The Eye Stone

by Roberto Tiraboschi

  Then the hands flew away, they entered and exited their interlaced bodies, held each other tight and were sucked again into a void where only chaos reigned.

  Finally, Kallis’s lips pressed against his. A veil of sweat and the taste of almonds. A light kiss that grew deeper and more intense. Kallis sucked in his breath with long, deep breaths. Edgardo felt his lungs and entrails empty and his life force slip out of his mouth and penetrate her body. As though she had stolen his soul with a spell. Then Kallis saw Edgardo’s body light up and fly away, and Edgardo saw Kallis’s narrow eyes suddenly open and burst in a confused, overwhelmed expression that enraptured him.

  When he came to, he had no idea where he was, who he was, or to which life he belonged, the earthly or the spiritual. It took him some time to put back together the pieces of his body that lay scattered about the room. With difficulty, he found his stunned mind and pulled it back into him, sticking it back into the shell that had housed it for all of his brief existence.

  He looked at Kallis’s body lying naked beside him. He wanted to caress it but was afraid of losing his mind forever. A thread of amber wool, slim and perfect, which possessed a harmony that had nothing human about it.

  Kallis was staring at him with a bewildered expression.

  “What happened?” Edgardo asked, still in shock. “I felt I was being dragged into a vortex, then emptied of all energy.”

  Kallis smiled, satisfied. “I’ve stolen your soul, so now there’s a part of you inside me.” She spoke with a certainty that frightened him.

  “Did you cast a spell on me?”

  She burst into a full, sincere laugh that put his mind at ease. “No, no spell. I’ve just taken a tiny bit of your knowledge without asking your permission.”

  Edgardo was confused. He suddenly remembered his naked body and felt ashamed of it. He looked at his odd, crooked limbs and wondered how such a beautiful woman could willingly join herself to a rough, twisted branch.

  Kallis seemed to read his mind, because she reached out to him and lightly touched the hump on his chest, like a tortoise’s back.

  “God hasn’t been generous with me,” Edgardo said. “He chose to mark me from birth with this repulsive shell.”

  “My mother always used to say that it’s the light that outlines shapes. In the dark, everything is without substance. And the light within you illuminates you and transforms all your features. It erases all deformities.”

  “You’re generous, but my soul is not illuminated at all, on the contrary . . . ” And he stopped as though only now becoming aware of the catastrophe. He had coupled with a woman. He had committed a mortal sin. But that was not the only thing that frightened him. He felt that this act had capsized his life, making him tumble into an unknown and primitive world.

  “I’m lost,” Edgardo could not help saying in a whisper.

  Kallis suddenly hugged him, with all the strength of her slim arms. “You were born crippled and I was born a slave. We’ve always been lost and yet here we still are, alive and strong.”

  Where did this woman come from? From which lands? Which oceans had she crossed? Where had she learned this princely dignity? Edgardo looked at her in awe. Kallis kissed his eyelids.

  “Don’t go. You still have to find the stone for the eyes.”

  Edgardo smiled. “My eyes . . . They suddenly seem like a distant memory of no importance.”

  “Your eyes are important. You must teach me to write.”

  At that moment, Edgardo knew he was lost forever.

  XX.

  THE WONDER

  The rumor spread instantly and the whole of Venetia rushed to see the monstrous wonder with its own eyes.Since early morning, there had been an unusually large crowd in front of the Orseolo Hospice, so much so that Doge Ordelafo Falier had called in the guards to keep the peace. And so all the curious folk formed a line and waited impatiently for their turn.

  Those who came out, after ascertaining that the tale on the street corresponded to the truth, would stop and comment with astounded expressions and excited gestures and leave saying that this prodigious event had to be an ill omen. Disorder was spreading and nature was rebelling against man. The Lord’s wrath was at its peak and a disaster would befall the whole of humanity.

  At the Hospice, in a secluded room, a young beggar girl from the Bergamo region who had been admitted with a nine-month belly, bloated like a goatskin and lumpy like a pumpkin, had given birth to a little monster.

