“True.” Edgardo tried to calm down. “But I can’t imagine why. To abduct, rape, and kill a girl, sew up her anal orifice and then embalm her is, I’d say, incomprehensible behavior. Who could have concocted such a plan?”
“The virgin of the beads was also about to undergo the same treatment. What’s the connection between the two girls?” Abella paused, deep in thought. “Sabbatai has disappeared, but maybe I know where to go for more information about this business of mummies and corpses. Come with me.”
They picked up the pace, splattering mud all around.
She knew where to find the fat man and the man from Bergamo. They lived on the island of San Serviglius, in a hut behind the hospice built by Benedictine monks to accommodate the droves of pilgrims who came to Venice prepared to face a long and perilous journey in order to visit the holy places in Jerusalem and, in this way, earn eternal salvation.
Some of them would get sick, even seriously sick, and quickly yield their souls to God.
The monks would bury unclaimed bodies behind the church, and that was where the fat man and the man from Bergamo would go to gather what for them was manna from heaven.
Corpses that were still fresh, dug up at night, and immediately delivered to the houses of physicians, alchemists, sorcerers, all those—and they were many—who would ask for them. A lucrative and not too strenuous trade about which they couldn’t complain.
Magister Abella went straight to the point. “I want to know about the mummies.”
The two men looked at each other in amazement, with the most innocent air in the world.
“In the well of Sabbatai’s shop we found the Metamauco virgin covered in natron. We know it’s used for embalming,” Edgardo said. “Have you heard any rumor, any hint, even a whisper, about the abduction from the church of San Geminiano?”
“Forgive us, Signore,” the man from Bergamo replied, “we’re just poor devils, we know nothing.”
Abella stood in front of the fat man. He had a good build for fighting, but one had to admit that the Magister outshone him in boldness and agility. “You’d better search your memory if you don’t want to lose a good customer,” she threatened.
“Well, actually, yes, it’s true . . . now that I think about it, we have on occasion done business with Sabbatai.”
“Go on.”
“The dwarf started trading in corpses, just for a joke, and sometimes we get him the odd mummy . . . when we have to, you see.”
“Who needs mummies?”
“I don’t know. We’re working men. He orders a corpse and we take it to him. Sabbatai gets some nice bodies—because of his shop he knows all the dying people in Venice.”
“Sabbatai tried to kill me, if I report him you’ll also be involved, and the trade will be exposed,” Edgardo said aggressively.
“There’s a merchant who keeps going back and forth between Venice and Alexandria with good corpses . . . I’ve also heard something about mummies.”
The fat man gave him a dirty look.
“A merchant from Alexandria? Do you know his name?”
“No, no, all we do is give Sabbatai a hand to carry them . . . we’re just working men, we know nothing else.”
“A merchant from Alexandria,” Edgardo repeated, calling for Abella’s attention. “You see, everything starts to make sense, and the mosaic is taking shape.”
Abella was always a little astounded by the scribe’s sudden deductions.
“We must go back to where it all began, to the Alexandria merchant’s palazzo in San Lorenzo. The circle is closing.”
“Are you sure?” Abella replied, perplexed.
“And I even know what stratagem to use in order to get straight to the merchant,” Edgardo added proudly.
The fat man and the man from Bergamo had listened to the whole exchange with moronic smiles, pleased that their situation wasn’t deteriorating.
“So, illustrious Magister, as soon as a pilgrim drops dead, we’ll bring it to you as usual,” the man from Bergamo said, as though to seal a pact of non-aggression. “We’ll give you a special price.
Abella did not reply. She wasn’t convinced by Edgardo’s confidence. The days were passing, and the announcement of Alvise’s execution could arrive at any moment.
XXVII.
THE CONTRACT
The sun had already risen, and the bell tower of San Giovanni Evangelista was casting its shadow on Abella’s house when Edgardo woke up. Still groggy, he turned onto his side and looked around. He’d slept in Abella’s bed. He remembered nothing of the night that had just gone by, but he felt a deep sense of sweetness filling his flesh, and the scent of sage stuck to his hair.
