The Scribe (23 page)

On the way back they stopped to buy the fragrances that Helga used when she plied her trade. She chose a flask of pine-scented perfume and another more intense scent similar to incense. Instead of charging Helga for the perfume, Theresa noticed the merchant wink at her and arrange to see her later on.

In the afternoon two drunks visited the tavern, drinking cheap wine until they ran out of money. After they left, Theresa suggested to Helga that they visit the monastery to check on Hoos, but Helga advised her to wait until the appointment with the apothecary the next morning. A little later on, three young men turned up at the hostelry, ate some dinner, laughed among themselves, and left. Soon afterward five laborers arrived, stinking of sweat and eager for food. They sat near the fire, ordered copious amounts of beer and joked about which of the two women would be the first to end up with her underskirt around her ankles. After serving them some food, Helga left Theresa in charge of the kitchen and went out in search of some friends, for they would soon be needed. She returned arm in arm with two women, also plastered in makeup and dressed in colorful clothes. Upon arriving they sat on the laborers’ laps, yelping and laughing as the men caressed them. One of them slid his hand under a skirt and the woman feigned a squeal. Another man, already the worse for drink, offered his girl a swig of wine and spilt it down her cleavage, but the young woman, far from scolding him, responded by showing him a breast.

That was when Theresa decided it was time to withdraw, but one of the laborers noticed her leaving and stood in her way. Fortunately, Helga placated him by whispering in his ear and promising him a night of abandon. Then she told Theresa to go to the storeroom and shut herself in the wine store.

Theresa soon discovered that a brothel’s wine store was not a good place to spend a peaceful night. From the attic she could see the corner that one of the laborers had chosen to have a woman kneel and bring his member back to life. When the tart had achieved this, the man pushed her head away, positioned himself between her legs, and began to pump his backside up and down vigorously. Then he gave a couple of jerks and cursed the prostitute before slumping onto her pale body.

Before long Helga came in accompanied by the perfume merchant. The two of them laughed when they saw the other couple asleep on top of each other. The merchant made as if to wake them up, but Helga stopped him. They started to fondle each other on a nearby bed, and Theresa was thankful they at least covered themselves with a cloak that hid their bodies from view.

When she finally managed to sleep, Theresa dreamed of Hoos. He appeared naked—as did she. He stroked her hair, her neck, and her breasts—caressing her entire body. A strange feeling woke and alarmed Theresa. When she calmed down, she asked God to forgive her for sinning in such a way.

In the morning, Theresa tidied the tavern, which looked like a battleground. Afterward she prepared some breakfast, eating alone since Helga was still hung over. When at last she rose, the woman washed her crotch in a grubby bowl, complained about the cold, and then offered Theresa some advice before she left for the abbey. “And most important, don’t mention that you know me,” she impressed on her with puffy eyes.

Theresa kissed Helga good-bye, recalling that she had already told the apothecary where she was staying. Then she ran to the abbey because the bells announcing the beginning of the Terce service were already chiming.

A stout monk with a retiring demeanor met her at the main gate, and he seemed surprised to hear her intentions.

“Indeed, I am the cellarer, but explain something to me. Who have you come to see? The apothecary, or Brother Alcuin?”

Theresa was taken aback, for she had assumed that the apothecary and Brother Alcuin were the same person, but the cellarer, seeing her hesitation, closed the wicket, leaving her alone outside. She rapped on the little door again with her knuckles, but the monk did not answer until he returned to empty a bucket of scraps outside.

“If you keep making a nuisance of yourself, I’ll take a stick to you,” he threatened.

Theresa tried to respond but couldn’t think what to say. For a moment she considered pushing the monk aside and running to the garden, but it occurred to her to offer him the meat she had brought for the apothecary. Perhaps it would persuade him.

When the cellarer saw the chops, his eyes widened. “Well, make up your mind, then, lass. Who do you want to see?” he asked, snatching the meat from her.

“Brother Alcuin.” She had to assume the gatekeeper was an idiot.

