Nobody had ever spoken to Magdalena so frankly and directly. She took time to reply. “They say astonishing things about your skill as a physician.”
“Rumors grow in size as they travel from mouth to mouth, like an echo, and quickly scatter in the wind. Don’t believe what they say. For me, it’s only the facts that speak the truth.” She had the tone of a knight.
“Please, sit down.” Magdalena made a sweeping gesture with her arm, implying that her soul had opened up. “You have an unusual name—”
“Magister Abella. The common people cannot accept that a physician should be called Magistra, so I’ve had to make do. I studied at the School of Salerno, and was a student of the great Trotula de Ruggiero* during the final years of her life. No doubt you’ve heard of her.”
Not wishing to disappoint her, Magdalena nodded. “The reason I called for you—”
“No, wait, don’t say anything, I don’t want to know.”
Magdalena looked at her, surprised.
Abella stood up. “Do you have a chamber pot?”
Magdalena staggered. “What do you mean? A—what?”
“A chamber pot, a bedpan, a pisspot. I need to examine your urine.”
“Oh, a chamber pot, yes, of course . . . I think it’s in . . . Nena. Nena!” she called out loud. She’d never been in this kind of situation before, and was struggling to contain her embarrassment. Nena promptly arrived.
“Magister Abella . . . the physician,” Magdalena stammered, “needs a chamber pot.”
Nena opened her eyes wide. That word was never used in the Grimani household, especially not by the masters. “A pisspot?”
“Yes, yes, go fetch it.”
The servant sneaked away.
“If you find this embarrassing, you can do what you have to in your chamber,” Abella said.
“Yes, perhaps that would be more befitting.”
“But you must bring it to me right away. It must be fresh and warm.”
“As you wish,” Magdalena replied, and immediately vanished like a deer hiding in the bushes to escape the ambush of a wolf.
Quicker than it would have taken to skin an eel, Magdalena returned, followed at an appropriate distance by Nena, who was carrying a steaming bowl.
Abella parted her robe, revealing a light-colored shirt, fastened with a belt from which hung a pod-shaped, green glass container with a wide opening secured with a cork top. “Pour some into the bottle. I want to examine it in my own time, later . . . ”
Nena obeyed.
“And ora in primis the inquisitio.” Abella lifted the chamber pot to her nose. “Urina exquisita est per substantiam, colorem, copiam et materiam.”
Her soft feminine features, deep, dark eyes, and her full, glowing face tensed up in an inspired expression. She inhaled a vortex of air through her delicate nostrils, which sucked up the flatulent scent that floated over the pale yellow liquid. Then she shook the container in a rotary motion and bowed her head even closer to it, studying its consistency, clarity, and transparency. She remained in this adoring posture for a while, then, as though waking after sleep, dipped her thumb and index finger into Magdalena Grimani’s noble humor and rubbed her fingers hard.
As though watching a witch casting spells, Nena was staring, entranced. Overwhelmed by the astonishment that her body fluids should be worthy of so much attention, Magdalena collapsed into a high-backed chair.
Magister Abella gave a deep sigh, almost a wheeze, then looked up from the chamber pot and pronounced her verdict. “Sharp smell, inflamed, purulent, like overcooked cabbage. Cloudy, dense, frothy, with traces of sperm at the bottom. The color is pale, like overcooked meat; shiny like a polished white horn, with a vaguely citrine tint. Quantity: as plentiful as cow piss.”
Abella stopped. Magdalena leaned toward her, waiting. “So, Magister?—”
The physician silenced her with a commanding sign of the hand. She took out the bottle and, with a calculated gesture, raised it to her lips and took a small sip, as though it were a good-quality, sweet Provence wine.
Nena couldn’t repress a kind of gurgle in her mouth. Magdalena hid her face in her hands.
Heedless of the reactions provoked by her sampling, Abella starting swishing the urine around her mouth, whipping it from her palate to her teeth, licking it with her tongue, while making deep, guttural sounds, before performing a general rinse that took up her entire mouth and throat.
