ALSO BY
ROBERTO TIRABOSCHI
The Eye Stone
Europa Editions
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2016 by Edizioni E/O
This edition published in arrangement with Grandi & Associati
First publication 2017 by Europa Editions
Translation by Katherine Gregor
Original Title: La bottega dello speziale. Venetia 1118 d.C.
Translation copyright © 2017 by Europa Editions
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Cover Art by Emanuele Ragnisco
www.mekkanografici.com
Cover photo by Franco Gatti
ISBN 9781609454180
Roberto Tiraboschi
THE APOTHECARY’S
SHOP
A NOVEL OF VENICE, 1118 A.D.
Translated from the Italian
by Katherine Gregor
To Roberta and Sebastiano.
But, my dear fellow, nothing in the world that ever you have heard of Venice, is equal to the magnificent and stupendous reality. The wildest visions of the Arabian Nights are nothing to the piazza of Saint Mark, and the first impression of the inside of the church. The gorgeous and wonderful reality of Venice is beyond the fancy of the wildest dreamer. Opium couldn’t build such a place, and enchantment couldn’t shadow it forth in a vision. All that I have heard of it, read of it in truth or fiction, fancied of it, is left thousands of miles behind. You know that I am liable to disappointment in such things from over-expectation, but Venice is above, beyond, out of all reach of coming near, the imagination of a man. It has never been rated high enough. It is a thing you would shed tears to see.
—CHARLES DICKENS,
Extract from a letter to John Forster (November 1844)
Resplendent daughter of the dawn,
To whom all men bow in love:
Your winds, the sirocco and the bora,
Are like a breath from heaven above.
Golden lady reigning over us,
O Venice, O Queen, O Venus.
—ANDREA ZANZOTTO, Recitativo veneziano
THE APOTHECARY’S SHOP
I.
METAMAUCO
The twisted form emerged from the water like a swollen, fleshy root that had been borne up somehow or other by the slimy mud of the lagoon.
Alvise did not linger on the strangeness of that sight but dragged the scaula* ashore and got ready to hunt.
The muddy expanse was swarming with tasty crabs that scurried out of his way, terrified. He plunged his hand into that living, repulsive carpet, grabbed a handful, and stuffed them into his net.
A male crab suddenly ran out of a spongy rock. A huge creature with a hairy back and silver nippers, and the garzone* chased after it, provoking myriad splashes that, hit by the pale winter light, were transformed into iridescent splinters.
The frightened crustacean found refuge under a tangle of gray filaments undulating like a sea anemone.
Alvise bent down and reached out with his hand to drive out his prey.
It was then that his mind became a blur and the features of his face twisted into a grimace of horror.
That which he’d taken, at a first, absent-minded glance, for a lump of wood abandoned by the tide turned out to be a face wrapped in a shawl of sand.
It was sticking out just above the water surface, like a flower that had survived salt corrosion.
The young man vomited an acidic sound, a cry for help nobody could hear in that watery desert.
He took a few steps back and considered running away, pretending he hadn’t seen anything. However, something stopped him from acting on his intention: a morbid curiosity, a pleasant weakness that horror often triggers in men’s bowels.
He looked again at the macabre remains.
He noticed that, as well as a head, still mainly immersed in the mud, lay a body caressed by the slow undulating light—a woman’s body. Her legs were tucked up under her chest and she was holding a fist up to her mouth, as though to stifle a final cry. She looked like a sleeping fetus.
She was completely naked. There was a metal thread around her neck, with a series of glass beads that, corroded by the salt, had lost their sheen.
Operating its nippers adroitly, the crab was feasting on the flakes of skin collected in her hair.
The young man picked up a piece of wood, struck the crustacean, and sent it flying into the distance.
It was that very gesture that made him think.
It was perfectly obvious that he was in the presence of an extraordinary event. Despite having been immersed in water, the body was perfectly preserved in all its parts.
The skin had kept a delicate shade of amber that in no way evoked the pale image of death. The vitality of the features was still intact: sensual lips, rounded cheekbones, delicate earlobes, a mane of hair that had only barely faded to an ashen tone. Even her full breasts, round belly, buttocks, and thighs, although half submerged, looked as firm as those of a young woman in full bloom. Only her eyes, which he could glimpse through the half-open lids, had lost their original glow, and were dimmed by a dull, melancholy veil.
She seemed to be oozing a kind of supernatural energy.
How could she be so well preserved after being at the mercy of the fish and the force of the waves?
Alvise knew very well that when flesh is immersed in water, it soon turns mushy and rots. Perhaps the body hadn’t been abandoned long. But then how come it was trapped in the sand?
This section of the lagoon had been totally submerged for over ten years, and it was only the recent exceptionally low tide that had cast ashore what was left of that which had once been the island of Metamauco, an important and industrious part of the duchy until the Year of Our Lord 812.
