The Scribe (3 page)

She shook her head. The surgeon repeated the gesture with Korne, who responded by taking a couple of good swigs.

“Knife wounds are like children: They’re all made in the same way, but no two are ever the same,” he sniggered. “It’s not up to me whether he lives or dies. The arm’s well stitched, but the cut is deep
and it may have reached the tendons. All we can do now is wait, and if in a week’s time there are no pustules or abscesses…”

“Here,” said the surgeon, taking a little bag from his sash. “Apply this powder four times a day, and do not wash the wound too much.”

Theresa nodded.

“As for my fee…” he said as he slapped Theresa’s backside, “don’t worry, Count Wilfred will pay me.” And he continued laughing as he gathered his instruments.

Theresa reddened in indignation. She despised men taking that kind of liberty with her, and if Zeno had not just helped her father, God knows she would have smashed the flask of wine over his ugly head. But before she could protest, the surgeon flung open the door and left, humming to himself.

In the meantime, Korne’s wife returned from the attic with some lard cakes.

“I brought one for your father,” she said with a smile.

“Thank you. Yesterday we had barely a bowl of porridge to eat between us,” Theresa lamented. “We’re receiving less and less food. Mother says we’re fortunate, but the truth is she can barely lift herself from the bed she’s so weak.”

“Well, child, it’s the same for all of us,” the woman answered. “If it wasn’t for Wilfred’s love of books, we’d be eating our fingernails by now.”

Theresa took a cake and nibbled it delicately, as though she didn’t want to cause it pain. Then she took a bigger bite, savoring the sweetness of the honey and cinnamon. She breathed in its aroma deeply, trying to trap it inside her, and she slid her tongue into the corners of her mouth so as not to waste even the tiniest crumb. Then she put the remaining piece in her skirt pocket to take to her stepmother. Part of her felt ashamed to enjoy such a delicious morsel while her father lay unconscious on the table, but her accumulated hunger got the better of her conscience and she
succumbed to the comforting taste of warm lard. Suddenly, the sound of coughing distracted her from her indulgence.

Theresa’s father was coming round. She ran to his side to stop him from sitting up, but Gorgias would not listen to reason. As he moved, he grunted and winced with pain. After he managed to sit up, he briefly rested before opening his bag. With his healthy arm, he nervously rummaged through his writing instruments. Cursing, he kept looking around as though something was missing. His irritation growing, he tipped the contents of the bag onto the floor. Quills and styluses scattered across the pavement.

“Who took it? Where is it?” he cried.

“Where is what?” Korne asked.

Gorgias stared at him with a wild look, but he bit his tongue and turned his head. He rifled through the instruments again and then turned the bag on its head. When he was sure nothing was left in it, he walked over to a nearby chair, slumping into it. Closing his eyes, he whispered a prayer for his soul.

2

By early afternoon, the boys’ voices brought Gorgias back to the land of the living after spending all morning in a dreamlike state. He had remained lying down, his head to one side and his gaze absent, oblivious to Korne’s suggestions and Theresa’s gestures of affection. But gradually awareness crept back into his face, and after a few moments of confusion he lifted his head to call for Korne. The parchment-maker seemed pleased to see Gorgias’s health improving, but when Gorgias asked him about his assailant, Korne’s countenance changed, and he declared he could not remember anything.

“When we went to help you, whoever it was had already fled.”

Gorgias screwed up his face and spluttered a curse as he grimaced with pain. Then he stood and began pacing around the workshop like a tormented animal. As he walked up and down, he tried to recall his attacker’s face, but his efforts were in vain. The darkness and the suddenness of the attack had masked the identity of the assailant. He was weak and confused, so he asked Korne to allow one of his sons to accompany him to the scriptorium.

