The Eye Stone

by Roberto Tiraboschi

  “Whoever it was thought he’d found some secret formula. Who would be interested in that?” Edgardo was wracking his brain.

  Kallis made a face. “The glassmakers all hate one another and steal secrets at every opportunity.”

  For a moment, they looked at each other like two strangers. Each was entertaining a secret thought. Then Kallis drew nearer.

  “We mustn’t tell Segrado anything. He left me here to guard the oven. The very thought that someone came in, even if nothing of his was stolen, and he’ll lose his mind . . . When he gets like that, he doesn’t think. He becomes crazy and very violent.”

  Kallis’s eyes narrowed so much they practically disappeared, as though trying to set fire to an image from long, long ago.

  “We won’t say anything.” Edgardo tried to calm her, while staring blankly at the only remaining page of the treatise. “This is absurd. Every time I seem to get close to the possibility of finding a remedy for my eyes, something happens to take it away. It’s very clear. It’s pointless to persist. The era of words, books, seclusion, libraries, and solitude is over.” He looked at his scruffy clothes. “A new era awaits me, and I don’t yet know where it will take me.” He smiled at Kallis. “Do you know?”

  She stroked his hair and held him in a tight, almost masculine hug. “You must go now. Segrado mustn’t find you here when he comes. Nobody will recognize you in these clothes, not even Zoto.”

  Only then did Egardo realize that he had nowhere to take refuge, eat, or sleep. “I have nowhere to go,” he said, naively.

  She looked around, puzzled, then collected herself. “Go to San Pietro, in Olivolo. In the courtyard of the archbishopric, there’s a shelter for pilgrims and beggars. You can take refuge there for the time being, then we’ll try to find you somewhere in Metamauco. I’ll talk to Segrado.”

  “So you don’t want me to leave?” Edgardo asked, hopefully.

  She bowed her head. “I no longer know what’s right. I can’t read what’s in my soul anymore . . . It’s like there’s fog everywhere around.”

  “Let’s hope for a strong mistral wind to blow it away, so that the light can shine over us again.”

  “Now hurry, go!” Kallis held him back by the arm. “No, wait.” She kissed him gently, with a light breath that had a hint of sadness in it. “I’ll come and get you. Don’t budge from there.”

  Edgardo picked up his sack, pulled the cap down on his forehead, and walked out into the blinding light of the saltworks.

  The ice had melted and trade had fully resumed at the dock. Even so, a feeling of anxiety and uncertainty had spread among the people because of the extreme climatic changes and prodigious recent events—the feeling that some catastrophe or other could befall the city and its defenseless population at any moment, be it a famine, a sudden attack by pirates, or a plague epidemic. Nobody spoke about it openly, but rumors circulated from one district to another, playing on everyone’s nerves.

  Segrado left the scaula on Rio Bataro and walked purposefully toward the basilica. He had sworn it and now that he had achieved his dream, it was time to keep his promise. He walked into the narthex of Sant’Alipio. Inside, embellishment work was in full swing. The mosaic floors were not finished yet and painters were decorating the walls with frescoes representing episodes from the Bible. He approached the presbytery. In the apse, the mosaic artists were composing the figures of the patron saints of Venetia: Saint Nicholas, Saint Mark, and Saint Ermagora.

  Maestro Segrado kneeled before the high altar and bowed his head.

  “Thank you, Oh Lord, for allowing me back into Your flock. To You I dedicate the pure glass that I have created. Now I know You have forgiven me the terrible crime I committed. By removing all impurity from my glass, You’ve given me a sign that my soul is also pure and crystal-clear again, and that all the stains have been washed away. For that, I will never cease to give thanks.”

  He looked up at a corbel where a large, rudimentary cruet was displayed. It was made of green, opaque glass and contained a dark, thick substance.

  “You know that, many years ago, I took a vow: that if I managed to create pure crystalline glass, I would dedicate my first piece of work to You, Lord. This second-rate cruet is not worthy to contain Your blood. I will make a cruet for You out of the purest, most transparent glass, so that all the faithful may honor and admire Your holy relic.”

