Theresa was unable to finish the sentence, choked up by her own weeping. Gorgias took her hand in his and pulled it toward him approvingly. He tried to say something but instead coughed again and fell unconscious.
“He should rest now,” said the woman, delicately leading Theresa away. “And stop crying—those tears won’t solve anything.”
Theresa nodded. For a moment she thought about returning to her house to let her stepmother know, but she quickly ruled out the idea. She would tidy the workshop while they waited for the physician. When she knew the extent of the injuries, then she would tell Rutgarda.
With a bowl of oil, Korne set about filling the lamps. “If you only knew the number of times I’ve almost dipped some old bread in this oil,” the parchment-maker grumbled.
When he finished lighting the lamps, the room looked like a torch-lit cavern. Theresa started clearing up the morass of needles, knives, lunella mallets, parchments, and jars of glue strewn between the tables and frames. As usual, she divided the tools according to their purpose, and after carefully cleaning them, she placed them on their corresponding shelves. Then she went to her workbench to check her pounce box, polish levels, and to ensure all surfaces were clean. Having finished her tasks, she returned to her father’s side.
She did not know how long it was before the surgeon Zeno arrived. He was a grubby and disheveled man whose potent body odor was matched only by the fumes of cheap wine emanating from his breath. On his back, he carried a sack. And he appeared to be in a half stupor as he walked into the room without a greeting. With a quick look around, he went over to where Gorgias lay unconscious. Opening his bag, he pulled out a small metal saw, several knives, and a tiny box from which he took some needles and a roll of string. The surgeon placed the instruments on Gorgias’s stomach and asked for more light. He spat on his hands several times, paying particular attention to the blood dried to his fingernails, and then he grasped the saw firmly.
Theresa went pale as the little man positioned his instrument over Gorgias’s elbow, but mercifully he only used it to cut the tourniquet Korne had made. The blood started flowing again, but Zeno didn’t seem alarmed.
“Good job, though it was too tight,” said the surgeon. “Do you have any more strips of leather?”
Korne brought him a long one, which the physician grabbed without looking away from Gorgias. He knotted it expertly and began working on the wounded arm with the indifference of someone stuffing a pheasant.
“It’s the same every day,” he said without lifting his eyes from the wound. “Yesterday someone found old Marta on the low road with her guts cut open. And two days ago they found Siderico, the cooper, at the gate to his animal pen with his head bashed in. And for what? To steal God knows what from him? The poor wretch couldn’t even feed his children.”
Zeno seemed to know his trade well. He stitched flesh and sutured veins with the dexterity of a seamstress, spitting on the knife to keep it clean. He finished with the arm and moved on to the rest of the wounds, to which he applied a dark ointment that he took from a wooden bowl. Finally, he bandaged the limb in some linen rags that he declared to be newly washed, despite the visible stains.
“Well,” he said, wiping his hands on his chest, “all done. Take care of him, and in a couple of days—”
“Will he recover?” Theresa butted in.
“He might. Though, of course, he might not.”
The man roared with laughter, then rummaged in his sack until he found a vial containing a dark liquid. Theresa thought it might be some kind of tonic, but the physician uncorked it and took a long draft.
“By Saint Pancras! This liquor could revive a corpse. Would you like some?” the little man offered, waving the flask under Theresa’s nose.
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.