The Apothecary's Shop

by Roberto Tiraboschi

  She took a saw from among her instruments, the one she used for amputations. She slid it between the flaps of the wound as delicately as she could, and began to move the tool back and forth against the hard, resistant substance that refused to be sawed.

  Every move of the iron provoked a kind of lament, a dull, gloomy cry that gushed out of the chest. It was as though she was sawing through his soul.

  She stopped. Not a drop of blood. The consistency of the surface had become paler and more languid. The cracks were dry. There was no turning back.

  She looked at Edgardo. He was breathing.

  She gathered her strength and prepared to deliver the final attack. A sharp blow, then another. There was a terrible creaking sound that echoed throughout the whole body.

  It was yielding. The root of evil was yielding. She pushed the saw further in. The cry grew sharper and more desperate. An infant in swaddling cloths crushed by a club. She pretended not to hear. A burst of oily fluid suddenly splashed her face and, after the last blow, there was a distinct crash, as though all Edgardo’s bones had been broken at the same time, and the fleshy being rolled to one side.

  Abella looked at it with disgust. It seemed to be breathing.

  Edgardo’s chest, where the protuberance used to be, was covered by a transparent membrane, like soft, shiny skin. In the centre, there was a bleeding wound.

  She took a triangular needle and some silk thread, and put in a few stitches.

  She put her ear closer to his body. The heartbeat was frequent, in double rhythm, as though there were two hearts.

  An expression of horror disfigured her features. She pulled her hands away. Was another heart beating from the eradicated excrescence? It was alive, refusing to die.

  She grabbed a thin blade and, with a clean blow, cut along the hump, which opened up like a cracked apple.

  She found no heart wedged in that flabby mass of fat, but something equally disturbing: a lock of hair, bits of fingernail, roots of teeth, all perfectly preserved.

  They were the remains of another Edgardo, whom the scribe had carried with him since birth like an unborn brother, his monstrous double that had prevented him from taking flight.

  He reawakened through flashes of lucidity and opaque sleepiness. When he finally managed to open his eyes and regain consciousness, Edgardo realized that a deep melancholy had taken hold of his mind. A dull pain, an incomprehensible anger that had no beginning and no end.

  He lifted his head slightly. His chest was wrapped in white, blood-stained strips.

  The hump had disappeared.

  His eyes filled with tears, as though he’d lost a much-loved companion. Monstrosity can be a faithful friend, a guide, a counselor, a defense against the world. Side by side all his life. And now it was gone.

  Abella saw him awake and approached.

  “Am I alive?” Edgardo asked.

  The Magister smiled. “So it would seem. Alive and free of all oppression.”

  “I have no more arrows in the bow of commiseration.”

  “Look.” Abella took the excrescence split in two and showed it to him. “You had another Edgardo stuck to your chest.”

  Teeth, fingernails, hair . . . The scribe’s eyes caressed the remains of his monstrosity.

  “Now I must go forth alone. I thought I would be happy. Instead, I’m afraid.”

  Never had Abella seen in a man’s eyes this mixture of nostalgia, bewilderment, and deep loneliness. She wanted to put her arms around him, to comfort him, the way one does with children. But a physician cannot give in to feelings and emotions.

  She tried to find a solemn, detached expression. “You’ll feel better when the new day comes.” And she touched his wound, almost caressing it.

  “Do you still think we should pay the apothecary a call?” Edgardo asked.

  Abella looked at him in surprise. “Surely you’re not thinking of roaming around the city in your current state?”

  “I must.” He touched his chest. “That excrescence was draining away my life force, now I am reborn . . . and thanks to you.”

  “For now, content yourself with a nice bowl of milk and a goose liver pie, to replenish your blood.”

  Edgardo received the offer with a disgusted grimace.

  XXVI.