Once Gorgias left, the workshop gradually resumed its usual bustle. The younger workers spread earth over the blood on the ground
and cleaned the table, while the craftsmen complained about the mess that had been created. Theresa said a brief prayer for her father’s recovery before diligently returning to her daily tasks. First, she cleaned and picked up the rubbish from the day before. Then she separated the more damaged pieces of leather and placed them in the scrap barrel, where they would rot. Unfortunately, the keg was overflowing. She had to decant its contents into maceration jars so that once the leather had been soaked, mashed, and boiled, they could make the glue that the master craftsmen used as an adhesive. When she had finished, she covered herself with a sack to keep the rain off and made for the outdoor pools in the dilapidated inner courtyard.

Theresa examined the quadrangular pools closely. Seven pools were distributed in a disorderly fashion around the central well so that the flayed skins could be easily transferred between them after the usual process of cutting, shaving, and scraping. The young woman observed the whitish skins floating on the water like scrawny corpses. She hated the penetrating acid stench that came from the defleshed pelts.

On one occasion, when she had had a severe chill, she asked Korne to relieve her for a few days because the dampness and causticity of the pools were aggravating her lungs, but all she received was a cuff around the head and a scornful guffaw. She never complained again. When Korne ordered her to turn over the sticky, wrinkled skins, she hiked up her skirt, and—holding her breath—stepped into the pools.

She was still looking over the pools when someone came up behind her.

“They still repulse you? Or perhaps you think it’s not a task a parchment-maker’s nose should have to endure?”

Theresa turned to find Korne smiling sardonically. The rain ran down his grotesque face and over his bare, exposed gums. He stank of incense, which he used to mask his usual rancid stench.
She would have happily told Korne the nature of her thoughts, but remembering the past, she bit her tongue and bowed her head. After so much sacrifice, she was not about to give in to provocation. If he was trying to find an excuse to reproach her, he would have to try a lot harder.

“No matter,” continued the parchment-maker. “I must admit, I feel sorry for you: Your father has been hurt… you have had a fright… you’re nervous, of course. Evidently it is not the right time to undertake such an important test. So in consideration of your father, I am prepared to postpone the examination for a sensible length of time.”

Theresa breathed a sigh of relief. It was true that she still had the image of her blood-soaked father in her head. Her hands trembled, and though she felt strong enough, a postponement would give her the chance to calm down.

“I’m grateful for your offer, but I don’t wish to disrupt preparations. However, I would welcome a few days to rest,” she admitted.

“A few days? Oh, no!” he said with a smile. “Postponing the trial would mean waiting until next year. It’s the rules, you see. But in your state… look at you: trembling, frightened… I have no doubt that postponing it is the right thing to do.”

Theresa feared that Korne was right. Candidates who withdrew from the examination could not reapply for admission until a full year later. However, for a moment she had thought that given the circumstances the parchment-maker would make an exception.

“So?” Korne pressed.

Theresa was unable to respond. Her hands were sweating and her heart thumped in her chest. Korne’s offer was not unreasonable, but nobody could foresee what would happen in twelve months. However, if she attempted the test and failed, she would never again be allowed to retake it. Or at least, not while Korne was head of the parchment-makers, for he would use her failure
as proof of what he had so frequently proclaimed: that women and animals are merely there to bear children and transport loads.

As Korne waited for her response, he tapped his fingers on a barrel. Theresa considered withdrawing, but at the last moment she resolved to show Korne that she was better qualified than any of his sons to be a parchment-maker. And what’s more: If she really wanted to become a master parchment-maker, she must get used to dealing with problems as they arose. And if for any reason she did not pass the test, perhaps in a few years’ time, she would be able to attempt it again. After all, she told herself, Korne was old, and by then he might have died or fallen ill. So she lifted her head, and with determination in her voice, she informed him that she would take the examination that morning and accept the consequences. The parchment-maker looked unperturbed.

“Very well. If that is what you wish, let the show begin.”

Theresa nodded and turned to head back into the workshop. As she was about to go through the entrance, the parchment-maker called out:

“May I ask where you are going?” he said with nostrils flaring like a horse’s.

Theresa looked at him, perplexed. She was going to her workbench to check the equipment she would use in the test. “I thought I would sharpen the knives before the count arrived, prepare the—”

“The count? What has the count got to do with this?” he interrupted, feigning surprise.

