“Yes, yes, of course,” Karamago sniggered, “but let’s just say that every abbot hopes to have the most prestigious books . . . and that sometimes this results in such bitter competition that the rules of good manners are forgotten.”
Ademaro started looking through the pages. Suddenly, a whiff of Arabic incense invaded the room, announcing Teodora’s entrance.
She was struggling up the stairs, huffing and puffing and complaining. When she appeared on the doorstep, she was bright red and dripping with sweat. Her flabby, ivory flesh was bursting at every seam of the long velvet dress she had fruitlessly tried to tighten at the waist, under her breasts, and at the armpits. Her body rebelled at being constricted. It wobbled with every movement, trying to free itself from its bonds and giving off a whiff of perfume in every direction. When she saw the monks, she burst into a kind of tearful lament.
“God, I thank you! It’s a miracle! A miracle! I knew Our Lord wouldn’t abandon me, and your being here is proof of that. I prayed for a sign and you appeared, sent by Divine Providence.”
She went up to Ademaro and tried to kiss his hand, but he pulled it away. Then she threw herself on Edgardo, tugging at his cowl.
“My young and saintly monk, you must hear me out. I want to open my heart to you, please enlighten me.”
Rather embarrassed, Edgardo glanced at his friend, who, unperturbed, had gone back to looking through the manuscripts.
“I had a dream, a terrible dream . . . and you must tell me what it means.”
“I don’t interpret dreams,” Edgardo replied.
“Listen and you’ll understand. The other night, before Lauds, I suddenly woke up. I thought I heard noises. This animal here,” she said, indicating her husband, “was fast asleep, so I lifted myself up and looked around . . . and there, in the semidarkness, at the foot of the bed, what do you think I saw? It was a kind of horrible dwarf. From what I could make out, he was short, with very black eyes, the beard of a goat, pointy, hairy ears, disheveled, bristly hair, teeth like a dog, a pointy skull, a swollen chest, a hump on his back, quivering buttocks, and strange clothes; he was leaning forward with his entire body. He was looking at me without saying a word.”
“It was the devil,” Edgardo said casually and with a touch of sadism.
“That’s exactly what I thought! It was him, the devil, but why was he staring at me that way? What was he trying to tell me?”
While she was recounting her story, Teodora had become so heated that her body was quivering like ibex broth jelly.
“That maybe you shouldn’t try to sell false relics,” Ademaro commented casually.
At this point, Teodora unleashed an endless litany of complaints. “It’s true. I have sinned, but in good faith. I didn’t know, I acted foolishly, but I’m ready to repent and make amends. I’ve just come back from the basilica where I spent the morning praying to Saint Mark. I’ve renounced idleness and perfumes . . . Every morning, I sprinkle myself with ashes and incense . . . ”
Poor Karamago nodded with a disgusted grimace.
“And I’m ready to renounce all worldly goods, free myself of all the relics . . . Isn’t that true, Karamago?”
“You did promise,” said the merchant.
“All of them without exception: Saint John the Baptist’s foreskin, Saint Paul’s tibia, the humerus of Saint Callixtus, Saint Sebastian’s fingernail, a splinter from the cross of Our Lord, a piece from the stone pillar at which he was whipped, a thorn from his crown, a milk tooth of the Virgin Mary, the eyes of Saint Cosmas and Saint Damian, and of a baby from Herod’s massacre, and even a lock of Mary Magdalene’s hair that I was very much attached to. Out, all of them out of this unworthy house.”
Edgardo nodded, satisfied.
“There, if you want you can take everything away with you, I don’t want anything, just a small offering, I’m relying on your kind heart, just a little charity for this sinner who looked the devil in the eyes. I leave it up to you!”
After pleading her cause, Teodora dropped, exhausted, on her bed, making the floor shake.
As though nothing had happened, Ademaro returned the manuscripts to Karamago. “I’ll talk to Abbot Carimanno, and see what he says. It also depends on how much you want.”
The merchant bowed. “I’m sure we will reach an agreement.”
