“Laudamus igitur . . . ” Already, he was regretting his nod of agreement to Kallis’s request that he teach her to write. Only a madman’s mind could conceive of a cleric with a woman—a stranger working for a glassmaker— as a disciple.
For the first time he articulated to himself a question he had so far kept quiet: What was Kallis to Segrado? What did she mean to him? He had seen her take orders, blindly obey them, and work hard at the foundry. Segrado treated her with no regard and less attention than he used when addressing Niccolò, his garzone. Why did he always take her around with him? Was she living with him? Edgardo felt ashamed of these questions that set his mind alight.
“Laudamus igitur . . . ” Sing praises, pray, lift one’s purest thoughts up to an omnipotent God. The rest is dust, emptiness, the splinters of a fragile and transitory life. His eyes, writing, Kallis.
The morning prayers ended, and it was a relief, since the struggle with his mind was becoming unsustainable.
In the refectory, Ademaro came up to him and said, in a friendly tone, “I don’t know anything about what you’re doing anymore, my friend. I get the impression you’re avoiding me.”
Edgardo had a slight hesitation, and he wondered if Ademaro noticed. “Not at all, why would I? I would have spoken to you as soon as I had the opportunity.”
They poured themselves a bowl of the wine the monks of San Giorgio produced from their vineyard, broke some oatmeal bread, added some goat cheese, and went to sit at the communal table.
“Have you made any progress in your search?” Ademaro asked.
Edgardo realized that he did not want to reveal too much, almost as though he no longer trusted his friend. “It’s all very confusing, “he said. “Many people say they know about this stone for the eyes, but nobody has been able to show it to me yet or tell me how to use it, or even how it’s made. They’re all offering to help me and I get the feeling that there are interests involved that go beyond my simple search.” Edgardo looked up from his plate and stared purposefully at his friend. “Do you know anything about this, Ademaro? Is there some secret behind the discovery of the stone that cures the eyes?”
Ademaro did not seem affected by the question, and carried on eating thoughtfully. Chewing, he replied, “I have no idea . . . Maybe it’s a very precious object and whoever manages to grab it or make it could earn a lot of money.”
It was a satisfactory answer that seemed to dispel all doubts, but for Edgardo it was not enough. “I want to come to the scriptorium with you this morning. I miss the smell of ink.”
Ademaro seemed a little surprised. “Of course, but bear in mind that you could bump into the abbot—he often comes into the library.”
“I’ll just have to risk an unpleasant encounter,” Edgardo replied provocatively. Ademaro laughed, and Edgardo found that laugh very comforting.
He wanted to approach Ermanno di Carinzia to ask him questions about the Arabic manuscript and see Ademaro’s reaction, as a kind of final test that would establish his innocence and clarify any misunderstanding.
It was a gray day and a faint light barely filtered through the waxed canvas, making the scribes’ task even harder. They were bent over their lecterns, their numbed hands wrapped in bandages against the cold. Edgardo wondered if he was mad in his desperate need to return to writing and his struggle to search for a remedy for his eyes. Perhaps it would be better to be happily blind, working in the vegetable garden. The only man who did not seem to mind the adverse weather was Ermanno. His arms and head bare, his face red, he was working diligently on his manuscript, an ineffable smile on his face, and an expression of physical enjoyment. Ademaro had stopped to talk to the armarius, an old but still quite spry monk who looked after the library and kept a list of the monks who had borrowed books. Edgardo took advantage of this to approach Ermanno and ask him how his work was going.
“It’s exhausting. This Arab scholar uses terms unknown to us and talks of truly daring experiments. But it’s such a delight . . . Such stimulation for the mind!” He wiped his mouth as though he had just drunk a carafe of good wine. “His theories on light and vision are very interesting and very innovative. For example . . . ”
However, he could not complete his sentence because Ademaro promptly—or so it seemed to Edgardo—came to interrupt them.