He mechanically touched his bandages. A chest like any other man’s, and a feeling of lightness, a desire to be reborn.
“You’re finally awake,” Abella said, walking in with an energetic step. “You’re quite at home here now . . . ” For a moment, she thought how pleasant it was to have a man around. “I’m just back from the brolo. I saw the commendatore outside the Doge’s Palace announcing Alvise’s execution with my own eyes. ‘Post diem quartum, iudicium capitis agetur,’” Abella said solemnly.
“Only four days!” Edgardo exclaimed.
“Then he’ll be blinded, hanged, and quartered before the crowd.”
“That’s horrible.”
“They want him to be an example to anyone who abducts aristocratic Venetian girls.”
“Alvise is innocent.”
“That’s what you and I think. But it’s useless unless we can find the culprit.”
“We must get to the Alexandrian merchant. That palazzo conceals too many secrets.”
“It won’t be easy to meet him. Do you at least know if he’s currently staying in Venice?”
“We’ll find out soon enough, I’ve thought of a way . . . ”
Abella pulled a face, worried.
“Maestro Tataro,” Edgardo announced. “I wouldn’t exactly say we’re friends, but I think I have a good argument to convince him.”
“Him again! That man seems to hold a strange attraction for you,” Abella said carelessly.
She was right, Edgardo thought. In his search for the truth, Tataro seemed to represent an unavoidable component, as though in the end, he always had to come to terms with him.
A dried prune, wrinkled by the fire of the furnace. He was sitting on the chair, bent double, the blowpipe abandoned between his legs.
He had no more breath left, the omnipotent bolus had won the battle, it no longer wanted to be molded, it was the stronger of the two. Tataro had been defeated, old age had surrendered to the substance he’d tried to tame all his life. He was panting, desperately searching for his lost energy.
Seeing him in this condition, Edgardo felt deeply sorry for him: the hunger for power and glory and the hunt for wealth had all crumbled inside a body eaten away at by disease.
At the start, he refused to help them, so Edgardo played his last card: if they managed to get inside the merchant’s palazzo, they’d be able to discover the origin of the pieces of pure glass, and probably get the formula of crystalline glass he’d been pursuing his whole life.
At this possibility, Tataro came alive. “And how could I help you?” he finally asked.
“You told me that Lippomano, the merchant’s steward, asked to buy the abandoned foundry in Lupo.”
“That’s right.”
“Agree. Tell him you’re willing to sell it but on one condition: that the contract be signed personally by the merchant, before a notary, in his palazzo. We’ll face him and force him to talk. There are many things he’ll have to explain.”
“And if he refuses?” Tataro asked.
“We have witnesses who’ve told us of a traffic of corpses between Venice and Alexandria, in which the merchant is involved.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself here,” Abella interrupted. “Those two body snatchers never mentioned any names, so we don’t know if it’s exactly that merchant.”
“There are too many signs, too many coincidences leading to the palazzo . . . I have a feeling we’re about to unravel the knot.”
Edgardo was overwhelmed by excitement, and Abella didn’t dare reply, but the inexorable power of logic had raised a wall of doubt in her mind.
The scribe’s intuition and suppositions had so far proved to be slippery paths that had led to nothing but failure.
The prow of the gondola was struggling to slice through the carpet of leaves, bushes, and clods of grass covering the surface of the lagoon. The thick mantle exhaled a cloud of putrefying, rancid vapors that stifled any life form, and made the minds and movements of Venetians sluggish.
Silent and uncertain about their enterprise, the passengers were turning things over in their minds while waiting for the boat to drop them off at San Lorenzo, outside the Alexandria merchant’s palazzo.
