by Sándor Márai
And is that why he stayed? No, it was because of Francesca, of course, and because the duke had said he’d like to see him. He waited for the call the way a peasant youth waits at the bar of his native village when someone challenges him. He stands there with his hands on his hips, as if to say: “Here I am, come and get me!” Giacomo struck the same attitude: he waited silently. What did he want of Francesca? Her very name was disturbing, full of the regret of unfinished business. He could of course have decamped, penniless, to Munich, where the elector of Saxony had just arrived and the weeks ahead promised splendor and amusement with pageantry, first-rate theater, Europe’s most brilliant gamblers, and mounds of snow. He could have left at any time, not sneaking off at night or when it was foggy, but in broad daylight, in a fancy carriage, his head held high, because he had paid his debts to innkeeper and shopkeeper at least once and because Mensch was still sufficiently under the spell of Signor Bragadin’s credit to service him. But instead of going, he stayed because he was waiting for a message from the duke. He knew the message would come eventually, that the palazzo guarded by the solemn Swiss guard with his silver-tipped staff would send for him. He understood that the lack of communication was itself part of a secret dialogue, that there was a purpose in his arrival in Bolzano, that he had things to do. So every day had a meaning: he was waiting for something to happen. Because to live is, in some respects, to wait.
One afternoon, when the main square was full of blue-gray shadows and the wind was hooting and screeching like an owl through the flues of the fireplaces in The Stag, he was sitting idly in the fireside chair, his skin covered in goose pimples, leafing through a volume of Boethius in his lap, when the door opened and Balbi stumbled in, waving his arms.
“They’re here! . . .” he declared triumphantly.
Giacomo turned pale. He leaped from his chair, smoothed his rice-powdered hair with all ten fingers, and whispered hoarsely, his voice a faint squeak.
“Get me my lilac coat!”
“Don’t bother,” said Balbi, tottering closer. “You can greet this lot in shirtsleeves if you like. Only don’t undersell yourself!” And when he saw the look of fear and incomprehension on his fellow fugitive’s face, he stopped, leaned back against the wall, and clasped his hands across his belly. His speech was a little slurred and he giggled with embarrassment, his full stomach shaking. He was enjoying the secret delight of knowing that he was the begetter and abetter of a wonderfully clever piece of mischief.
“There are only three of them this time,” he said, “but all three are rich. One of them, the baker, is quite old; he is first in line. He is old and deaf, so you must be careful to address his more intimate problems in sign language or the whole of Bolzano will hear of his shame. He will be followed by one Petruccio, a captain who considers himself a gallant. He is not quite the gallant now. He is waiting quietly with his arms folded, leaning on the banisters and gazing into the deep. He looks so miserable that he might be contemplating murder or suicide. He’s a stupid man: easy game. The third client, the priest’s secretary, arrived precisely at the hour I told him to. He’s young and looks as if he might burst into tears. And there’ll be more of them coming. Allow me to inform you, dear master, that your reputation both frightens and attracts people. Ever since you arrived they have been bombarding me with questions in private, in bars, in doorways, and later in shops and warehouses, but also in the street, anywhere they could confidentially take me aside, press a few pieces of silver into my palm, and invite me for a drink or a roast goose. They are begging to be introduced to you. Whether your name attracts or frightens them it seems they can’t forget it.”
“What do they want?” he asked mournfully.
“Advice!” said Balbi. He put two fingers to his lips then raised them into the air, rolling his eyes, his belly shaking with silent laughter.
“I see,” said Giacomo and gave a sour smile.
“Now be careful,” Balbi warned him. “Mind you don’t set too low a price on your services. How long do you want to stay here? A day? A week? I’ll make sure you have visitors and clients every afternoon: I’ll have them lining up on the stairs as they do for famous doctors when someone’s dying or coming down with the plague. But remember not to set your price too low: demand at least two gold pieces for each item of advice, and if it’s potions they want, ask for even more. I learned a lot in Venice, you know. During the period of my retreat”—this was how Balbi delicately referred to his time in prison—“I came to the conclusion that a thought can be as sharp as a file and worth its weight in gold. You are a clever man, Giacomo. There are purses out there overflowing with gold. Let them weigh your wisdom by the pound. What do you say? . . . Shall I send in the baker?”
