Q - Luther Blissett (interesting novels to read TXT) 📗
- Author: Luther Blissett
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The three Franciscans exchange an uncertain glance. They cannot break the silence that follows those last words. One of them nods to a group of others to come and join him.
I am Titian, a German pilgrim on his way to St Peter’s. The Franciscans of this little country monastery have welcomed me with kindness and put me up with the greatest courtesy.
They talk quietly among themselves: a summary for the benefit of the latest arrivals.
Brother Vittorio freezes into the pose of a statue, but he can’t help laughing. ‘Don’t put it like that, brother Titian. Rather, think this way: near a village in our diocese there is an ancient poplar tree, perhaps the most impressive tree that you could ever set eyes on. Well, the peasants maintain that during the full moon in October, anyone who stands beneath the tree and catches one of the leaves carried on the wind, and then eats it, will acquire strength and longevity.’
A dark look: ‘I don’t see what you’re getting at.
‘Twenty years ago,’ he goes on, folding his hands behind his back, ‘a pilgrim like yourself came for a rest in this monastery. We told him the story of the poplar and how to find it. He was convinced that miracles of nature could be proved to occur in places where the Madonna wished to show herself to her children. He went to the place and the Madonna appeared to him, saying: “The body and the blood of my Son give eternal life.” Since then, every full moon in October, we celebrate the Madonna of the Poplar, and the peasants come to take the Eucharist, and the leaves of the tree that fall on the altar are blessed and distributed among the faithful.’
I take a seat on one of the stone benches along the wall. The monks have grown in number: at least ten of them now. The oldest ones sit down next to me, the rest squat on the ground..
‘So,’ I ask, turning to the whole group, ‘what was your fellow-brother getting at with the story about the poplar?
A young monk replies, his face all nose and bony cheekbones: ‘That to bring Christ to country people, you can’t be too subtle. Some people think he’s a statue, others will eat his body just as they ate the leaves of a tree in their youth.’
Now that I’ve got everyone sitting around, I suddenly leap to my feet. ‘“The body and the blood of my Son give eternal life.” The Madonna of the Poplar announced the heart of the Christian faith to that pilgrim. Country people don’t understand Christ, because you make him too complex. That’s why they need a statue or an ancient legend to get close to him. God became man and died on the cross so that we too could attain eternal life. That is the faith that saves: nothing else will do. That is the faith that no newborn child can profess: for that reason I tell you that baptising a newborn child has no greater value than washing a dog. The only baptism is that of faith in the benefit of Christ crucified!’
He jumps up, almost tripping in his long habit, thick black eyebrows and a beard that reaches to just below his eyes. He leaps forward to hug me, kisses me and then gives me an incandescent stare. ‘Adalberto Rizzi thanks you, brother German. I have been living here for twenty years, since the Madonna appeared to me among the leaves of the poplar tree and gave many signs to bear witness to her presence.’ The younger brothers look at him in alarm. ‘Yes, yes, ask brother Michele here if I’m not telling the truth. After the apparition I began to preach the same things as you, brother Titian, have said today. Word for word, I assure you. But they told me I was confused, that I needed to rest and meditate, that the Madonna hadn’t actually asked me to say the things I was saying. They persuaded me. But now I hear you restoring what was taken from me, and with fiery tongue I shall proclaim it to the world: faith in renewed baptism, faith in the benefit of Christ Crucified!’
He throws himself on his knees, as though his legs will no longer support him.
‘Baptise me, brother Titian, because the splashing they gave me as a boy means nothing to me now. Baptise me, even with the dirty water from this well: my faith will be enough to purify it.’
I look around: everyone is standing motionless, open-mouthed, apart from brother Vittorio, who shakes his head disconsolately. I have already done enough as far as this place is concerned. It would be better not to risk excessively blatant� gestures.
‘You can baptise yourself, brother Adalberto. You’re the witness to your own conversion.’
He looks at me for a moment with an expression of ecstasy, then plunges himself face-first into the muddy water and starts rolling around in it, shouting at the top of his voice.
Rather blatant, all in all.
Ferrara, 4th February 1547
The secret store-room of the Usque bookshop is underground. The only way in is through a trapdoor not more than a foot across, hidden between the floorboards. Then you go down a ladder until you find yourself in what looks like a cellar. But the place is dry, the Usque family have come up with an ingenious way to keep the damp away from the books they store down there, the ones that might turn out to be the most awkward and dangerous. Hatches at the entrance and exit allow the air to circulate, so much so that I can’t help shivering: it’s colder down here than it is at ground level.
Our printer leads the way with a lantern, until we reach a pile of volumes stacked up in expert fashion.
‘Here we are, gentlemen.� A thousand copies ready for dispatch. You’ll have the rest within the month.’
