The blade had gotten stuck between the rump and the thigh, and the leg refused to come away from the trunk of the body.
Sabbatai threw the knife on the table and took from the wall a large-tooth saw, which hung on display alongside other tools: scalpels, pointers, scissors, hooks, syringes, cauterizers, and pliers of all lengths.
“Now we’ll see who the winner is.” With renewed energy, he took to pushing and pulling the saw through the long-suffering flesh. The soft parts, lubricated by their own blood, yielded immediately; ligaments and cartilage took a few more pushes but in the end, amid creaking and wet hissing, the limb came away from the body and rolled on the ground.
“So, you ass, you thought you could have a laugh at Sabbatai’s expense? Ha!” the apothecary exclaimed with satisfaction.
Then he picked up the leg, approached the boiler, and dropped the limb into boiling water.
Animated by the energetic seething, two arms, a head, and two feet were already chasing one another in that small space, so much so that the leg struggled to find room. Sabbatai had to push it down to the bottom with a stick.
All he had left to do was saw off the other leg, and the bulk of the work would be done. The trunk was too large, so he would get another boiler ready for it.
The process was well under way, the soft, gray flesh had come away from the bones, dissolving into a thick, fat broth that was in no way inferior to tasty boar soup.
The laboratorium at the back was steeped in a sour, sickly-sweet stench that poured out into the small external courtyard, fortunately located next to a narrow, smelly canal.
He was about to tackle the last limb when he heard his shop door slam.
“Is anybody there?” he heard someone shout.
He didn’t like to be disturbed when in the process of delicate operations.
“Damn it! Who’s calling me?” He put the saw down, wiped his bloodied hands on his apron, and went into the shop.
Because of his height, which did not allow his head to be higher than the counter, he couldn’t make out a face straight away. The hem of scarlet he saw undulating over well-made shoes left no doubt. He climbed on the footboard and found himself face to face with Magister Abella’s ruddy complexion.
“I must speak with you,” Abella said in a detached tone.
Sabbatai did not reply but simply glanced to the side and went to the back. Abella followed him.
The vapor emanating from the broth had now spread through the low, narrow room, floating in mid-air like a layer of fog. Abella glanced at the dismembered body that was waiting on the table, and turned up her nose in disgust.
“A devoted Christian,” Sabbatai explained. “A Tanais merchant who came to drop dead here in Venice, poor devil . . . ”
Abella gave an understanding nod. It had become customary that when someone died in a foreign land, he’d state in his will the wish to be buried in the country of his birth. To comply with his wishes, it was common to boil the body in order to recover the bones, then send them to even faraway countries without the risk of their rotting.
“I need some fresh meat,” Abella said abruptly, in a professional tone.
The apothecary looked at the dismembered body and gave an angelic smile. “That’s not an easy task,” he said.
“Come now, I have no time to waste. Tell me how much you want,” Abella replied.
“Twenty dinars.”
“You’re a thief.”
“I am your servant.” Sabbatai bowed, and his outsized head brushed against his boots, almost making him roll to the ground.
“Very well, then. Will you deliver it to the same place? Let me know when the goods arrive.”
“Don’t worry, Magister, you’ll have what you wish. You can trust Sabbatai.”
The stench of human flesh gave an aftertaste of steaming dung, making the air unbreathable. Abella put a handkerchief over her nose. “Listen, I must meet a noblewoman in your shop. Do you have anywhere private we can talk?”
The apothecary looked around, bewildered, then clicked his tongue like a whipcrack. “In the courtyard next door, by the canal. You can access it only through the shop. Nobody’ll see you there.”
Abella nodded. “That’ll be fine. I’ll wait for her there.”
As she was walking to the Crowned Wolf, Magdalena kept mulling over what Edgardo had said about Abella. Why had he warned her? What did he know about the Magister that he didn’t wish to reveal?
Escorted by Nena, she arrived at the apothecary’s in a state of intense agitation, shaken by events she could neither control nor understand.