And so they began to arrive in patient, sheeplike manner, Balbi herding them in each afternoon, from noon to dusk. His new profession amused Giacomo. He had never played this game before. People came to him with wasted bodies and troubled souls and stood in a line at his door exactly as Balbi had said they would, much as they did outside surgeons’ apartments in big cities, but instead of arms in slings and broken ankles they brought broken hearts and wounded self-respect for treatment. What did they want? Miracles. Everywhere people wanted miracles: they wanted love that would cater to their vanities, power without effort, self-sacrifice that wouldn’t cost more than a gold piece or two, tenderness and understanding providing they wouldn’t have to work too hard to earn them. . . . People wanted love, and wanted it free, without obligations, if possible. They stood in line at his door, in the corridor of The Stag, the crippled and the humiliated, the weak and the cowardly, those who thirsted for revenge and those who wanted to learn forgiveness. The range of their desires was diverting enough. And there was an art to the handling of the private consultation that offered a glimpse into the mysteries of love, a mystery he himself had never had to learn. Venetians were born knowing the ways of love, they knew them down to their fingertips and their traditional wisdom coursed like an electric current through his every nerve. The art he inherited was ancient too, and once he got over his initial surprise and recognized the ailments the sick brought to him, once he had learned to explore the hidden places and the secret scars, he gave himself willingly and passionately to the project of quackery. His fame soon spread and it quickly became known that he was holding surgeries every afternoon until dusk. Balbi dealt efficiently with the business side of things and kept a strict eye on the waiting patients.
Everyone came to see him, not only from the town but from outlying districts, too. The first to arrive was the deaf baker, who in his seventieth year had become a victim of passion. He hobbled in, a bent figure leaning on his stick, his stomach so fat it hung over his knees, and his brown felt cloak hardly covered it. “Let me tell you what happened,” the baker began, panting, and stopped still in the middle of the room to draw a ring in the air with his short rough stick. Then he went on to describe what had happened, as they all did eventually, though only after an initial period of stubborn silence or a sulky shrug of the shoulders. Then they blushed and the first few words came stumbling out, a stuttering confession or two, after which their entire manner changed: they no longer felt ashamed and told him everything. The baker was angry and spoke very loudly the way a deaf man does when he is furious and full of suspicion; he had to be calmed with tactful, fluttering gestures. In a voice that was as deep as it was loud, he informed Giacomo that he could not cope with Lucia, and the only question was whether he should hand her over to the Inquisition or strangle her with his own bare hands then cremate her in his large oven where the lads would bake their long, crumbly loaves each morning. It was a straightforward choice, and it was in such simple terms that Grilli the baker, the seventy-year-old president of the master bakers’ guild, saw matters relating to Lucia. The person to whom these questions were addressed, whose advice and professional opinion was being sought, sat and listened. He stroked his chin with two fingers, as scientists were supposed to do, cross
ed his arms, and from under knitted brows darted sharp, quizzical glances at the angry old man, hearing his complaints with some amazement. “It is a tricky problem!” he exclaimed in a loud stage whisper so that the baker should hear him. “Damned tricky!” Suddenly he grabbed the old man by the arm, dragged the scared, resisting body to the window, took the warty wrinkled face in the palms of his hands, turned it to the light, and spent a long time peering into his rheumy eyes. The consultation took some time. The baker wept. His weeping and snuffling was a little theatrical, not altogether sincere, perhaps, but it was involuntary, if only because he didn’t know what else to do. Some terrible intimate disaster had occurred and he could not reconcile himself to the disgrace that would now follow him to the grave. “I have a recommendation,” the stranger ventured after careful consideration. “You should buy her rings. I saw a few over at Mensch’s, quite attractive ones, with sapphires and rubies.” The baker grunted. He had already bought rings and a gold chain and a little cross with diamonds and a silver figurine of the saint of Padua, with enamel inlay. But none of it helped. “Buy her enough silk for three skirts,” he advised. “It will be Carnival soon.” But the baker waved the advice away and wiped a few tears from his face. The cupboards at home were full of silk, cotton, felt, and brocade. They thought a while in silence.
“Send her to me,” said Giacomo generously, with a new firmness.
The baker hummed and hawed, then slowly began to back away towards the door.