  HERODOTUS OF HALICARNASSUS

  And the sea of stone generated a forest. As a result of the devastating rainfall that had afflicted the Venetian lands, the Medoacus maior, the Silis, and the Plavis had swelled beyond measure and, in addition to soil and mud, had vomited into the lagoon chunks of mountains, forests, and huts. Sailing from Torcellus, Edgardo saw wrinkled tree trunks slicing through the waters like battering rams. Brambles and roots that dragged carpets of leaves, bushes, and grass covered the entire lagoon, so much so that the boat steered by Abella seemed to be gliding over a woody pasture just devastated by a tempest.

  It took great effort to reach the Crowned Wolf, struggling against a slimy bog that swallowed your feet with every step, refusing to give them back.

  The front door and windows were shut. Edgardo knocked and called out but there was no answer. “Maybe he’s at the back of the shop and can’t hear us.”

  “Or he’s not happy that we’ve come to call,” Abella said “Don’t forget that according to his plans, you should already be underground.”

  They leaned out on the bridge over the canal near the shop.

  “If we walk on the boats moored along the little canal, we’ll get to the courtyard at the back,” suggested Edgardo, who had by then regained his strength.

  “I’m used to these ventures with you.”

  They lowered themselves onto the floor of the first boat, then, leaping from one to the other, they reached the courtyard. The expanse of grass had turned into a pool. They went to the door. It was shut.

  “Perhaps Sabbatai has left Venice,” Edgardo said.

  “If so, then it’s proof his conscience was dirty.”

  At that moment, it stopped raining. Edgardo sat on the steps of the well, absorbed in thought. “However much my mind tries to explore the most twisted arguments, I can’t find a reason to explain why Sabbatai should want my death.”

  “Maybe it’s not Sabbatai who wants your death, and somebody may have used him.”

  “That’s even worse,” Edgardo said. “Why hate me so much?”

  “It has nothing to do with hatred. You’re looking for the person responsible for Costanza’s death, and somebody doesn’t like it.”

  Edgardo hadn’t considered this. He admired Abella’s iron logic.

  He was about to get up when his attention was caught by a shiny fragment on one of the steps by the well. He picked it up and brought it closer to his eyes.

  “What have you found?” Abella asked.

  “I have no idea,” he said, bringing it even closer. “I can’t see.”

  “Use your circles,” she suggested.

  “You’re right.” He took the contraption out of its case, and placed it before his eyes. “Ah, finally!” he exclaimed. “It’s glass . . . colored glass . . . it seems . . . it looks like . . . ”

  “Come on, tell me.”

  “It’s incredible. I’d venture a theory that it’s a piece of a bead.”

  Silence fell. Abella looked at the scribe. “So?”

  Edgardo closed his eyes and remained still as a civet that, sniffed out by a wolf, pretends to be dead in order to save its life. Then, suddenly . . . “Help me remove the iron plank that covers the puteal.”

  With some effort, they pushed the plank to the ground. Edgardo leaned over the cistern flue. A sickly-sweet breath blew in his face. He picked up a stone and threw it down. A loud thud echoed up to the opening of the well.

  “Did you hear that? With all the rain over the past few days, the cistern should be full, and yet a stone has
just fallen on bare ground. The well is empty,” he explained, proud of his deduction.

  From the hook he took down the rope on which the bucket hung and climbed onto the crown of the puteal.

  “What are you trying to do?” Abella asked, worried.

  “I want to go down to the bottom.”

  “Where do you get this insane passion for climbing into every cleft?” Abella was trying to disguise her anxiety. “Are you sure you feel strong enough?”

  “I have more energy than a lion.”

  As a matter of fact, Abella thought, he really did look like a lion with that red, bristly hair that blended in with his beard like a huge mane.

  “Do you have a piece of tow, or a bit of tallow?”

  “I don’t carry the whole house in my pocket.” Abella searched the pockets of her tunic. “Perhaps this will do the trick.” She handed him a woven ribbon.

  Edgardo clung to the rope and began his descent, propping himself with his feet. Despite the excruciating pain in his bones, he touched the bottom. His feet landed on a compact, dry surface. As he had anticipated, there was not a trickle of water. The air was steeped in a sickly-sweet, moldy stench.

