Zoto nodded.
“Come back when you have fresh news.”
Zoto did not move. “You said you needed a good crystal-maker . . . ”
On one of the shelves, a series of round vases were lined up in a row. Tàtaro picked one up and opened it. There was a handful of crimson glass chips of irregular shapes glowing inside.
“Can you make fakes?” Tàtaro asked.
Zoto swung his leg smugly. “I am the master of fakes.”
“Then take these chips of colored glass, set them in quartz, and polish them properly.”
“Leave it to me. In a few days you’ll have a handful of Indian rubies that look so real, not even an expert jeweler will be able to tell the difference.”
“We’ll sell them to a merchant. In Alexandria, they can’t tell an emerald from a piece of glass.”
Zoto gulped contentedly, as though picturing the sumptuous meal that awaited him once he had completed the work.
“Now go, and come back soon with the stones and news.”
Zoto skipped out of the foundry. Even his leg seemed happy.
He did not wait for the dawn. He had made his decision and perhaps that was the reason he felt strangely at one with the world. From under the plank, he removed the pages on optics he had copied out of the Alhazen and put them into the sack with his other belongings. They were his last hope. These theories seemed to him innovative and revolutionary, and perhaps they could help him find a solution for his ailing eyes. He clung to the sheets like a castaway to a raft. He moved slowly, with deliberate calm, to allow his mind to get used to the idea of what awaited him. When he closed the door of the cell behind him, Edgardo felt a dull pain in his chest, as though he had been kicked by a skittish horse.
There was an air of surreal peace hanging over the abbey. He paused in the cloister. The black outlines of the cypresses soaring into the sky like long spears seemed to have ceremoniously lined up to see him off. The tops bowed in the wind and Edgardo nodded his farewell in return.
As arranged, the boatman was waiting for him at the back of the island, at the far end of the wood.
“Have you found what I asked for?” Edgardo whispered.
“Yes, sir, I’ve got everything,” the boatman replied, indicating a bundle in the bottom of the boat.
The ice had melted, leaving sodden streaks of muddy residue on the waters of the lagoon. With every stroke of the oar, a strange undertow seemed to drag the boat toward the abyss. As they moved farther away, it struck Edgardo that this would be his last journey from the island of Memmia.
As soon as they were in open water, almost in the middle of the Vigano canal, he ordered the boatman to stop. He stood up, making the gondola rock and slap the surface of the lagoon. He suddenly felt a moment of doubt, a sense of emptiness. He was hopeless, and afraid of the unknown world. Then he looked up at the sky, expecting a sign from heaven, absolving him of the sacrilegious act he was about to commit.
There was no comet with its luminous trail across the sky, no thunder or lightning, no divine voice. It was just him, alone, with his choice.
With a quick gesture, like the crack of a whip, he tore off his habit. He felt his skin burn and his heart swell. He was naked before the universe. Then he picked up from the bottom of the boat the bundle the boatman had brought him. Inside were a garzone’s clothes: a pair of large, torn breeches, a thick, coarse shirt, and a woolen cloak. He put on his new clothes with disgust. They stank of dried fish and were caked in mud. He completed his transformation with a woolen cap full of holes, which he pulled down on his forehead. With his fiery-red hair hidden under the hat and his fisherman’s outfit, nobody would recognize him, not even Zoto. Dressed like that, he could walk around Venetia without running any danger.
He suddenly had an inexplicable feeling, as though his new identity had softened the deformities of his body. He touched the hump on his sternum. It was still there, cumbersome and knobbly.
The boatman was about to start rowing again.
“Wait,” said Edgardo.
He bent down and picked up his old cleric’s habit. The past, the mark of his life and faith. He lifted it up to the sky, then gently followed it down as he let it slide into the water, like a loving father teaching his offspring to swim.