“Let’s sort out a price to include the relics,” said Teodora.
Edgardo approached the woman and, with a cavernous voice like thunder, which seemed to come from beyond the grave, said, “Quiet, woman. Those relics are cursed now, the devil has tainted them. Get rid of them, throw them into the lagoon, burn them, but whatever you do, get them out of this house as soon as possible if you don’t want the devil to pay you another visit. Get them out!”
Repeating the anathema together, the monks left Teodora prostrate and terrified.
XII.
CA’ TATARO*
He felt close to achieving his goal. This time, the stone for the eyes could definitely become reality. Edgardo could not account for his feeling. When the boat left him at the tower of Amurianum, he was certain that the meeting with Master Tàtaro would be conclusive. He immediately found the foundry at the start of the rio of glassmakers, and asked a garzone where the master was.
“He’s at the palace,” he replied. “Follow the rio and it’s on the same bank as the basilica of Santa Maria. You can’t miss it. It’s the only real palace in Amurianum.”
The garzone was right. Crossing the island, Edgardo went past low warehouses, wooden huts, boathouses, and an arc-shaped bridge made of beams that were fitted and nailed together, supported by logs fixed in the canal. He went past two more churches and, finally, on the shore of a larger canal, saw the only building that might look like a palace . . . or rather like the idea of a palace, since construction was still in full swing. Still, what could already be seen was a princely building of Istrian stone and marble, something seldom glimpsed in the whole of Venetia, let alone on the island of Amurianum.
He saw the skeleton of the two-story building, which, despite its size, gave the impression of extreme lightness, of weightlessness. That was because the first floor was made of a tunnel with large central lancet arches wedged between two filled lateral screens, and a portico with two small towers on the sides. Another porch opened onto the ground floor, which led straight to the bank, giving the impression that the building leaned over into the void, creating a play of light and shadow. To make way for the construction, the canal had been dammed and drained, so that Edgardo could see how they had made the foundations to support the weight of such a large building.
In order to firm up the earth and increase its density, thus ensuring that the foundations were more stable, eight or nine very long wooden poles had been planted. The tops had been leveled and two wide beech platforms had been nailed to them, from which issued the foundation walls. The wood, immersed in damp mud and shielded from any contact with air, was preserved in excellent condition, guaranteeing that the deepest part of the foundational structure would remain functional.
One side of the façade was already plastered in marble and, under the portico, pateras* and ornamental tiles depicting floral patterns and mythical animals were set. Builders were still at work inside and on the banks, but the palace already looked magnificent.
Master Tàtaro, standing on a freight boat loaded with timber, like the captain of a ship, gave orders as he admired his creation. As soon as he saw Edgardo, he abandoned his command post and went to meet him with an affable manner.
“I’m glad you came. You’re the first cleric to cross the threshold of my new home. What do you think?”
“Magnificent,” Edgardo agreed.
“I still have other embellishments and clever solutions in mind. I heard from a glassmaker who visited the abbey of Monte Cassino that there they closed the windows with glass circles of different colo
rs, tied together by a string of lead; it keeps the ice and rain out and the light projects colored reflections on the floor and the walls, creating a fairy-tale atmosphere. Glass on the windows . . . Master Tàtaro will be the first and only one in Venetia—as usual.”
“It’s a wonderful idea, I’ve never seen anything like it. It would be very convenient for us too, in the scriptorium,” Edgardo said.
Master Tàtaro assessed him with a look. “Still, you haven’t come here in order to admire my home, right?” Edgardo nodded. “Then come, there’s something I must show you.”
They entered the palace. The rooms were empty and their footsteps created a sinister echo on the terrazzo flooring.
Inside, a courtyard surrounded by a portico opened up. In the middle, two workmen were building a well. After digging out a large square reservoir underground, which had then been lined with clay and sand to stop salt water from seeping in, they were erecting a flue of curved bricks in the center of the tank, leaving a gap between each so that rainwater—by means of pilelle (perforated slabs of stone attached to the four corners of the floor around the cistern)—could gather in the flue and, by passing through it, be purified until it became more natural than springwater. The city subsoil had no freshwater, and it had always been difficult for Venetians to quench their thirst.
