The Apothecary's Shop

by Roberto Tiraboschi

  It was extraordinary how all you needed to do was mention the name of an important Venetian family to see a fierce expression turn into a toothless smile. With just a few gestures, the landlord showed him the road leading to the north of the island, where the poorest families lived.

  The woman who agreed to speak with him looked eaten away by suffering. Edgardo couldn’t tell if she was the boy’s mother or grandmother. Her face was marked by a thicket of wrinkles that dug deep furrows, and yellowish scabs had sprung up among her sparse hair. She was surprised that noble people should take an interest in the fate of a common garzone. Usually, nobody cared when one of their lot disappeared, and no investigation was carried out.

  “We’re just dried shit, only good for fertilizer. It’s the second son I’ve lost, and nobody cares about us.”

  She told him how, on a morning like any other, Giacomo had vanished into thin air after going to work. He hadn’t returned home, and nobody knew what had happened to him.

  “If you want to find out more, try his master . . . ”

  “Can you show me where Giacomo used to work?”

  “Of course. Everybody in Amurianum knows him. His name’s Tataro.”

  The name went through his head like a knife.

  “Tataro the glassmaker?” Edgardo asked, struggling to keep calm.

  “Yes, that’s him, the most talented glassmaker in Venice. Giacomo had been working for him as a garzone for two winters, he’d learned quite a lot, he could have become his assistant, but . . . ”

  Tataro . . . Tataro . . . The name twisted around his tongue and constricted his throat until it was difficult to breathe. He thought he’d never have to deal with that man again.

  “Do you know where his foundry is?” the woman asked.

  Edgardo nodded. “I know it well.” Then he stood there, staring at a dark cloud that was drifting quickly across the sky.

  The twelve winters since those tragic, terrible events burned away in a second, and carried him back in time.

  Odd, how in just a few days, ghosts that had long been kept stifled should have all woken up at the same time: the woman found intact in the ruins of Metamauco had reawakened the memory of Kallis, and Costanza’s disappearance had taken him back to that man, Tataro, who’d played such an important part in his painful story.

  He thanked the woman and went toward the watchtower, next to which the glassmaker had his foundry, wondering how he’d be received: had Tataro forgotten all or was the past still an ongoing game?

  He didn’t expect to find him there, just as he was back then, in front of the fire, surrounded by the naked bodies of his assistants, drenched in sweat, scorched by the unbearable heat of the reverberating flames. He was blowing through the blowpipe, inflated like Aeolus himself.

  Edgardo thought he looked even skinnier than before, with leather-colored skin and no lips or hair on his head or body, as though it had been burned off by a sudden gust of fire. Only his pale, liquid eyes seemed to be darting signs of life.

  He approached. He thought he wouldn’t recognize him. A long time had passed, and Edgardo had much altered.

  After he’d finished blowing, Tataro put the blowpipe down and took a sip of water. That’s when he saw him. He half-closed his eyes, and took another sip.

  “My hour must have come. The ghosts have come to settle accounts with the past,” he muttered in a tired voice. He’d lost the boldness and arrogance he’d once had, and there was a sad weariness in his voice. “What do you want from me, scribe? Have you come to confess your sins?”

  “Only Our Lord is in a position to judge our sins.”

  Tataro wiped his bare chest with a dirty cloth. “My heart is weary. It doesn’t have the strength to rush around after a buried past any longer.”

  “I haven’t come here to talk to you about the past, Tataro, but about the present.”

  The glassmaker gave him a suspicious look.

  “I know that a young man disappeared, who used to work for you—someone called Giacomo.”

  Tataro bowed his head and went to the door to take a breath of fresh air. Edgardo followed him.

  “It’s true. He was a talented boy, precise, capable, and promising.”

  “I’d like to know the circumstances in which he disappeared.”

  “Why are you so interested in him?” the glassmaker asked suspiciously.

  Edgardo told him of Costanza’s disappearance.