Theresa lost the will to speak. Her father had assured her that Wilfred would be present.

“Ah, yes!” Korne continued with an affected grimace. “Gorgias said something about that. But yesterday, when I visited the count, he was so busy I judged that we should not disturb him for such a trivial thing. I presumed, and I think rightly, that if you are capable
of coping with any turn of events, the count’s absence from your examination should not be an impediment. Or should it?”

Theresa then understood that Korne had not assisted her father out of kindness, nor had he suggested postponing the examination out of consideration of her circumstances. He had helped Gorgias knowing that the fate of the workshop, and therefore his own, was bound to the scriptorium’s activity. What a fool she had been! To think that for a few moments she had believed he had good intentions. Now she was at the mercy of this moron, and all her skills would be as much use as a pile of sodden firewood. The young woman bowed her head and prepared to accept the inevitable, but just as she had lost all hope, an idea lit up her face.

“It’s curious,” she said confidently. “My father not only assured me that Wilfred would witness the examination, but also that, aware of my progress, he wanted to keep my first parchment for himself. A parchment that—as you know—I must mark with my seal,” she pointed out. She prayed that Korne would swallow her lie. If he did, perhaps she would have a chance.

The parchment-maker’s stupid smile immediately disappeared from his face. Ultimately, he did not know whether what she was saying was true, but if they were Wilfred’s wishes, he could hardly risk going against them. In any event, he could not care less what the count said or thought, because the girl would not pass the test. Not, at least, while he was master of the parchment-makers.

Theresa was still waiting to hear whether she would be allowed to take the test when Korne summoned the rest of the workers. Laborers and craftsmen immediately stopped their work filling the courtyard and turning it into a sort of arena. The youngest workers nabbed the front spots, spreading out around the yard. One boy shoved another lad, who fell into a pool, making the crowd cheer with approval. The craftsmen made themselves comfortable in the corners out of the rain, but the laborers were unfazed by a little water. One of them came out with a basket of apples to share
with those who were waiting impatiently as if for the beginning of the show. It seemed like everyone except Theresa knew what was about to happen. Korne clapped his hands and addressed the improvised audience.

“As you all know, young Theresa has applied for admission to the guild.” There was a roar of laughter.

“The lass,” he said, pointing at her as he clutched his groin, “thinks she is cleverer than you, cleverer than my sons, and cleverer than me. This woman! A woman who shits her skirt and hides under a blanket when she hears a dog bark! But she has some courage, I’ll give her that. Ha! The audacity to ask for a job that by its very nature is for men.”

The laborers laughed in unison. One joker threw an apple core, which flew across the yard and hit Theresa in the face. Another flailed about, imitating a girl running scared, and the rest applauded until Korne interrupted the jesting to continue his tirade.

“Women doing men’s work… can someone explain to me how a woman could work here and also tend to her husband? Who would cook and clean for him? Who would take care of his children? Or perhaps she would bring her brood of little girls here to join the guild, too?”

Laughter rippled around the yard again.

“And when summer comes and the heat arrives, when sweat soaks her body and her smock presses tight against her breasts, will she expect us to look elsewhere and repress our desires—or perhaps she will offer us her fruits as a reward for our efforts?”

The crowd continued laughing, shoving each other and winking as they applauded Korne’s witticisms.

At that moment, Theresa stepped forward. Until then she had kept quiet, but she was not going to put up with any more jeering. “If I have a husband one day, how I look after him will be my business. And as for my breasts,” she said, “given the attention you pay them, I will be only too pleased to inform your wives of
your lecherous desires so they can make up for the lack that you so clearly suffer from. And now, if you don’t mind, I would like to start the test.”

Korne reddened with rage. He had not expected such a feisty reaction, let alone the derisive snickers her words provoked among the youngsters—snickers that he imagined were aimed at him. The parchment-maker went over to the basket of apples and picked out the most damaged one. Then he turned and walked over to Theresa. Planting himself a few inches from her, he slowly bit into the apple. After slobbering all over the fruit, he held it out in front of the girl’s lips.