The Apothecary's Shop

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by Roberto Tiraboschi


  “Here you are.”

  “Is it the usual recipe?”

  Sabbatai rolled his eyes. “This is an even better one. I’ve concocted you a paradise that would make Our Lord envious.”

  Edgardo did not like the comment, which he considered blasphemous. He took the urn and left hastily.

  Shortly afterwards, he was back in his room, sitting on the bed, holding the glass container in his lap. He stroked it with his finger then slowly lifted the lid, raised the urn to his nose, and inhaled deeply.

  The substance inside gave off a vapor with a slightly bitter smell. Edgardo brought the container even closer to his nose and took a deep breath that filled his chest.

  The concoction was beginning to have an effect. Sabbatai hadn’t lied, he’d done good work.

  The opium vapors were beginning to take possession of his mind. He breathed in one final illusion to fill his soul, then fell back on his pillow, his eyes fixed on the ceiling beam.

  A knot protruding from the wood, deep as a cave, started to move, to turn on itself, dragging Edgardo into a whirlpool in the midst of a tempest at sea. Clinging to his oar, in a boat, he was trying to reach Kallis’s scaula, which, tossed about by the waves, kept disappearing and reappearing amid the billows.

  He thought he heard her voice echoing beneath a black sky, calling him, begging for help—that gravelly voice he could not forget, just like the taste of her skin, cool as spring water, smelling of myrrh.

  He heard her cry that she had returned, risen again in that semblance of life, in that intact body resurfaced in the fords of Metamauco. She was calling him, repeating his name, imploring him to look for her. She had returned. She was waiting for him.

  IV.

  THE MERCHANT

  The fluctuating crimson glow that quivers on the surface of the waters at sunset.

  The silver reflections that creep in among the reeds, mixed with the soft shadows of oak trees kneeling majestically on the shores. The sinuous cobalt fluids that, vanquished by the heat of the sun, bathe beaches lush with cordgrass, and soft land swollen with salt.

  The blinding glow of the sea that can suddenly rebel and plunge into the leaden darkness of a tempest, and the shining wonder of light in the marshes that plays among holm oaks and pine trees and caresses bushes of sea-lavender and Venetian dogbane.

  The voice of the lagoon as it blathers while slamming against the fondamenta, the water smacking between the wooden boats that were bumping against one another. The secret undertow on steps and banks.

  This was enough for Tommaso Grimani’s soul to feel restored whenever, after a long absence, he returned to his Venice.

  When the cog came out of the mouth of the river Medoacus into the lagoon, and, beyond the fords and sand banks, Tommaso saw the fairy-tale skyline of the domes of San Marco and the towers of the Doge’s Palace emerge, he knew that no other place in the world—be it Constantinople or Alexandria, or other cities in ice-covered countries—could ever rival the splendor of this new city that had the sea for a floor, the sky for a roof, and water for walls.

  He was returning from Bruges, in the cold land of Flanders, with his freight of cloth, linen, and amber. He’d travelled across plains, forests, and impassable mountains.

  As a merchant, he felt he belonged to a wider Civitas Veneciarum, one formed by three Venices: the dry land that went as far as the river Adda, the one bordered by the lagoon and protected by islands and water, and the one in the east, made up of sailors who founded self-sufficient communities overseas. As a man, he felt at peace with himself only when he was held in his city’s belly of light.

  The transport barge entered the Vigano canal, skirted Spinalunga, and arrived within sight of the watchtower standing tall near the Basilica.

  Outside the dock, which lapped the crenelated north walls protecting the Doge’s Palace, and stretched as far as the west door of San Marco, an impressive number of galleys, dromons, and chelandions were anchored, ready to sail out in a convoy, the seasonal fleet that left for the Orient in the spring.

  Trade was growing relentlessly and the city was now struggling to fit in all the ships that arrived from every port of the East and West.

  Tommaso knew these ships well—where each of them came from and who owned it. They were mainly at the service of Venice’s most powerful families, like his own, heirs to the old tribune families that had contributed to electing the first doge, Paoluccio Anafesto, in the Year of Our Lord 697, and were now the proud holders of the title of boni homines, members of the Great Council of that governed the city alongside the Doge.