Miquez points to one half of the pile of books: ‘My men will come and pick up five hundred copies in a few days, and transport them to the coast. I’ll take the rest right now, and bring them to Milan with me. I’ll bring you the statement of account by Easter.
Usque cuts in: ‘Leave me a hundred copies. I think I can sell them here.’
His Mediterranean features stand out in the light of the lantern. ‘Then take them out of my share. The cart’s outside, you can load them straight away.’
We go back up to the elegant office of the most important Jewish printers in Ferrara. Six presses, a dozen busy workers. I’m spellbound, watching the synchronised rhythm of their movements: inserting the matrix, brushing it with ink, fixing the page to the platen, then lowering it and pressing down hard to print the letters on the paper. A little further on they are composing the pages, setting the letters one by one in the frame, fishing them out of large boxes, with one eye on the manuscript and the other on the little pieces of lead.
At the end of the chain the binders, armed with needle, thread and fish-glue, give the volumes their finished form.
Miquez comes casually over to me. In a low voice: ‘Usque and his company only publish books to do with Judaism. They’ve made an exception for the Benefit.’
I grin. ‘The reciprocal favours of a huge family…’
‘That’s right. And the persuasive force of a good business deal.’
Usque asks something in Spanish.
‘Yes. You can go ahead. My brother Bernardo’s out there, he’ll make sure the load’s tied on securely.’
The printer seems uncertain. ‘There’s one other thing, don Jo�o…’ A glance from Miquez convinces him that he can talk in my presence. ‘I’ve had a strange request. From the court. A copy of the Benefit of Christ Crucified.’
We look at each other, puzzled, and then Miquez speaks: ‘Was it the duke?’
‘No. Princess Ren�e, the French one. She’s interested in theology.’
Chiavenna. Switzerland.
Two years ago.
Camillo Renato and his circle of exiles.
I brought him books on behalf of Perna when I first came to Italy.
Camillo Renato, alias Lisia Fileno, alias Paolo Ricci. Sicilian, a man of letters, pro-reformation, believer in predestination, sacramentist, scandalised everyone by celebrating the Last Supper with a banquet. When I met him he was playing host to Lelio Socini and other lettered exiles. I stayed there for a short time, but long enough to know that he had travelled around Europe, he’d been with Capito in Strasbourg, and faced the Inquisition in Bologna. Condemned to a life sentence for heresy in Ferrara, he had managed to escape with the help of a lady of the court. Princess Ren�e. Such was his gratitude that he had adopted the name of his saviour.
To Usque: ‘It’s important that we get a copy to her today.’
I take it out of the bag, and find a pen and ink on Usque’s desk. I write on the first page.
No good work or deed can equal Christ’s benefit to mankind. Only the Grace received from the Saviour and the incommensurable gift of faith can mark the destiny of a soul. That rebirth is what unites true believers in Christ.
In the hope of meeting the lady who saved a mutual friend.
Tiziano Rinato. At the Baker’s Inn.
The two Jews look at me, startled.
I hand the volume to Usque: ‘This is the copy.’
To Miquez: ‘Let him do it.’
He looks amused. ‘You’ve been behaving very oddly since you grew that beard.’
‘You were the one who taught me to cultivate friends in high places.’
He shakes his head and says goodbye to the printer in Spanish. Bernardo and Duarte are waiting for us outside; the boxes of books have been loaded up and secured with straps.
Jo�o puts his arm around my shoulders: ‘Hasta luego, amigo. See you in the spring.’
‘Say hello to little Perna from me.’
�A nod to his two accomplices and the cart moves off.
Venice, 11th February 1547
The girl said the man was dark, fairly tall, with a mermaid tattooed on his shoulder.
The girl also said that he wouldn’t stop fiddling with his dice, he always had one in his hand, because he liked gambling and he said he more he touched his dice the closer he was to luck.
The girl was crying. Because when it heals that kind of wound leaves a long, white scar, which turns purple on cold days and looks like some kind of illness.
She cried as she told the story, despite the fact that it had happened some days ago, because her face was ruined for ever.
Demetra’s eyes were icy. They were filled with disapproval, almost reproach: I wasn’t there and she hadn’t been able to do anything. Young Marco could have risked getting stabbed, but what would have been the point?
Between her sobs the girl said that the man spoke strangely, no, not with an accent like mine, different, maybe Greek, or Slavic. No, he hadn’t hit her, he just had the knife, but she thought he was going to kill her, and said that if she screamed he would slit her throat as though she were a lamb.
I didn’t say a word. I really don’t think I said a word. My eyes met Demetra’s and that was enough.
What I had to do.
A Greek who likes gambling.
I don’t remember crossing the city on foot. But I must have done, because by the time the bells rang I was outside the Moor’s gambling den,
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