  He tried to find the flint to make some light.

  He bumped into something, pulled away, then reached out gingerly with his hand.

  A stringy, soft substance was coming out of a hard surface. He felt it again and came across something flabby, fleshy . . . like a mouth.

  He let out a raucous cry.

  “What happened?” Abella cried from above.

  “There’s a presence down here,” Edgardo replied uncertainly.

  “What kind of presence?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute.”

  He rubbed the flint on the ribbon. After a few attempts, it caught fire and the place slowly lit up.

  A shock shook his chest and he felt his stomach liquefy. He leaned back against the wall as far as he could. A step away, right in front of him, hung a woman . . . a woman with perfect features, with a youthful, appealing form, full breasts, a silky belly, soft hair, and fleshy, almost rosy lips. Only her eyes, which you could glimpse beneath the lids, had lost their original sheen. She looked asleep.

  Edgardo stood staring at her, entranced by such beauty. Around her neck, she wore a copper thread with a row of beads.

  An unexplainable feeling of overwhelming emotion rose to his throat. His eyes filled with tears. It looked to him as though in its perfection, that being had won man’s eternal battle against death.

  At the same time, he felt relieved: it was not Kallis’s body, it was not his ghost. He could continue to hope that she would return from the land of the dead.

  “Have you discovered the substance of that presence?” Abella shouted from above.

  “I’ve found a dream, a vision, the image of man’s immortality.”

  “This is not the time to turn poet, come back up.”

  He stroked the angelic face one more time, and climbed back up to the opening of the well. When she saw him come out, Abella thought she was before a living corpse. “What did you see?”

  “We’ve found the virgin of the beads, the girl stolen from the church of San Geminiano. They’ve hidden her in the well. I can’t understand why.”

  “Evidently, Sabbatai is involved in the trafficking of corpses . . . this one was too tempting. I’m not the only one in Venice who practices anatomy on lifeless bodies.” Abella looked upset, as though someone had stolen the secret of a remedy from her.

  “This could explain why the apothecary has tried to send me to heaven before my time,” Edgardo said.

  “Possibly. Though I can’t see why you would represent a danger to his trafficking.” Abella stared at him, lost in thought. “Strange. You look as if you’ve prematurely aged . . . your hair and beard are completely white.”

  Edgardo shook himself: a cloud of dust rose in the air.

  “Your clothes too . . . and your hands . . . ” Abella said.

  The scribe was about to rub himself.

  “Stop!” She blocked his hand and tried to pick up a pinch of the strange dust. Then she lifted it to her lips and, with the tip of her tongue, raised it to her palate for a taste.

  She rolled, clicked, knocked, gurgled and, in the end, forcefully announced, “It’s natron!”

  “Natron? Like what we found on Costanza’s body? Are you sure.”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  “By the horns of Beelzebub and the tail of Titivillus, now this is a discovery!” Edgardo was as excited as a little boy fascinated by the tail movements of a lizard that writhes even after it’s been cleanly severed from the body.

  “It means that there’s a secret link between the virgin and Costanza,” he added.

  “Sabbatai lied to us. He swore he knew nothing about natron.”

  “God almighty!” Edgardo suddenly exclaimed. “How many nights have passed since my poisoning?”

  “Three.”

  “Ermanno d’Istria assured me that if he found the pages in Herodotus about the use of natron, he’d wait for me at the Golden Head Inn after four days. We must go there as soon as possible.”

  And they smiled at each other, like two associates who’d just sold a load of counterfeits to a Turkish merchant.

  The tavern was heaving with customers. Edgardo wondered if it was because the weather was bad. They looked around for Ermanno: Persian merchants, Mamluks, Slavonian sailors wrapped in thick furs, all in the company of provocative young girls with sad eyes. No sign of the monk.

  “We’re too late,” Edgardo said, downhearted.

  “Let’s ask the owner,” Abella suggested.