Nena feared the worst but then saw Abella spitting the delicious beverage back into the chamber pot.
It was only then that Magdalena found the courage to look into the Magister’s face, as though that exploration had revealed her body in its most intimate details.
Abella sat beside her and, sounding like a good mother telling a story, began. “Your urine speaks loud and clear, and says everything about you. It’s obvious what your problem is: barrenness, but not congenital barrenness. You have already given birth, your child died prematurely, and now you can’t get pregnant again.”
Magdalena leaned her head back and closed her eyes, overwhelmed by a wave of emotion, while Nena couldn’t suppress an exclamation of surprise.
“You’ve seen all this in my . . . in my humor. How did you do it?” Magdalena asked with a thread of voice.
“God, in His generosity, chose to bless me with a supreme gift: an almost supernatural sense of taste. Through sensations triggered by various substances, my mouth sends my mind a series of clues that help me decipher every illness, every imbalance that torments the human body and soul.”
Her admiration for knowledge and astonishment at Abella’s powers of divination convinced Magdalena that the physician was a messenger God had sent her to bring comfort to her broken body.
“Do you think my wilted belly can be given new vigor?” she asked, hopeful.
“I want to be honest with you, Signora, and not give you false illusions. I could promise you miracles with magic potions but I believe neither in spells nor in talismans.” She took Magdalena’s hand with maternal gentleness. “Before suggesting drugs, ointments, decoctions, compresses, mustard plasters, or bloodletting, we must investigate, explore and . . . rationes malorum pervidere.”
“You’re right.” The frank authority of Abella’s words made Magdalena glimpse a ray of light. “When can we begin? My soul is anxious and above all else my husband wishes for a new heir.”
“When the full moon is in Aquarius it’s not a good time to examine the genitals, so let’s wait for it to go into Pisces. Then I’ll return and we’ll carry out an in-depth examination.”
“May God bless you. You have given me so much comfort.”
At that moment, the sound of footsteps came from the loggia. Costanza rushed in and almost collided with Magister Abella. The young girl’s enthusiastic expression and cheerfulness immediately faded. “Forgive me, Signora, I didn’t know—”
“Let me present you my sister, Costanza.”
The girl bowed.
“Magister Abella is an illustrious physician from the School of Salerno,” Magdalena said.
Costanza stared at her, bewildered. The glow of the ruby-red robe created a vibrant, demonic aura around the body, in marked contrast to the cheerful, almost peasant-like face. The women’s features froze in almost unreal stillness, as though they’d been surprised by an unexpected danger.
Abella assessed the girl with a detachment and precision that were almost unhealthy, invasive, without uttering a word, so that Costanza, crushed by this investigative vortex, was forced to take a step back and seek refuge at her sister’s side, as though taking shelter from an attack. She felt stripped naked and penetrated through a cruel act that barred all escape. Then, in the time it takes for a breath of air to fold and extinguish a candle flame, the tableau returned to life.
Abella made a greeting sign and Costanza sneaked away to
stand next to Nena.
“Come, I’ll see you out myself,” Magdalena said.
Going down the large staircase that led from the loggia to the ground floor, Abella let a few words slip with studied carelessness. “Your sister is very pale.”
“Yes. She’s always been like that, ever since she was a child. She’s of a sickly constitution.” Then, suddenly realizing that the comment had been uttered by a physician, she added, “Could you find a cure for her too?”
Abella shook her head. “Pallor is not an illness. Humors vary according to age and time of life. She narrowed her eyes at Magdalena with an expression of complicity. “Often, in young girls who are virgins, the phlegm takes the upper hand over the blood. But then as they grow up, and male humors penetrate the female uterus, blood, phlegm, yellow bile, and black bile recover their balance, and the body achieves harmony. Find her a husband soon, and she’ll be cured.”
Whenever the Magister spoke, Magdalena felt enveloped by a wave of warmth that filled her with calm and trust.
