The Apothecary's Shop

by Roberto Tiraboschi

  They found Tataro at work in his foundry. Bare-chested, bathed in sweat, he was blowing through the pipe, swelling his chest like the belly of a pregnant cow. Edgardo thought he looked even more gaunt and tired, his rough skin burned by the heat. He sneered as soon as he saw them.

  “You make a lovely couple. The fat woman and the cripple.” His laugh was now even more like a rattle. “So, scribe, have you decided how much you want for revealing the formula of pure glass?”

  Edgardo did not answer and addressed Abella instead. “Maestro Tataro is obsessed with the notion that I possess the formula for perfect crystalline glass.”

  “And isn’t that the case?” Tataro replied.

  “I tell you once again, I remember nothing of the formula Segrado dictated to me.”

  “Then where do those pure glass chalices you brought me come from?” Tataro insisted with an arrogant tone.

  “I can’t explain that.”

  The glassmaker spat in the furnace, wiped his mouth, and went to sit on a chair. He was panting. “What do you want?’

  Tired of skirmishes that did not concern her, Abella stepped forward. “We want to know which glassmakers in Venice still use natron for making glass.” Her tone was determined.

  “And what would you know about natron?” Tataro asked, looking at her with contempt. “Didn’t you say you were a physician? Or are you thinking of changing profession?”

  “Remember the missing girl? She was found dead and covered in natron,” Edgardo explained.

  The old man closed his eyes, and Edgardo thought he detected a wince of compassion.

  “So that’s how they murdered her.” His voice was almost gentle. “This city is sinking, it will be submerged by evil. I wonder if Giacomo, my garzone, met the same end.”

  “So what can you tell us?” Abella said.

  “By the devil’s tail, even children know that no glassmaker in Venice uses natron anymore, that it’s too expensive. Ever since antiquity, it used to come from the dried up lakes in Egypt, near Alexandria, and it cost a fortune to bring it over. Nowadays, everyone in Venice uses cathine alum.”

  “So it’s impossible to find natron in a foundry?”

  Tataro shrugged.

  “And where else would you find natron in Venice? Who uses it?” Edgardo asked.

  “I’m a glassmaker. How am I supposed to know who uses certain substances? Ask an apothecary, he’ll certainly have some in his shop.”

  Egypt, Alexandria, natron, transparent glass: all these tiles were forming in Edgardo’s mind a precious mosaic that, once again, took him back to the same image, the one of the mysterious merchant from Alexandria and his palazzo in San Lorenzo.

  “We’ll go to the Crowned Wolf, the best-supplied shop in the city,” Abella said. “I know Sabbatai, the apothecary, well. I get my medicines from him.”

  Edgardo too knew Sabbatai well, although for different reasons, but he chose not to say anything.

  “We’re grateful for the information.” Abella even managed to produce a smile and Tataro seemed pleased.

  Old age softens muscles and feelings, Edgardo thought.

  They were already on their way out of the foundry when they heard Tataro’s voice, loud, behind them. “Scribe!”

  Edgardo turned and saw him just a few steps away. A stench of rotting teeth and putrefied mussels swept over him.

  “An odd fellow, short, stocky, with a goatee, came to see me.” Tataro came close to Edgardo’s ear, as though not to divulge the secret to too many people. “He asked if I wanted to sell the Luprio foundry, the one where Segrado worked in, remember? He said he was the steward of a merchant . . . ” He paused, watching the scribe’s reaction.

  “Who could possibly be interested in those ruins?” Edgardo asked with false naivety.

  “I was hoping you’d have the answer to that question,” Tataro replied. “You have a deep connection with that place, so it might be someone you know.”

  There was no doubt about it. The description corresponded to Lippomano, the steward of the merchant from Alexandria, but Edgardo took care not to reveal that to the glassmaker. “There’s a hopeless mess in my wretched mind; recollections, images, names, all over the place, tossed in a corner, covered in dust and cobwebs. Give me time. I’ll come back when I’ve put some order in this cesspool,” Edgardo said, hitting his head with his fist several times.