The habit floated for a while, its color turning gradually dark as it soaked in water. The image of his life drifted away, undulating, then began to sink. Edgardo felt the water rise to his throat, a chill run down his limbs, and his belly stiffen with a painful cramp. He watched his past existence disappear beneath a pitch-black sea, dragged to the bottom by a demon’s claws. The armor inside which he had hidden for so many years and the protection he had woven around himself—that of the learned cleric and expert scribe—had all ended up at the bottom of the lagoon.
Suddenly, he was a boy again, helplessly afraid, watching the strangers attacking his brother, once again tasting in his mouth the cowardice that froze his heart. He had made a choice and taken a step from which there was no turning back. He had abandoned his privileged position as copyist cleric, as the firstborn of a noble lineage. Now he was nothing. He had no protection and no family.
For a moment, he felt uneasy. Then the image of Kallis appeared before him, her mysterious eyes, her long fingers, and her body, thin as a thread of wool. A woman, a slave, had bewitched him with her magic arts and driven his soul to shake off the chain that had bound him for too long. He was afraid but, for the first time, he also felt free, ready to be born again. With Kallis near him? And Segrado? He did not have an answer to these questions but he felt that his soul was light, vibrating finely, and perhaps closer to God than before.
The boatman resumed his rowing, leaving the Vigano canal to the south and entering the mouth of Rivus Altus. The outlines of churches, monasteries, and rare stone buildings stood out like dark, eerie masses amid all the smaller and more fragile houses made of timber. The canal was deserted at that time of night. Edgardo noticed only a spot, far behind them, undulating in the night mist. Perhaps a small boat or a tree trunk adrift. They passed the church of San Samuele, where the bend of the canal was wider. Every so often, Edgardo would touch his clothes to become fully aware of his new identity.
They were approaching Rivoalto, where the boatman would leave him on the bank near the church. In the flicker of night shadows and his now uncertain, unfocused eyes, he saw a dark, imposing mass suddenly rise before them from the waters. It looked like a huge galley equipped with war machines, decks, and turrets. It stood sideways, touching both sides of the canal. Edgardo rose to his feet, and the gondola swerved to avoid it.
“Be careful, it’s coming toward us!” he cried, alarmed.
The boatman laughed. “No, sir, it’s we who are going toward it. It’s the new bridge.”
Edgardo blinked. Now even distant images seemed vague and without contours.
“The new bridge?”
“Wonderful, isn’t it?”
He had seen construction start on it but could never have imagined such a magnificent piece of work. The dream of a future stretched between two islands to make them into a single piece of land, a united city.
Resting on raked piles that protruded from the shores, two sloping surfaces made of thick planks fixed snugly together and protected by parapets on the sides jutted into the center of the canal. The passage was as wide as a road, so as to enable a multitude of people, carts and horses to travel across it without risking falling into the water. In the middle, a space had been left, covered with walkways that opened and shut like a drawbridge, to allow ships with tall masts to pass.
Edgardo stopped to admire this wonderful work of ingenuity. At that moment, it seemed to him the symbol of a new beginning, the hope of the different life he was about to embark upon.
He paid the boatman, took his sack, and headed for the saltworks. He had no hope of finding a
nyone in the foundry, so would wait for Kallis to arrive. He had nothing now except her. He did not know where to seek shelter or sleep, and counted naively on her and Segrado’s help.
He thought he heard a noise behind him. He looked around. In the labyrinth of alleys and rios, he did not see even the shadow of a bat. Fear creates ghosts and nonexistent voices. He had to remain calm. Not even Ademaro would recognize him dressed as he was. It was pleasant and comfortable to walk in those breeches; he felt more agile and relaxed. Even his bones seemed to appreciate the transformation.
He reached Segrado’s foundry and was already about to shelter in the mill warehouse when he noticed a glow filter through the beams of the wall. He approached. There was no sound. He walked around the foundry, looking for a chink so that he could see inside. Something creaked. Salt crystals that cracked with every step. The screech of an owl rippled the surface of the lagoon. The window was bolted and he pushed it, trying to move the shutter aside.
