The Eye Stone

by Roberto Tiraboschi

  Outside the foundry, he found Kallis sifting ground pebbles through silk sieves to obtain powder as fine as flour.

  “He doesn’t want anyone,” she said, with an eloquent hand gesture. Niccolò crouched down by the door and waited.

  Old glassmakers in Venetia used to say that in the olden days there was a powder that could cleanse the glass mixture. Segrado wanted to try adding this substance to the molten glass. It was tartar salt, also known as wine dregs because it was obtained from that thick, dark brown scale you find at the bottom of the barrels.

  He took from the trunk, where he had hidden it, the little sack he had picked up at the harbor in Matamauco. He did not want anyone to know about his gut feeling, yet he needed the help of an assistant. He came out and motioned to Niccolò. He did not have to explain anything to him. All the boy had to do was follow orders.

  He approached the oven, and a wave of heat made his skin glow red-hot. Even though winter was upon them, and with it ice and rain, the heat around the furnace was unbearable, so they worked with the upper part of their bodies naked, bathed in sweat. Niccolò took the crucible out of the fire. Segrado mixed the molten glass with a blowing pipe. It still had that green tint that marred its purity. He took a pinch of tartar from the bag. Niccolò watched him attentively, not understanding.

  At that moment, Kallis appeared at the door, carrying the powdered pebbles. Segrado frowned. “What do you want?”

  Kallis looked at him, surprised. “The pebbles,” she said, indicating the bag.

  “By the blood of the canker!” Segrado shouted, suddenly angry. “Out! Go to hell! Get out of here!”

  Kallis put down the bag, gave Niccolò, who lowered his head, a puzzled look, and walked out without saying a word.

  Segrado panted to cast out all his anger and, once he was calm again, poured the tartar into the glass. He did not know how much he should add, since nobody had passed on a rule. He watched the glass paste as a change took place: the green grew pale, turning almost ocher, then the color faded to the point where it almost disappeared. Segrado thought for a moment that he had before his eyes a light, pure and limpid paste. He felt a sense of freedom, as though the bolus was his soul and suddenly, thanks to divine intervention, it had been purified of all sin and feelings of guilt, all the terrors that tormented his nights.

  He remained there, spellbound, staring at the miraculous substance, and thought for a moment that he had achieved the perfection of crystalline glass. Then, inexplicably, the incandescent mass changed color, as though dragged toward impurity by a devilish force. Segrado saw a stain creeping into the original purity, a purple shadow that quickly took possession of the whole substance, destroying his illusion of achieved transparency.

  Once again, he had failed. Still, he had picked up a sign: for a moment, the glass had become pure. He had to work out what had triggered that phase, and why.

  XVI.

  TITIVILLUS

  The following night, Edgardo did not wait too long. He had a lot of work to do and he needed as much time as possible. After the monks had gone to bed, he listened until the noises in the abbey had died out. Then he went to the library and the scriptorium. Everything seemed calm and quiet. He looked for Book VII among the translated sheets on the shelf. He had decided to copy that one because it contained the description of experiments with glass spheres and the magnifying process. It was too dangerous to work in the scriptorium. The only solution was to take Book VII to his cell, spend all night copying whatever was possible, then take it back before Lauds.

  He took a few blank sheets of parchment, a goose quill, and a horn full of ink. He smelled it. They used a slightly different blend in Bobbio: cabbage juice, copper sulphate, gall cooked over fire with arabica and beer. The color was not as red as this one in San Giorgio. Then he looked for pumice for erasing, and a few pins to fix the parchment to the table.

  Loaded with all the equipment, he returned to his cell without difficulties. Time was flying, so he had to start copying right away. He did not have a pulpit, but only a small table and a stool. He organized himself as well as he could, but the position was uncomfortable and painful. His hump pressed against the wooden edge of the table and his back was bent in an unnatural pose. He brought the tallow candle as close as possible to the pages to be copied, and dipped the goose quill in ink.