  At the end of the bank, Abella stood firmly rooted, waiting for him. She exuded a primordial strength. It occurred to Edgardo that he was lucky to have met her.

  When Edgardo and Abella reached the Crowned Wolf, daylight was about to fall into a thicket of darkness. The clear sky was invaded by an army of ashen clouds that were advancing fast and relentless, heavy with storms.

  Sabbatai’s warty face was peering from behind the counter, lit up by a lipless sneer that tried, in vain, to look like a welcoming smile.

  In front of him, a poor woman, still young but consumed by tiredness and salt, was accompanying a girl so skinny that her bones were sticking out through her scarce flesh. Her wan face damp with sweat, her lips cracked, and she had thin straw-colored hair hanging behind elephant-like ears that were red like embers.

  Around her neck, hanging from a ribbon, was the heart of a small animal, dripping with blood.

  “She’s had quartan fever for two new moons now,” the woman explained. “A crone told me to hang the heart of a hare around her neck.” She pointed at the bleeding organ that still seemed to throb. “But the fever isn’t dropping. The poor thing is suffering so much.”

  The curls of Sabbatai’s beard quivered as he leaned forward as though to check the state of the hare’s heart, then he shook his huge head, looked up at Abella and Edgardo, and nodded, satisfied.

  “For the quartan fever, I have a miraculous herb that heals the body totally. Unfortunately for you, it’s a very, very expensive herb.”

  Sabbatai opened his arms like a helpless sparrow, seeking approval from the Magister, who had stepped forward to look at the girl.

  Without saying a word, Abella rubbed two fingers on the girl’s clammy forehead, brought them up to her lips, and tasted them with the regulation clicking of the tongue.

  “It’s malaria,” she said, addressing Sabbatai. “Give her quinine and molasses. Make an infusion. She has to drink it at dawn and at sunset.” She gave the woman a piercing look of stern disapproval and tapped the hare’s heart. “And take this rubbish off her neck and give it to the cat!” she boomed.

  The woman muttered a few words of thanks, took the herbs, and slipped out of the shop. Edgardo smiled, proud to have such a talented physician for an ally.

  “Illustrious Magister, how can I serve you?” Sabbatai said sentimentally, giving Edgardo astonished looks, trying to understand the odd pair.

  Abella approached the shelf and examined the jars full of spices, powders, animal, mineral, and vegetable remedies, plain and mixed.

  “Tell me, apothecary, among these substances, do you have a particularly rare one called natron?”

  As though stung by a tarantula, the dwarf leaped out of his shelter and improvised an involuntary dance, skipping and shaking his enormous hump.

  “I trade in alum, borax, chalcedony, quartz, sapphire, and saltpeter, I sell aloe vera, poppy, plantain, liquorice, gentian, and saffron, and I’m not above using duck meat, dog testicles, billy-goat bile, fly ash, snake broth, mouse ears, and a hoist of cicada powder . . . but of this natron you’re asking about, I know absolutely nothing,” he said, repeating like a refrain, “Natrum no, natrum nunca, natrum usquam vidi.”

  “It’s a fine, whitish powder that tastes sour but has no smell, and that was once used by glassmakers,” Edgardo added. “Have you ever heard of it?”

  “Usquam no, nunca none, substantia ignota est.”

  “We understand, we understand, you kn
ow nothing about it,” Abella said, staring into the apothecary’s slug eyes.

  “And do you know anybody who could tell us who uses it?”

  At Edgardo’s question, the apothecary produced the sweet expression of someone who has long forgotten his earthly worries.

  Not intending to waste any more time asking questions that brought no answers, the two associates left the shop.

  An increasingly strong breeze was blowing along the canals.

  “Did he look sincere to you?” Abella asked.

  “It’s hard to tell, since I don’t believe the concept of sincerity is something he’s familiar with. Rather, he looked unhealthily agitated.

  “This natron isn’t leading us anywhere,” Edgardo continued. “I keep thinking about those stitches . . . What reason would the murderer have had to close the orifice with such care? It must have been at least a barber or a surgeon,” he added, and Abella darted him a black look suggesting he had offended her personally.