There was a hiss, like an arrow cutting through the wind, an arm around his neck, heavy panting, a hot breath on his cheek—and the tip of a blade pressing against his throat. Edgardo did not move.
XXIII.
ECSTASY
Don’t move or I’ll cut your throat.”
Edgardo held his breath. His muscles were petrified with fear.
“Who are you?” It was a thin, light voice he could not fail to recognize.
“It’s me—Edgardo.”
The grip loosened and the point of the blade was lowered. A hot smell of terror wafted from both bodies. Edgardo took off his cap. Kallis took a step back, panting.
“What happened? Why are you dressed like that?” She looked around suspiciously. “Let’s go inside. It’s safer.”
The fire was still burning in the furnace and a weak light filtered through the mouth, projecting pale shadows on the walls. There were small spasms running across Kallis’s face.
“I’ve left the abbey . . . forever.”
Kallis looked at him in disbelief. “You’ve abandoned the habit? The library? Your books?”
“It’s my books that abandoned me. And besides, nobody will recognize me dressed like this. I can walk around with no danger.”
Kallis went to the furnace, shaking uncontrollably. “What will you do now? Where will you go?”
“I needed to see you. I couldn’t wait any longer. My life as a cleric had no meaning anymore, my habit was just an unnecessary burden, and now I’m free . . . I left it all for you.”
He put a hand on Kallis’s face, which was ice-cold.
“Oh, no, please don’t talk like that. I don’t deserve your kindness. I’m nothing. Why did you do it?” Kallis was desperate. “There’s nothing I can do for you. I’m not free . . . ”
“We’ll find a way, if you’re willing.”
“No, you don’t understand, you don’t know . . . my fate is sealed, while yours is linked to the abbey and to books. Go back, there’s still time.”
“God sent me a sign by taking away my eyesight. My life is at a crossroads and I must take a different path.”
“It’s not true. We’ll find a remedy for your eyes. Segrado’s made an extraordinary discovery . . . look.”
Kallis took a knapsack out of the trunk and delicately unrolled the cloth with the oval sphere. It was limpid, transparent like springwater.
“It’s crystalline glass. As pure as rock crystal but much more malleable and easy to work with.”
Edgardo had never seen such perfect transparency. The crystal produced reflections so brilliant they were like painful darts in his eyes.
“It’s as though it gives out its own light,” Edgardo said in amazement.
“Do you still have the copy of the Arabic manuscript?” Kallis asked.
“Yes, I’ve brought it with me.” He indicated the sack he had left lying by the door.
“I’m certain that with crystalline glass and the knowledge contained in the manuscript, Segrado will manage to create the eye stone you’re looking for, then you’ll be able to see again.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me? Be honest. I understand. A poor cripple with no future and no trade . . . ”
“You’re wrong. It’s not that. You don’t understand . . . ”
Kallis brushed his lips with the tips of her fingers. Edgardo took her hand and kissed it. She disengaged herself and, with growing agitation, ran out of the workshop.
The night air had frozen the sky into a mosaic of glittering tesserae. Everything looked false, like a mosaic background in the Basilica of San Marco: golden tesserae representing stars and a slice of yellow moon placed crookedly above the green expanse of the lagoon. Salt crystals were dancing, scattered in the basins. Edgardo joined Kallis, a thread of wool at the mercy of the forces of the universe.