Outside the entrance there were the usual Theriac sellers, surrounded by servants from noble households, sent to buy the wondrous remedy.
Leaving Nena to watch the entrance, Magdalena went in. The stench of what was boiling, mixed with the scents of spices, had created a deadly air that tickled her throat and made her nauseous.
Sabbatai skipped out from behind the counter and greeted her with exaggerated bowing and scraping. “I am so immensely happy when your grace brings a little light to my humble shop . . . How can I serve you, Signora?”
Magdalena looked around, hoping to glimpse Abella, then took her time to reply. “I’ve heard high praise about a perfume from Tunisia. Apparently, it can give the mind celestial visions.”
“The Trafego convey has brought us myrrh, burning bush, mastic, mustard, marjoram, and sandalwood. Blended together, they form an essence that has miraculous properties, releases all worries, and rekindles both male and female organs.”
Magdalena looked down, as though caught red-handed. “Could you prepare some for me?” she said, looking around again.
“Sabbatai, the apothecary, receives essences from every country, through the convoys from Syria, Egypt, Tanais, Northern Africa, Southern Spain, and Aigues Mortes. And from each of these, I draw fragrances that are able to stir a woman’s soul deeply. It will be an honor to serve you, Signora.” Seeing her agitated, he added, “Perhaps you’re expecting someone?”
Magdalena gave a weak smile.
“If you would follow me.”
He made his way, in small steps, to a side door hidden between two sets of shelves. Magdalena didn’t stir, as though turned to stone.
“Trust me.”
The door led to the inner courtyard. Magdalena found Abella waiting for her by the well. The physician and Sabbatai exchanged a meaningful look, and he disappeared, leaving the two women alone.
“I’m so grateful to you for coming at my request,” Magdalena said, immediately regretting her overly warm greeting.
“I have good news for you,” Abella replied with an open smile that dispelled all suspicion.
How could this frank, learned woman be involved in anything that required caution?
“Tell me, I beg you.”
“I’ve examined your husband’s sperm very carefully.” Abella weighed her words, articulating every one. “Nullum impedimentum manet. The humor is warm and dry, runny and frothy. The taste is citrusy, in other words, there’s nothing to stop your husband from procreating.”
Magdalena’s face dropped with astonishment. “Then, if we’re both in good health, how is it possible that . . . ”
“You’re right, and I’ve also asked myself the same question. There is only one answer: the influence of the stars. As you know, all the medical schools, Salerno especially, claim that there’s an interdependent relationship between the human body and the signs of the zodiac. That is why medicine has assigned a sign of the zodiac to every organ. The belly, where the reproductive organs are situated, is ruled by Virgo, and all this year it has been under the negative influence of the Moon. You’ll see: as soon as you’re free of the shadow cast upon you by it, the virgin in you will blossom again, and your belly will go back to generating.”
“So what shoul
d I do?” Magdalena asked in a faint voice.
“Wait,” Abella replied.
Magdalena stared at the brown waters of the lagoon. How many times had she heard that word during her son’s illness? The doubt Edgardo had sowed in her suddenly resurfaced. She had placed her last hope in this physician, a woman, and immediately trusted her, feeling something akin to friendship toward her, and now everything seemed to be coming apart, because of that one word. Why had she deceived her? What secret interests were guiding her actions?
“It’s no longer possible to wait. My husband is expecting a wondrous remedy from the Orient, a medicine that will give my belly new life. As soon as he receives it, I’ll have to take it. I can’t refuse.”
“Let me know when this happens, and I’ll try to analyze it. Meanwhile, let’s hope time is on our side and that the Moon turns favorable.”
“May God hear you.”
Magister Abella noticed the bewildered, disillusioned expression weighing on Magdalena’s face. She came up to her and squeezed her hands. “You must have faith. You can be sure that I won’t abandon you.”
She couldn’t say anything else because she could not reveal the truth deep inside her heart: that even she hadn’t been able to work out the cause of their sterility. So she turned to the stars, without much conviction, as a last resort. The experience she’d gained after treating many women had taught her that there was always a physical impediment, always—except in this case.