At the back of the house, Tàtaro had set up a kind of museum where he kept his most valuable pieces on display, in permanent memory of his genius. He pulled out a parchment from a shelf and, with a theatrical gesture, unrolled it before Edgardo.
“This is what your eyes long for.”
It was a drawing, the strokes vague and faded; a sketch with writing.
“Lapides ad legendum,” Tàtaro said in a loud voice, emphasizing his understanding of the writing.
All Edgardo’s hopes and delusions vanished in a flash. A simple drawing? Is that all it was? Edgardo had expected to see this stone for the eyes, touch it, try it! Instead, he had to content himself with imagining it, and even that with great difficulty. The object represented had an oblong shape, flat on the bottom and curved on the top, like a tortoise shell, but it was impossible to tell how big it was or from what kind of material it was made.
“It’s certainly rock crystal,” Tàtaro added. “A huge piece of crystal that’s been cut and smoothed.”
“And how does it work?” Edgardo asked, trying hard to imagine the relationship between the eyes and that heavy stone.
“We don’t know exactly. The scholar who asked me to reproduce it thinks that the stone must be placed on the page of a parchment and that, if you draw the eye close to the part that’s curved, you can see the letters reflected there, magnified, a remedy for eyes like yours that can no longer make out very small things.”
Edgardo tried to imagine the effort it would take to push the stone across the page to be transcribed, one word at a time . . . a huge task that would make copying take much longer. Still, it would be better than a world that was uncertain and out of focus.
“Have you managed to reproduce one of these stones?” he asked.
“Well . . . I’ve tried with the help of a crystal-maker I trust. We’re working on it but it’s not easy to find the right curvature. If the proportion between the base and the curve isn’t exact, the letters get deformed, melt, and break up, and everything blends into a nightmarish mixture.”
Edgardo stared at the drawing, not knowing what to think.
“So that’s why I wanted to meet you.” Tàtaro took his time to roll up the parchment and put it back on the shelf. “You’re a talented cleric and you have access to the library of San Giorgio . . . ”
Edgardo was beginning to understand.
“I know that Abbot Carimanno keeps precious manuscripts that come from the Orient, and apparently there is among them a volume that deals precisely with vision, eye function, and experiments performed with crystal and glass. With this information I think I could make considerable progress in reproducing lapides ad legendum.” His face grew pointy as he peered beyond the tip of his nose. “I imagine it wouldn’t be impossible for you to take a peek. With your knowledge and my genius we will certainly succeed in solving the problem. You’ll have your eyesight and I’ll have the secrets of Arab scholars.”
Obviously, news of the existence of Alhazen’s book was spreading fast, reawakening the interests of many. Karamago had started it, but what had really stirred the waters was the arrival of Edgardo, who could read, had access to the library, and in addition, in order to save his eyes, had a vested interest in divulging the contents of the book. A poor monk, easy to blackmail.
“What do you think? It seems like a fair exchange,” Tàtaro concluded.
His immediate reaction was one of disgust. The very word “exchange” made his blood boil. The prospect of doing something against the rules, of having recourse to subterfuge, and bartering his learning with a pompous craftsman for his personal gain made him feel like a despicable being. It was an action unworthy of him, of the habit he wore, and of his heritage, to strike a deal with a plebeian! His noble origins reemerged with arrogance. Edgardo d’Arduino, known as the Crooked, was about to respond with outrage that he would never . . . but then he stopped, lost and confused. What dignity, what family name was he thinking of? Had he not already broken the rules by going to the scriptorium in secret and reading the Arabic book? Was he not lying, resorting to subterfuge, and betraying a friend? Who did he think he was fooling? He was hardly that pure and noble cleric he deluded himself that he was, but just a common mortal desperately trying to find a way to save his eyesight and give his life purpose. And perhaps he would stop at nothing to reach that goal. Therefore, he did not respond with his instinctive outrage but, instead, took his time and prevaricated diplomatically.