  “How old was the girl?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Giacomo too was seventeen. He could have been my son. I was fond of him. I often dispatched him to Venice when I had to send new and particularly precious pieces to a merchant. I trusted him.” The sweat was freezing on his chest. He coughed, then continued. “That day, he was supposed to meet a gentleman who’d asked to see some glass pieces, cups and dishes inlaid with gold. I watched Giacomo leave in the scaula at dawn from this very shore. He never came back.”

  “Didn’t you ask the gentleman he was supposed to go see?”

  “Of course. He said he’d never arrived at his house.”

  “What about the boat? Did it disappear with him?”

  “No. It was found empty near the convent of San Zaccaria.”

  Edgardo smiled, pleased. Sometimes, intuition and visions triggered by opium vapors produce better results than any strict logic.

  “San Zaccaria?” he asked. “Maybe Giacomo was in cahoots with that man, and made himself scarce so he could keep your pieces without paying you.”

  Tataro shook his head. “No, I trusted Giacomo blindly. He was an honest garzone. And the gentleman in question is the steward of a very wealthy merchant. He’s no chicken thief.”

  “Could you give me this steward’s name?” Edgardo asked.

  “He’s called Jacob Lippomano, a Jew with a goatee. He lives in the merchant’s palazzo, opposite San Lorenzo.”

  “Very well, I’ll go see him. If you don’t mind.”

  “You can try if it’s that important for you, but he’s often away traveling. The merchant he works for lives in the Orient, in Alexandria. The glass pieces were for him.”

  Edgardo’s face lit up. He was on the right path: the scaula found at San Zaccaria, where Costanza had disappeared, the palazzo opposite San Lorenzo, everything seemed to revolve around that area.

  “Thank you, Tataro. I hope I can bring you good news.”

  The glassmaker looked at him in silence. Edgardo thought he detected in his expression the cloud of unresolved resentment.

  She finished applying a thick layer of ceruse. Making her face so waxen lent it a severity that instilled confidence in her. Magdalena tried to see her image in the distorted reflection projected by the panel of polished metal. She thought she noticed the outline of her eyebrows, which were growing back, breaking up the wide, rounded line of her forehead. She should pluck them, but it was very painful. She tried concealing them with an even thicker layer of rouge. Then she took a pinch of saffron powder, so rare and expensive that you had to use it sparingly, and smeared it on her cheekbones to add a breath of life to the salt mask. She needed one more touch. She picked up the walnut root and rubbed it on her lips and gums, brightening them up. Her hair, in a knotted braid, was gathered in a headdress with a turreted crown, a circular band with an appliqué of pearls and gemstones.

  Through the brocade tunic, with long splits on the sides, you could glimpse a periwinkle-blue undershirt. She slipped on the ground-length dress, open on the front, with wide, fur-lined, drooping sleeves. The wooden clogs secured to her shoes with colored ribbons, the patitos, gave her an imposing, regal demeanor.

  She looked at herself again. She was ready to go out. She called Nena, so the latter would accompany her. Although it was still daylight, a noblewoman seldom ventured through the streets of Venice without a male escort. But this was a spe
cial occasion. The mission she had to carry out could not admit prying eyes.

  She used a light veil to conceal her face and, preceded by her female servant, took the least frequented route.

  She managed to reach Rivoalto without anyone recognizing her. Despite her heart brimming with sorrow for her sister Costanza’s fate, she could not neglect Abella’s instructions.

  She sent Nena ahead to the Crowned Wolf, the apothecary’s shop, to check that there were no other customers.

  As was habitual at certain times of the year, at that moment, Sabbatai was trading outdoors, displaying to his customers the ingredients used in the miraculous and highly-expensive medical concoction called Theriac.

  Outside the entrance, various porters wearing white smocks, red breeches, and yellow shoes were pestling the substances necessary for the medicine in brass mortars, singing in unison, “Against poisons, flatulence, and other ailments, Theriac is the first remedy amid these canals.”

  Sabbatai’s Crowned Wolf was renowned for the quality of the materials used: adder flesh, opium, liquorice, gentian, black pepper, saffron, ginger, cassia, chamomile, cardamom, acacia, chili, resins, and vegetable gums, mixed with wine and honey.

