The Apothecary's Shop

by Roberto Tiraboschi

  A short, stout man was approaching the palazzo. He had a goatee and a round skullcap. He was skipping like a lame cat.

  Whistling merrily, he stopped at the front door. He was carrying a full sack over his shoulder.

  “Didn’t you want to talk with him? This is the time to do it.”

  “You’re right.” Edgardo went toward the Jew.

  “I beg your pardon, sir, if I dare bother you.” He gave a half bow.

  “How can I help you?” Lippomano’s voice was sing-song, and matched his chubby face and lively eyes perfectly.

  The scribe was about to embark on the full story about the disappearing garzone, ready to see his reaction, when his eyes accidentally drifted to the sack. You could clearly see that it contained fine fabrics embroidered with pearls and gems, like those used to make women’s dresses.

  “I’m lost, signore. I need to get to Rivoalto. Could you show me the way?”

  “It’s very easy.” Lippomano began a long, tortuous explanation, which allowed Edgardo time to examine the bundle with his eyes. It was obvious that these were very expensive women’s clothes.

  “You’re very kind. My deepest thanks.”

  Lippomano inserted a heavy key in the lock and opened a gap just wide enough to sneak inside.

  “It all makes sense. Intuition drinks from divine light,” Edgardo said as soon as he’d joined Abella in the boat. “There’s no more doubt now.”

  The Magister snorted. She couldn’t bear to have to follow this dreamer’s improbable cogitations.

  “We have evidence that Costanza is being kept a prisoner in the merchant’s palazzo.”

  “What evidence?”

  “The man was carrying a sack of women’s clothes.”

  “So? They could be for anyone—his wife, his daughter.”

  “The building is always locked, the windows shut. He has no family.”

  “And you think a jailer’s primary concern is to supply his prisoner with luxury clothes?”

  “Of course, if she is to be sold to an Arab prince as a concubine.”

  “Enough, I’m not following anymore.” Abella pushed the scaula to the middle of the canal and began rowing. “I’ve already wasted enough of my precious time on you. I’m a physician. I have patients who require my presence.”

  “Then I will leave you to your patients, and never was it more appropriate to say that you truly need to be patient to put up with you.”

  “You have the grace of an elephant!” Abella hissed.

  She was arrogant and acerbic, but one had to admit that, dressed up to the nines, with the scarlet robe and the headdress, she commanded respect and awe.

  It was that very robe and imposing build that gave him the idea. Edgardo pretended to think aloud. “We must find a way of getting inside the palazzo.”

  “You said we again.”

  “Yes, because now I need your illustrious persona to succeed in my enterprise,” he said, trying to flatter her.

  “You’re crazy. I’ve already told you, I want nothing to do with your fantasies,” Abella replied.

  “I can’t show myself. Lippomano has seen me. I have a plan, but I could never get inside that house without your help.”

  “I’m not your assistant,” Abella replied.

  “Do you want to let Costanza die? It’ll be on your conscience both as a physician and as a Christian.”

  Abella grumbled something to herself in incomprehensible Latin.

  “Listen, it’s very simple,” Edgardo began, then outlined his strategy.

  “A very cunning plan.” Abella’s face stretched into a smile heavy with mockery. “My role is very clear, but I can’t quite understand yours.”

  “I’ll be by your side.”

  “Then you must come up with a disguise.”

  Edgardo looked at her, perplexed.

  “I know!” Abella exclaimed. “I know what you’ll wear so you won’t be recognized.”

  The Magister had an evil expression on her face.

  XIII.

  SMALLPOX

  It was a morning of high waters and the scaula was gliding easily over embankments, down calli, and along flooded fondamenta.

  The light reflected by the stretch of water gave Magister Abella’s robe even more solemn majesty. The purple mantle that went down to her ankles emanated a luminous halo that vibrated in the brilliant light of that March day.