“I don’t know anything about that book.” Another lie. “It could be there, I won’t deny it. If I have the opportunity to—if by chance I happen to find it . . . I’ll bear it in mind . . . I’ll try to see . . . ”
Accustomed to haggling and bargaining over the price of his glass, Tàtaro understood that the door was not shut, and that the negotiations could continue.
“It’s important,” the glassmaker continued, “that a particular kind of knowledge should fall into the right hands. Venetia is full of braggarts and adventurers who boast about discoveries, magic arts, and secret formulas—especially among glassmakers. Don’t let them cheat you, they only want to take advantage of you. And don’t let yourself be impressed if they announce that they’ve made an extraordinary discovery or new experiments. Glass is glass, and crystal is crystal—nobody can substitute the one for the other. Only that madman Segrado goes around announcing he has revolutionary formulas that will change the course of history.” Tàtaro laughed, enjoying the sound coming out of his mouth. “That braggart will end up begging outside San Marco together with his foolish slave. You’ll see . . . You’ll see . . . ” As he said this, he had a sniggering fit.
His slave . . . So Kallis was his slave. Edgardo felt somewhat confused. It was logical and he should have known it immediately. It was exactly the behavior of a master toward his slave, so it was not in the least surprising . . . But then why did he feel that uncontrollable anger rise in his chest? Tàtaro was laughing and laughing . . . Edgardo was tempted to punch him in the face, ram his teeth down his throat, and put a stop to that stupid, inappropriate laughter. He turned abruptly and, without so much as a goodbye, walked out of the palace.
XIII.
ARSENAL
He left Amurianum on a scaula loaded with cloths, which would take him back to Venetia. He was ever more confused and tormented. Edgardo felt caught up in a vortex that was dragging him down, with no hope of returning to the surface. He began wondering if he should give up. He was paying too high a price for the recovery of his sight. But was that what was really happening? Was the search for the stone for the eyes not an excuse, a
cover he had created himself? Giving up would mean returning to confinement and solitude. He did not want to admit to himself that the freedom he was savoring filled him with excitement and curiosity. It was the first time he had plunged into life, and he was discovering its ugliness, its tricks, its unforeseen events, its torments and fears. However, together with that, he had savored moments of immense joy: the celestial vision-like enchantment of the impalpable lagoon landscape, his spirit quivering while visiting the basilica of San Marco, and the feverish emotion he felt in Kallis’s presence. His soul was all mixed up, and the reality about him appeared deformed in both good and evil ways. In the end, his ailing eyes were showing him reality as it was: a confused and sublime alternation of unfathomable events.
The boatman left him at the castle of Olivolo, in a quarter he had never been to. Edgardo had reached the stage where he was convinced that he had somehow mastered the city layout and that, in any case, he would be able to find his way to the basilica, his reference point for returning to San Giorgio.
The island of Olivolo, in the far eastern extremity of Venetia, was home to the Church of San Pietro, one of the oldest bishoprics of the gens venetica, an orderly who was distributing food to the poor in the campo outside the cathedral explained. In the old days, the island was enclosed within fortress walls, designed to protect it against Narentine pirates, who ruled in Istria and Dalmatia, as well as across the mouth of San Niccolò del Lido, and had even pushed deep into the heart of the lagoon. Hence its name: castle.
Edgardo walked across the wooded campo outside the bishopric and, crossing a rickety wooden bridge, reached a stretch of land that emerged from the waters. He crossed uncultivated fields that gave the impression of being in the open countryside except for the pools and ponds that suddenly opened up beside the paths. He went past two monasteries, Sant’Anna and San Domenico, walked around a large lake on the bank of which was the church of San Daniele, and reached an area where he began to notice large houses, huts, and warehouses along the canals. This reassured him because it meant that he had chosen his route wisely and was approaching the more populated center.
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