They reached the internal courtyard. Abella walked with a decisive step, showing surprising agility despite her stout body. Magdalena tried to work out how old she could be. Young but not too young, older than her but not so old she couldn’t have been her sister. She decided she must be about thirty.
Alvise was waiting astern the scaula, clutching at the oar, ready to take her back to Torcellus.
The Magister was about to take her leave when the thud of the front door closing made her look around.
As soon as he noticed them, Tommaso’s eyes cast aside the presence of his wife and lingered on the dominating, full-bodied scarlet mass next to her. The typical physician’s outfit left no doubt as to her profession.
A few steps away, in the semi-darkness of the colonnade, Edgardo had stopped too.
“Signore,” Magdalena said readily, “I’m happy that you should be here in time. Magister Abella, physician and scholar of the School of Salerno, has done us the honor of visiting our home.”
Abella took a step forward and stood right in front of Grimani. “May God bless you,” was the first thing she said to him.
Not a single muscle in his face, or crease in his mouth, or anything in the shape of his eyes betrayed the astonishment and anger that were swelling in Tommaso’s chest. The illustrious physician was no more than a large woman with the features of a peasant. There was something outrageous about her presence.
“I’ve truly never seen a physician like her,” Magdalena carried on. “She possesses surprising qualities. You know, she told me everything about myself before I’d even explained anything . . . and just by studying my—” she stopped.
“The Signora is too kind. I only applied the instructions I learned from my teacher, Trotula de Ruggiero, Magistra mulier sapiens. The art of medicine tolerates no lies.”
Tommaso’s voice came out refined and cutting. “Unfortunately, Signora, your so-called art is practiced by quacks, barbers, soothsayers, crooks, forgers, converted Jews, and Saracens. And now also by women, I see. Only a year ago I lost a son of a tender age and nobody could save him with your art. As you can understand, the trust I place in your profession at the moment weighs as much as a feather.”
Magdalena had the impulse to intervene and put an end to the useless argument. Why offend someone you didn’t know, why act on a whim? However, she held back out of respect for her husband.
She was surprised to see that Magister Abella didn’t seem at all ruffled.
“I am sorry you’ve lost confidence in our art, Signore,” she replied, keeping a celestial calm. “It’s true that there are many charlatans around who pass themselves off as physicians but, as you’ve noticed yourself, they’re all men. The women who practice this art are rare, and since they must allay the suspicions of the incredulous, they’re obliged to be much more expert and knowledgeable—more so than men.”
Heartened, Magdalena managed at that moment to intervene and support her protegée’s arguments. “I haven’t been prescribed useless potions. Magister Abella has promised to come and see me again in order to discover the cause of my ailment before she administers any remedies.”
“Of course, a large number of reasons can cause sterility, both female and male,” Abella added.
“What do you mean?” Tommaso felt as though he was being entangled in a viscous trap.
“I mean that a man too can harbor reasons why a woman cannot procreate. Already as far back as in the writings of Paul of Aegina, the latter mentions the weakness of the male sperm as a proven fact.”
A voice emerged from the semi-darkness. “Excuse me, Signora . . . ”
Edgardo’s presence had until now gone unnoticed by Abella, who turned around, irritated.
“In the past, when copying scholarly texts was my only reason to live, I had the honor of transcribing Constantine the African’s translation from Greek of Paul of Aegina’s De Re Medica, and I don’t recall any passage about male infirmities.”
Abella’s face suddenly altered. Her chubby cheeks stiffened and her mouth took on a twisted fold: who was this red, hairy owl come out of the blue who dared question a Magister’s words? “Perhaps your memory is letting you down. It’s a well-known fact that a copyist’s mind often strays, and that many can’t even tell what they’re transcribing.”
“You’re right, our memory can sometimes fail us,” Edgardo readily replied. “I have copied so many manuscripts about the medical arts, from Salerno, Baghdad, and Toledo, that my mind is probably confusing the various writings. However, I seem to remember that it wasn’t Paul of Aegina who addressed male infirmity in procreating, but rather Trotula de Ruggiero, your teacher.”