Tataro had difficulty breathing, his eyes lowered, wondering whether it was still worth getting himself involved in this new tribulation. Crystalline glass? He’d pursued it his whole life, and now wasn’t so sure it was all that important, after all.
Abella, on the other hand, was wondering why she was there, why she’d agreed to go with them. Was it to be near Edgardo? She thought he was frail and vulnerable, determined to follow a seemingly shaky hypothesis.
The only one who looked confident was the scribe.
He was savoring the trappings the past: the monk’s habit, which he was wearing because that’s how he’d introduced himself to Lippomano at their first meeting, filled him with sweet nostalgia, and he felt a sense of vigor, of freedom whenever he looked down at his chest, where he’d been used to seeing the invasive bulge, now vanished.
They were about to pass the stretch of open lagoon to the east and take the canal of San Zaccaria when their attention was caught by a ribbon floating above the emerald glow of the waves, which was gliding along the line of the horizon.
The wind had raised an eddy of water, boughs, and leaves, and was taking a stroll, lit up by the reflection of the sun.
It was the last thing they noticed before disembarking on the steps outside the palazzo.
Tataro had agreed directly with Lippomano. He’d bring two witnesses. It was up to the buyer to choose a trusty notary who’d draw up the contract.
When the Jew opened the door, he did not conceal his surprise at seeing the physician and monk who’d arrived when rumors of a smallpox epidemic had started circulating. Tataro immediately explained that it was his personal physician and his confessor.
They went through the dark, stuffy entrance hall and came into the internal garden. Tataro stared in disbelief. Huge, fleshy leaves were dripping with drops large as Oriental pearls, and vines and threads of ivy were hanging from the second-story loggia. The glassmaker walked with his face turned upward, enchanted by the spectacle—unusual in Venice—of such an abundance of exotic greenery.
In the ground-floor salon, they were received by a little man as lean as an anchovy, squeezed into a long, black robe that came down to his feet, with a face as sharp as the tip of an arrow and two little eyes that darted after each other like cats and dogs.
Without a word, the notary handed them the parchment. “The contract has already been drawn up,” Lippomano explained, addressing the glassmaker. “Would you like to look at it,” he gave a slight cough, “or would you prefer me to read it out?”
“I am perfectly capable of doing it myself,” Tataro replied, peeved. “I can read.” He brought the document close so that his witnesses could see it.
With a haughty gesture, Edgardo took out the case where he jealously kept his eye circles and brought them up to his eyes, triggering Lippomano’s curiosity.
“I beg your pardon, I see that you use a strange contraption in order to read. If I’m not being indiscreet, may I ask what its function is?”
“It magnifies words . . . to help my ailing eyes.”
“How ingenious. I could do with this too. As I get older, my eyes are failing. Could you tell me where I can find it?”
“First and foremost, you need to obtain very pure crystalline glass. Right, Father?” Tataro replied with an angry expression.
Edgardo bowed his head.
They started reading the document. Abella kept a distance, almost irritated by the comedy in progress.
“It all seems correct,” Tataro said. “The figure agreed, the limits—”
“If you’d like to sign . . . ” Lippomano handed him a quill and ink horn.
“Just a moment,” Edgardo intervened.”I don’t see the other contracting party, the buyer.”
Lippomano looked embarrassed. “Yes, of course . . . he’ll join us presently . . . he’s been delayed by a temporary indisposition. If, in the meantime, you’d like to sign . . . ”
Edgardo wanted to stop him, but Tataro had already grabbed the quill and was writing his name. As soon as he’d finished, the Jew smiled with satisfaction and reached out for the parchment. “I’ll go call—”
Edgardo swiftly put his hand on the parchment, and held onto it. “We’re impatient to see him!” he exclaimed decisively.
Lippomano had no choice but to let go of it. “I’ll be back immediately.”
