“I’m a scribe for a merchant.”
Ermanno nodded. “I understand. I won’t ask what prompted your decision . . . it can’t have been easy.”
Edgardo picked up the carafe and poured himself a glass of wine. His hand was shaking. “This isn’t a chance encounter, my illustrious friend,” he continued, trying to shake off the deep melancholy that had enveloped him. “I need your help.”
“You can count on me in anything that is lawful.”
“I hope you’ll consider it so. The garzone of the merchant for whom I work has, in my opinion, been accused of a crime he did not commit. I’m trying to save his life. The only element in my possession, which may lead me to a solution, is natron, a substance found on the body, but I can’t find out how it’s used nowadays. However, my memory has come to my aid: many years ago, when I was still at Bobbio, I copied all Herodotus’s Histories. One of the books concerned Egyptian customs, and it’s from that country that natron comes, because Egyptians use it in abundance.”
“Yes, of course, it’s in Book Two . . . a treasure trove of knowledge, is our Herodotus.”
“I wouldn’t like my request to be inappropriate but, unfortunately, it’s no longer possible for me to access your library. May I ask you to track down this book and, if it’s not too much trouble for you, check if it talks about natron and in what context? It would be precious information for me.”
The lively eyes groped in the void in search of a foothold, then Ermanno’s face lit up. “We can do even better, my dear friend: I will look for the manuscript and read Book Two. If I find passages that mention natron, I’ll copy them for you. Come by the inn in four days’ time, and if you see me sitting at this table in the company of this faithful friend,” he indicated the carafe of wine, “then you can shout victory.”
“Would you really do this for me? I shall be grateful to you for ever. But isn’t it forbidden to get copies of manuscripts out of the abbey?”
“Of course, it is, but I’ve always considered it a silly rule. Knowledge should circulate, travel, go from mouth to mouth . . . like good wine.” He gulped down another glass with satisfaction and stood up.
Leaning over the counter, intent on proffering the cuts of meat that burst out of her tunic, Teodora was staring at the scribe. They exchanged looks by the door, and Edgardo got the impression she recognized him.
The image of that hag still before his eyes, Edgardo plunged into the throng of Calle delle Merzerie. The drizzle had turned into a downpour that, pushed by the wind, was slamming against the planks of the huts. Everybody was running for shelter in shops or under porticos. The only one apparently careless of the deluge was Edgardo. He walked slowly, trying to untangle himself from twisted, oppressive thoughts.
Ermanno had said four days. Confirmation of Alvise’s execution could arrive at any time. Time was flying. He felt powerless. A deep melancholy had taken a grip of his soul: the memory of Ademaro had reawakened the feeling of emptiness that increasingly assaulted him.
When he’d reached Rivoalto, he happened to pass by the Crowned Wolf. Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to him to resort to the apothecary in order to find some peace. All of a sudden, the demon had reawakened, and he felt he was being dragged into the shop, as though clutched by a hand.
When Sabbatai saw him, dripping, his hair and beard stuck to his pale face, his eyes feverish, he knew immediately why he had come.
“The load that’s crushing you is unbearable, brother,” the apothecary said by way of welcome. “You need a pinch of paradise, don’t you?”
Edgardo lowered his head guiltily.
“Wait . . . I’ll be as quick as lightning.” Then he vanished at the back of the shop.
There was violent roaring over the lagoon, the fords, the submerged land, and the muddy shoals amid the reeds and the rushes; such a shuffling of water and currents between the sea and the sky that it was difficult to tell the difference between above and below, east and west. Even Edgardo felt as though he was turning liquid and dissolving into nothingness.
The apothecary returned with a pouch full of very fine powder. “For you, brother, a very special blend. It’s a little expensive but very powerful, You must dissolve two pinches in water and swallow, then,” he gave a long whistle, “you’ll feel your heart swell with happiness.”
Edgardo took the pouch, paid almost without realizing it, then made his way back to Ca’ Grimani.