“That will be two gold pieces,” said the stranger, accepting the fee, flinging the finely minted coins on his desk, and courteously escorting his guest out. “Send her tomorrow morning!” he added as an afterthought, as if doing him a considerable favor. “After mass. I shall have more time then. I’ll speak to her. Please don’t kill her just yet.” He opened the door and waited while the old man, careworn and somewhat terrified by both the advice and his own helplessness, crossed the threshold. “Next please!” he cried to the dark staircase and pretended not to see the shadows huddled in the half-light. “Ah yes, the captain! This way, my valiant fellow!” he warbled cheerily, ushering the grim figure through the door.
And so he conducted his surgery. The varieties of sickness did not surprise him; he knew them and understood that it was the same old disease, only under various guises. What was the disease? He thought about it, and once he was alone in the room, he pronounced its name: selfishness. It was the grinning mask of selfishness that lay behind every problem, stinting what it could and demanding everything one person could demand of another, ideally without having to give anything in return, nothing real or substantial in any case. It was selfishness that bought its darling a palazzo, a coach-and-four, and jewels, and believed that by presenting her with such gifts it had parted with something secret and more precious without the exchange of which there can be no true attraction or peace in one’s heart. It was selfishness that wanted everything and believed it had given everything when it devoted time, money, passion, and tenderness to the male or female object of its affections, while withholding the final sacrifice consisting of a simple, almost incidental, readiness to leave everything and devote its life and soul to the other without expecting anything in return. For this is what lovers, those peculiar tyrants, actually wanted. They were happy enough to give money, time, rings, ornaments, even their names and hands, but in all this welter of gift giving, there was one thing they were all determined to keep back, and that something was themselves, whether that self was Lucia or Giuseppe or the gallant captain, Petruccio, now standing in the middle of the room, grasping his sword with both hands and looking as grim as he might at his own execution.
“What is the problem, dear captain?” he asked in his friendliest, most charming manner. But the captain was warily turning his head about, like a wild animal examining his cage. Then he bent to the stranger’s ear and whispered the secret. He stood there with burning eyes, gripping his sword, his warrior heart wildly beating, and whispered it. No, this was not a matter he could advise him on. He shook his head in complete understanding and tutted indignantly. “Perhaps,” he said in a low voice, “you should leave her. You are a man. A soldier.” But the captain did not answer. He was like the dead who realize that nothing will ever change again, that they are stuck in this uncomfortable position in the grave, under the earth, under the stars. He was not a man who took readily to advice, preferring to treat his injuries as lower ranks: a senior officer does not consort with lower ranks. “Leave her!” Giacomo repeated, warmly, with genuine sympathy. “Even if you can’t bear it, it’s better than your current suffering.” The captain groaned. His understanding was that there was no advice, no consolation, no remedy for his grief. That groan, that wounded, hopeless grunt of his, was a declaration. “Even this suffering is better than not seeing her; it is better to live like this than to leave her,” it said. Some people just can’t be helped.
Many more people came, usually arriving near dusk. The priest’s secretary, a spotty-faced boy who read Petrarch and could not bring himself to write a letter to the lady of his heart’s desire, received his advice at the cost of one gold piece. The stranger wrote the letter for him, solemnly escorted him out, then shut the door and laughed till his sides split, throwing the gold into the air, before passing it over to Balbi, who took his hands as they shook each other in delight. “Doctor Mirabilis!” cried Balbi, his cracked voice whinnying with laughter. “They’re even coming in from the countryside now!” Snow was falling thickly, but they kept arriving despite the drifts and showers, not only men, but women, too, with veils over their faces, promising cash in hand, tearing the jeweled brooches from their bosoms, casting their veils aside. “Work your wonders, Giacomo, talk to him, brew me a magic potion, tell me your opinion, is there any hope for me? . . .” they begged.