  To the traditional recipe, Sabbatai would secretly add an animal-derived medicine that rendered his mixture unique and infallible: a dog testicle dissolved in billy goat blood, then boiled in snake broth.

  People came from afar to acquire the famous Venetian Theriac, and Sabbatai took advantage of that.

  Nena approached the apothecary. “My mistress wants to speak with you, but in secret, without anybody else around,” she said pointedly.

  Sabbatai’s deformed mask opened up in a smile that attempted to look angelic. “I shall be very honored to receive your mistress in my humble abode, and converse with her. We’ll shut the door, so no one will come in.”

  Nena looked around suspiciously, then went back to get her mistress, who was waiting, concealed in a portico. “The coast is clear. You can come in.”

  They went into the shop. The dwarf welcomed them with a ridiculous bow that, because of his disproportionately large head, nearly made him capsize. He shut the door immediately and rushed behind the counter.

  “I will do all I can to fulfil your every wish, most illustrious lady.”

  Magdalena couldn’t stop herself from turning up her nose. There was an indefinable stench in the small shop, which made her stomach churn: it reminded her of the stinking, sickly-sweet mushroom found in the woods around her home in Flanders, in the summer. Sabbatai must have noticed, because he hastened to close the door that led to his laboratorium at the back. Then he smiled again, smoothly.

  “I can offer you every kind of medicine, simplex aut compositum, minerale aut vegetale. Or perhaps cosmetics and essences to add even more glow to your beauty?”

  “None of that,” Magdalena replied abruptly. “I’ve carelessly injured myself and the nasty wound won’t heal. I therefore need a cotton wad to stop the purulent fluid that’s coming out in large amounts.”

  Nena stretched out her neck like an inquisitive goose.

  “If you will allow me, illustrious lady, even better than a wad, I have a miraculous medicine for curing wounds.” Sabbatai turned to the shelves, climbed on a stool, and took out a terracotta vase. “It’s an ointment made from a blend of rotted lizards and earthworms, mixed with urine, incense, rosin, turpentine, and various herbs. After being left out in the sun for three days, it’s distilled and kept in a vase under manure for thirty nights.” The apothecary licked his fingers. “Est mirabilis et sopraffina per piaga purulenta.”

  “Thank you, but I only need a wad.”

  “As you wish, your every desire is my command. What size wad would you like?”

  A flash of uncertainty forced Magdalena to glance at Nena, who was unable to help her. “Medium size . . . for quite a deep, wide wound,” Magdalena said.

  “Of course, of course.” The apothecary started rummaging under the counter.

  What yarn was the lady spinning? A wound, she said? He knew very well what women did with those wads. They’d soak them in honey and a pinch of acacia and stick them up their cunts to stop the man’s sperm so their bellies wouldn’t swell.

  “Here it is. A nice, pure cotton wad made of medium size. Soft as a fox’s fur.” He placed it on the counter with an innocent smile.

  “Thank you,” Magdalena said nonchalantly. “Nena, put it in the purse and pay the apothecary.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Sabbatai interrupted. “You’re the wife of the illustrious nobleman Tommaso Grimani, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, that I am.”

  “Forgive me for being so forward. I heard of the disappearance of your sister Costanza, a very beautiful young lady. We are very sad and aggrieved. Every day I pray to Our Lord and to the Blessed Virgin that she may return home safe and sound.” And, as he said this, Sabbatai joined his hands together and placed them before his heart.

  “Yes, we’re all praying for her safety,” Magdalena echoed. Then she gestured at Nena.

  Sabbatai ran to open the door, and the two women plunged back into the Rivoalto crowd.

  “Grimani’s wife is buying wads to block her uterus,” Sabbatai said to himself. “How odd. It’s the kind of news many would like to hear shouted by the town crier outside the Doge’s Palace.” His sneer, as he said this, had nothing angelic about it.

  X.

  HUMORS

  Hope had given way to faith. At this point, they were hoping for a miracle.