As soon as he was back in his room, in the grip of an insane frenzy, he poured a little water into a bowl and took the pouch. His hand was shaking like that of an old madman. He put in a dusting of powder, which immediately dissolved in contact with the water. He gulped it down, like a traveler who has just crossed the desert, and abandoned himself on his bed, exhausted. He closed his eyes, waiting anxiously for the saving journey that would erase all suffering and open the doors to paradise before him.
He didn’t have the time to dream of the coveted pleasure before he felt a widespread sensation of burning on his skin, then a feeling of choking, as though his tongue had swelled so much it was obstructing his throat. He tried to get up, but was prevented by the fatigue. His muscles were flabby, his bones broken, his blood turned to water, and he opened his mouth wide in an endless wheeze.
All his pain disappeared, and his entire being was dragged into a deep sleep.
Suddenly, a violent knock made him jump, almost as though a mysterious force had pried him away from his actual body.
He felt a comfortable warmth in his chest. He got the impression of floating in the void. He opened his eyes.
And he saw him. He saw Edgardo d’Arduino, called The Crooked, lying on his bed, pale as death.
He watched him as though he were above him, up on the ceiling.
He felt so sorry for that human being, loaded with suffering, with a frail body and soul, deprived of every hope.
He tried to bend down so he could touch him, but discovered that his limbs had no substance, that they were made of air and light. And, unwittingly, he began to mentally utter a prayer for that being who was lying down below, all alone in the world, forgotten. For a moment, he felt pity, and forgave him all the errors he had committed.
The light within him turned liquid, his eyes filled with tears, and a drop slipped out, a luminous drop that fell into the void, as slow as the thought of a newborn baby, and came crashing down onto the chest of that wretched being lying down below, right on top of the fleshy hump that protruded from his chest.
That’s when he saw what he could never have imagined ever seeing.
In contact with the tear, the wrinkled skin became alive, quivered, gave a start, turned indigo and, in a heartbeat, tore open like a voracious mouth, the muzzle of a monster writhing in a terrible rattle, as though gasping for breath. Then, after the final spasm, a winged creature flew out of the gash. It was brightly-colored, with turquoise wings, emerald-green talons, and a large open fan-shaped tail with gold and blue circles.
It was a peacock. A splendid blue peacock.
The bird lingered awhile on the fleshy hump, turned its head toward Edgardo, almost as a greeting, then flew up and vanished in the air.
XXV.
THE HUMP
The bells of San Leonardo had already rung Terce and none of the servants had seen Edgardo appear yet.
Nena was surprised. The scribe had kept his habits from when he was a cleric, and as Prime tolled, he was usually seen already busying himself between the study and the storerooms.
A servant was sent to knock on the door of his room, but there was no response. Nena then made sure she informed the Signora, who rushed to tell her husband. A few seconds later, there was a small gathering outside Edgardo’s door.
Tommaso knocked energetically, without result, so he made up his mind and flung the door open.
Illumined by a ray of pale light that filtered th
rough the beams of the roof, Edgardo’s face, wan and marble-like, was peering out of his dark clothes like a funeral mask.
“God almighty!” Nena exclaimed.
Tommaso bent over him.
“Is he dead?” Magdalena asked in a whisper of a voice.
“I can’t feel his breath,” Tommaso said.
Nena stifled a moan. Grimano put his ear against the hump. “I think I can hear a faint heartbeat.”
“Then he’s alive,” Magdalena said, and turned to Nena. “Run fetch a physician,” she urged, then paused and looked at her husband. “May I please have your permission to call for Magister Abella?”
Grimani stiffened, and raised a hand as though to place a barrier between himself and his wife’s request.
“I beg you. I have great trust in her knowledge, and I’m certain she can save him. Other physicians have brought nothing but sorrow to this house. Grant my request and I promise I will fulfil all your wishes. I promise Abella will not influence my decisions in any way . . . She’s the only one who can save Edgardo, believe me.”
