The Apothecary's Shop

by Roberto Tiraboschi

  XXXIII.

  THE CRYPT

  They emerged from the depth of the lagoon and overran streams, canals, and the dock. The waters turned silver. In one night, struck by an unfathomable evil spell, all the fish in the muddy sea decided to die and, pushed by underground currents, eyes wide open and gills palpitating, they surfaced and floated, their lives finally draining away.

  At first, the inhabitants of Venice interpreted the event as an ill omen that the city would soon come to an end. Then the poorest, hungriest, and most destitute took it as a sign of divine intervention to fight the starvation that was decimating the population. As early as the first light of dawn, the waterways through the city filled with garzoni, fishermen, mothers, and children, who, by any means, were trying to grab the charity God had chosen to send.

  They picked everything: parrotfish, soles, diplodus, bass, goby, as well as never-before-seen monstrous fish.

  The hungriest, fearing they wouldn’t be able to gather enough, were stuffing themselves there and then with raw fish, filling their bellies like a storeroom.

  By the time Vespers rang, shores and campi were covered in a carpet of shiny scales that shone in the fading light and were beginning to give off a nauseating stench that made the air unbreathable.

  Her face buried in a handkerchief soaked in civet perfume, Magdalena walked around the palazzo, ordering that every gap be closed that could let in the disgusting stench. However, there was nothing to be done. The miasma of rotting fish seemed to be released by the earth itself, walls, and wells.

  Ever since Magdalena had been taking the medicine imposed by her husband, her senses had become overly sharp. She was abnormally sensitive to tastes and smells, and even her hearing seemed to have grown more acute. Moreover, she had put on weight in a short space of time, her skin was unnaturally stretched, and she had acquired a pink tone: rather like an artificial youth, which Tommaso saw blooming with immense pleasure.

  Two nights had passed since reading Avicenna’s manuscripts when Edgardo was summoned by the Signora to her chambers. He was very surprised that she should receive him in private.

  “It wasn’t my husband who suggested I see you.” Magdalena had a dark expression. “I’m doing it of my own initiative. I want you to know that what you have done for Alvise has served no purpose. The magistrates have considered the results of the new enquiries about the embalmer but, as my husband has said, they did not find any elements to prove that he was guilty of Costanza’s death.” She sighed. “We’re very aggrieved, believe me, my husband has done everything possible . . . but there’s a confession.”

  Edgardo lowered his head. He couldn’t accept defeat just when, after the latest discoveries, he thought he was only a step away from the truth.

  There was a shuffling behind him, as well as dry wheezing. Nena, hunched by sorrow, was dragging herself to the bed with one of the Signora’s dresses. She walked slowly in the semi-darkness, the Flanders cloth dress in her arms, like the limp body of a child.

  Her brief journey never seemed to end.

  Upset, Edgardo closed his eyes. A picture, a faded memory suddenly appeared in his mind, very similar to the reality of that instant, but which had happened in the past.

  He opened his eyes again. Nena was still on the same spot, as though she hadn’t moved.

  There was a palpitation in his chest, a flutter in his soul, and he was assailed by a deep anguish: the thought that was forming in his mind, the gut feeling from a horrible abyss, dragged him into a diabolical design. It couldn’t be true, and yet he couldn’t not believe it. He was, once again, willing to trust his instinct.

  “Holy Mother of God, this stench of rotten fish could even kill a pig.” The young nun at San Zaccaria crossed the central nave of the church with a quick step, covering her face with her veil. She bolted the central entrance, holding her breath, then went back to the refectory.

  “Has she gone?”

  “I think so.”

  Huddled behind the main altar, Edgardo and Abella waited, motionless.

  “Let’s wait for nightfall before we start on our work,” Edgardo whispered.

  Abella nodded. This was perhaps the first time she had shared Edgardo’s gut feeling. She was somewhat confused, but the scribe’s explanation, his suspicion, and his terrible doubts had seemed so convincing to her that she had agreed to take the risk.