The man bit into one chop, stuffing the other into the sleeve of his robe. He stepped aside to allow her through, and closing the wicket behind them, told her to follow him.

To Theresa’s astonishment, rather than head toward the garden, the cellarer crossed the animal pens, kicking cocks and hens out of the way. They passed the stables, and the kitchen, and after skirting round the granaries, made for an imposing stone building that stood out majestically from the rest. The friar knocked on the door and waited. “The optimates’ residence. Where important guests stay,” he explained.

An acolyte answered, his dark robe contrasting with his pale face. The man looked at the cellarer and nodded as if he had been
expecting them. Theresa followed the man in. They avoided the communal chambers by taking some stairs that led them to a hall, its walls lavishly decorated with woolen tapestries. The furniture was finely carved and on the main table were several volumes arranged in a circle. A thread of light filtered onto them through the alabaster window. The acolyte told her to wait and thereupon left the room. Moments later the tall figure of the apothecary entered wearing an exquisite white
penula
fastened to the waist by an embroidered belt decorated with silver plaques. Theresa felt embarrassed by her own outfit.

“You will excuse the attire I was wearing yesterday, though perhaps I should apologize more for today’s outfit.” The monk smiled. “Please, take a seat,” he said and made himself comfortable on a wooden armchair. Theresa sat on a stool beside him. She looked at his bony face and aging white skin, thin as the layers of an onion.

At length, Theresa asked, “Why are we here? And what are you doing dressed as a bishop?”

“Well, not like a bishop, exactly.” He gave her another smile. “My name is Alcuin—Alcuin of York, and in reality I am just a monk. Worse still, I haven’t even been ordained as a priest, though on occasions, due to the position I hold, I am obliged to cover myself in this pretentious garb. As for this place, I reside here temporarily, along with my acolytes. Well, in truth I stay at the cathedral chapter on the other side of the city, but that detail is unimportant.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The fact is that I owe you an apology. I should have explained to you yesterday that I am not the apothecary.”

“Then who are you?”

“Well, I’m afraid I am that ‘foreign newcomer’ about whom you’ve heard such unfavorable reports.”

Theresa gave a start. For a moment she thought Hoos’s fate hung by a thread, but Alcuin put her mind at rest.

“You need not worry. If I wanted to cast him out, do you think I would have bothered attending to him? As for my identity, my intention was not to deceive you. The apothecary died quite suddenly the day before yesterday. It’s a matter I can expound on later. By coincidence I know a great deal about herbs and poultices, so when you took me by surprise in the garden, my only thought was to aid your friend.”

“But after—”

“Afterward I did not wish to worry you. I thought that given your wariness, knowing the truth would only heighten your concern.”

Theresa fell silent for a while. “How is he?” she eventually asked.

“Thanks be to God, much better. We will visit him later. But for now let us talk about why I brought you here. Let us talk about your job.” He picked up one of the volumes from the table and examined it with great care.
De Coelesti Hierarchia
by Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite. A true wonder. As far as I know, only two other copies exist—one in Alexandria and another in Northumbria. You said you can write, did you not?”

Theresa nodded.

The monk clapped his hands and soon the acolyte appeared with some implements. Alcuin carefully placed them in front of the young woman.

“I would like you to transcribe this paragraph.”

Theresa bit her lip. Though it was true that she could write, recently she had only done so on wax tablets because parchment was too valuable to be wasted. She recalled that, in the words of her father, the secret to good writing resided in selecting the right quill: not too light, to avoid a loose stroke; but not too heavy, which would prevent the required fluidity and grace of movement. She wavered between several of the writing implements before her, finally opting for a pink goose quill, testing its weight in her hand a couple of times before smoothing the vane and barbules.
She checked the slit in the umbilicus through which the ink would flow, judging it to be blunt and too inclined, so she cut a new tip using a scalpel. Then she examined the parchment. Selecting the softest side to write on and using an awl and a tablet, she traced several invisible lines to use as a guide. Next, she positioned the text on a lectern and dipped the calamus in the ink until the pen was dripping. Taking a deep breath, she began to write.