  Tommaso had ordered that everybody be present at the church of San Leonardo: Edgardo, Nena, Alvise, the servants, the warehousemen, all gathered around the Grimani family to attend mass and pray to God, so that He might hear their plea and let them find Costanza alive.

  During the service, Tommaso had been approached by a corpulent man Edgardo had never seen. They’d started confabbing in dropped voices. Grimani looked so upset, he seemed unable to control his legs. He’d suddenly leaned down toward Magdalena as she was kneeling and whispered something to her. Bewildered looks. Agitated gestures. A second later, the Grimani family had left the church, followed by that man, and gone back home. Edgardo scrutinized the master’s face, trying to detect a sign that would shed light on what was happening.

  They were all gathered in the inner courtyard. Magdalena was staring at her husband, annoyed at being treated on a par with a servant, kept in the dark until the very last.

  “I’ve just discovered new and decisive elements concerning the disappearance of our beloved Costanza,” Tommaso began.

  A shudder went through Magdalena’s chest.

  “I’ve assembled you here because I want you all to know.”

  He signaled at the man, who approached and handed him a leather bag. Tommaso opened it and pulled out a long lock of hair tied with a thread of hemp. He held it up, then went up to his wife. “Do you recognize it?”

  Magdalena brushed it gently with her fingers: it was fine, stringy, of a pale blond that looked like silver.

  “Yes—” she stammered. “ . . . I think it’s Costanza’s.”

  “That’s right. I also recognized it. Nena, come closer. Look at it carefully.”

  The servant woman dragged her feet a few steps, then looked up. “I think . . . My eyes, at my age . . . ” she mumbled.

  “Is it Costanza’s, yes or no?” Tommaso boomed.

  Nena nodded. “Yes, yes.”

  “Where did you find it?” Magdalena asked.

  “While we were all at mass, I gave the order to a person I trust,” he indicated the man, “to search the whole building for a sign or a clue. He found this lock of hair.”

  “Where?” Magdalena prodded.

  Tommaso looked up to the sky, as though to find inspiration. “In Alvise’s room.” Then he turned his head toward the servant boy with delib
erate slowness, like a long, nauseating wave advancing inevitably toward the line of the horizon.

  “It’s not true!” Nena cried out on impulse, but no one listened to her.

  “Did you find anything else of interest in the boy’s room?” Tommaso asked the man.

  “Stuff of no consequence: fishing threads, bird beaks, nets, glass beads, rosary beads.”

  “Alvise, I want an explanation.” Tommaso uttered the words with unnatural calm.

  It was the second time Alvise had been accused. Edgardo saw in his face the expression of a hunted animal.

  The servant boy swallowed the excess saliva generated by fear, then, in a barely audible, broken voice, said, “She gave it to me.”

  “Costanza? Costanza gave it to you? That’s ridiculous,” Magdalena burst out. “Why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know. She said it was a little gift, because we were friends.”

  “Friends!” Magdalena screamed. “What are you saying? How could you be friends?” Her lips suddenly contracted with suspicion. “You’ve been meeting alone. Where? When?”

  Alvise was more and more confused, feeling surrounded. “In the bed of reeds at the back of the house . . . sometimes.”

  “Then why did you lie that first time, when you said you didn’t meet with her?” Tommaso intervened.

  The young man gave his mother a look of despair, seeking an answer. “I don’t know . . . I hadn’t understood . . . sometimes she’d just go there.”

  Nena had started to cry.

  “And what did you do there?” Tommaso’s voice had grown ever deeper.

  “We’d chat.”

  “Chat? You and Costanza? What about? That’s impossible.” Magdalena had tensed up, offended by the notion of that contact.

  With a slow, implacable movement, Grimani approached the boy, ready to crush him with the full weight of his authority.

  “We’ve welcomed you into this house like a son.” Tommaso had a paternal tone. “Tell me the truth, Alvise. I don’t believe Costanza would have given you a lock of her hair . . . That’s something lovers do . . . ”