The Scribe(29)
Gorgias obeyed.
As he removed the cloth, he could make out they were standing in what once must have been an armory. He saw bare walls of stone blocks arranged in neat lines, the order broken only by an alabaster window, a weak glow filtering through it. On the main wall, carved into the ashlars, he noticed the remnants of a crucifix, which seemed to be watching over the great four-poster bed. Wilfred lay among plump cushions, breathing with difficulty as though an intolerable weight bore down on his chest. This had the effect of transforming his face into a bloated mask. To his left were a side table with the remains of his breakfast and a chest holding a pair of chasubles with a coarse woolen habit lying on top. On the other side of the room Gorgias saw a clean chamber pot, a table, writing instruments, and a small alcove carved into the stone. There was no other furniture adorning the chamber. Only a single flimsy chair at the foot of the bed.
He was surprised not to see a single codex, or even a copy of the Bible. However, as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he could make out another room: Wilfred’s private scriptorium.
Some menacing growls suddenly made Gorgias take a step back.
“Do not be alarmed,” said the count with a smile. “The poor dogs are a little restless, but they aren’t dangerous. Come and make yourself comfortable.”
Before accepting his invitation, Gorgias made sure that the animals were tied to Wilfred’s wheeled contraption. He also noticed that Genseric had left the room.
“So tell me the reason for this summons,” said Gorgias, his eyes still fixed on the dogs.
“In fact it is you who must talk to me. It has been six days since we spoke and I haven’t heard anything of your progress. Have you brought the parchment?”
“My Lord, I am not sure where to start!” he sputtered. “The truth is I must confess a matter that troubles me. Do you remember the problem with the ink?”
“Not exactly. Something to do with its fluidity?”
“That’s right. As I said, the pens I have do not retain ink for very long. The excess flow causes splattering and sometimes leaves big trails of ink. Hence, I attempted to make a new mixture to solve the problem.”
“Yes, I vaguely remember now. So?”
“After several days of reflection, I decided to test my theory last night. I charred a bit of walnut shell, which I added to the ink, and I mixed it with a drop of oil to thicken it. I also tried it with ash, a little tallow, and a pinch of alum. Naturally, before using it, I tested the mixture on a different parchment.”
“Of course,” the count said.
“Straightaway I noticed that the pen slid across the parchment as if floating on a pool of oil. The letters appeared bright and silky before my eyes, as smooth as a young girl’s skin, and jet black. But, on the document, as I went back over the uncial letters, I had the accident.”
“Accident? What accident?”
“These letters, the uncials, required a finish in accord with the importance of the document. I had to retouch them to ensure clean and well-defined edges. Unfortunately this process must take place before the final layer of pounce is applied.”
“For the love of God! Stop beating about the bush and explain to me what has happened!”
Gorgias grimaced. The moment had come to fabricate some kind of mistake that would explain why he didn’t have the document ready.
“I am sorry. I have no excuse for my ineptitude. The truth is that, through lack of sleep, I forgot that I had applied the pounce a few days earlier. The powder waterproofed the surface, and when I went back over the capital letters—”
“What?”
“Well, the whole thing was ruined. The whole damned document went to hell!”
“By God Almighty! But didn’t you say you had resolved the problem?” asked Wilfred, making as if to get up.
“I was so pleased with my solution that I didn’t notice the gypsum,” he explained. “Because the pounce had covered the pores, the material could not absorb the ink, which spread to the point of ruining the entire parchment.”
“This cannot be,” Wilfred responded in disbelief. “And what about a palimpsest? Did you not prepare a palimpsest?”
“I could attempt it, but if I were to scrape the skin, it would make marks that would reveal the nature of the repair, and that of course would be unacceptable for this particular manuscript.”
“Show me the document. What are you waiting for? Show it to me!” he screamed.
Gorgias clumsily produced a piece of crumpled parchment, which he held out to Wilfred. But before the count grasped it, Gorgias took a few steps back and tore it into pieces.
The horrified count thrashed about as though on fire. “Have you lost your mind!”
“I can see that you haven’t fully understood,” responded Gorgias in desperation. “It’s ruined, don’t you see? Ruined!”
Wilfred let out a guttural sound, his face contorted by rage. From the bed he tried to collect the pieces of parchment scattered over the rug, but in doing so he lost his balance and fell. Fortunately, Gorgias managed to catch him before he landed on the floor.
“Let go of me! Do you think the fact I don’t have legs makes me a useless fool like you? Get your filthy hands off me, you damned squanderer!” he roared.
“Please try to calm down, Your Grace. That document is lost, but I am already working on a new parchment.”