The first letters, though tremulously written, were nicely joined. Then the ink flowed bright and silky, the pen sliding over the parchment with the delicacy of a swan on water. At the beginning of the eighth uncial, however, a blot appeared that ruined the entire page. It frustrated Theresa and made her think of giving up, but she clenched her teeth and continued with determination. When she had finished the text, she scraped and blew away the error, cleaned away the remains of the pounce, and finally handed it to Alcuin, who had been watching her closely the entire time.

The monk inspected the parchment and then looked at Theresa with a severe expression. “It’s not perfect,” he concluded. “But it will do.”

Theresa watched the monk as he turned back to scrutinize the text, noticing his eyes in particular. They were a light, muted blue color—a dull tone that clouds the eyes of the elderly. They did not correspond to his apparent age, which she estimated at around fifty-five years old.

“You need a scribe?” she ventured to ask.

“Indeed. Romuald, a Benedictine monk who always accompanied me, used to help me with my work. Unfortunately he fell ill soon after we arrived in Fulda. He died the day before the apothecary passed away.”

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say.

“As am I. Romuald was my eyes, and at times my hands also. My eyesight has worsened of late, and though when I rise my vision is still sharp enough to discern a strand of saffron or read intricate
script, as the afternoon wears on, my sight begins to cloud over and seeing becomes arduous. That was when Romuald would read for me or transcribe my comments.”

“You cannot write?”

Alcuin raised his right hand, showing the back of it to Theresa. It was shaking.

“It started some four years ago. Sometimes the shaking spreads above the elbow so that I cannot even drink. That is why I need someone to write down my notes. I like to record events that I witness without omitting a single detail so I may reflect on them later. What’s more, I wanted to transcribe some texts from the bishop’s library.”

“And there are no scribes in the abbey?”

“Of course. There are Theobald of Pisa, Balthazar the Old, and also Venancio. But they are of senior rank and too important to follow me around all day. There are also Nicholas and Maurice, but though they can write, they cannot read.”

“How is that possible?”

“Reading is a complex process. Demanding. It requires effort and an ability that not all monks possess. Yet, as strange as it seems, there are copyists who can imitate symbols with great skill all without being able to understand their meaning. Though of course, they are incapable of taking dictation. So there are those who can write, or rather, transcribe, but who remain unable to read. And there are others who can read well enough but haven’t learned to write. And then there also those who, though they can read and write, can only do so in Latin. If we also exclude those who confuse
L
with
F
, those who write at an exasperatingly slow pace, those who commit errors as if on purpose, and those who grow bored of the work and complain of pain in their hands, we are left with very few. And unfortunately not all of those people can or want to set aside their chores to help a newcomer.”

“But you could order them.”

“Well, because of my position, I could, but let’s just say I have no interest in unwilling help.”

“And what position is that?” she ventured, and then bit her tongue, aware her curiosity might be getting the better of her manners.

“It could be described as a teacher of teachers. Charlemagne loves learning and the Frankish kingdom lacks it, which is why the king has entrusted me with the task of ensuring that education and the Word of God reach all corners of the kingdom. At first I took it as an honor, but I must admit that it has become an arduous responsibility.”

Theresa shrugged. She still couldn’t understand Alcuin’s true intentions regarding her role in everything, but she supposed that if she wanted to help Hoos, she would have to accept the job, whatever it was.

Then the monk said was time to visit the patient. Before they set off, he covered Theresa with a robe to hide her from wandering gazes.

“What puzzles me,” Theresa said as they walked, “is that you think I can help you. You don’t know anything about me.”

“I wouldn’t go that far… for instance: I know your name is Theresa, and that you can read and write Greek.”

“That’s not a great deal.”

“Well, I could also add that you are from Byzantium, no doubt from a wealthy family, albeit fallen on bad times. I know that until a few weeks ago you lived in Würzburg, where you worked in the parchment-maker’s workshop, and that you probably had to flee because of a sudden fire. And I know that you are obstinate and determined enough to bribe the cellarer with two meat chops to gain entry.”