  “If we rule out glassmakers,” Abella was now following her own thread of thought, “who else could be using natron? Tataro said the Egyptians had been gathering it from the Nile Valley since antiquity. What did they do with it?” Abella wrinkled the tip of her nose. “You were a cleric, do you perhaps know someone who studies Egyptian customs and professions?”

  “No,” Edgardo replied. Then he suddenly spread open his arms, as though to take flight. “Or rather yes, I do!” he exclaimed, excited.

  “And could we meet with him?”

  “I fear not. He departed this world before Our Lord was born. But he left some extraordinary writings.” Abella looked at him, exhausted. “Herodotus . . . Herodotus of Halicarnassus. In his Histories, an entire volume is devoted to Egyptian customs. I remember copying it many years ago, when I was still living in Bobbio Abbey.”

  “And you don’t recall if it says anything about natron or what?”

  “You expect too much from my memory.”

  “So we’re back at the beginning.”

  “No,” Edgardo replied. “There’s always a copy of Herodotus’s Histories in every important library. It’s not easy to access the parchments but I know someone who could help us. He’s a talented translator. He knows Spanish, Arabic, Latin, and Greek. In other words, he’s a great scholar. His name is Ermanno d’Istria.” Edgardo’s face clouded over. “And perhaps he’s the only one in there who harbors no hatred or resentment toward me.”

  “Good. Go and talk to him.” Abella had recovered her usual energy and was walking briskly.

  “I’d rather keep away from that place.”

  “Unhappy memories?” the Magister carelessly asked.

  “Memories, always memories . . . I’m tired of living besieged by the past. In any case, I think I know where to find him. I’ve already seen him a few times near the brolo, all engrossed in his favorite activity.”

  “Didn’t you say that this monk drank only human knowledge?”

  Edgardo laughed. “You’re right . . . but even more than knowledge, he drinks something that’s much more pleasant to the palate. You’ll see for yourself. Come with me.”

  XXIV.

  AT THE GOLDEN HEAD

  It was Quadragesima Sunday. A light, irregular rain, like a veil of humidity coating the city, had started to fall from a reluctant sky since dawn. In the beginning, nobody paid attention to it: it was no more than the death rattle of winter.

  It was still raining at sunset when Edgardo left Ca’ Grimani, and the liquid cloak that was dropping from the sky gave the gondolas and scaulas rocking by the shore a surreal glow. He knew where he’d find Ermanno d’Istria. He’d happened to see him sitting on Calle delle Merzerie, at the table of an inn, drinking wine, alone, as he passed by after Vespers.

  After a day of arduous work, hunched over parchments in the scriptorium of the Abbey of San Giorgio, translating Arabic manuscripts, he deemed it his just reward to devote himself to his favorite pastime, away from the prying eyes of his fellow brothers.

  Edgardo immediately found himself immersed in the usual throng that flowed down the calle connecting San Marco and Rivoalto. Apprentices, servants, slaves, merchants, craftsmen, and soldiers on horseback crowded together, pushing one another.

  Outside shops, sellers displayed every kind of merchandise, taking up the space necessary for the walkway, which was consequently reduced to a narrow path turned by the rain into a stream that washed all the goods away: soaked vegetables, fruit peel, animal bones, excrement of every color, shape, and size, mussel shells that floated like tiny boats, fish heads, and dead sewer rats.

  Just before reaching the brolo, between a blacksmith’s and a barber’s, was the conspicuous sign of the Golden Head inn. A room blackened by smoke and corroded by salt.

  Edgardo found it difficult to get accustomed to the darkness of the room, which was barely lit by a few oil lamps on the tables. The waterlogged dirt floor seemed to give under every step. The air was steeped in a sickly-sweet, nauseating fragrance that made it hard to breathe. He’d already smelled this odor before, but couldn’t remember where.

  He searched among the customers. He noticed a dark-skinned young woman at one of the tables, wrapped in a short tunic that was open on the front and thus left little to the imagination, sitting with a soldier. Next to them, lying on a bench, a garzone dressed in rags was snoring. At the back, somewhat concealed, he thought he recognized a monk’s habit. He approached.