“Ermanno, the merchant Karamago has told me that new Arabic manuscripts from Constantinople have arrived in Venetia. He’s waiting for us to go and see them.”
“Spare me! This is more than enough . . . Give me Greek or even Spanish but no more Arabic. It’s going to take me a long time and a lot of wine to finish this task.” He burst into such uproarious laughter that the other monks turned, surprised. Edgardo peered into Ademaro’s face, trying to work out if his interruption had been intentional or pure coincidence, and saw that it was open and smiling.
“I like it when the myth that a copyist’s work is nothing but worries and tribulations is debunked.” Abbot Carimanno was coming up the stairs with a steady step. “Our brother Ermanno should be an example to us all: a cheerful, playful spirit also nourishes writing . . . ”
“It’s not just that, Abbott,” Ermanno added. “Good wine also nourishes writing . . . and protects from the cold.” Thereupon, he gave another healthy laugh, joined this time by the other scribes.
The abbot demonstrated his approval with a wide, fatherly gesture. Ermanno was one of the very few Benedictine translators versed in Arabic as well as Greek, and so was held in high esteem and protected by any abbot who cared about his library.
“But look, today we have the honor of also having the young and talented scribe from Bobbio with us. Given how seldom you take part in the daily functions of the monastery, I must consider your presence as a special event.”
Carimanno gave a foul smile and shook his head, scattering hair and lint from his nose and ears in the air.
Fearing Edgardo might respond in a slightly disrespectful tone, Ademaro intervened. “It’s my fault, Illustrious Father. As I already mentioned, I charged him with the task of walking around Venetia in search of manuscripts and Edgardo is a very picky cleric. Even today he told me about some new arrivals . . . ”
“Well done, but promise me you won’t keep the best morsels for yourselves in Bobbio and leave your leftovers to us, your poor, minor fellow brothers.”
“I promise you will be at the front of our minds.” Ademaro’s natural talent for diplomacy had managed to appease him, but there was still tension.
“In any case,” Carimanno continued, “there’s all the time in the world finally to give our young scribes a demonstration of your expertise. Don’t you agree, Edgardo d’Arduino?”
It could no longer be put off. Ademaro tried to think of a suitable excuse to justify his friend.
“It will be an honor,” said Edgardo, walking to the lectern.
The scribes left their stations and gathered around him, curious.
“As I was telling you last time, this young scribe, Rainardo, is anxious to learn all your secrets,” Carimanno said.
The skinny young man handed him the goose quill with a wan smile.
“What are you copying?” Edgardo asked.
“As you yourself can see . . . The Topics,” he replied knowingly. “Translated from Greek into Latin by Cicero, and explained in commentary in six volumes by Boethius.”
“Good.” Edgardo came closer to the parchment: a meaningless blur of out-of-focus symbols. “I see you’ve done an excellent job.”
“But you can do better, I’m sure,” the young man replied. “We’re all anxious to see you at work.”
A deep silence descended on those present. Ademaro’s face had turned pale and his features were tense. Edgardo dipped the tip of the quill in the horn filled with ink and, trying to follow it with his body as though assuming a position more adept to writing, drew his face close to the C
icero manuscript. Even with a huge effort, he could barely make out the words, while the letters blended into one another and the lines flickered in a kind of nauseating dance. He would have liked to come even closer, until his nose touched the page, in order to see clearly.
Ademaro realized that he would never manage it. He was about to intervene and help his friend, but Edgardo anticipated him. He straightened up, gave all those present a long look, and stood right in front of Carimanno.
“I want to confess a secret I have never revealed to anyone, Your Worship. The first rule that has guided me in my search for perfection when copying was given to me by an old master at Bobbio.”
Ademaro looked at him, incredulous. What on earth was he making up?
“In the beginning, he always said, copy under dictation. Don’t worry about committing the pericope to memory. Concentrate exclusively on the shape of the words, the neatness of the signs, and enjoy shaping the characters. Young scribe, would you like to dictate to me a couple of lines from Cicero’s original manuscript?”
