canal and over the bridge to Piazza San Marco. But he had not even come to the bridge when it happened. A little street urchin who barely came up to the belt on his cloak popped out of nowhere. Alessandro had no time to tighten his grip before the lad grabbed the book out of his hands. Then something odd happened. Instead of turning and vanishing in the crowd, the lad stood still in front of him for a couple of seconds. Alessandro was just about to reach out and grab him when he took off at a run.
Master Alessandro was beside himself. One of these little scamps had made off with his coin purse more than once. Here in Venice he never carried more in his purse than he could afford to lose. But this was a book he had lost, and that was quite a different matter. A book, even one of Manutius’s small ones with the velour spines, was irreplaceable, even sacrosanct. One did not steal a book.
Alessandro was not used to running, but now he ran. He set off after the lad as though a wild beast had been awakened inside him. At the same time he bellowed, “Stop thief!”
A couple of men who were fishing in the canal reacted, but too late. The lad slipped away as they reached out to seize him. Soon he was across the bridge.
On the other side of the canal two people were walking along. A tall man with a big black beard in an expensive but well-worn cloak and a boy of about eleven or twelve. As the man spied the urchin who came running and heard Master Alessandro’s wild howls, he lunged and grabbed the thief by the arm. Then he pulled the book from his hands. The little devil wriggled from the beard-cutter’s grip and got away. But the man was left holding the book. Master Alessandro thought that the lad had escaped rather easily, but he thought no more about it as he went jogging across the bridge to thank the man. The most important thing was that the book was in good hands.
“I presume that this belongs to you?” said the man as Alessandro approached. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Olav the beard-cutter. I come from a land far to the north, and I am a master with my knives. The boy here is named Johannes. He is my apprentice. And to whom do I have the pleasure of offering my hand on this fine, sunny day?”
“Alessandro,” replied the physician, curious. “Tell me, Olav the beard-cutter, you have clearly left your own beard alone, but can you cut other things than beards?”
“There are many ways I can use my knives,” replied the beard-cutter.
PART II
Palimpsest
The center of the universe is everywhere and its circumference nowhere.
— J OHANNES THE P RIEST, CA. 1550
13
Trondheim, September 2010
Each morning was like waking up after an operation. At first everything was a fog. Or maybe like a viscous sea, where everything was white and still. The landscape of death. Then things grew a little sharper. The lamp with the floral shade, hanging from the ceiling but not switched on, the nightstand with a stack of Missing Persons magazines and a nonfiction book written by a Swedish police officer. On top of the stack lay the cell phone. Odd Singsaker hated it, just as he did everything on which he was dependent. But when it lay quite still and motionless, as it did now, it didn’t bother him much.
Before the brain tumor, he always used to start his day with a shot of Rød Aalborg aquavit. It had to be at room temperature to get the most out of the spicy flavoring. After the operation, when he was declared healthy again, he had increased his morning dose to two shots. He still liked to drink his aquavit the Danish way, with herring and rye bread. Singsaker thought it was an excellent way to start the day. The water of life and the silver of the sea. Today he was supposed to return to his job as chief inspector at Trondheim police headquarters. But the bottle of aquavit was empty, the last pieces of herring were resting dully at the bottom of the jar, and the rye bread had gone stale. If he were still on
Master Alessandro was beside himself. One of these little scamps had made off with his coin purse more than once. Here in Venice he never carried more in his purse than he could afford to lose. But this was a book he had lost, and that was quite a different matter. A book, even one of Manutius’s small ones with the velour spines, was irreplaceable, even sacrosanct. One did not steal a book.
Alessandro was not used to running, but now he ran. He set off after the lad as though a wild beast had been awakened inside him. At the same time he bellowed, “Stop thief!”
A couple of men who were fishing in the canal reacted, but too late. The lad slipped away as they reached out to seize him. Soon he was across the bridge.
On the other side of the canal two people were walking along. A tall man with a big black beard in an expensive but well-worn cloak and a boy of about eleven or twelve. As the man spied the urchin who came running and heard Master Alessandro’s wild howls, he lunged and grabbed the thief by the arm. Then he pulled the book from his hands. The little devil wriggled from the beard-cutter’s grip and got away. But the man was left holding the book. Master Alessandro thought that the lad had escaped rather easily, but he thought no more about it as he went jogging across the bridge to thank the man. The most important thing was that the book was in good hands.
“I presume that this belongs to you?” said the man as Alessandro approached. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Olav the beard-cutter. I come from a land far to the north, and I am a master with my knives. The boy here is named Johannes. He is my apprentice. And to whom do I have the pleasure of offering my hand on this fine, sunny day?”
“Alessandro,” replied the physician, curious. “Tell me, Olav the beard-cutter, you have clearly left your own beard alone, but can you cut other things than beards?”
“There are many ways I can use my knives,” replied the beard-cutter.
PART II
Palimpsest
The center of the universe is everywhere and its circumference nowhere.
— J OHANNES THE P RIEST, CA. 1550
13
Trondheim, September 2010
Each morning was like waking up after an operation. At first everything was a fog. Or maybe like a viscous sea, where everything was white and still. The landscape of death. Then things grew a little sharper. The lamp with the floral shade, hanging from the ceiling but not switched on, the nightstand with a stack of Missing Persons magazines and a nonfiction book written by a Swedish police officer. On top of the stack lay the cell phone. Odd Singsaker hated it, just as he did everything on which he was dependent. But when it lay quite still and motionless, as it did now, it didn’t bother him much.
Before the brain tumor, he always used to start his day with a shot of Rød Aalborg aquavit. It had to be at room temperature to get the most out of the spicy flavoring. After the operation, when he was declared healthy again, he had increased his morning dose to two shots. He still liked to drink his aquavit the Danish way, with herring and rye bread. Singsaker thought it was an excellent way to start the day. The water of life and the silver of the sea. Today he was supposed to return to his job as chief inspector at Trondheim police headquarters. But the bottle of aquavit was empty, the last pieces of herring were resting dully at the bottom of the jar, and the rye bread had gone stale. If he were still on
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