  Alone, close to each other in that sacred place: she felt that an affinity, a common tension had arisen between them that she could not define. Even though Edgardo loved another woman, she couldn’t bring herself to feel resentment or jealousy, on the contrary, she felt an inspiration only the two of them possessed, and that nobody could oppose.

  The shadows softly dispersed, giving way to a thick, dark cloak.

  In a surreal silence, they left their hiding place and went down the narrow staircase that led to the crypt beneath the altar.

  A candle lit the urn containing the relics of various saints, donated to the nuns by Pope Benedict III.

  Edgardo kneeled. “Here it is.”

  Abella handed him an iron bar. The tombstone was engraved with the name and year of death: Costanza Colyn, Anno Domini MCXVIII.

  With a precise gesture, he slid the tip of the bar into the gap between the sarcophagus and the floor and prised it up with all the strength in his body. The marble slab gave a little shudder, moved, and was lifted.

  “Help me push it to the side.”

  Abella’s intervention was decisive, and, despite some difficulty, they managed to slide off the lid.

  The coffin, laid there only recently, still gave off the scent of pine, and no unpleasant smell came from the casket.

  Edgardo went down into the grave. He felt like a defiler of tombs, but Abella made a sign that he should carry on.

  The coffin lid came off at the first attempt, as though it hadn’t been nailed expertly.

  “Bring the candle closer.”

  Abella leaned over. The scribe’s face was tense, prey to profound agitation.

  “Please God we don’t find what I think we will.”

  With a clean movement, he pushed the beam and opened the casket. The faint light of the flame lapped at the walls, Abella let out a kind of hoarse cry.

  The coffin was empty.

  “God almighty, why have You done this to me?” Edgardo threw himself into a dark lament. “As I feared, Costanza’s body isn’t here anymore. This means my most gloomiest theories have come true. For once, I’d hoped my instinct would let me down again.”

  The Magister made the sign of the cross. The human spirit sometimes sinks into such a dark abyss, in which even a physician can do nothing except entrust herself to God.

  They went to Ca’ Grimani early in the morning. Edgardo asked Nena to request an audience with the Signora. Even the servant sensed an unusual excitement in the air, pale faces, disconnected gestures.

  Magdalena received them in her rooms and could barely manage to restrain her unease.

  Sitting in front of her image reflected in the slate of polished metal, she continued, with exhausting slowness, to spread a thick layer of ceruse on her face, a barrier against the world.

  “We asked to see you, Signora,” the words came out tired from Edgardo’s mouth, “to tell you about an extraordinarily serious discovery.”

  There was no reaction nor word. Another layer of mask that now made her unrecognizable spread over her face.

  “Costanza’s sepulcher is empty,” Edgardo said. “Her body is no longer in the San Zaccaria crypt. It’s disappeared.”

  The brush fell from her hands, she bent over, stiffened, but did not turn around. There was only breathlessness.

  “Allow me to ask you a few questions, Signora, it’s very important.”

  Abella approached. “Are you quite well?”

  Magdalena showed he
r swollen, flabby face, ravaged by icy whiteness.

  “In the mill where the embalmer worked, we found Costanza’s dress. We showed it to the judges and to your husband. Do you know where that dress is now?”

  Bewildered and cornered, Magdalena stammered a few words. “Costanza’s dress . . . I don’t know anything . . . ”

  “Are you sure?” Abella insisted.

  She rolled her head like a sick child.

  “Do you remember which dress your sister was buried in?” Edgardo asked in a persuasive voice.

  “Buried? In which dress?”

  Abella wanted to shake her out of her torpor.

  “I have a vague memory,” Edgardo continued. “The day before the burial, just after we inspected the body, Nena came in with a dress in her arms.”

  Magdalena’s absent eyes seemed to melt in a screen of tears.

  “Perhaps it was the dress she wore to my father’s funeral; in Bruges . . . I can’t remember, I don’t know . . . ”

  “Try thinking.” Abella leaned over her until their faces nearly touched. “It all depends on you, make an effort.”