Carimanno nodded, satisfied, and the young man prepared to dictate.
What Edgardo had to do now was follow his instinct and his memory. He could see a little and, with luck, he would manage it. His hand was steady and he could still follow the lines. The young man began to read slowly, pausing every so often to allow Edgardo to transcribe.
The nib ran freely and the characters took shape on the parchment as if by magic until they made up words. He found the pauses, the blackletters, the hairlines, and the flourishes. He felt joyous and transported as though it were his first time. As though his hand were dancing on the sheet. And he was overwhelmed by a kind of languor, a physical pleasure he had never experienced before.
Carimanno was following the hand with an entranced expression, emitting little gurgling sounds of delight. Ademaro breathed a sigh of relief and looked around. Nobody suspected anything. Edgardo was safe.
Later, Ademaro said, “I confess, I thought I knew you very well, but I was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“You managed to astonish me. I never thought you’d find a way out with the abbot.”
Edgardo laughed. “Neither did I. The idea came to me out of the blue, like a flash of enlightenment.”
“You filled us all with wonder. Carimanno won’t persecute you for a while.”
Ademaro was serene and his tone complicit. It seemed to Edgardo that his doubts were unfounded, and that he had found his friend again.
Karamago the merchant was waiting in his shop to show them the manuscripts that had just arrived from Constantinople. As usual, they took a gondola as far as the dock, where a galley was anchored. It was a tall, wide ship with sails, a rounded bow, raised forecastles at the bow and the stern, and two rows of oars.
“I’ve never seen a horse fly!” Edgardo said, astounded.
Ademaro stopped with his nose in the air. At that very moment they were loading onto the ship the horses that were to be kept in the hold, and because it was impossible to lead them across the gangplank and the narrow bridges, a system had been devised to lower them from the top. Tied with leather straps that went under their bellies, they were then lifted up by means of a capstan and carried over to the main deck where the trap door was open. It was a complex operation, with which the animals did not happily cooperate. Some were neighing and kicking, and every so often one slipped out of its harness and crashed to the ground.
A multitude of people gathered outside the Orseolo Hospice, near the watchtower, waiting to embark. Well-dressed men with an aristocratic demeanor mixed with simpler folk, such as craftsmen and tradesmen, and, rather unusually, there were also many noble-looking women escorted by their maids or by poor peasant women. There were carefree children running after one another, weaving between the legs of the adults. Edgardo noticed that all these people were calm, and that their faces were luminous, almost inspired. They were patiently waiting their turn as though under a spellbinding influence.
“They’re pilgrims waiting to embark for Jerusalem,” Ademaro explained. “They’re going on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulcher. There are more and more of them coming from every country. Shortly after the year one thousand, Doge Orseolo had this hospice built especially to welcome and offer shelter to pilgrims, women, and the sick.”
Edgardo felt a kind of envy toward these people who were about to embark on a long and perilous journey just so they could go and pray at the tomb of Our Lord.
“What makes them so . . . so luminous?” he asked.
“This holy voyage is a preparation for death and the promise of salvation. The pilgrim leaves his home, severs relations with his family, relinquishes any protection, and disengages himself from any emotional ties, in the certainty that with this journey he will secure life eternal. That’s what makes them so trusting. They abandon themselves to the hands of God.”
“They have a deep faith.”
“It’s the same faith that guided our choice to shut ourselves in a monastery.”
Edgardo hung his head and fell silent.
To avoid the crowds in the Calle delle Merzerie, they took a narrow and smelly side street, covered in rubbish and excrement, with low, mold-infested houses, corroded by salt. With every step they took, they sank into sticky, smelly mire that lapped at their habits.
Karamago received them with the usual bowing and scraping. Teodora’s bed was empty and the room was saturated with an acrid smell of incense that overwhelmed the odors of all the other spices.