  Edgardo, however, harbored an ambiguous, contradictory feeling in his soul. He’d reacted to Abella’s suggestion like a blow below the belt, but had yielded in the end.

  “Didn’t you say you were once a cleric at Bobbio? You’ll disguise yourself as a monk.”

  This habit brought him no regret but, on the contrary, a deep sense of peace, a gentleness he hadn’t felt for a long time, but, simultaneously, the feeling that he was playing a part that had nothing to do with the sense of spirituality that habit had represented for him in the past.

  “So, are you ready?” he asked Abella as they reached the shore.

  “I’ve followed you in this illogical enterprise only so no stone would be left unturned in the search for Costanza. I should tell you, though, that I consider all this a jest,” Abella replied.

  “Thank you for your kind words. Now will you knock on the door?”

  The taps echoed all the way up to the loft. After a while, a gap opened and Lippomano’s goatee swayed through.

  “May God keep you, Signore,” she said. “I am Magister Abella, clarissimus medicus of the School of Salerno and most humble servant of the duchy of Venice, and this,” she added, indicating Edgardo, “is a holy monk who assists me in my work with his prayers and his faith.”

  Lippomano smiled. “I am very honored.”

  “We’re taking the liberty of bothering you because of a very serious issue. We have reason to believe that there’s currently a smallpox epidemic in Venice among the confraternity of tailors.” Abella gave an exhausted sigh. “And we heard that you’ve recently collected some garments.”

  Lippomano’s face stiffened. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “It’s as I feared. We have a well-founded suspicion that there are pustules, scabs, and traces of infected pus stuck on those clothes.”

  “Merciful God, that would be terrible!”

  “It’s just a suspicion, mind you. That’s why I’ve come to ask if it’s possible to examine you to check if there are any symptoms of contagion on you, and if so, intervene immediately to save your life.”

  Lippomano was sweating profusely.

  “May we come in?” Edgardo asked, camouflaging his voice with a high-pitched tone, like that of a hungry hen.

  “Yes, of course, come in.”

  The door opened wide. An atmosphere of stale humidity wrapped around them, making it hard to breathe. There were no ceilings or walls: the darkness was so dense that it even erased the anxiety that had gotten hold of them. Accompanied only by their echoing footsteps, they walked as far as another door, beyond which they were suddenly immersed, as if by magic, in a reverberation of light oozing an infinity of different greens. They were absorbed by a luxuriant garden stretching around a well made of pink stone. Edgardo had never seen such vegetation in Venice. He remembered miniatures in Arabic manuscripts he’d leafed through in Bobbio: they must have been palms, papyruses, and every kind of aromatic Oriental plant giving off a sweet fragrance.

  Around the garden, a network of stone stairs led to the eaves on two floors.

  Lippomano led them into a salon on the ground floor. Edgardo looked around, trying to work out the layout of the house. Although it maintained the character of Venetian homes, its staircases, eaves, and garden paths gave the impression of something akin to a labyrinth.

  “What must I do?” Lippomano asked anxiously.

  “I should examine
you.” Abella came closer to the Jew’s goatee, which stank of stale sweetmeats. “I need to check if a smallpox pustule or a purulent wound has developed in a cleft of your body. This is a dark room. Could you bring me an oil lamp?”

  “I’ll run and get one right away.”

  No sooner had Lippomano left than Abella pulled Edgardo toward her. “Hurry up, I don’t know how long I can keep him busy. I’ll say you went to pray for his safety.”

  “The prayers of a Christian monk won’t mean much to him. He’s a Jew.”

  “Hurry up!”

  Edgardo vanished into the shadows. His first thought was to find the storeroom. It was difficult to find your way in the tangle of staircases that went through the garden. Bearing in mind the height of the window over the canal, through which he’d looked, it must be located on the mezzanine.

  He crossed the portico, hoping to hear the soft sound of Costanza’s voice. The house seemed uninhabited. Nothing but the swishing of the waves against the water door and the gloomy hiss coming from the well.