They were left alone, the notary suddenly looking like a mullet about to be tossed into a frying pan. While waiting, Edgardo’s attention was caught by the horn filled with ink. It had an unusual shape, long and twisted, like a sickly root. It reminded him of another horn he’d had occasion to use many years earlier, when he was a monk. Its shape was unforgettable.
Preceded by a grumbling bustle, Lippomano reappeared. He was bent forward in sign of reverence, and dragged his feet in small steps. “His most illustrious magnificence, his excellency Ibrahim al-Fazari,” he announced.
A long, slim figure, without edges, emerged from the semi-darkness. A stain floating through the air. It was impossible to glimpse its features. The body was wrapped in a black caftan of coarse texture, without embroidery or embellishments. The head was covered in a veil that came down below the chin. And the face . . . the face made everyone give a start of surprise and repulsion: a mask of mottled skin, like that of a snake, clung to the face, concealing the features and giving it an eerie stillness and coldness.
An icy silence had fallen on those present. Edgardo heard clearly Tataro’s wheezing breath and Abella’s heartbeat.
The merchant stopped in the doorway. Edgardo thought he gave a start. Perhaps he felt cornered and had a premonition of the blow that was about to strike him.
“The magnificent Ibrahim al-Fazari welcomes you to his home. He apologizes for being unable to greet you warmly in his own voice, but . . . ” Lippomano looked at his master, who responded with a nod. “A very serious form of smallpox has completely disfigured his face and his mouth can no longer perform the role it was created for.” He fell silent. Ibrahim had listened motionlessly. “However, he will have no trouble signing the document,” Lippomano added, bringing a high-backed chair close to the table.
The robe rustled, giving off a scent of myrrh and frankincense.
They stood before each other: Edgardo tried to pick up some sign that would reveal to him this individual’s identity. However, nothing showed through that mask of dark, iridescent scales.
Lippomano handed him the quill, and the merchant began tracing his name, revealing long, tapered fingers wrapped in white bands.
Edgardo watched the position of the hand, the movement, and the angle of the arm.
When Ibrahim had finished, he put down the quill, bent his head, and made an imperceptible sign to Lippomano, who put a leather purse down on the table.
Tataro immediately grabbed it, opened
it, and, without standing on ceremony, started to count the money.
The merchant had already stood up, ready to leave the room.
Edgardo stopped him. “Your Excellency, allow me to take advantage of your hospitality and of the great honor you paid me by asking a favor.” He hesitated for a moment, sought Abella’s eyes, then continued. “Two young people went missing near your palazzo: Giacomo, the garzone of Maestro Tataro here, and a few days later Costanza, a relative of Tommaso Grimani. The girl was found dead in a boat not far from this place, and a young man has been falsely accused of her murder. I was wondering if anybody in your household, perhaps a servant or a slave, has seen any suspicious characters loitering in the area. I know you’re often traveling between Alexandria and Venice in order to trade your very pure glass pieces . . . ” Edgardo was hoping to trigger a reaction.
At these words, Tataro stopped counting the money and Lippomano’s mouth fell open.
“The contract is sealed,” the notary announced solemnly, and those were the only words he emitted.
Lippomano offered his arm to the merchant, who walked toward the exit.
“I know you can’t utter a word,” Edgardo continued, “and for that I am sorry, but perhaps your steward could speak for you.”
The merchant turned his back on him, indifferent.
“Moreover, I should be honored to admire your merchandise,” Edgardo persevered. “They say your glass pieces are of superior quality, more transparent than any other glass, and they also say that you don’t just trade in glass . . . ” He glanced at Abella for approval, but she gave him a look of dismay. “They say, although I’m sure it’s just malicious gossip, that you trade in slaves, young girls, and corpses . . . ”
Everything came to a head, and Lippomano began to stammer something that made no sense.
Abella closed her eyes, overwhelmed, and sank into a chair.
The merchant looked about to respond to Edgardo’s accusations, leaned toward him and spread open his arms like a frightened bat, but then turned away and quickly made for the exit without saying a word.
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