  Nobody had ever seen anything like it, not even when Barbarians had come down from the lands of ice and mated with sows. There was no restraining the curiosity of the people, or even of the nobility. They were all lining up as though it were a relic, their hats in their hands, in religious silence, to pay homage to that trick of nature.

  Lying on a straw mattress, the mother smiled, grateful for so much attention, lovingly holding in her arms the grotesque being she had just birthed.

  A huge, oblong head with a disproportionately large skull splattered with stains like black sausage, from which sprouted two spindly legs that ended in two soft, dangling feet. It had no torso, no shoulders, no arms, and no back. A pink ass began at the neck and the genitals dangled right under the chin. It was nothing but a head and a pair of legs. Nothing else. You could not tell where the heart, lungs and stomach were.

  Some quacks were certain that life resided in the abnormally large skull. Wherever that life might have resided, the newborn did not seem in the least concerned with it, as long as he could hungrily suck at his mother’s breast, almost as though the absence of a proper body meant he required extra energy to keep himself alive.

  What added to the horror of the picture was the baby’s face. In that macrocephalic skull there was somehow a little, delicate mouth, a small, almost feminine nose, two well-defined eyebrows, but no eyes. Instead, there were two deep black holes covered with purple skin, as though a trickster demon had scooped them out with a spoon before he had seen the light of day.

  More than the incomplete and deformed body, it was the absence of eyeballs that captured the imagination of the procession that went to pay homage to the freak. Too many signs, too many coincidences had been piling up, and it was impossible not to connect them. Two dead men, murdered by a joker who had gouged out their eyes. And now this big-headed monster born without eyes, as though come to tell people what awaited all Venetian newborns if the perpetrator of those killings was not found and punished as soon as possible. People were blathering away, gathered on the Brolo outside the Hospice, and the crowd grew more numerous as the day went on.

  On the way back from Costancianum, Kallis left Edgardo in a deserted area near the Arsenal, on the bank of an internal stream, so that no one would see them together. Edgardo headed toward the dock at San Marco to find the gondola to take him back to the abbey of San Giorgio. He walked with his head down, without looking around, shaken by a riot of thoughts and emotions that made him swing from a state of feverish excitement to one of heavy torment, fueled by the guilt of having so wretchedly given in to one of the most reproachable sins: the sin of the flesh.

  Yet he could not help missing the moments of extreme joy and heavenly confusion, the sublime pleasure he had felt while lying with Kallis, and he wondered how, after experiencing such sensations, a man could consider giving up that life forever.

  Even though he realized that he was now a sinner who deserved nothing but to burn in the fires of hell, he had to admit that he had never before felt so strong, so full of energy, so hungry for life. Even more surprising was the feeling that his body was a harmonious and balanced whole, a feeling that made him forget his hump and his crippled bones.

  He reached the Brolo without even realizing it, saw the crowd outside the hospice, and, forgetting all prudence, approached with curiosity.

  “Most illustrious cleric . . . Master copyist . . . ”

 
Were they calling him? Nobody had ever called him “master.” Edgardo looked around and, among a group of citizens gathered to discuss the event, he saw Karamago’s belly protrude.

  “Are you also here to gaze at the wondrous wonder?” the merchant asked, approaching.

  “No, I don’t know anything about it. What happened?”

  “A beggar from Bergamo has given birth to a head with no eyes, two legs and a pendant under the chin. It’s an extraordinary sight. All Venetia is rushing to see it. Everyone’s saying that there are too many evil signs multiplying over our heads. Something terrible is about to happen.”

  An image flashed in Edgardo’s memory: that of the cow with a head instead of an udder, which they’d found in the lagoon the day he arrived.

  “Our meeting is timely,” Karamago continued. “I wanted to talk to you about a delicate question that concerns your stones for the eyes . . . You haven’t found them yet, have you?”

  “No, unfortunately, not yet,” Edgardo answered, hesitating.