  He hadn’t the least changed, not even after ten years or more. Rounder, crimson-faced, graying hair covering his shoulders, he was hunched over a carafe.

  “Father, may I sit at your table?”

  Ermanno’s lively eyes darted in search of the origin of that voice. “You’ll make me happy, my son. Wine drunk alone has a bitter taste.”

  Edgardo sat down. “Don’t you recognize me?” he asked, leaning forward toward the lamp.

  “Now, now,” Ermanno muttered, “let me look at your features: ruby hair, scruffy beard, cerulean-blue eyes, milky complexion, an abundance of freckles . . . ”

  “I too once wore the habit,” Edgardo added.

  “By Jove, God keep you!” Ermanno exclaimed, slamming the carafe on the table. “You’re that excellent Bobbio scribe who came with Ademaro . . . your name escapes me.”

  “Edgardo d’Arduino, known as The Crooked.”

  “God Almighty, whatever happened to you? You vanished, and we never saw you on the island of Memmia again.”

  “Our Lord chose not to grant me a life free of trials and tribulations . . . or perhaps it was I who was unable to follow the path He had shown me.”

  “By the devil, we must celebrate. More wine!” he shouted.

  There was a bustle in the semi-darkness, followed by a phlegmy grunt; a curtain swelled, and a wave of that nauseating smell of cedar, amber, camphor, and myrrh came crashing down on the wretched men.

  Edgardo saw before him a shapeless mass, flabby and ivory-colored, full of folds, clefts, and flaps of fat, which one would have strained to describe as being female.

  “Teodora,” Edgardo whispered to himself, “that’s who that perfume belonged to—the oriental wife of that unfortunate merchant Karamago.”

  “How can I satisfy the desires of the most illustrious and scholarly father who graces us with his presence?” Teodora asked in her sing-song voice, wiggling the superfluous flesh on her chest.

  “More sweet Cyprus wine,” Ermanno ordered. “We must celebrate the return of a long-lost friend.”

  The woman gave Edgardo an absent-minded look and left.

  She hadn’t recognized him. Perhaps it was the beard. Edgardo heaved a sigh of relief. He remembered her husband, who’d sacrificed his life in order to save him from the angry mob, and felt very moved.

  Widowed, Teodora had obviously stopped the trade and devoted herself to the comfort of the
traveler’s stomach. And, judging by the half-naked young girl sitting at the table, not just his stomach.

  “And do you have any news of the other fellow brother, your friend Ademaro? He never came back to our monastery, either.”

  “Ademaro?” Edgardo half-closed his eyes, as though to focus on a recollection. “No, I never saw him again after I gave up the habit.”

  His friend Ademaro: could he call him that after what had happened?

  Ademaro had lied to him, betrayed him, and yet uttering his name still triggered a strong emotion. Could he still call the feeling that persisted in his heart friendship?

  In Bobbio, he’d shared with him years of study, suffering, sacrifice, dreams, conquests, but then, after their trip to Venice, their ways had irremediably parted, each one following his own beliefs, his own fate.

  And yet he could not bring himself to feel any resentment, let alone hatred. On the contrary, a feeling of closeness, of solidarity had developed in him, which he could not explain.

  Was that true friendship? To close one’s eyes before the suffered wrongs, to forget the differences, the clashes, and go beyond them? When does such a deep feeling take root in our hearts? There’s something that acts in spite of ourselves . . . it is time, the passing of time that creates and anchors a friendship. Disappointments and betrayals amalgamate in the slow flow of time and dissolve, making room for forgiveness.

  Yes, Edgardo concluded, he could still utter the word friendship when thinking of Ademaro.

  Ermanno noticed the veil of melancholy that had overtaken the face of his guest, and raised his glass. “Let’s drink to Abbot Carimanno, who has passed over to a better life. Now he’s wandering freely across the pastures of absolute knowledge—lucky him.” Then he emptied the glass in a single gulp. “We have a new abbot, the library is growing, go forth and multiply . . . that’s what I’m always saying to my manuscripts. New volumes arrive from the Orient, the work is never-ending, and I’m old. What about you?” Ermanno indicated Edgardo’s clothes. “You’ve left the habit!”