  Segrado made the sign of the cross and stood up.

  As he left the basilica, a gust of wind suddenly slapped him across the face, like a whip. Segrado smiled. God had forgiven him.

  He got down to work as soon as he reached the workshop. He ordered Kallis to rekindle the fire in the furnace, and bolted the door and the windows. He felt full of creative energy. His head hurt and his temples throbbed, as though the form he was trying to give his new creation was pushing forth, trying to find a way to be born into this world. He had to find a design for the cruet that was worthy of the substance it would contain, and he wanted to create something unique and amazing. A specimen everybody would admire as the masterpiece of the most illustrious glassmaker in Venice: Angelo Segrado.

  Kallis watched him, holding her breath, as he fussed around preparing the tools and measuring out the ingredients. She knew that when he was in that state, even one wrong gesture could unleash a violent burst of anger, so she kept to a corner, waiting for orders.

  Segrado was like a lion in a cage. He took a piece of charcoal and began drawing sketches on the bench. A chalice with arabesques, a cup with spiral handles, a cruet adorned with a subtle filigree. Suddenly, he stopped, as though struck by a bolt of lightning.

  “What a dumb animal, what a shit-eating birdbrain full of hot air and arrogance!” he exclaimed.

  Kallis looked at him, surprised.

  “I mustn’t go shooting my mouth off to the world about how wonderful my art is!” he shouted. “It’s not I but Jesus Christ, our Lord, who should be praised through His blood. No pilgrim should say, ‘This is Maestro Segrado’s splendid glass,’ but ‘This is the blood of Christ.’ So no inscriptions, settings or floral patterns. None of that! I will make a receptacle that’s simple, basic, and clean. Its uniqueness will lie in its purity, the transparency of the glass that’ll be so fine and clear it will seem invisible. Everybody will have to reach out and touch it to make sure it’s real. A plain cylinder, with a dome-shaped lid—like our basilica.” He signaled to Kallis. “Come on, move, prepare the pebbles, get to work, I don’t want to waste any time.”

  Kallis collected the already crushed pebbles and put them into the mortar, to pestle them finely. Segrado took Levantine soda ash—the best—that came directly from Syria, and threw it into water, which was ready and boiling on the fire. Kallis waited for the opportune moment, when Segrado looked calmer.

  “The cleric—the copyist—came by.” The maestro did not seem to hear her. “He almost can’t see anymore, so he can’t read or copy.” Kallis sighed. “He’s left the abbey, cast off his habit . . . and they stole the Arabic manuscript from him—the one he’d copied . . . ”

  The maestro stopped working. “Does this mean he has no more hope for his eye stones?”

  Kallis nodded. “He’s got nowhere to go. He’s in San Pietro now. I was thinking perhaps we could find him shelter in Metamauco, maybe even work.”

  “And who’d want a blind man?” Segrado said.

  “He can write . . . ”

  “A copyist with no eyes is like a glassmaker with no hands . . . Still, nobody’s ever been refused a bowl of soup at Segrado’s house.”

  Kallis blinked, satisfied. She was about to collect the powdered pebbles in the silk sieve when a muffled thud made her jump. Segrado darted to the door and flung it open. At first, he did not notice anything untoward, but then he heard footsteps and rushed to the back just in time to see Zoto walking away, dragging his short leg. Segrado caught up with him
and fell on him from behind, pushing him to the ground.

  “What were you doing, you evil creature?” he shouted. “Spying on me?”

  “Let go of me, you stinking bear, I was spying the air from your ass.”

  Zoto was struggling on the ground like an overturned tortoise, but Segrado’s bulk prevented him from moving.

  “Talk! What did you see? Tell me the truth or I’ll tear your eyes out!”

  “I saw nothing, I swear. Only a toothless beast spitting in my face.”

  “Who told you to spy on me? Tàtaro? Confess, you son of a bitch.”

  “You’re making a mistake. Let go of me.”

  “I’ll make you swallow your tongue, you asshole!” He pressed down on Zoto’s neck with all his strength, squeezing with his steely hands. Zoto started to cough.