  “Good, well, don’t despair. Maestro Tàtaro has taken your tearful situation very much to heart. He has great respect and esteem for copyist monks and would like to help you.”

  “Yes, I know. He told me.”

  “Exactly. Maestro Tàtaro is convinced that the Arabic manuscript contains information that could be very useful for creating these miracle stones . . . So Maestro Tàtaro has a theory that since you have access to the library where this manuscript is kept, perhaps you’ve been able to take a peek inside it . . . And if you felt so inclined, the maestro would be delighted to hear about it and, if so, would of course not fail to show his gratitude, perhaps even by applying his expert expertise to make you the stones you need.”

  Edgardo tensed. “As I’ve already said, the library rules do not allow me access to a manuscript entrusted to another skilled monk.”

  “Yes, of course, I understand.” Karamago pushed his belly forward as though to find an opening in the conversation. “But I’m sure that, even taking into account your commendable cautious cautiousness, not wishing to offend anyone, you could find a way to take a quick look.”

  Edgardo’s face darkened. He was about to reply firmly when a loud voice rose from the crowd.

  “There’s that monk!”

  A confused buzz spread like a swarm of bees after their hive has been destroyed. Edgardo realized that all eyes were upon him.

  “He was at the mill when they gouged out poor Niccolò’s eyes!” the voice shouted again.

  Edgardo searched among the gathered crowd and recognized Zoto, the crystal-maker, pointing at him.

  “He’s the eye-gouger!” another voice cried.

  “He’s the murderer!”

  “Call the gastald!”

  Other voices followed, one on top of the other, the crowd swayed, and Edgardo felt the ground shake beneath his feet. A wave of heat poured out of the multitude: breath, humors, and sweat throbbing in the air and getting closer.

  With a jerk, Karamago tugged at his habit. “Quick, come away, or these people will tear you to pieces.”

  Edgardo stepped back, trying to distance himself from the crowd, which was still agitated and confused, not having yet found an order or a direction. Trying hard to find the logic behind what was happening, the scribe moved slowly, sleepily, as though his body did not belong to him and what was happening did not concern him.

  “Don’t let him get away!” someone else shouted, and the words echoed in his head as if in a dream.

  “Quick! Run! Come with me,” Karamago prompted.

  A stick flew through the air and a sharp blow burned his shoulder. Only then did Edgardo become fully aware of the danger he was facing and begin to run, following Karamago who, although dragged down by his belly, had acquired speed.

  For a moment, the multitude remained still, as though to consolidate the communal feeling and work out a plan of action, then it began running after him.

  Like two foxes with hungry hounds at their heels. Legs, arms, breath. Splattering mud, your heart in your throat and a sharp pain in your chest. Behind you, the shouting of the pack at your back, and the stench of wildness. The two fugitives slid into a narrow, twisted calle at the far end of the Brolo. The crowd could not have followed them there. They ran through a labyrinth of paths, corners, under-porticos, banks, and rickety bridges. They could hear the deep murmur of the pursuers all around. They were surrounded, encircled.

  Edgardo was following Karamago mechanically, his crooked bones creaking and causing him excruciating pain. Suddenly, the barking of the dogs grew closer and he felt lost. Karamago gave him a shove with his shoulder, and pushed him through a low, vaulted door. They crossed an inner courtyard covered in rubbish and excrement, climbed a few worn-out steps, and reached a walkway that acted as a bridge between two houses. Karamago brutally flung open a door.

  “Get inside.”

  As if by a miracle, they found themselves on the upper floor of the merchant’s shop, before an unmade bed and heaps of merchandise stacked against the walls.

  Teodora surfaced from under a stack of fur blankets. “Heavens, what’s this Sodom and Gomorrah?”

  Karamago did not pay the slightest attention to her.

  “Quick! Go upstairs!” he commanded Edgardo and opened the trapdoor that led to the attic. “Hide there and don’t move. In a little while they’ll calm down. It’s always like this. After a while, they calm down and give up.”