  Making their way amid the forest of masts and oars interwoven in the bay, they managed to moor the cog along Riva degli Schiavoni, where the Grimanis owned warehouses.

  Tommaso was eager to go home and embrace his wife again, ask after her health, and see if . . . he was obsessed with this thought that had never left him during his voyage. After over a month, perhaps Magdalena would have good news for him, perhaps the merciful God, who drives all and sees all, had heard his prayer.

  After the trial He had submitted them to, after all the grief, the day of rebirth would come, and he and Magdalena would see the light again.

  When he reached his house, it seemed to him that the enormous winged lion over the front door of Ca’ Grimani was welcoming him back with a smile. He took it as a good omen.

  The Istrian-marble-clad façade shone with glaring whiteness. Tommaso was proud of his mansion, one of the first stone and perforated brick buildings in Venice.

  Since it was nearly dinner time, he found Magdalena in the salon, in front of the fire. She was not alone. Costanza and Edgardo were with her.

  Tommaso greeted everyone kindly, concealing his irritation, and everybody paid his and her respects. He wanted to breach the subject immediately, ask questions, find out, but was prevented from doing so by the presence of strangers. Several times, he tried to catch his wife’s eye in the hope of reading in it the answer he so longed for.

  However, all he received was perfect proof of a woman’s ability to resort to any subterfuge in order to flee the direct and silent communication of the secret language between a husband and wife.

  As though in a high state of excitement, Magdalena was addressing now Edgardo, now Costanza, inviting her husband to tell them about his journey, about the places he’d seen, especially her beloved Bruges and the relatives she had left behind there.

  Tommaso replied wearily, trying to satisfy her request with brief, disappointing sentences.

  At the dinner table, where Nena served two huge platters of game, wild duck, and stuffed thrushes, the conversation revolved exclusively around Flanders cloth, which, in Magdalena’s opinion, had no equal, not even among the silks that came from the Orient.

  She and Costanza could wear only Flanders linen, or run the risk of their delicate skins breaking out in pustules and terrible itching.

  “It’s what we’ve been used to ever since we were children, so our bodies know immediately if we’re offered cheap fabrics woven who knows where, pretending they’re from Flanders.”

  Edgardo listened politely to the chatter of the gentleman and lady who had generously welcomed him into their home, and noticed the looks of impatience Tommaso couldn’t conceal.

  The meal was over soon, and the master of the house announced his wish to retire immediately.

  Magdalena left before her husband, as though eager to flee.

  When Tommaso caught up with her in the bedroom, he found her hunched over the prie-dieu, absorbed in praying in a loud voice.

  It was a new barrier, an escape route to avoid the subject. Tommaso couldn’t hold back. “I beg that you cease your prayer, Signora.”

  Bowing her head and speeding up the pace of her litany, Magdalena gave a clear sign that she did not wish to grant her husband’s request.

  “Sub tuum prae
sidium confugimus, Sancta Dei Genetrix. Nostras deprecationes ne despicias in necessitatibus . . . ”

  “I’ve been away for over a month,” Tommaso said again, “which is long enough for an answer . . . So, what is your response?”

  “Sed a periculis cunctis, libera nos semper, Virgo gloriosa et benedicta.”

  “Signora, I command you to speak.” Tommaso’s tone intimated that he would tolerate no delay.

  “No, Signore, I’m not pregnant.” Magdalena’s voice came out like a hiss, interrupting the smooth flow of her prayer.

  Tommaso sank into the high-backed chair by the window. “What wicked deeds have we committed? Why has our Lord decided to punish us like this? Doesn’t the Bible say be fruitful and multiply?” His voice resounded in the room. “Thou hast already taken one child away from us, in two months, suddenly, without a reason. A sweet, innocent boy . . . Now we ask Thee to fill the void he left behind in this house with the joyful cries of a new life. God, why art Thou not listening to me?”