  On the other side of the entrance, a half-staircase led to a raised floor. The door was ajar. He pushed it open. There was a smell of stables. A faint light filtered through a window grating. Slowly, his ailing eyes got accustomed to the semi-darkness. The reflection of the canal waters, projected on the ceiling, created dancing jellyfish.

  He groped his way forward, dragging his feet on the dirt floor. It really did look like a storeroom. There were wooden chests stacked up, and wicker baskets. Every step was accompanied by a sinister rustling: straw, made rotten by the damp. In a corner, he noticed a plank held up by two trestles, on which lay abandoned a moldy blanket. It may have been used as a bed. He lifted the blanket to his nose and breathed in deeply. His sight might let him down but his sense of smell had become more acute. He was hoping to pick up a clue that Costanza had been here.

  Dried fish and salt: certainly not the young girl’s fragrance. He moved to the window. If this was the room he’d seen from the canal, then he should be able to find the chest he’d noticed. He collided with it: it was long and narrow, like those used to bury the bodies of noble ladies and gentlemen. The lid was raised. Inside, there seemed to be nothing but a mountain of straw. Overcoming repulsion, he plunged his hand up to his elbow. For a moment, he was afraid he could feel the flabby, icy consistency of a lifeless body.

  His fingers slid over a smooth, clean object. He gently lifted it out.

  It was a skilfully manufactured chalice made of clear, transparent glass. He rummaged further: bottles, glasses, vases, all perfectly packed away.

  He’d found them: they were the pieces Tataro had entrusted to his garzone, so he could show them to Lippomano. He had proof that Giacomo had been here, or at least that the merchandise had been snatched away from him. This didn’t mean that Costanza had any connection at all with the young man’s disappearance, but if the merchant was involved in an abduction, there was a good reason for suspecting him.

  He took the chalice, wrapped it in a rag, and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his habit. Then he rushed to the exit.

  There was no sign of life in the inner courtyard. Lippomano must still be in Abella’s expert hands. He had time to carry on searching.

  He went back up the stairs that led to the first floor. He came across a series of closed doors. He went from one to the other, looking into empty salons decorated with frescoes of flowery, arabic-style patterns that reminded him again of the miniatures in the manuscripts that had come to the abbey from Constantinople.

  When he was sure that his search would yield no result, he had a surprise.

  In the last room, surrounded by walls covered in indigo silks, a regal bed stood prominently, carved out of oak trunks, decorated with figures embossed in gold, representing monstrous creatures feeding on people enveloped by the flames of hell. The blankets were in perfect condition, tight, immaculate. There was a desk and a stool by the window. A huge closet, decorated in gold, stood against a wall. A lavish decor that indicated the owner’s noble origins. He drew nearer, hoping to find some clue. The door opened with a squeak. A sweet scent of amber came over him.

  He found various women’s dresses, decorated with gemstones and pearls, arranged in perfect order. So he was right to believe that there was a female presence in the palazzo . . . Costanza?

  A creaking sound gave him a start, and he heard footsteps echoing beneath the loggia, coming toward the door to the room. His back was suddenly covered in sweat. He felt the customary feeling of void and powerlessness take over his mind. He was lost. They’d discover him.

  He tried to keep hold of his senses.

  He looked around. There was no way out. The footsteps grew closer. The only possibility was the closet. There was plenty of room under the shelves with the dresses. He curled up and managed to pull the door of the closet shut before the door to the room opened.

  A tentative shuffling filled the room. He heard the rustling of garments a few steps away from his hiding place. He pressed his eye against the gap between the two shutters. From where he was, he could see only a fraction of the room. He saw a shadow. Then a louder shuffle, very close. It was a moor, most probably a servant. He was placing tiny bottles, amphoras, and phials, probably containing ointments and perfumes, on the desk. He was putting them down gently, arranging them tidily.