  He was both scared and excited, as always when he was about to start copying a manuscript. In that moment, he felt exactly like the sage who had written the original. Copying was as important and emotional as the initial writing. It was as though the concepts, the words, the very structure of the sentence belonged to him and were pouring out of his mind. In other words, he would identify with the work he had before him, and be transfigured within it.

  The light was pale and wavering as he tried to memorize the first line. He had not forgotten about his eyes but he thought that perhaps God, in his mercy, would envelop him in His miraculous light. An illusion. The delirium of a madman. The letters, the words, the lines of the sentences were ever more vague and blurred. He had to get even closer to the sheet to understand the meaning, and his body was bent like a bow is, as tautly as possible, just before the arrow is shot. In the end, he began to copy slowly, hesitantly, in fits and starts, like a novice with his first assignment. Where had his former mastery gone? And what about his enjoyment, and his boldness? He had to content himself with memorizing just one word at a time before transcribing it. He did not even follow the sense of what he was reading. He was just copying it, mechanically.

  The cell was so cold that he had lost the feeling in his fingers and the goose quill seemed guided by somebody else’s hand. Nevertheless, Edgardo the Crooked kept going. He managed to copy a few pages in spite of excruciating pain. There was absolute silence and the world around him seemed to have stopped in order to allow him to bring his enterprise to term.

  Then, suddenly, it was there before him. The killjoy, the pedant, the copyist’s most feared visitor: Titivillus, the demon who sneaks into the mind of the poor copyist and who, with tricks, jests and impure thoughts, tries at all costs to distract him and trip him up.

  Edgardo noticed Titivillus’s arrival immediately because on the same line he omitted two letters, added a syllable, and repeated a word. He had to do some precision work with the pumice to mend the disaster.

  When Titivillus chose to disturb a copyist, it was very difficult to get rid of him. He remained for as long as he had not filled his sack with omitted letters to take down to hell. The only way to chase him away was to stop your work. However, Edgardo could not do that, as the night was drawing to a close.

  “Leave me alone, go away!” he muttered. “You’ve come at the wrong time. I have to finish this work before Lauds. My back is aching, I can’t feel my fingers anymore, my stomach is in turmoil, I’m a poor, crippled cleric. Take pity on me.”

  Titivillus laughed, leapt onto the sheet and tugged at the quill. “Donkey! Here’s another missed letter for my sack.” Then he slipped between his fingers, confusing them. “Donkey! You’ve just repeated a word.” Finally, he roused lascivious thoughts of naked women with their legs spread open, their asses in the air, dancing on the edge of the parchment.

  “That’s enough! Stop it! Go away!” Edgardo did not know anymore what to say in order to chase Titivillus out of his cell. “I warn you. If you don’t let me finish, you’ll end up losing a client—I will be through with you forever.”

  Titivillus paused, suspended, one paw on the tip of the goose quill.

  “That’s right, you heard me. If you don’t let me finish copying these pages I’ll never be able to copy anything else again, because my eyes are forsaking me and these pages contain formulas that are my last chance. So, what do you say?”

  Titivillus began nibbling thoughtfully at the point of the quill: the situation seemed serious.

  He looked into his sack and saw that
he had already collected a fair number of letters and words. They might be enough. It’s never in a little demon’s interest to lose a client. He leapt off the quill, causing it to slip into one last doodle, and spat a tiny ink spot on the parchment. Then, with a fart, he went back to where he had come from, through a secret tunnel between the beams of the floor, which no copyist had ever been able to discover.

  Edgardo breathed a sigh of relief and rushed to copy the final pages. It must soon be Lauds. When he heard the bell start to toll, he picked up the manuscript and the equipment, hid the copied pages under his mattress, and rushed out of his cell.

  It was still pitch dark. He covered his head with his hood and went along the corridor of the dormitory. Going past his fellow brothers’ cells, he heard signs of awakening. A creak, a cough, a chair leg scraping against the floor. He rushed to the staircase. He had to go down to the ground floor, cross the cloisters, go into the library and up to the scriptorium. Fortunately, the church was on the other side of the abbey. Under the portico, he kept as close to the wall as he could. He tried to make as little noise as possible. The celebrant monk was probably already getting ready for the ceremony.

