Ademaro spoke so heatedly that his expression, and even his bearing, had altered beyond recognition. He looked possessed. Edgardo felt deeply sorry for him.
“And you didn’t care if that meant sacrificing the possibility of saving the eyesight of a friend?”
“Edgardo, Edgardo . . . ” Ademaro suddenly threw his arms around him. “Saving humanity is much more important than the small misfortune of an individual—surely you understand that.”
“That’s as it should be.”
“Come back to Bobbio with us, I beg you. Now that you know everything, you’ll live with greater awareness. Your life is in the library, among manuscripts . . . ”
Edgardo disengaged himself from the hug. “I can’t, Ademaro. Not because I harbor any resentment toward you. I know you’ve acted according to your conscience, thinking you were in the right. But, you see, I couldn’t go back to the past. All those books I copied for years with great pain and love have been consigned to the library, and now I know that maybe nobody will ever read them, and they will be shut away forever . . . So my work has been useless. I wanted to divulge it, to spread it, while you want to hide it and keep it a secret. No, not even as a blind man could I ever again live by your side.”
Clouds parted in the sky and the wind rippled the lagoon. A thousand years and many lifetimes passed by, and the shell that protected the souls of the two friends broke. A vortex swept away all memories, all hope, all illusion of a return. Their spirits were now irremediably divided.
“Now go,” Edgardo said. He felt no resentment, only deep sadness.
Ademaro smiled benevolently. “One day you’ll understand.”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m not that wise. I’m just a scribe . . . ”
Ademaro raised his hand, as though about to bless him, but stopped himself. Edgardo followed him as he walked away with Rainardo. That boy had the same way of walking as Edgardo. Only he was less crooked.
XXVI.
THE FEAST OF MARYS
They came from Luprio, Rivoalto, the Gemine islands, Dorsoduro, Canaleclo, the castle of Olivolo, Spinalunga, Amurianum, and even from Torcellus, Burianum, Majurbum, Aymanas, and Costanciacum. By gondola, scaula, or freight boat. On horseback or on foot. They had started off early in the morning in order to secure the best spots in Campo Santa Maria Formosa. It was the day after the February calends, the celebration of the Feast of Marys—for Venetians, the most important feast day outside the Sposalizio, the ceremony of marriage to the sea, on Ascension Day.
Edgardo had followed the crowd of beggars that had moved from San Pietro, determined to find Kallis at the foundry. A whole day had passed and he had not had news from her. She had said that she would come and get him. Instead, she had disappeared. Still, it was now very evident to him that his future was inextricably bound to hers.
Campo Santa Maria Formosa was heaving with people. The residents of all the districts, recognizable from the distinct colors of their garb, made up a colorful, joyous crowd bobbing like a storm-tossed sea.
Edgardo let himself be carried by the progression of celebrating citizens. It was how he felt in his heart—buffeted about by an unknown destiny. It was a sinister kind of pleasure to throw all caution to the wind and let himself drift toward an unforeseeable end.
When he heard his name shouted amid the confusion of voices, children’s shrieks and drunken racket, he thought he was hallucinating.
“Edgardo! Edgardo!”
He looked around, incredulous, not recognizing anybody’s face in the out-of-focus mass fluctuating around him. He tried to push his way through. “Edgardo! Here!” It sounded like Kallis. Carried by the flow, he could not find anywhere to dock when a sudden wave threw him far out, sent him drifting out toward the edge of familiar waters.
Everything in his mind was a blur: childhood memories, the ambush in the forest, the taste of Kallis’s lips, the smell of ink. A magma spinning at vertiginous speed. Then a hand seized him powerfully, and dragged him back to the shore. At first, the body seemed to him like a shadow with no contours, a projection of his desire.
“I looked for you in San Pietro but everyone had gone, so I thought perhaps you’d also gone to the Feast of Marys with the others.”
Kallis was smiling at him. Edgardo caressed her face. She was real, she was flesh and blood.
“I’ve spoken with Segrado and he’s willing to find you a place in Metamauco.” She was happy. “Look, the twelve brides!” she said, pointing at the procession approaching the church. She was excited, inquisitive as a child.
Dressed in white, crowned by rose wreaths, adorned with gold, diamonds and pearls, long veils cascading from their heads down to their arms, wrapped in a cloud of incense, and lit by the rays of the dawn, the twelve young girls entered the church, which was decorated with myrtle and flower festoons.
Doge Falier arrived on horseback, followed by his court and by a group of children dressed as angels, who accompanied him to the sound of portative organs strapped to their waists with belts. He was greeted at the entrance by the parish priest, who welcomed him on behalf of the faithful. The Doge thanked him, walked through the church between two rows of kneeling crowds, and went to sit on the throne that had been placed at the high altar.
