had to swallow some of the sorrow and hatred she kept jealously in her eyes.

  “You must teach me,” she repeated, “I want to learn.”

  He did not want to say yes, he tried to restrain himself, to stop his tongue, to tighten his lips, but all the while his mind kept repeating, yes, yes, yes! He did not even notice his head bend forward as a sign of agreement. Then he turned and walked away without saying anything else, inexplicably agitated. A sense of guilt mixed with turmoil of the soul, and a strange warmth. He did not look back. He left the campo, and walked around the saltworks toward San Giacomo di Luprio.

  “Where are you running, monk? Wait.”

  He heard himself being called—a voice from beyond the grave, a voice of guilt. Where was it coming from?

  “Stop . . . The stone for the eyes, I’m telling you.”

  Edgardo turned.

  “Did a scorpion sting you?”

  Zoto’s square mug was proffering its best, friendliest smile. Sitting in his favorite spot, in front of a wine tavern, he had noticed Edgardo pass by and had run after him.

  “I have good news for you. I’ve found the crystal. I’ve
got it already, it’s mine, it’s very pure . . . Come and see it. It glitters and sparkles so much it looks alive. It’s perfect to make the stones for your eyes. And you don’t have to pay me in advance, only if you’re satisfied. Your eyes are safe, it’s better than any ointment. The magical power of rock crystal cures every disease. Come and see. Come.”

  Zoto was circling him, skipping around: with his stones for the eyes, crystal, ointments, magic . . . The words echoed in Edgardo’s head like a witches’ spell. It had become a kind of obsession. Everybody around him seemed to be competing to offer him a remedy for his eyes. He felt wrapped in a spider’s web that was becoming thicker and tighter, until he could not breathe anymore. He managed to shake Zoto off by running toward Rivoalto. The hand that had touched Kallis’s fingers was still burning.

  XI.

  ORSEOLO HOSPICE

  Viderunt omnes fines terrae salutare Dei nostri: iubilate Deo omnis terra.”

  “Notum fecit Dominus salutare suum: ante conspectum gentium revelavit iustitiam suam.”

  The faint early morning light was slowly penetrating the church windows, blending in with the voices of the monks who were gathered in a choir behind the altar, to sing praises to Our Lord.

  The sharp cold bit at the knees and gnawed at the voice. Faces and hands were hidden under habits. Edgardo’s thoughts were at odds with his words. No matter how hard he tried to keep harmony with the others, he kept losing his way, swerving, chasing after images: Kallis’s long, tapered fingers, her hands outstretched toward him, and the impenetrable expression on her face, where a faint smile had emerged.

  “Hallelujah,” he repeated, and met the eyes of Ademaro, who was sitting right opposite him. He had an unfathomable expression that concealed a myriad of answers Edgardo preferred not to hear.