He huffed, sighed, and covered his eyes with his hand as though to seek a reply in the darkness. In the end, Tommaso agreed and a servant ran to look for Abella.
The rain, which hadn’t relented in stifling the city, had gone back to a thin, dense veil that penetrated every crack and slid even into the strongest spirits.
Magdalena and Nena watched over the scribe while waiting for the Magister.
Edgardo’s body gave no sign of life: his arms were limp, his face as though carved in stone, and even his red hair and beard seemed to have faded into a tow gray. The women prayed that the shadow death had spread over the house be pushed away.
By the time Magister Abella arrived, they’d lost all hope. His heartbeat had become like the fluttering of a moth’s wings.
“This is how we found him when we woke up,” Magdalena explained.
Without saying a word, Abella immediately set to work. With a few confident gestures, she disengaged Edgardo’s body from his tunic. Magdalena couldn’t suppress a grimace of disgust. Never had she seen that bumpy protrusion, now reduced to a mass of open meat, crossed by purple, smelly cracks.
His body was covered in a layer of cold sweat, his limbs were blue, and his eyes rolled back. Abella managed to open his mouth. She examined his tongue: it was covered in a thick, white patina.
She noticed a bowl next to the bed. There was still a thin layer of white powder at the bottom. She took a pinch and put it in her mouth, clicking her tongue. “We must void him of all bad humors: he’s been poisoned! Help me,” she commanded Nena, “we must turn the body on its side. Now you keep his mouth open, and I’ll attempt to trigger the emptying of the stomacus et iecur.”
She took a goose quill from her cloak, inserted it into Edgardo’s mouth, and began tickling his throat.
His body didn’t seem to want to react.
“Open it more, I must go in deep.”
After much tickling, his upper body was shaken by a powerful jolt and, as well as the coughing, a green, oily, sour-smelling liquid began pouring out.
“Thank you, God!” Abella exclaimed. “Keep his head forward.”
After several jolts, Edgardo opened his eyelids slightly and moved his eyes but didn’t seem to recognize the faces leaning over him.
“Go get some theriac.”
Nena rushed out.
“He must drink it with an infusion of milk and swamp clover,” Abella said to Magdalena, “every day at Prime and None.”
“Will the breath of life come back into his veins?” she asked.
“I hope so. He’s strong, even though it was a very powerful poison.”
“You said he’s been poisoned. Who could have wanted his death, and why?”
The Magister’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know . . . but I have a idea.” Then she covered the body without completing her thought.
Twice did the dawn caress Edgardo’s sleeping body. When he woke up, rain was pelting down from the leaden sky, lashing out at the city. The canals had turned into torrents of soil. A single yellow, shitty expanse surrounded Venice, penetrating even the innermost waterways.
When he opened his eyes, Edgardo saw Abella’s sunny face at his side. She’d come to visit him every day.
“What happened to me?” he asked in a whisper of a voice.
“You slept for two days,” Abella replied.
Edgardo grimaced. “Yes, I remember now . . . I must have overdone it with—” he stopped. “My guts are turned inside out and my head is like an anvil.”
“Would you be so kind as to tell me what happened to you?”
“You just want to humiliate me . . . you already know. The other night, I went to Sabbatai. I felt the need to empty my mind . . . I took opium powder.”
“It wasn’t just opium. There was also a large quantity of mandrake, henbane, and white poppy. A deadly mixture. They tried to poison you,” Abella said categorically.
“Poison me?” Edgardo managed to prop himself up. “Why? I don’t understand. Sabbatai? He’s the only one who—”
“Exactly.”
“What reason can the apothecary possibly have to wish for my death? He’d only lose a good customer.”
“I have no idea. The only thing to do is go and ask him.”
Edgardo tried to stand up.
“Lean on me.” Abella gave him her arm. It smelled of sage and was as sturdy as a hundred-year-old oak.