Twelve Lent seasons had passed—Alvise was but a child then—since the most devastating storm Venice had ever experienced had obliterated islands, districts, harbors, and fondamenta*.
She had lain buried in the abyss for all that time and yet was still intact. It was a miracle.
He remained motionless, as though stunned, gazing at the image of what must have been an extraordinarily beautiful woman. Then he reached out and gently touched her shoulder.
A sudden gust of icy wind rustled the reeds, rippled the water, dug a furrow around the limbs, head, and hair, and swept off the layers of sand that were still keeping her imprisoned.
The sliding beams of the vanishing sun quivered on the wet skin, then exploded in a whirl of sparks, and the body rose as though traversed by superhuman energy.
Thus it remained, suspended in the void, lapped at by the spray of the waves and a bed of algae.
Overwhelmed by the demon of fear, losing all control, Alvise ran to his scaula at breakneck speed and began rowing with all his strength, not turning back once.
Later when, still stammering, he told the city authorities what had happened, he swore repeatedly that, when he’d seen the woman’s corpse rise from the bed of sand as though animated by divine power, he was certain it had come back to life.
Conflicting rumors spread regarding the interpretation Venice residents gave to this extraordinary event, which took place the day after the Ides of February in the Year of Our Lord 1118.
Scholars and God-fearing individuals claimed that it was the body of a residen
t of Metamauco, and that the fact that it had been perfectly preserved for twelve years after its death was clear evidence of a miracle of the Almighty, who wanted to remind the people of Venice of His omnipotence.
The common folk simply added it to the list of unusual events, a quirk, an exception that merely confirmed nature’s rule that a body submerged in mud at the bottom of the sea rots and becomes an excellent meal for fish as early as three days after its death.
Some people of uncertain birth and dubious morals let slip the odd incomplete word that secretly alluded to the sublime power of the King of the Underworld.
Since we are humbly and diligently about to recount events that occurred so long ago, we do not feel inclined, given the lack of documentation and solid evidence, to embrace any of the above-mentioned theories. We will therefore give up trying to distinguish lies from truth, surrender to the impossibility of representing reality just as it appears, and choose instead to trust the visions of the night, the blurred images, the intangible apparitions that come to visit us at almost every dawn, in the hope of succeeding in creating a completely illusory, unreal world that may nonetheless become imprinted in your minds as something truer than truth itself.
II.
CA’ GRIMANI*
Close the windows immediately, hurry. Shut and lock everything up! It’s after Vespers, night is falling. How many times do I have to tell you that when the sun sets I want everything to be closed? Nena? Did you bolt the front door?”
“Yes, Signora.”
“Then why are the windows still open?”
“They’re too heavy, Signora, I can’t manage them on my own.”
“Get your son Alvise to help you.”
“Alvise’s not back yet, Signora.”
Nena saw an uncontrolled tremor creep into her mistress’s orderly, haughty face and instantly dissolve her imperturbable features: a blend of terror and anger transfigured her dignified face into a distorted mask. Nena got frightened.
“When the master is away traveling,” Magdalena shouted, “am I the only one in this house who worries about our family’s safety? Can’t you see the dangers all around us, can’t you hear the commotion every night, the rattle of men murdered in the calli, the screams of girls being raped? Don’t you care if you die?”
Her hoarse, harsh voice was a perfect match for her gaunt, highly strung body. She ended every sentence with a deep inhalation, like a swimmer who catches his breath after being deep under water for too long.
The mistress’s face was like a thicket of thorns. Nena stared at her blankly.
“Is there nobody to help you? In that case I’ll do it. Come with me, let’s go.”
They went out into the inner courtyard and climbed the stairs to the main floor.
Obsessed with the dangers that could come in from outside, Magdalena Grimani had persuaded her husband to have heavy stone shutters fitted, which sealed all the windows in the house hermetically.
She had first noticed them in the Basilica of Santa Maria Assunta in Torcellus and thought they were an essential defence against the risk of raids by thieves, cutthroats, and rapists.
With great difficulty and Nena’s help, she closed the slabs and leaned against the windows the panels, coated in oiled parchment, which shielded the house against the freezing winter wind.
“Where’s Costanza?” Magdalena suddenly asked as soon as they’d finished.
“I don’t know, Signora, I haven’t seen her, honestly.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” The Signora grabbed Nena by the arm and shook her small, delicate frame. “How many times have I told you that my sister must always be watched and followed? She’s a sick, frail girl. She must never be left alone, do you hear?”
“Yes, Signora, I understand.”
Magdalena let go of Nena, pushing her into a corner. “Is the front door bolted?” she asked, rushing to the loggia again.
“Yes, it is, Signora.”
Nena tolerated these fits of anger good-naturedly. She had been a servant in the Grimani household since before the master had married and owed him a debt of gratitude.