  Once in the library, he felt safe. There was never anybody there at that hour. He went up to the scriptorium and put away the manuscript and the equipment. He was smiling, satisfied, when he suddenly stopped. Had he sunk this low? Like a thief proud of his crimes, happy to have gotten away with breaking the rules? If anybody had come into the library at that moment, he would have been lost. Trapped like a rat.

  He rushed to the winding staircase and walked down carefully. Not a light, nor a sound. The library was dark and empty. By now he knew the way by heart, and he kept to the middle in order not to trip over the heavy lecterns lined up along the walls. As soon as he was out, he would consider himself safe. In any case, he could find an excuse for being there.

  As he approached the door, there was a rustle, an eddy. A chair was moved. Something was pulling at his habit, holding onto him. Perhaps the habit had caught on something. There was breathing and a pungent smell. A hand grasping the hem of his habit, tugging hard. He was trapped. His blood drained away and his face turned to ice. He yanked at his tunic and managed to free himself. He heard a bustle in the dark. Perhaps somebody had lost his balance. He threw the door open, was out in a flash, and started to run like a frightened child who has lost his mind, throwing all caution to the wind.

  He reached the end of the cloisters and climbed the stairs. Not a sound behind him. Before tackling the corridor of the dormitory, he stopped to catch his breath. He was in a sorry state, terrified and shaking. He could still feel the grip of the hand trying to hold onto him. A knobbly, predatory hand, like that of a demon. When sin enters your soul, raging demons are unleashed against you. And his soul was now tainted with too many stains.

  He forced himself to keep a calm and regular step, and went toward his cell. He had almost arrived when, out of nowhere, a hand landed heavily on his shoulder. His heartbeat pounded in his head, and his vision began to fail. He turned abruptly.

  “I see you’re ready. Shall we go down together?” By the light of the lantern, he recognized Ademaro, who was looking at him sleepily. Edgardo took a step back. He did not want his friend to notice his pallor.

  “Very well,” he whispered.

  “I slept badly,” Ademaro said, walking toward the exit. “I was tormented by a terrible nightmare all night. A thief had entered the library, to steal the most precious manuscript. It’s absurd . . . ”

  Edgardo hid his face under his hood. Ademaro had dreamed correctly.

  “Karamago! Karamago!”

  The powerful cry rose and somehow made its way through the bustle by the dock. The merchant turned so abruptly that his belly dragged him and he almost lost his balance and fell into the water. The scaula rocked dangerously but the oarsman managed to hold onto the helm. Who was shouting his name so rudely and unrestrainedly? Karamago looked around. Outside the basilica, carried on the back of a tall, strong servant who did not seem bothered by the backwash of putrid water that came up to his waist, he saw Maestro Tàtaro, waving his arms about like a bird of prey.

  “Here, here,” he kept squawking.

  Karamago gave a polite smile and ordered the oarsman to get close to San Marco. It was the height of chaos. During the night, the water level had risen enormously and very suddenly. Pushed by a bora wind, it had totally submerged the Brolo, the ground floor of the Doge’s palace, and the Orseolo Hospice, and had even penetrated the narthex, threatening to flood the entire basilica and endangering the patron saint’s relics in the crypt.

  For centuries, Venetia had been used to high water incursions that would break through the barriers, invade and destroy the embankments, seep in through the stones and the timber, gnawing and crumbling, pleased to watch as the city that had dared stand up to the power of the marsh died.

  Venetians had always fought against the muddy sea and the floods caused by the impetuous rivers Sile, Piave and Medoacus, which discharged rubbish and detritus into the lagoon—and won. In recent years, however, the power of the water had become ungovernable. The level had constantly risen, grabbing tidal shallows, shoals, and entire islands. Many monks from monasteries scattered on the islands had had to abandon their residences and move to safer places closer to the city. And now the tide was becoming more and more violent and unpredictable, making people’s lives even more difficult and uncertain.

