not understood.
“I think that human beings should understand the works of the Creator. Only then can we truly understand ourselves,” said the beard-cutter. And when he talked like that, the boy knew that he had been lucky. One of the smartest men of his time had taken him under his wing. He would learn much, and one day he would also see for himself. Then he might understand more than what he could read in a book. Wasn’t that exactly what the beard-cutter had said? The reason they had sought out Master Alessandro was that this physician knew more than could be found in books. In any case, that was what was rumored. A rumor that could be dangerous for a man who lived outside the Republic of Venice, which included the city of Padua, with its famous school and its many doctors. In Venice and Padua the city air was freer than in most other places. The beard-cutter explained that autopsies here were regulated by law, and that each year male and female bodies were taken down from the gallows so that the most learned doctors could increase their knowledge of the internal organs of human beings. Venice was not afraid of the pope’s wrath. The city had felt it before and feared it no longer.
“Now,” said the beard-cutter, putting the last bite of bread in his mouth, “it’s time for us to get moving. The sun has reached the rooftops on the other side of the canal. It won’t be long before our good doctor goes out for his walk. Today we don’t want to miss that walk for anything in the world.”
* * *
The street urchin met them as they had previously agreed, by the bridge where they could see the front door of Master Alessandro’s house from across the canal. The plan was simple: When they saw him come out the door, the lad would run across the bridge toward the doctor while the beard-cutter and the boy would walk along the canal on the opposite bank toward the next bridge. There they hoped to meet again, and change the path of destiny.
* * *
Master Alessandro let his forefinger glide slowly and tenderly along the spines of the books he kept on the little shelf just inside the door of his library. The little shelf was reserved for Teobaldo’s handy little volumes. The rest of the library was filled with parchment rolls and large tomes that he had collected on his travels.
His finger stopped on a work by Plato, which, somewhat indelicately, had been dedicated to Pope Leo. But that might fit nowadays, he thought with black humor, letting his mind drift back to the house in Padua and the corpse that was supposed to be awaiting him there. If that laggard Pietro had done his job at the grave site outside town. But he could not count on it. He had long pondered finding a replacement for his servant Pietro. He made mistakes far too often. Pietro never got used to handling dead people and made mistakes, such as forgetting to tie them down on the cart. Eventually they would fall into the ditch and lose limbs during the transport. Or else he let himself be scared off by the watchmen in the cemetery and came back empty-handed the night after an execution. And he was no good with a knife, so he wasn’t much help during the dissections.
Master Alessandro tucked the book under his arm and left the library. For a moment he placed the book on a table by the door while he put on a voluminous burgundy velvet cape. It kept him warm in this autumn weather. Then he picked up the book to take along on his walk.
* * *
Even though the sun was shining, there was a cold wind coming off the sea, the type that felt like it was blowing right through you. Master Alessandro greeted the woman selling vegetables and asked whether there had been frost in the night. She told him that it had not yet arrived, and if they were lucky they might be able to save the whole harvest this year. Alessandro blessed her and promised to buy some turnips from her the next time he came by.
He was taking his usual route along the
“I think that human beings should understand the works of the Creator. Only then can we truly understand ourselves,” said the beard-cutter. And when he talked like that, the boy knew that he had been lucky. One of the smartest men of his time had taken him under his wing. He would learn much, and one day he would also see for himself. Then he might understand more than what he could read in a book. Wasn’t that exactly what the beard-cutter had said? The reason they had sought out Master Alessandro was that this physician knew more than could be found in books. In any case, that was what was rumored. A rumor that could be dangerous for a man who lived outside the Republic of Venice, which included the city of Padua, with its famous school and its many doctors. In Venice and Padua the city air was freer than in most other places. The beard-cutter explained that autopsies here were regulated by law, and that each year male and female bodies were taken down from the gallows so that the most learned doctors could increase their knowledge of the internal organs of human beings. Venice was not afraid of the pope’s wrath. The city had felt it before and feared it no longer.
“Now,” said the beard-cutter, putting the last bite of bread in his mouth, “it’s time for us to get moving. The sun has reached the rooftops on the other side of the canal. It won’t be long before our good doctor goes out for his walk. Today we don’t want to miss that walk for anything in the world.”
* * *
The street urchin met them as they had previously agreed, by the bridge where they could see the front door of Master Alessandro’s house from across the canal. The plan was simple: When they saw him come out the door, the lad would run across the bridge toward the doctor while the beard-cutter and the boy would walk along the canal on the opposite bank toward the next bridge. There they hoped to meet again, and change the path of destiny.
* * *
Master Alessandro let his forefinger glide slowly and tenderly along the spines of the books he kept on the little shelf just inside the door of his library. The little shelf was reserved for Teobaldo’s handy little volumes. The rest of the library was filled with parchment rolls and large tomes that he had collected on his travels.
His finger stopped on a work by Plato, which, somewhat indelicately, had been dedicated to Pope Leo. But that might fit nowadays, he thought with black humor, letting his mind drift back to the house in Padua and the corpse that was supposed to be awaiting him there. If that laggard Pietro had done his job at the grave site outside town. But he could not count on it. He had long pondered finding a replacement for his servant Pietro. He made mistakes far too often. Pietro never got used to handling dead people and made mistakes, such as forgetting to tie them down on the cart. Eventually they would fall into the ditch and lose limbs during the transport. Or else he let himself be scared off by the watchmen in the cemetery and came back empty-handed the night after an execution. And he was no good with a knife, so he wasn’t much help during the dissections.
Master Alessandro tucked the book under his arm and left the library. For a moment he placed the book on a table by the door while he put on a voluminous burgundy velvet cape. It kept him warm in this autumn weather. Then he picked up the book to take along on his walk.
* * *
Even though the sun was shining, there was a cold wind coming off the sea, the type that felt like it was blowing right through you. Master Alessandro greeted the woman selling vegetables and asked whether there had been frost in the night. She told him that it had not yet arrived, and if they were lucky they might be able to save the whole harvest this year. Alessandro blessed her and promised to buy some turnips from her the next time he came by.
He was taking his usual route along the
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