Magdalena hid her face in the fur of her cloak, and went back into the shop. Sabbatai came toward her and obsequiously handed her a bottle with a yellow glow. “Here’s your perfume, Signora.”
His soft smile froze at the icy look she gave him as she furtively took the bottle and concealed it in her cloak. As though she felt stained by having to share a secret with that treacherous being.
“Oh, here you are. I was looking for you.”
Grimani’s voice gave him a start, and Edgardo looked up from the parchment and put his precious eye circles down on the lectern. “I’m writing down the inventory of all the goods you brought back from Flanders.”
Edgardo knew the master insisted on order and demanded with obsessive precision that all revenue and expenditure should be recorded. He didn’t want him to think that his search for Costanza, no matter how important, made him neglect his work.
Tommaso Grimani had been the first merchant in Venice to introduce the compulsory written record of the amount of goods that went into the storehouses, as well as the ones that were loaded onto chelandions bound for the harbors of Romania, Tanais, and Trabzon.
“My wife has told me of your intentions regarding the search for Costanza.” Tommaso almost humbly brushed his fingers against the contraption with lenses that allowed Edgardo to magnify words. “I appreciate your efforts and am very grateful to you.” He rubbed his eyes. “Only I suggest you exercise prudence. Secretly breaking into a private home, especially that of a foreign guest, is a crime. It goes against our laws and is severely punished. If I were to find out about it, as a member of the Council, I’d be obliged to report it to the judges. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Of course, Signore.” Edgardo put down the goose quill. “Have no worry.” He turned his head until he met Tommaso’s gaze. “May I ask a question, Signore?”
“Do.”
“Tell me frankly . . . have you lost all hope? Do you think we will not find Costanza alive?”
There was a long silence, while Edgardo’s mind was sucked in by the swish of a wave crashing against the steps.
The awaited answer wasn’t coming.
Tommaso kept rubbing his eyes, as though absorbed in the memory of faraway places. Then he suddenly turned around, as though no question had ever been asked, and said, “I’d be grateful if you could come with me. I’d like the opinion of a man of letters with regard to a project I hold dear. The accounts can wait.”
Then he walked out, promptly followed by Edgardo.
The mist rising from the water was drifting in mid-air in the narrow calli, creating sudden jolts of shadow and light. A layer of icy humidity coated the green mane and branches of the oaks in the fields. Tommaso huddled in his fox-lined cloak.
They were proceeding with difficulty, sinking in the slimy mud of the path, forced to circumvent ruins and step over wooden beams that had come crashing down during the earthquake that had struck Venice a year earlier. Many small houses and churches hadn’t been rebuilt yet, and their inhabitants had moved to other districts, where the tremors had caused less destruction.
They crossed a rickety wooden bridge and reached the field behind the church of Saint Ermagora and Saint Fortunato, or rather, what was left of that holy place, one of the city’s oldest, established by the first refugees who had fled the mainland during the Lombard invasion. A fire that had broken out during the earthquake had destroyed it almost totally.
Among the ruins of Ca’ Memmo a stretch of grass sloped toward Rivus Altus, where iron crosses rose like twisted branches. In front of one of these, on a slab of granite, a name and a date were engraved: LUCA GRIMANI, 1117.
Tommaso walked past his son’s grave without even a glance. Edgardo had noticed this strange behavior before. Despite all the love he’d had for the prematurely dead boy, he’d never seen him pray at his grave, almost as though he didn’t believe in its Christian importance.
They came to the bank of Rivus Altus. The muddy waters blended with the ash-gray reflections of the winter sunset. Their eyes silently followed the swaying of a solitary gondola bobbing in the middle of the canal.
“You were a cleric, so tell me something.” Tommaso was staring into space. “Do you believe that a man’s soul can pass into the body of a newborn baby?”