She was only thirteen when that Slav boatman had caused her belly to swell, but the master hadn’t kicked her out, and instead carried on feeding both her and her child, even though Alvise ate as much as a boar.
The issue of safety had become a nightmare, and Magdalena saw dangers and enemies everywhere. As soon as night fell, a cloak of anxiety would wrap around her, almost suffocating her.
Her peat-colored eyes, one of which glistened with golden flecks that gave anyone looking at her a sense of unrest and instability, would turn into bleeding wounds.
Terror gave her face an ambiguous charm, a blend of salvation and perdition: the trunk of a tree stifled by ivy in a stretch of ice.
There was a stench in the city that gnawed away all hope from even the most God-fearing folk.
In just over a year, Venice had been shaken by catastrophic, mournful events that had debilitated it, crushed it, and deprived it of its lifeblood.
Three days before the Nones of January in the Year of Our Lord 1117, a terrible earthquake had struck churches, towers, and houses with such violence that many buildings had collapsed, banks had cracked, and the church of Saint Ermagora and Saint Fortunato had caught fire and been totally destroyed.
The burgeoning city had been left balancing on the waters, as though about to sink forever. It was only thanks to the work and love of its people that it had been able to get back on its feet. However, four seasons later, the ruins of that terrible cataclysm could still be seen on the islands, the fords, and along the canals.
Just when the city seemed to have recovered its stability another disaster struck its long-suffering residents: at the end of 1117, during the war against the Hungarians, the illustrious doge Ordelaffo Falier had been killed near Zara while fighting bravely in battle.
Thus the city of Venice was facing dark times, without the guidance of its doge, and without a steady government.
Cutthroats, thieves, and murderers took advantage of this atmosphere and walked around the calli undisturbed, masters of the night, ready to kill, rob, and rape.
The district gastalds had repeatedly complained to the Great Council, but no solution had been found. Until a new doge was appointed, nobody was under the illusion that any laws would be enforced to guarantee more safety for the residents of Venice.
Overwhelmed by irrational agitation, Magdalena Grimani searched all the rooms on the main floor, hoping to see the diaphanous figure of her sister Costanza appear out of thin air.
Increasingly out of breath, when she realized that there was no sign of her, she went down into the inner courtyard, onto which gave the kitchens, various storerooms, and a shelter for the horses.
Sometimes, Costanza liked to seek refuge in the oven room, to keep warm whenever the icy north winds swept across the lagoons and penetrated the gaps between the larch wall paneling, not giving humans a chance.
“Costanza! Costanza!” Magdalena shouted.
A servant came out of the woodshed and stared at her blankly.
“Have you seen my sister?’
The man shook his head and grunted something.
God almighty! Where could she be? Magdalena walked across the porch as far as the flight of steps that connected it to the canal at the back of the building.
A lonely scaula moored to a pole was rocking on the surface of the putrid water, which was stained with mud dumped in the lagoon by the currents of the Medoacus, the Silis, and the Plavis after heavy rain.
There was no sign of Costanza.
She flung open the door of the storeroom where goods awaiting voyages to the Orient were kept. The only living thing she saw was a huge rat that ran past, holding the head of a newborn kitten in its mouth. She shut the door, horrified.
She suddenly wondered whether Costanza had ventured outside on her own, unaccompanied: that would have been pure madness!
All that was left was the part of the house known as “the pantry.”
That was what Tommaso, her husband, called the space he had organized in the mezzanine, beneath the apartments. A seaman and a navigator, he’d wanted to recreate on dry land a corner of his ship, specifically the pantry, which is what the Genoese called the section of the hold where food provisions were kept.
It consisted of a narrow corridor that could be reached by means of a few steps, onto which gave two cabins, one used as a study and the other, to which nobody had access, her husband’s exclusive refuge.
The floors and walls had oak paneling, and all the furniture, in every detail, reminded one of a ship ready to sail across the seas.
She went up the steps reluctantly: whenever she approached that part of the building, she felt an uncontrollable tremor start in her heart, the diseased memory of a terrible grief that rotted her soul.
She went in. The wood creaked under her steps and a sickly-sweet smell of wilted flowers took her breath away. She felt dizzy and weak at the knees. She leaned against the wall. There was a spongy lump in her throat. It was as though she was being sucked into a vortex of pain. She thought she might faint.
She noticed a faint light through the half-open study door. She took a deep breath and stepped forward in an unnatural silence that was broken only by a screeching that reminded her of the grinding of her husband’s teeth as he slept. She flung the door open.
She saw a shapeless form undulating on the wall: a creature with two heads and an enormous body. She half closed her eyes to get accustomed to the semi-darkness.
Only then did she recognize, lit by an oil lamp, hunched over the scriptorium, the spindly form of her sister Costanza. Bent over like a sick weeping willow, she was dragging a goose quill across parchment, copying with meticulous care a manuscript that lay open before her.
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