  “Enough!” Magdalena cried. “Why do you torment me? Have pity, I can’t remember any dress!”

  “I remember it.” A voice behind them chilled their souls. Edgardo and Abella turned in dismay. “Flanders cloth, an excellent quality wool, embroidered with gold flowers all around the collar and sleeves . . . she looked so beautiful.”

  It was Nena’s voice.

  The description matched, there was no doubt about that. Edgardo turned to the Signora. “Was it that one?”

  Magdalena nodded without conviction.

  “And you haven’t seen that dress since?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Magdalena gave Nena a desperate look, then lowered her head.

  “Do you think it might be possible to see your husband to ask about this dress?” Edgardo had forgotten all prudence.

  Magdalena suddenly stood up. “My husband? Whatever for?”

  “Is nobleman Grimani at home?” Abella asked.

  A sudden frenzy caused Magdalena’s movements to become uncoordinated. “I haven’t seen him, he went out at dawn . . . he may be at the Dogado . . . he’ll be back late.”

  “You know Alvise’s life is at stake, don’t you?” Edgardo was no longer willing to pander to her evasive behavior.

  “The Signore is in the pantry.” Nena’s voice was even darker.

  XXXIV.

  REBIRTH

  They proceeded slowly along the upstairs loggia, then came down into the internal courtyard as far as the mezzanine. The stench afflicting the city had turned sickly-sweet, like soaked flowers.

  Magdalena gave a light knock at the door of the pantry, but there was no reply. She then turned to Edgardo and Abella, with some of her old pride. “He isn’t here,” she said.

  They were about to leave, when they heard a creaking sound from within.

  Without asking permission, Edgardo hammered on the door with more determination. “It’s Edgardo, Signore, please open the door. We must speak with you.”

  When Tommaso’s ravaged face emerged from the semi-darkness, Edgardo noticed that Magdalena’s eyes contained all the despair of a woman who sees ruination advance in large strides.

  “Why do you disturb me?” Grimani’s eyes glistened with tears. “I was praying.”

  Bravely, Magdalena stepped forward and opened the door. Tommaso didn’t stop her. She had never been to that room, her husband’s exclusive refuge.

  In the middle of a small cave lined with timber, like the pantry of a ship, stood a coffin covered in a velvet, emerald-green cloth. There was a prie-dieu before it. It gave the impression of a chapel with an altar.

  “Forgive me, Signore,” Edgardo said, plucking up the courage. “We must ask you a question of vital importance that even your wife can’t answer.”

  Tommaso didn’t move, only his eyes briefly searched for a sign from Magdalena, who remained with her head lowered.

  “Was the dress we handed you, and that you recognized as belonging to Costanza, the one she wore the day she was abducted, or the one she was buried in?”

  His body gave a start, he glanced at his wife one last time, then approached the altar. “What difference could it make?” Tommaso replied, trying to control an outburst of anger.

  Swaying, Magdalena approached and touched his chest. On her face, the ceruse was drying like a lake of salt. “Where is my sister’s body?” Her voice was cold, metallic.

  Tommaso’s eyes ran to all present, in search of support.

  “The sarcophagus in San Zaccaria is empty,” Abella added.

  “What are you saying?” Tommaso exclaimed, offended.

  “We’ve seen it with our own eyes,” Edgardo replied.

  “What happened to my sister’s body?” Magdalena screamed.

  “My beloved wife, my life’s companion.” Tommaso gently stroked her hair. “What difference does all this make now? Costanza is in the Kingdom of Heaven, her body is dust.”

  Magdalena took a step back. The air had become unbreathable.

  “My sweet wife, don’t walk away. Come and see.”

  Tommaso took Magdalena by the hand and led her to the altar.

  Edgardo and Abella leaned against the wall, as though wanting to disappear.

  “Look.” With a solemn gesture, Tommaso made the cloth slide to the floor.