“It’s the second time you’ve saved my life . . . I am deeply grateful to you,” Edgardo muttered with a hint of gallantry.
“Alright, alright, but make sure it doesn’t become a habit,” she replied abruptly.
“I fear your mission isn’t over yet.”
“What do you mean?”
Edgardo’s face lit up with a glow Abella had never seen. “While I was dead, I had a dream. Perhaps not a dream even but a vision, a journey.” He looked inspired. “The time for waiting is over. Perhaps the events to come will force me to face serious risks and dangers, and death may be at my side. If my time comes, I want to appear before the Almighty at peace.” He took a deep breath. “At peace with myself, in my soul and my body.
“All my life I have humbly accepted my monstrosity without complaining, as an unfathomable mark of divine will. This purulent hump I’ve been carrying on my chest has prevented my spirit from flying freely, crushed my heart, and put a stain on my love for my fellow men.
“Our merciful and infinitely just God wanted to punish me for some sin that I don’t know about . . . Well, now I’ve paid for it, I have been cleansed and I too have the right to rise, take flight, and be born again.” He stared at the Magister. “You once said you could remove this horrible excrescence that deforms my chest. I’ve made up my mind: take off this hump, even at the peril to my life.”
Abella had listened in silence to what sounded to her like an authentic confession. Edgardo had bared his soul, told her of his torments, and the suffering he’d carried with him since birth.
“I’ll be honest with you, scribe,” she replied. “I’ve never performed this kind of operation. I learned my art from distinguished masters in Salerno, according to the teachings of the most illustrious surgeon who ever lived, the outstanding Abulcasis*. You will do me great honor if you put your trust in me. For that I am grateful and promise I shan’t disappoint you.” Overwhelmed by emotion, she fell silent.
“Then so be it,” Edgardo said, surprising himself. A few days earlier he’d been full of suspicions about the Magister’s abilities, and now he was placing his life in her hands.
The stone slab had become his bed. Lying on it, his chest uncovered, Edgardo looked among the patterns of the fresco on the dome for his guide, the blue peacock, and felt reassured and confident once he’d located it.
�
�Drink this,” Abella said, handing him a bowl. “Opium no longer has any effect on you so I’ve added a little nightshade, henbane, and poppy juice. They’ll keep the pain at bay. We must act cautiously, since you’re still very weak. Are you sure about your decision?”
“I don’t want to wait any longer, but if life were to abandon me, promise me you’ll save Alvise,” he said after drinking the mixture in a single gulp.
“Do you have such little faith in my art?”
“It’s your first time, you said so yourself.”
“Now close your eyes and breathe deeply.”
The last image Edgardo saw was the boar on the dome, which, frightened by the appearance of a hand holding a long, sharp blade, was hiding his muzzle in his paws. Then nothing.
Magister Abella had never seen such a large fleshy protuberance. It stuck out of the chest like a deformed mask. The bumpy, chapped flesh was covered in deep cracks that seemed to push past the bone, and oozed a white, oily fluid that gave off a smell like urine after a large consumption of asparagus.
“If I weren’t a physician, I’d say this is Beelzebub’s hump,” she muttered to herself, trying to pluck up her courage.
She had to cut, and had never done it before. The swelling looked like a continuation of the formal organs. A wrong move could kill him.
She decided to tackle it at the base, and cut along the perimeter. Her hand was shaking. She took a deep breath and put her trust in the great Abulcasis.
The point penetrated as softly as into a block of lard.
She pushed in deeper and began to slide the blade. There was no blood coming out of the wound, and she considered this a good omen.
Fast asleep, Edgardo showed no sign of suffering.
The bumpy protuberance shuddered and jumped at every stroke, releasing only stinking fluid.
Once she’d detached the base, she had to tackle the central part, which was more compact and dangerous.
She tried to test the consistency of the matter. The point of the blade encountered resistance: an impediment of a horn-like nature.
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