“I have the complete works of Aristotle, Hippocrates’s Aphorisms, Galen’s Ars Medica and, besides, little morsels by Horatio and Juvenal that are impossible to find . . . So, what do you think?” He gave the monks a complicit look. “I’ll give them to you for little, and if you buy them all I’ll give you a good price. Wait, I’ll go and get them.”
He tottered, took a step and then, as though he had changed his mind, turned to Edgardo. “Will you be so kind as to help me carry them? They’re in the attic. It’s the safest and driest place now that the waters are high.”
Karamago went to a ladder that was leaning against an open trapdoor in the ceiling. Edgardo followed him.
“Mind your holy skull.”
They climbed through the hole into a low attic where they had to move on all fours. They began crawling on the floor covered in dried bird excrement. The smell of feces made it hard to breathe. Karamago stopped in front of a trunk.
“I wanted to speak to you in private,” he whispered. “It’s better if this remains between you and me.”
“What is it?”
“I found your eye stone.”
Edgardo stared at him in disbelief.
“I’ve already spoken to him and he’s willing to meet you.”
“Who?”
“Master Tàtaro. You saw him outside the basilica. He’s the most important glassmaker in the whole of Venetia. He wants to see you. He’s expecting you at his foundry in Amurianum.”
Edgardo was hesitant. Another offer of the stone, and maybe another disappointment.
“I’m warning you, be discreet and silently silent with everyone, especially Segrado.”
“But why all this secrecy? What’s behind this stone?” Edgardo asked.
Karamago rolled onto his side, trying to find a more comfortable position. In such conditions, the conversation had something both absurd and funny about it.
“Something big is happening in the world of glassmakers. They’re all looking for the same thing and want to be the first to get there . . . So when I mention your eye stone, everyone gets very agitated.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed.”
“The very word throws even the most peaceful souls into turmoil. And let’s not forget that a glassmaker has just been killed in that barbaric manner. Also, let me tell you that many ovens are catching f
ire in ways I’d say are, to say the least, mysteriously mysterious. In my humble opinion, there is a fight currently being fought. It’s hard to say who the eye murderer could be. Maybe that glassmaker had found a new formula, or had stolen it so somebody decided to punish him. We don’t know. In any case, Tàtaro is a trustworthy person, so don’t be afraid . . . ” The merchant gave him a long look. “Still, you must always exercise prudent prudence.” And, twisting his behind in a semicircle, he reached the trunk, opened it, and pulled out the manuscripts.
“Here they are,” he said, blowing on the frontispieces. “Nice and fresh. Firsthand Greek stuff, not a copy of the translation of a translation.”
Edgardo took them delicately in his arms, like newborns just out of their mother’s womb. They crawled backwards to the trapdoor. As they were about to go down, Karamago stopped.
“By the way . . . that Arabic manuscript, the one I sold to your fellow brothers, did you ever find it? Is it still in the library at San Giorgio?”
Edgardo was about to answer “yes” without thinking. After all, why should he lie? But then he froze and took a deep breath.
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen it in the library,” he lied.
A stain, a sin: lying. What kind of path was he embarking on? Where would this road bordered with temptation and flattery lead him? Ever since he had left Bobbio to search for the stone for the eyes, Edgardo had done nothing but slide down a dangerous and treacherous slope. He had broken the rules of the order by secretly spying on Ermanno’s manuscript. He had gotten close to a woman, even touched her and also, this was an even graver fault, he had experienced an indescribable feeling of turmoil. And now, finally, this lie. Why had he not told Karamago the truth? Out of fear? Or because he did not trust him? Or was it to protect himself against some harm?
He showed Ademaro the manuscripts.
“You could take them to Bobbio,” Karamago butted in. “It would be quite a coup for your abbey.”
“I serve the interests of knowledge,” Ademaro interrupted. “For me every library is equally important. What counts is collecting books and passing them on.”
The Eye Stone Page 8