  Lit by the diaphanous light of a morning not quite materialized, in the middle of the room, before the horrified eyes of those present, an image took shape in which the real world and the fairy-tale world became blurred.

  An enormous, turquoise-colored reliquary glowed with the iridescence of the deep sea. Inside, beautifully composed, beautifully dressed, perfectly preserved, a body seemed to float in the abyss.

  “You see, it’s our Luca . . . he is still with us.”

  Magdalena let out a desperate scream that tore through her chest, as though her heart had been smashed in two.

  It was Luca, her son: his face, hair, his hands intact, perfectly preserved.

  “Isn’t it incredible? I had him embalmed, to have him with us always, while awaiting his return.”

  Never had Abella heard such a tender, loving voice.

  Magdalena had approached the reliquary and, leaning over the glass, was trying to find the image of her lost son amid the emerald glow.

  “Ancient Egyptians believed that in order to live on, the spirit needs a perfectly preserved body.” Tommaso turned to Edgardo and Abella, indicating his son. “His spirit is here while waiting to be reborn, to transmigrate into the new body God will create in Magdalena’s womb.”

  Tommaso noticed Abella’s dismayed expression.

  “You have the illusion that you have the knowledge of scholars and you don’t believe this can happen, right? But you’re wrong. Many Greek philosophers and Persian wise men support this truth . . . and besides . . . ” He caressed the glass casket. “Luca has told me himself.” He took Magdalena’s face in his hands. “I can hear his voice, you know? He’s promised me that he will be reborn in his brother’s body.”

  In the grip of uncontrollable tears, Magdalena collapsed on the floor. Edgardo and Abella rushed to hold her up.

  “You mustn’t weep. You must rejoice. The rebirth is near.” Tommaso’s voice seemed to be coming from a body that wasn’t his.

  “Where is Costanza’s body?” Magdalena repeated, kneeling in front of the reliquary.

  “You mustn’t get upset, she sacrificed herself for you, in an act of generosity. Her life was of no use, she would have ended her days in a convent.”

  Magdalena couldn’t understand. Her husband’s incomprehensible words seemed to her nothing but a cruel game.

  “Signore.”
Edgardo’s voice had taken on an authority that chilled Tommaso. “The dress you recognized was the one for the burial, you knew it perfectly well, but you chose to say nothing. And that’s what prompted the question in my mind: how could it end up in the mill, and why didn’t you report it immediately?” He paused, waiting for a reply that would never come. “Because you were the one who ordered that the body be purloined. Is that not the truth?”

  Tommaso Grimani gave a start, as though his safety had suddenly been threatened by the word “truth.”

  He took his wife by the shoulders and embraced her. “I had no choice. When the path to resurrection is revealed to you, you must sacrifice everything, even what you hold most dear. There is only one medicine that can restore life to a barren womb. Oriental wise men know the miraculous properties of this substance: it’s called mummy and is extracted from a mummified body.”

  Magdalena had turned into a deformed mask. “I don’t understand . . . what do you mean? . . . that the medicine you’ve given me has been taken from a mummy?”

  “Not from any mummy. I needed the best quality, the one they call spiritual, obtained from the mummified bodies of virgins who’ve died a violent death.”

  “Costanza . . . ” she stammered, “you had Costanza killed?”

  “Costanza was predestined, your own blood, she herself would have agreed to sacrifice herself for you.”

  Tommaso’s calm precipitated them all into a vortex of horror.

  With a scream that came from the depths of her guts, Magdalena threw herself on her husband and began to strike him with all her strength. “You’re a monster! God almighty, you have fed my womb with the body of my sister! May God damn you, may He damn my womb and make it barren for all eternity!”

  Tommaso suddenly took a step back, and fell backward.

  The reliquary rocked and the timber stand slid on its side, depriving the sepulcher of its support. For a moment, it seemed to float in the air, then it fell to the floor with a terrible crash.

  The glass shattered into tiny splinters, and the room was invaded by a dense rain of turquoise crystals that turned the walls and ceiling into a tempestuous sea.