The scent from the thuribles blended with the fragrance of violets. The young women kneeled next to the bridegrooms who awaited them in the presbytery. A hydraulic organ intoned a concerto and the clergy sitting on high-backed chairs started chanting. Then the bishop stood up from the faldstool and the ceremony began.
Kallis followed every move attentively, engrossed, a childlike smile on her face. Fascinated, Edgardo could not help watching her. A new Kallis was standing next to him. A young, frail-looking girl the same age as those maidens, enchanted by all the ornaments, the gilding, the music, and the singing. Edgardo wanted to hug her, cover her with kisses, proclaim his love for her in front of all those present. He drew so close he brushed up against her, and she turned to look at him, almost surprised. “Do you know the story of the Feast of Marys?” she asked softly.
Edgardo shook his head.
“You don’t? Everybody in Venetia knows it and foreigners come from afar to see it. You know everything and you don’t know this beautiful story?”
“Tell it to me.”
Kallis took a deep breath. “From the earliest days of Venetia, all the weddings used to be celebrated on the same day, the day after the February calends. The church devoted to this ceremony was San Pietro in Olivolo. They called it the Feast of Weddings then. The brides would head to the church, each carrying her dowry chest, and the bishop would bless their unions. Then the brides would hand over their dowry chests to their husbands before going back to their respective homes, escorted by a festive procession.
“Many years ago, it so happened that while the ceremony was being held, shouts and commotion were heard in the campo. A group of pirates from Istria had disembarked on the island, armed with axes, sabers, and knives. They’d followed and slaughtered the residents, and reached the church where the weddings were taking place. Taking advantage of the fact that the men were unarmed, they abducted the brides and stole the dowry chests with all their possessions. They promptly returned to their ships and sped away from the island of San Pietro. As soon as the Venetians recovered from the ambush, they organized the chase. Many galleys went to hunt down the abducting pirates, who thought they were safe by now. They say that the wind suddenly changed direction, and that the pirates were forced to haul down their sails to avoid being pushed back toward their pursuers. So they decided that it would be more prudent to hide in a bay near Caorle. They landed, taking the women with them, and were about to divide up the loot when they heard shouts coming from the sea. Seeing the Venetians, the pirates tried to reach their ships to flee anew, but it was too late. The Venetians were ready to fight.
“It was a brief but bloo
dy skirmish. The waves that spread over the beach drew back bloodred. Both Istrians and Venetians suffered heavy losses, but in the end, the Venetians had the upper hand, crying, ‘Hail Venetia! Hail Saint Mark!’ They managed to free the brides and recover the loot. They showed the pirates no pity, but slaughtered them all and threw them into the sea. When the triumphant galleys returned to Venetia, a crowd was waiting to welcome them like heroes. The Doge addressed the head of the chestmakers’ guild—the guild had provided extra boats for the pursuit of the abductors—and asked him what he wanted as a reward. The latter replied that they had done no more than their duty, but if they really could claim a reward, then, since almost all of them were from Santa Maria Formosa, the only church dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary, they would wish that, from then on, the Feast of Weddings might be celebrated at their church and renamed the Feast of Marys—partly because the majority of the abductees bore the name of our Lord’s Mother. And that’s why, ever since, the Feast of Marys has been celebrated at Santa Maria Formosa.” Kallis looked at Edgardo, satisfied. “That’s the end of the story. Did you like it?”
“You tell it well. Who taught you?”
Kallis’s face tensed and her childlike expression gave way to a mask of affliction. “When I was very sad, my mother would comfort me by telling me the story of the Marys, and say that, someday, I too would be married. Me—a bride!”
She smiled strangely. Was it anger, nostalgia, or deep melancholy? Edgardo could not decipher the expression on Kallis’s face.
Mass was over. Two by two, the married couples knelt before the bishop so that he would bless their unions.
The Doge left the church, got on his horse, and headed for the palace, preceded by his court and the crowd. Meanwhile, the Marys and their husbands got into richly-decorated gondolas and proceeded along the canal leading to the dock of San Marco, accompanied by freight boats, sandolos, and other small boats that formed a celebratory circle around them.
“Come, let’s go too.” Kallis took Edgardo by the hand, and dragged him along.
He had been deeply shaken by Tàtaro’s words. In his delirium of omnipotence, it had not occurred to Segrado that the designs of God might be inscrutable. Death could suddenly come upon him and take him away together with his secret. And so nobody would be able to pass on the formula for crystalline glass. His discovery would be permanently lost, and who knows how many decades would pass before another glassmaker would achieve that kind of perfection.
He was haunted by this thought, which prevented him from working. He had to find a way of passing on the formula, of entrusting it to someone who would never betray him.
Whom could he trust? Who had no interest in divulging the secret for as long as Segrado was alive? He could not think of anyone. He got up from the stool, drank a ladle of water, and tried to muster the enthusiasm to resume his work.