“Allow me to present Edgardo d’Arduino,” Tommaso said arrogantly, “talented copyist from Bobbio, scribe, and a tutor in our service.”
“I am honored,” Abella said. She saw that it was better to walk away from the skirmish. She must be careful. This strange, ageless being was not a man like all the others: certain of his own superiority, he could write, and more manuscripts had gone through his hands than an ordinary physician could have dreamed of. As a matter of fact, he had been to the library of Bobbio Abbey, one of the largest in the Western world, and probably met a few disciples of the Salerno School. She put on a polite smile and said nothing else.
Tommaso looked at his wife, gloatingly: Edgardo had taught that arrogant woman a good lesson. “I would be happy to postpone this argument between scholars until a more appropriate occasion,” he said.
Trying to defuse the tension, Magdalena gave Abella a friendly bow, and indicated the boat waiting at the bottom of the steps. Abella made her way there.
“You will be hearing from me,” Magdalena concluded.
“I hope we meet again, Signora,” Edgardo said in a very cheerful tone. It did not go unnoticed by anyone that he hadn’t addressed her as Magister, as appropriate to her role.
“In that case I hope you remember me,” Abella hissed back, “because it seems your memory is playing bad tricks on you.” Then she leaped into the scaula, causing poor Alvise to clutch at the oar even more tightly to avoid falling into the water.
VI.
THE CONVENT OF SAN ZACCARIA
Framed in a white veil, Costanza’s face seemed to have lost substance, consumed by deadly pallor; her eyes had dark purple rings and her forehead was moist with sweat.
Sitting opposite her in the scaula, Edgardo was trying to give her courage with a slight smile that gradually waned as they cut through the layer of mist above the muddy waters that a taciturn Alvise stirred with his oar.
They left the narrow canal alongside Ca’ Grimani and took the wider Rivus Altus* that divided the city in two, already crowded with gondolas, sandolos*, and cogs loaded with timber, Istrian marble, cows, pigs, and geese, as well as fruit and vegetables from vegetable patches scattered amid the islands
in the lagoon.
Everything was enveloped by a mother-of-pearl light, softening the wooden outline of the houses that alternated with tree-lined gardens, beds of reeds, and grassy campi.
A scribe should have been able to find the right words to give her courage, but despite all his efforts, Edgardo couldn’t find a reason to justify this visit.
It had been discussed for several days. Not even Magdalena’s insistent begging could make Tommaso relent in his decision: Costanza had to consider the possibility of withdrawing to the Benedictine convent of San Zaccaria. There, she could continue with her studies, surrounded by the heiresses of Venice’s most illustrious families. Supported by prayer and faith, she would find her way to glorify and serve Our Lord.
Costanza had tried to resist and begged her sister, but Grimani was adamant. In the first instance, she would have to visit the convent, meet the Abbess Contarini, talk with her, then they would discuss it further. Tommaso was certain that the conversation with the abbess would enlighten her.
They went past Rivo dei Santissimi Apostoli. In the campo outside the church, there were two horses tied to a fig tree, quietly grazing, not the least troubled by a flock of seagulls shrieking over a feast of a black goby’s guts.
In Rivoalto, the number of boats that shuttled between the shores of San Bartolomeus and San Giacomo had grown out of all proportion, making it almost impossible to get through the tangle of wood, cables, and hawsers.
There were various barges on both shores of the canal, where carpenters were working on a solid bridge of boats to join the two branches of the city, to facilitate travel and exchange, and therefore stretch the limits of Venice, which was increasing in population and size year after year.
Alvise steered left to extricate them from that bustle, and took a narrower canal that ran alongside the convent of San Salvatore.
“Tell me honestly, Edgardo,” Costanza suddenly said, “do you think I’ll really be allowed to choose? Will the noble Tommaso respect my decision if I don’t want to enter the convent?”
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