  “Let him go, Angelo, you’re killing him!” Kallis was watching the scene but did not dare intervene.

  “It’s what he deserves.”

  Segrado kept squeezing. Zoto’s face had turned purple, like the lagoon on a summer’s evening.

  “Think about the work you have to do. You’ll get into trouble,” Kallis shouted.

  For a moment, Segrado hesitated, then released his grip. Zoto leaned on his side, vomiting violently.

  “Thank the girl,” he said. “And don’t ever come back to my foundry.”

  Zoto was still coughing. “This is my foundry, or have you forgotten? Well, you can kiss it goodbye and go find yourself another one. I’m the one who doesn’t want you around anymore.”

  “I don’t believe you find my money repulsive.”

  “I don’t need your charity. Tàtaro is willing to buy my oven even now.” Zoto got unsteadily to his feet. “So what, cat got your tongue? You’re full of shit, you old fool. You’ve ruined yourself with your own hands. Get out of my foundry. Out!” he shouted.

  Kallis took Segrado by the arm and dragged him to the workshop. His anger had gotten the better of him and, once again, he had lost control. It was not a good thing. Now he risked being left without an oven just when he had to complete his most important piece of work.

  XXIV.

  BLOOD GRASS

  After he left Kallis, Edgardo felt terribly lost. His day, always punctuated by prayers, work, and religious tasks, suddenly felt like a useless desert.

  It was Terce and he still had a lot of time before going to spend the night at the shelter in San Pietro. Trying to organize his thoughts, he roamed around the city without a specific destination, letting chance lead him. He ventured into districts he had never been to before, and felt as though the landscape was changing before his eyes, assuming twisted, surreal forms: increasingly dark, narrow calli, winding paths that stank like sewers, overrun by rats and all kinds of insects. The walls of the houses, corroded by mold and salt, leaned forward toward him, barring the way, while their crooked roofs protruded until they almost touched others across the path, stifling what little light came from the gray sky.

  He felt as though these crumbling buildings, thus suspended, could come crashing down on him at any minute. And all around, like a crazy merry-go-round, rios flowed, canals intersected, merged and vanished amid shoals, into senseless labyrinths crossed by rickety bridges that also barely stayed up. Up above, the sky was smoky and so low, you could almost touch it with your finger.

  “Mind those rafts, you stupid canker,” a boatman cursed, threatening him with an oar.

  Edgardo had unwittingly upset sacks of savoy cabbage stacked up on the bank of a canal.

  “Shit-face, freak, fool . . . ” The man kept insulting him without restraint.

  Edgardo realized how uncertain and vulnerable his position now was. Since he was not wearing the clerical habit, even the humblest of people could get away with insulting him and perhaps even attacking him without risking any punishment. The habit he had chosen many years earlier to escape his own cowardice had been the knightly armor he had not had the courage to wear.

  He was alone, naked, unprotected, hurled into an adverse world against which nobody had taught him to fight. He would not last long. Perhaps he still had time to go back, return to Bobbio, or retreat to his father’s house where he would be received as a loser, a failure who had not been able to succeed even as a cleric.

  And give up Kallis forever? The thought was unbearable. Was it for her sake that he had taken this drastic decision? For the love of her? Love: there, he had uttered the word softly to himself, in a whisper. Did he love Kallis to the point of renouncing everything? Was his desire powerful enough to erase all reason, all caution? He did not even know if his love was reciprocated. He had lain with her but perhaps that did not mean much . . . What then? Was he so sure of his love that it was enough per se?

  The sun was already setting when he reached San Pietro on the island of Olivolo. He was hungry and his torn clothes did not shield him from the cold like the monk’s habit. In the campo outside the patriarchal palace, there was a gathering of paupers, beggars, and lepers awaiting the distribution of food. Edgardo cautiously approached.

  Given his simple clothes, his resigned demeanor, and the hump protruding beneath his jacket, his presence should not arouse suspicion here. Nonetheless, a few ragamuffins scowled at him, giving him surly looks. After all, he was another mouth to feed and would take food away from them.