  He clenched his fists and punched the paneling on the wall.

  Magdalena leaped up and threw herself at his feet, hugging his knees. “We will have a child, you’ll see, I’m sure of it, I can feel it, you must be patient and trust me. My belly isn’t barren, I’ve already given birth. It’s been only a year, we must give the bad humors time to dissipate and make way for the good ones.”

  Tommaso took her in his arms and held her tight. “I wish it more than anything else in the world.”

  “So do I, husband, you know that . . . I’m willing to do anything.” She took Tommaso by the hand and led him to the bed. “Sit here and listen to me. I’ve heard of a physician from a city in the South who has recently taken up residence in Venice. He studied at a world-renowned school, in Salerno, which is consulted by popes and kings. They say this physician has studied mainly remedies for illnesses that affect women . . . ”

  Tommaso stood up abruptly. “More physicians . . . Haven’t we had enough? Charlatans and crooks only interested in becoming rich. How many did we see for our son Luca? How many?”

  “You’re right, I know, but—”

  “Bloodletting, poultices, enemas. It was all useless . . . he died after two months, remember? Your physicians were unable to save him. Enough, I know what to do, you’ll see!”

  “This one is different,” Magdalena insisted. “He knows remedies against barrenness, everybody in Venice says so. I’m only asking you to try, to have a consultation. What do we have to lose?”

  As though a demon had taken possession of his mind, Tommaso was pacing up and down the room, waving his arms, talking to himself. “He was only six . . . he was my light, my future. Then, in a matter of days, I lost him. Merciful God, why hast Thou put me to the test?”

  “I beg you, stop, what’s the use of tormenting yourself like this?” Magdalena stroked his face, his coarse hair. “We’ll have another child. You’ll see. Let’s just try it, let’s meet the physician, then you’ll tell me the impression he makes on you, and you’ll decide.” Magdalena pressed her pale lips to his neck. “Say yes, I beg you.”

  Tommaso stared at her defiantly, then began unfastening the cloth jacket that contained a torso that was growing bulkier. Without a word, he pushed his wife’s frail body onto the huge oak bed, and carried on undressing.

  The nakedness of this man she knew so well suddenly appeared to her as though for the first time. Magdalena studied him with great attention, assessing the features of the coarsely-chiseled face, the square jaw, the hooked nose, that cheeky lock of hair over the forehead, which made him look like a hawk. And those hips made heavier by the weight of the mourning that had altered his body and left visible marks on it. Also, his obsessive way of rubbing his eyes when he was lost in his nightmares, almost as though he was trying to chase away a ghost flashing before his eyes.

  With a solemn gesture, Tommaso took his penis in his hand and looked at it with pride, as though it were spoils of war requisitioned from the enemy. It had a funny, arched shape and a long, purple vein running the length of it, throbbing like the breath of a dying salamander. Magdalena had always felt a certain degree of unease at the sight of this piece of living flesh that would swell without restraint, burst its banks, and invade every cleft of her body.

  She slipped off her tunic and linen shift, and remained naked, ready to surrender.

  Her pale skin turned almost transparent. It seemed its way of rebelling against the coarse body of that being come from unknown lands. Irreconcilable worlds that could never merge.

  Magdalena considered her small, silly, impoverished breasts, and the bone structure of her delicate belly, incapable of containing a new life. Then she parted her legs as far apart as she could, hoping that her invitation would entice the conqueror.

  Instead, as usually happened, the man declined the offer. Tommaso grabbed her by the hips and turned her over with an abrupt, decisive gesture, the way one saddles a horse. He lifted her behind just as high as he needed to in order to glimpse the entrance to her vulva and, with a sharp, definitive thrust, pushed his penis all the way in. Like a bull with his cow, or a boar with his sow. He had always taken her like this, from behind, without so much as looking at her. She was attacked from behind, secretly. Ambushed.

  She couldn’t remember ever seeing his face, the color of his eyes, the sweat on his brow.

  Always with her head stuck in the mud, worn out by thrusts that broke her heart.