  Who were these cosmetics for? Edgardo had trouble breathing, and because of his position, excruciating pain was radiating from his back. He moved a leg slightly. There was an imperceptible squeak. The moor turned and looked in his direction, listened out for a moment, then took a step and moved out of sight. He was plunged into an eerie silence. Was the man still in the room? Was he waiting for him? Or had he left after doing what he had to do? The uncertainty didn’t allow him to leave his hiding place. He was trying to breathe without a sound, inhaling slowly through his nose.

  And so, like a bolt out of the blue, a hidden image of the past flashed, that smell he knew so well: the fragrance that had nurtured him and given him moments of sublime joy in his unhappy life.

  Cabbage juice, copper sulphate, gall with arabica gum, and beer: the ink he had used when copying manuscripts in Bobbio.

  That scent, in addition to the habit he was wearing, suddenly hurled him into regret for a serene, simple life without worries, entirely dedicated to copying manuscripts; hunched over lecterns with the other brothers, surrounded by parchment, miniatures, shielded by words, seized by the ecstasy that only copying could give him.

  He had nothing left from those happy times. He’d abandoned the abbey and the habit, and his writing had been reduced to a list of goods and banal calculations.

  Why had he been so foolish as to let himself be dragged down into the abyss by insane passion?

  He fervently hoped that the body of the woman found in Metamauco was that of Kallis, so that he could once and for all be done with those memories that still weighed heavy on his soul, depriving him of a real life.

  No more sounds seemed to be coming from the room. He cautiously pushed the door open and looked around. The servant had left. With difficulty, he managed to free his poor bones from the slot where he’d been crammed. He was about to close the closet door when he froze.

  Where was the smell of ink coming from? Had he dreamed it? He slipped his head between the shelves. He smelled again. He couldn’t be wrong.

  Seized by a kind of frenzy, he started rummaging through the clothes, searching thoroughly. In the end, he found it. An ink horn like the one they had used in the scriptorium. He opened it and the fragrance spread around him. There it was, thick and palpable, soft, the creator of worlds, of dreams, the end and the means of free human expression.

  How come it had been put among women’s clothes? He kept looking and the rest appeared: the goose quill, two perfectly preserved blank pieces of parchment, a pumice for erasing. Everything a skillful
scribe could need.

  He couldn’t see a connection between that equipment, the place, and the clothes.

  He sneaked out of the room and went to the salon on the ground floor.

  He found Abella holding a lamp, examining Lippomano’s half-naked body lying on the table. He approached her cautiously.

  “Where have you been all this time?” she hissed.

  “The palazzo is a labyrinth,” Edgardo replied in self-defense.

  “So, Magister,” Lippomano whimpered, “say something. Have you find any smallpox pustules?”

  Abella slapped his lumpy belly. “No, no smallpox. Get dressed and God be with you.”

  And, without another word, they scurried away, leaving Lippomano to tidy himself up in a state of joy.

  “I get the feeling your intuition has played a dirty trick on you,” Abella said provocatively, walking to the boat.

  “That’s not quite true.” Edgardo pulled the glass chalice from his habit. “I found one of Giacomo’s glass pieces in the storeroom.”

  Magister Abella pulled a sceptical face.

  “Not only this . . . In a wardrobe, I discovered writing tools as well as women’s dresses.”

  “Interesting . . . This makes everything clear.” Abella had that annoying smile of hers stamped across her face.

  But of course! Edgardo rubbed his curly hair. How come his mind hadn’t made the connection? “They’re Costanza’s!” he blurted out.

  “What?”

  “The ink, the parchment, the quill! Who else would have made such an unusual request? How many women do you know who practice writing? No. I’ll tell you how things stand. Costanza was in that palazzo while waiting to embark, or perhaps she’s still there, a prisoner.”

  The Magister gave him a sideways glance. “Nothing proves this is the case. Did you perhaps find something that belongs to her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Another one of your fantasies.”

  “Is the glass chalice also a fantasy?”