“I didn’t know it, and couldn’t even picture it. I’d copied thousands of love poems by Greek and Latin poets, legends about lovers and men who’d lost their minds from missing their beloveds. And as I wrote, I tried to imagine these feelings, these emotions, the passion of the flesh. I’d fantasize but it never went any further than my quill. But now I know, because what I feel in my head and in my heart isn’t just words. The yearning gnawing at my soul isn’t made of ink, but is something much more powerful and at the same time simpler. It’s a sudden blow of an ax on tender bark. A red-hot iron on the delicate skin of a newborn baby. An icy waterfall that makes your heart quiver. It’s an explosion that spreads through your entire body, runs through your blood, muddles your mind, traverses your dreams, erases time, and blinds even those who, like me, have already been deprived of their eyesight. I don’t want to give it a name because I’m afraid that if I discover its name, then it will go back to being just a word, just a sign on a sheet of parchment. Besides, it’s not important that I know what it is because I’m so happy just to recognize it within me, to have every minute the proof that something exists—no matter what people choose to call it . . . So don’t tell me anything, don’t try to stop me, and don’t chide me, because it was you that made this miracle explode and I cannot—I will not give up this supreme joy.”
Edgardo put an arm around her waist. Kallis’s chest shook with little starts: she was weeping. He gently wiped away her tears and brushed her lips.
The salt storehouse near the mill was full of hay for the horses. They took shelter there. Kallis took off her clothes, tearing them from her body as though time had suddenly broken into a run and at any moment their lives could speed out of control and end forever.
For the first time, Edgardo let his instinct guide him. His instinct—a force he did not know and which erased his thoughts, making him forget his fears and his hesitation, transporting him to a slow, never-ending fall into the void.
He saw Kallis’s eyes widen and listened, bewitched, to the mysterious words she kept repeating in her incomprehensible language—words he imagined to be expressions of love for him.
When he reached supreme pleasure together with her, the climax broke apart, shattered into an illumination, an explosion of glowing slivers that carried body and mind to another world, other times, to a place of light where, for a moment, he thought he saw God.
He had never had such a mystical experience, not even during long nights at prayer in the cloister. Divine presence was manifesting itself through a woman’s body, the very place where, he had always been taught, resided the origin of evil, sin, the devil. And now Kallis’s body had become the house of God.
They were awakened by a relentless creaking and the sound of sails whipped by the wind. It was dawn and the mill was already in motion. They had fallen asleep, sunk in the hay, clasped in each other’s arms. Kallis leapt to her feet and glanced at Edgardo. With that tousled red hair, white skin, and eyes so pale they were almost transparent, he looked like a mysterious forest creature from the Nordic moorlands.
&n
bsp; She shook him. “Quick, let’s go back to the foundry, the sun’s up.”
They sneaked out and ran to the workshop. The door was open.
“God have mercy!” Kallis exclaimed.
They approached cautiously. “Segrado is going to kill me,” Kallis whispered.
They walked in. There was still a small fire burning in the furnace. Kallis rushed to the trunk. The knapsack was where she had left it, with the crystalline glass egg still inside.
“Thank you, God.”
Edgardo looked around. Everything—tools and vases—seemed to be in its place. Only his sack was not where he remembered leaving it. He picked it up and untied it. The few things he had brought from the abbey, such as his clothes, were there. All that was missing was the copy of Alhazen’s manuscript.
“The copy of the treatise on optics is gone,” he said, agitated.
“You showed it to me last night,” Kallis replied. “Perhaps it’s outside.”
“No, I put it back in the bag.”
He rummaged again, halfheartedly. The copy had vanished. A strange, acidic smell came from the sack. It reminded him of someone, or perhaps of somewhere, but he could not form a concrete image.
“Nothing, nothing,” he repeated, upset.
“Look among the tools, under the workbench,” Kallis insisted.
Edgardo knelt on the floor and began moving planks, materials, and bags. There was a sheet—just one page. He picked it up and showed it to Kallis. “This is all that’s left.” It was the frontispiece, bearing the title of the book. “The rest is gone.”
“How’s that possible?” Kallis did not want to accept the truth.
“They stole it. Someone entered the foundry tonight . . . we left the door open.” Edgardo’s voice was cold and metallic, as though what had just happened did not concern him in the least.
“I don’t understand,” Kallis wondered. “They took your manuscript but left the glass behind.”
The Eye Stone Page 19