One day there arrived a woman, no longer young, a solid, respectable figure, her dark fiery eyes ablaze with passion and hurt. “I came in the snow,” she told him, her voice raw with feeling, as she stood by the fire, opened her fur stole, shook her head, and waited for the sparkling snowdrops caught on her veil and scarf to melt. “One horse died. We almost froze as the evening closed in. But here I am because they say that you give advice, understand magic, and know people’s hearts and souls. So get on with it.” She spoke indignantly, as though smarting from an insult. He offered the lady a chair and paid close attention to her. He had known women in every state and condition of life, and having found reason enough to be wary of them, kept his eyes open for changes of mood. She ignored his offer. She was past forty, tall, red-faced, and healthily plump, the kind of woman happy enough to stand in the kitchen and watch the pork roast, who washes her face in rainwater and whose linen cupboard smells pleasant without the use of scents, the kind of woman who would happily administer even an enema to the man she loved. He regarded her with respect. There was enough passion smoldering under the furs and in those flashing eyes to set a forest on fire. She was used to giving orders and probably kept her household on a tight rein. Servants, guests, relatives, and admirers would all listen devotedly to whatever she had to say and would be sent scattering by her fury. Even her tenderness would smolder with a sharp aroma, like the brushwood fire in a forest when herdsmen forget to put it out after preparing game. She was a woman strong in anger through whom the tide of feelings ran most powerfully, and she stood now in commanding fashion, ready to deal the world several sharp blows, after which, with a single passionate movement of her firm arms, she would sweep some chosen loved one to her breasts in a deathly embrace. The snow, the cold fields of Lombardy, and the smell of the River Adige all emanated from her presence. “Here I am,” said the woman, puffing slightly, her even voice barely under control. “I have come to you. I have come, though the laundry has piled up at home, though they are smoking salami, and though they say that in November, in the hills round here, a traveler is likely to be eaten by wolves. I am a Tuscan,” she said quietly but firmly.
The stranger bowe
d. “And I am Venetian, madam,” he said, and, for the first time, gazed more deeply into his guest’s eyes.
“I know,” the woman replied and took a gulp. “That’s why I am here. Listen, Giacomo. You have escaped from prison and know the secrets of love, so they say. Look at me. Am I the sort of woman who should humbly beseech a man to love her? Who is it who looks after the house? Who works in the fields in July at harvest time? Who shops for new furniture in Florence when we have to present an imposing face to the world? Who takes care of the horses and their equipment? Who mends the socks and underwear of her fastidious master? Who makes sure that there are flowers on the table at noon and that musicians with flageolets are playing in the next room when it is somebody’s birthday? Who keeps all the drawers in order? Who washes in cold water every morning and every night? Who has linen brought over from Rumburg so that the bed in which the man of the house embraces her should smell as fresh as the fields of Tuscany in April? Who keeps an eye on the kitchen so that every requirement of his delicate stomach and demanding palate should be satisfied? Who tests the flesh of the young cockerel before it is slaughtered so it should be as plump and tender as he likes it? Who checks the smell of the calf’s leg brought over from the butcher in town? Who goes down to the cellar, down those dangerous steep stairs, to sulphur the wine casks they have rolled in barrels from the vineyard? Who makes sure that the glass of water they have left on the small table by his bed at night should contain a spoonful of sugar because after his carousings and lecheries, his weak heart needs a drop of sugar before he can sleep? Who stops him eating too much ginger and pepper? Who turns a blind eye to his lustful moods when ropes and chains can’t keep him at home? Who keeps her peace when she can smell the rotten perfume of other women on his coat and linen? . . . Who puts up with it all? Who works and says nothing? Look at me, Giacomo. They say you are wise in the ways of women, a brilliant doctor of love. Look at me. I have borne two children and lost three, no matter that I groveled on my knees before the image of the Virgin, begging her to keep them alive. Look at me. I know time has had its way with me, that there are those who are younger, who smile more obligingly, and are better at wiggling their hips; nevertheless, here I am. Am I the kind of woman whose kisses are to be rejected? Just look at me!” she cried in a hoarse, powerful voice, and opened her fur coat. She was wearing a dress of lilac-colored silk, her dark brown hair covered by a headscarf of Venetian lace, a golden clasp holding together the shawl across her mature, pleasantly full bosom, her build tall and muscular without a trace of excess fat, firm of flesh and sound of blood, a solid forty-year-old woman with white arms, her head thrown proudly back. She stood before him and he bowed to her with a natural male courtesy, in genuine admiration. “There’s no need to bow,” she said, lowering her voice, a little embarrassed. “I haven’t left the estate in a snowstorm and traveled all the way to Bolzano just so that I should be bowed to by a stranger. It’s not consolation I am seeking. I know what I know. I am a woman. I can sense when a man is looking at me. I can recognize genuine desire in an impudent, unrespectful stare but can also feel the circumspect passion in a mere glance. I know I have a few years left in which to make the man who loves me completely happy.”