  “No, it’s no use, she’s an old shrew with a confused mind,” Edgardo replied abruptly, not wishing to reawaken unpleasant memories.

  They were about to leave the inn when, at the door, Abella collided with a protruding belly advancing in a rush.

  “I beg your pardon, illustrious Magister,” said the man, noticing the physicians’ scarlet robe.

  “Ermanno!” Edgardo cried.

  “My young friend, thank God I’ve found you. For an entire day, while waiting for you, I’ve had to engage in what seems like an ever-losing battle to keep sober.”

  Ermanno gave him an affectionate hug.

  “I am with an esteemed physician of great knowledge, whom I have the pleasure of presenting to you,” Edgardo said. “Her name is Abella.”

  Ermanno’s face widened in an exaggerated smile. “A female scholar . . . oh . . . what a surprise, I didn’t know they existed, let me look at you closely, I am honored to make your acquaintance. Do you come from a land beyond the Pillars of Hercules?”

  “She studied medicine at the School of Salerno,” the scribe added to increase Abella’s credit.

  “Really? Many years ago, I met one of your colleagues, Bernardo di Provenza, who taught at Salerno.”

  Abella interrupted him in a way Edgardo found almost discourteous. “I’ve heard of him. I’d left the school by then.”

  “Of course, of course,” Ermanno said, looking around. “There’s the mid-Lent crowd here today, and so many attractive Circassian girls*. Come with me, I know this hovel’s every secret.”

  He pushed them into a small room at the back of the inn, behind the counter.

  “My respects, sweet Teodora.” Ermanno produced a musical tone. “A carafe of sweet Cyprus wine for my friends.”

  The innkeeper grunted in return and, with a huge effort, lifted the outsized behind she was resting on two stools. For a moment, she stared at Edgardo, then wobbled her flabby flesh in the direction of the barrels.

  “Good news,” Ermanno said. “I’ve found it. In the Second Book of Herodotus’s Histories, there’s something about natron.”

  “Really?”

  “
Natron, a powder that looks like salt, with a faint smell and a savory taste, can be found in crystal form in the sands of the Natron Valley, situated between Alexandria and the Al Qattara desert,” he continued. “For Ancient Egyptians, it was a miraculous substance, essential for embalming the dead.”

  Edgardo and Abella exchanged inquisitive looks.

  “You’ve been very helpful,” Edgardo said.

  “I’m glad. Here,” he said, handing him a rolled-up parchment. “I’ve copied the whole passage. Read it, it’s very instructive . . . These Egyptians had strange rituals.”

  Abella and Edgardo stood up.

  Ermanno stopped them. “A favor. I would be grateful if you could settle the bill with that harpy for this divine nectar. A translator’s life is a very wretched one.”

  Edgardo bowed and kissed his hand, and, while Abella went toward the exit, he looked for Teodora. It wasn’t hard to find her. All he had to do was follow the nauseating scent of myrrh and civet. He quickly handed her the money. The woman looked up at him, then remained staring, like a statue of salt. “The more I see you, the more you look familiar . . . By all the relics of Saint John and Saint Paul, you’re that timid scribe, that shitty coward, with no faith or compassion, who sent my lovely husband Karamago to the gibbet! You Judas . . . you could have saved him but you ran away as fast as you could!”

  She grabbed him by the sleeve. Crushed with shame, Edgardo tried to leave.

  “Repent! Repent!” the hag shouted.

  The customers turned to look. The scribe managed to disengage himself with a tug and ran out, pursued by coarse screaming.

  Teodora was right. That act of cowardice belonged to his past. He’d done nothing to save the merchant who had given him shelter and saved his life. After all this time, the gravity of that sin still weighed on his conscience.

  He caught up with Abella, shaken and embittered.

  “You took a long time! Did the lady ask you to marry her?” This time, Abella’s sarcasm was painfully annoying. “We’ve made giant steps,” the Magister continued. “We know that natron is used in embalming . . . and since Costanza and the virgin’s bodies were covered in it, I assume that most probably that’s the treatment they were intended for.”