  Edgardo the Crooked. Never before had that nickname seemed so appropriate and even useful. His misshapen body certainly did not stick out in that multitude of outcasts.

  He thought about the convenient abbey refectory, the safe refuge of the scriptorium, the silence of the cloisters, and felt a deep nostalgia.

  A novice opened the gates of the archbishopric and invited them in. A shudder rippled through the crowd, which got up, shook itself, and rushed toward the entrance.

  Ever since his eyesight had started to fail, he had noticed an increase in his ability to perceive smells and sounds, as though his other senses wished to compensate for the lack of the main one. As he joined the crowd, Edgardo realized that emaciated, infected human flesh gave off a putrid, revolting smell that enveloped everything in a deathly embrace.

  Inside, there was a wide cloister with a grassy courtyard in the middle, surrounded by a portico. The beggars stood in line, waiting their turn. A cook, assisted by two garzoni, arrived with a huge pan and began dishing out the meal.

  From the eldest son of a noble family, to a cleric, to a lowly beggar. It had been a ruinous, inexorable fall.

  He took the bowl full of a soup that stank of fish guts probably stolen from the cats, and sat in a corner on the ground. He was hungry and, after a few mouthfuls, got used to the nauseating smell.

  After the meal, everybody lay down on the ground, on top of heaps of reed leaves that had been scattered along the walls of the portico, huddling in the few rags they had brought with them. Edgardo found a niche near the front gate, and made himself as comfortable as he could. By now it was dark. There were laments, mumbled words, meaningless phrases, prayers: the polyphonic song of a wretched, suffering humanity resounded beneath the cloister vaults, mixed with the pungent smell of despair, the fight for survival, wounds that never healed, the regurgitations of insatiable hunger, and of death as a daily companion. He now had a place among men: those who were poor, lonely, and abandoned.

  “Blood grass has sprung in the lagoon!” a little boy cried, running across the vegetable garden.

  It was true. Overnight, a kind of grass nobody had ever seen before had grown on the water. It was slippery, limp, and of a dark-ruby color. Sailors said it had come from the sea, brought in by the tide, while fishermen claimed it originated from deeper in the lagoon, near the mouths of the rivers.

  In any case, that blood-red cloak was advancing inexorably, covering the surface of the water in the bay of San Marco and in the Vigano canal, and was beginning to spread along the whole of the Ri
vus Altus. A gluey mush that stuck to keels, oars, and ropes, making it difficult for boats to move.

  At other times, Venetians had seen their sea invaded by green algae, undulating beneath the surface, but never in such large quantities and of that dark red color that resembled coagulated blood. Some boatmen had even said that when they immersed their hands to free their oars from the strings of vegetation, they thought the water was much warmer than usual for the season. It was a strange kind of broth, like soup just taken off the fire.

  Following the exceptional frost, this sudden appearance of grass in midwinter only contributed to the growth of people’s fear of extraordinary events. Many were now talking openly of signs, omens of an imminent catastrophe that would strike the city. So much so that Doge Falier had considered it appropriate to pacify his people with a public declaration outside the basilica, promising to organize a procession as soon as possible to beg God’s forgiveness for all their sins.

  That morning, something else added to the deep anxiety that had crept into people’s minds. It was the horror of another murder in a case considered closed.

  Near the new bridge, lying on a bed of blood grass, floated the stocky, squat body of Zoto, the crystal-maker.

  The boatmen who had found him at dawn had first assumed it was a drunk who had fallen in the water and drowned because of the slippery mass. However, when they pulled him out, they realized that his death had not just been a trick of fate. His eyes had been gouged out with a spoon, and the sockets filled with the usual glass castings.

  What had made an even deeper impression on the onlookers was that there was an extremely pure light shining from the depths of the hollows, as though precious gemstones had been set instead of the eyeballs. A light that seemed to possess the power to read one’s innermost thoughts.

  The rumor had quickly spread and many had come running. One thing was certain: the eye murderer had claimed another victim.

  Karamago, the merchant, considered guilty and executed, was innocent, and, by an absurd coincidence, the new victim was Zoto, his accuser.