  Karamago’s scaula made its way among the other boats and managed to reach Porta di Sant’Alipio. Tàtaro slid off his servant’s back and dropped into the boat.

  “We’re about to lose the sacks with gold mosaics! The water has flooded the atrium and the workmen are stuck on top of the scaffolding.” Tàtaro was highly agitated. “You must take me to Amurianum. I have no boat and I have to get other workmen.”

  “Actually, Maestro, I was about to pick up a shipment of fabric that’s just arrived, so I’m expected.”

  “Never mind, you can do that later. My mosaics are more important than your fabrics. These are the mosaics of San Marco, the mosaics of Venetia. In any case, you’ll never be able to load anything in this chaos. Trust me.”

  Karamago agreed willy-nilly and motioned to the boatman.

  It was true that the dock was completely blocked: scaulas, gondolas, and freight boats dragged by the current were drifting toward the Brolo. There was abundant screaming, swearing, and insulting by everyone and against everyone. A long procession of wheelbarrows was carrying the sick and dying from the hospice to the Doge’s castle in search of shelter on the first floor. All kind of filth was floating on the water: leftover food, dead cats, pieces of furniture, clothes, wooden utensils, and naturally, since the tide had penetrated the inner streets, there was a substantial amount of excrement in all shapes and sizes.

  “If nothing’s done about this as soon as possible, this city’s going to sink,” Tàtaro muttered.

  “It’s always been like this and always will be,” Karamago said philosophically. “You just need to adapt . . . I’ve taken all my goods to the first floor, so the high water doesn’t scare me.”

  “And what are you going to do when the water reaches your first floor?” Tàtaro asked, stung.

  Karamago laughed. “I’ll swim!”

  “Don’t be foolish. Something has to be done. The embankments need to be raised and the river mouths diverted. Our illustrious Doge won’t listen to wise advice. The Brolo in front of San Marco should be lengthened so that it buries Rio Batario and the dock should also be covered because it’s too close to the church. That way, we would have a barrier against the water in front of the basilica. It’s very simple, but our beloved Doge says there isn’t enough money in the city coffers. No wonder, since they spend it all on those useless crusades to please the Pope. Why don’t we sort out our city before sending money and ships to Rome to fight t
he infidels?”

  Karamago pursed his lips. This idea of widening the Brolo and eliminating the dock sounded odd to him. Where would they moor the ships and how would they unload the goods? Still, he said nothing, not wishing to antagonize a man as powerful as Maestro Tàtaro.

  The scaula glided lightly toward Amurianum. The wind had dropped and the surface of the lagoon looked like a slab of burnished iron. From the bow, Tàtaro was looking at the mountains on the horizon.

  “The water is glowing like a topaz,” Karamago said, fancying himself a poet.

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” Tàtaro scolded him. “What do you know about gemstones and colors? I’m the glassmaker, so let me be the judge.”

  “Certainly, Maestro . . . ” Karamago coughed and spat into the water. A mullet peeped out of the water and quickly swallowed a shred of dog intestine floating nearby.

  “I’ve heard Maestro Segrado is messing about with new recipes. Do you know anything about this?” Tàtaro asked.

  “No, Maestro. Segrado does not do me the honor of confiding in me. I’m sure you’re better informed.”

  “You don’t suppose that cleric found the Arabic manuscript and then took it to Segrado?”

  “The monk hasn’t been back to my shop,” Karamago answered on cue.

  “In that case, find a way of meeting him. I want to know . . . ”

  They were approaching Amurianum. Tàtaro stood up, ready to disembark. “Also, if you managed to lay your hands on that manuscript, you’d be amply rewarded.”

  Karamago believed that a merchant should always try to satisfy his clients’ every whim, no matter how.

  “Don’t worry, Maestro, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Tàtaro leapt onto the steps. The water kept rising.

  XVII.

  THE EYE MURDERER

  It was like lying on a bed of fire. An inexplicable heat seemed to come from the depths of the earth, wrap around him, and burn him up. Drenched in sweat, Edgardo rose and slipped out from under the mattress the manuscript he had copied the night before.