  Edgardo stared at the face of this man he barely knew, trying to read signs of pity and charity in his features. He really knew nothing of the human soul! The merchant was saving his life without any hope of profit or ulterior motive. He could have left him to be savaged by those dogs and yet he had generously given him shelter in his home. How wrongly and superficially he had judged him at first.

  On an impulse, he hugged him. “Thank you. May God reward you for this.”

  “Go, go, don’t waste time,” Karamago said, pushing him up the ladder.

  “Is anybody going to tell me what’s going on?” Teodora grumbled. “What’s the cleric doing in our house?”

  “Don’t worry. Go back to sleep.”

  “I was praying, you idiot!” With a theatrical turn, Teodora hid her flabby white flesh beneath several layers of furs and scented wool.

  The racket and shouts under the windows subsided for a while and it seemed as if the danger had been averted, and Karamago was about to tell Edgardo that he could leave his hiding place.

  The sound of knocking at the door stopped him. He leaned out of the window overlooking the calle and saw a group of hotheads led by Zoto.

  “What do you want?”

  “We’re looking for the monk who ran away with you.”

  “There’s no monk here.”

  “Open up or we’ll kick the door down.”

  Reluctantly, he had to let them in.

  “You’ve got the wrong place, I told you,” Karamago insisted.

  “Then you won’t mind us having a look.”

  Zoto pushed the merchant aside and, followed by the others, climbed the stairs.

  There was nobody in the room and they began rummaging around. A petulant grumble coming from a strange swelling in the bed attracted their attention. A skinny, pockmarked youth pointed at it. Zoto approached it silently and, with a sharp motion, turned over the covers. Before the eyes of the hotheads appeared an oversized white ass, bursting out of a pair of night drawers. Teodora screamed and hid her head under the pillow. Karamago burst in with an oath that triggered general laughter, then ran to cover up his wife’s behind. Still, the tension had been dissipated and the merchant sighed with relief.

  “I told you—there’s nobody here.”

  “You call an ass that size a nobody?” Zoto replied.

  A boisterous laugh echoed as far as the loft. Karam
ago too laughed to keep them happy. They were already going down the stairs when a small boy with the face of a hound began screaming like a lunatic.

  “Here! Come quickly! Come and see what I found.”

  Zoto immediately backtracked. Karamago grew pale. The little hound was kneeling on the floor, his head stuck in a chest. The merchant heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Help me, it’s heavy,” said the boy.

  Zoto bent over and they started to rummage. The merchant watched on tiptoe, he too curious to find out what they had discovered in that chest that he had not opened for months. With some difficulty, they lifted out a large green glass bottle, closed at the neck with a cork as big as a pan. Inside, a thick, cloudy liquid with a yellow sheen was swishing about; there were strange white shapes floating in it.

  “Go on, open it,” Zoto ordered the boy.

  With a sharp knock, the cork flew up in the air. At that moment, Karamago remembered what was inside the bottle, and felt his blood slide down to his sphincter.

  A stench of rotting alcohol was released into the room. Zoto took a leap back. The boy, however, accustomed to the most evil smells, since he frequented the most secluded calli, leaned over the cesspit. White spheres were quietly floating in the liquid, streaked with light blue lines, wrapped in a kind of transparent, flabby film, like jellyfish.

  “What’s this stinking slop?” the boy asked.

  Zoto came closer. “Good God . . . They’re eyes.”

  Karamago wished he could have pulled his head into his belly and rolled down the stairs. Everybody approached the bottle. “It’s true, they’re human eyes,” they said in chorus.

  As a matter of fact, there were splendid, perfectly preserved eyeball specimens casually floating in the nauseating liquid.

  The men turned to the merchant with threatening expressions.

  “Where did these eyes come from, merchant?” Zoto asked.

  “Just a moment, I can explain . . . They’re relics, it’s my wife’s obsession, holy relics from the Orient. Tell them, Teodora.”