Edgardo tensed up and fiddled with his clothes, visibly embarrassed. Never had the master broached such a delicate, deep subject with him.
“It’s not easy to answer your question, Signore. I’m no more than a scribe. You’d need a Church scholar for this. From what I’ve read in the Christian doctrine, there’s no mention of souls being reborn.” Edgardo stopped, then spoke again with renewed energy, almost as though he didn’t want to disappoint him. “However, a few years ago, I copied Porphyry’s transcription of Plotinus’s Enneads, and the text mentioned that souls can be reborn many times, always in different bodies.”
“I have great faith in our merciful God,” Tommaso said, “and I know He will make up for the misfortune that has befallen our home. I am certain that Luca’s soul will be born again in the new creature Magdalena will conceive.” Tommaso’s face took on an inspired expression. “I’ve spoken to him, and Luca has promised.”
Edgardo did not dare reply. Pain and faith were mixed in Grimani’s mind into a kind of delirium one could not but respect.
“The Memmo and Lupanizza families have decided to provide the funds to rebuild the church of San Ermagora and San Fortunato. They’ve asked me if I want to contribute to the works,” Tommaso added, looking at Ca’ Memmo, the splendid façade of which, just beyond the graveyard, was mirrored in the waters of Rivus Altus.
Possibly the most magnificent house in Venice, it had been built by the doge Tribuno Memmo, after the Doge’s Palace had been burned down during an uprising against the doge Pietro Candiano IV in 976.
“I gave my word on condition that I may be allowed to erect inside the church a marble sepulcher next to the high altar, to contain the remains of my beloved son, a tomb that’s worthy of him.” Grimani put his hand on the scribe’s shoulder, as though to seal a pact. “You’re the only one who knows, Edgardo d’Arduino, not even my wife knows the secret of Luca’s return. If anything should happen to me, I entrust you with the task of erecting my son’s tomb.”
“I thank you for the honor you pay me. I promise that if it comes to it I will do everything possible to fulfil your wish.”
Grimani c
rossed himself. Edgardo wanted to do the same but was held back by a kind of modesty. He had the feeling there was something blasphemous about that oath.
“Come, let’s go back now. The sun is setting and Magdalena will have already given orders to bolt the shutters and doors.”
A stench of rotting meat was rising from the internal canals.
“The wind has changed. We’ll have high tide tonight. Let’s hope it drops before dawn. Tomorrow, we’re displaying the body of the virgin of the beads in the gardens of San Geminiano.”
The body . . . tomorrow . . . in the gardens! A deadly chill went through Edgardo’s chest and ran down his limbs.
“That young woman is making trouble even dead . . . ”
“It’s going to be displayed . . . shown to the whole of Venice?” Edgardo asked.
“Of course. Everybody has to see with their own eyes that it’s just a well-preserved corpse and nothing more. It’s essential to put an end to the fanciful rumors that have been running through the city for too many days now, stirring up all kinds of trouble.”
“What rumors, Signore?”
“There are charlatans who have fun spreading senseless gossip, saying it’s the body of a Byzantine princess who died during the Metamauco cataclysm, and who will rise with the new moon to become Venice’s new doge. It sounds very much like a fairy tale, don’t you think?”
“Yes, you’re right, a fairy tale,” Edgardo murmured in a thin voice.
“We’ll display her, and then burn her. Better not leave any traces likely to fuel disrespectful cult practices.”
Edgardo huddled in his cloak, his eyes welling up with emotion. Just one night, all he had to do was wait for the dawn, and he’d know. The end of a dream, the end of a nightmare.
XVI.
THE VIRGIN OF THE BEADS
The darkest hours of the night had become dense, turning sleep into a hope of rebirth. As though making his way through a thick forest, fighting against brambles and vines step by step in an agonizing search for a clearing or a glimmer of light that would show him the way, Edgardo passed those hours of waiting: a path of suffering and the illusion of attaining the truth and putting an end to a nightmare that had gone on for far too long.
The Apothecary's Shop Page 13