The crystalline glass cruet could not wait. He had made a promise. He removed the crucible from the fire, lifted a ball of glass with the rod, and studied it attentively. It was pure. He raised the blowing pipe to his lips and began to blow slowly, softy, like a spring breeze. He felt the air rise from his lungs, slide into the pipe, reach the glass, and shape it into a cruet, the container for Christ’s blood. His breath was like the supernatural breath that penetrates the world and, by means of a body as contemptible as his, creates the purity of divine light.
He used pincers to shape the upper part of the cylinder, so as to form an elegant spout. Then he took one of the small, round discs he had prepared in advance, and welded it to the base of the container.
The reliquary was taking shape. He put it on the work bench to cool and stopped to stare at it. He studied it carefully from every angle. The glass was clear, pure—this time, he had achieved perfection, and he was truly satisfied. He stroked his head.
“Segrado, you’re the top master in Venetia,” he said out loud. “The top!” He burst out laughing.
Then he went back to admiring his work. He could already picture it, filled with Christ’s blood, in the tabernacle, displayed on the high altar of San Marco.
He paused in suspense, his head tilted to the side, as though something was escaping him: a flash, the rapid passage of a comet. Once again, he examined the cruet.
Impossible. He bent down. No, he was not imagining it, or hallucinating. He had seen it correctly.
The cruet stood on a sheet of parchment. He did not care how it had ended up there, but what he could not work out was what he saw beneath the cruet.
The base was right on the part where there was writing. Segrado could not tell what those words meant, but he could clearly see that the letters looked larger. As though by magic, the little crystalline glass disc had changed the shape of the letters, magnifying them.
He lifted the cylinder away from the writing. The words grew larger and swelled until their contours disappeared. It was amazing. Never would he have dreamed that such a weird contraption was possible.
He put the cylinder against his eye and looked around. Everything whirled and waved. Objects took on gigantic, monstrous proportions, losing their original shape. Contours melted, mixing colors and light in a confused world, in an absurd explosion where everything looked topsy-turvy.
He took another disc he had prepared and put it against the writing. This one magnified it differently. Every disc produced a different transformation.
He carefully examined them by lifting them to the light. One was thicker, the other thinner. This meant that their magic property varied according to their curvature.
Segrado giggled to himself with surprise and wonder. He did not quite know what use that chance discovery might have. Perhaps it was just a nice trick for cheating men and giving them nightmares and delirium without the use of drugs or other substances. Perhaps it was a tool of the devil for transforming reality and creating an illusory world that would lead man to perdition . . . Perhaps it was all those things, but for the time being he did not care.
That lentil-shaped piece of glass had an astonishing power. Nothing like it had ever been seen before. Somehow, or for someone, it would prove to be useful.
He remembered what Edgardo had said about the experiments of that Arab scholar, and he looked at the parchment on the workbench. Of course!
If that glass magnified letters, then maybe he could help that poor cleric who had lost his sight and could not read anymore. Once again, he burst out laughing.
The gondolas carrying the newlyweds navigated along the inner canals, greeted by a joyful crowd that escorted them along the banks. Aboard their miserable little scaula, Edgardo and Kallis had joined the tail of the procession. Standing in the bow, Kallis was maneuvering the oar. Edgardo had never seen her looking so beautiful or so luminous. It was as though she had broken out of a shell that enclosed and stifled her. He saw the whiteness of her teeth light up her face, her eyes open wide and full of wonder, her black hair shining like a starry night, her amber skin become like velvet. He would never grow weary of looking at her. At that moment, Edgardo knew that all he had left behind was nothing in comparison to what God had chosen to bestow upon him.
The procession reached the bay before San Marco, and the spectacle displayed before the triumphant crowd took everyone’s breath away. The shouts, the singing, and the general racket stopped abruptly, unnaturally suspended, as though a gust of wind had swept everything away.
The entire lagoon, as far as San Giorgio and beyond, as far as the eye could see, was red. The blood grass had proliferated, covering the canals of the whole city. The surface had turned into an endless, undulating, ruby-red pasture, creating an eerie, unreal atmosphere.
After an initial moment of surprise, the singing and celebrations resumed, and the procession of boats carried on, slicing through the sea of grass, toward the Rivoalto Bridge.
Kallis followed the other boats for a while, then, with a decisive str
oke of the oar, turned south, away from the inhabited areas, threading her way through the beds of reeds behind Dorsoduro.
Once they were alone, apart from the world, she pulled out the oar, allowing the boat to drift, and went to sit next to Edgardo. She was so proud and attractive, her features so noble, that Edgardo felt a pang in his chest, thinking it was nothing short of a miracle that such a beautiful woman had chosen a cripple as a lover.
The Eye Stone Page 22