  Tommaso had never seen the tears she shed, scattered amid blankets and dried amid sheepskins.

  This time too Magdalena heard the grunting buried in her hair and, in the final wheeze, felt the sack of bitterness empty and flood her indifferent, distant body, and the semen run between her buttocks and down her thighs.

  Tommaso came away from her, mumbling something about her inability to keep the precious fluid inside her, and Magdalena immediately turned over, trying to limit the loss, closing her orifice with her hands. But the humors seemed not to care and overflowed, trickling out, as though refusing to follow the correct path.

  “Fear not, it’s all inside me, I can feel it,” Magdalena whispered. “I have enough semen for a soul to be born again, the miracle of creation is already in my belly, I’m holding onto it tight.”

  But Tommaso, overwhelmed by the muffled torpor of oblivion, wrapped her words in a sigh and blew them away in the darkness of the night.

  V.

  MAGISTER ABELLA

  Magister Abella’—don’t you think it’s an unusual name?”

  “Everybody knows physicians are a little odd, Signora.”

  Magdalena was wearing one of her finest tunics, the indigo one, embroidered with turquoise stones. She wanted the Salerno physician to understand from their very first meeting that he would have to speak and act with the respect and deference appropriate when dealing with a lady of high rank. She checked her reflection in the panel of polished steel that mirrored a distorted, blurred image. The Venetian ceruse she’d put on her face gave her a regal pallor. She spread a light dusting of saffron over her cheekbones and rubbed her lips and gums with walnut root.

  “What kind of a man is he? Have you heard anything around? Is he handsome?”

  “He hasn’t been here long, so I don’t know . . . ” Nena hesitated. “They say . . . They say that . . . ”

  “What is it? Come, speak out.”

  “I don’t know if I should . . . but they say he can tell everything from piss, that he looks at it sideways, studies it with his eyes, then tells you all the ailments.”

  Magdalena seemed very impressed by Nena’s words. “Let’s hope that’s true and that God hears my prayers.”

  “Yes, of course, Signora, you’ll see, you’ll soon be pregnant.”

  At that moment, Alvise came in, somewhat agitated.

  “Signora, Signora, there’s that person you made me go fetch
down in the courtyard.”

  Magdalena’s lips quivered. “He’s here. Quick, let him into the salon.”

  The garzone was about to go.

  “Wait,” she added, “do you know where Costanza is?”

  Alvise trembled as though caught red-handed. “I think she’s with the scribe.”

  “All right. Now go, hurry up.”

  The young man ran off and Magdalena lingered while fixing her dress. She wanted him to wait a little while. Then she slowly walked to the loggia.

  Immersed in the half-light of a morning suffocated by fog, what appeared before Magdalena’s eyes brought back the gruesome recollection of a fox, skinned and dripping with blood, nailed to the door of a stable, which she’d seen as a child.

  An explosion of scarlet was throbbing in the middle of the room. It came from a large, regal robe, which came down to the floor, trimmed with a fur collar, dominated by a wide-brimmed hat with a cone, also bright ruby.

  The physician was standing with his back to her and, under his robe, there was the suggestion of a strong, sturdy body.

  He radiated a vibrant aura and exuded authority. Magdalena took a couple of steps forward, in silence, then resolved to speak. “Welcome to my home.”

  The contours of the blood-colored mass shifted and produced a warm rustle. The body spun around, swelling the cloak. In the uncertain light, Magdalena couldn’t immediately make out the lineaments of the face. She approached and the vague idea that had already taken root in her mind became more defined.

  “Greetings, Signora. I am very honored to be received in your home.”

  Oh, merciful God. There was no doubt. The physician, Magister Abella, was a woman!

  Magdalena tried to restrain her astonishment and bowed her head in a sign of greeting.

  “Please don’t concern yourself to conceal your surprise. I am accustomed to it.” She had a gentle but very authoritative voice, and a plump face with rosy cheeks, like a ripe peach. “Would you still like to use my services? I shan’t be offended if you’ve changed your mind,” Abella added.

 

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