Martin Seay - The Mirror Thief

Crivano manages a sour smile. He presses a knuckle to the cucurbit’s warm glass, then withdraws it. Lowering his eyes, he scans the assemblies of vessels and devices, the use-disordered rows of chemicals and herbs. Though his limbs remain still, his muscles flex and extend, recalling the automatic gestures of a working magus. To open a window onto a world of ideal forms, to know the mind of God: these are the goals of his art. But Crivano is surprised at how many of his fond memories of the laboratory are bodily — akin to his recollections of janissary calisthenics, or of kick-ball games he learned as a boy. The rules were arbitrary; you practiced until you moved without thought. Those were ideal worlds, too, weren’t they?

I’ve been thinking of your mirrored alembic, Crivano says. And also of a passage in the Corpus Hermeticum that the Nolan saw fit to cite, about the instance of reflection that induces Man to descend from Heaven and inhabit the Earth. He looks down; He sees His own perfect shape reflected in Her waters. So arises our double nature: mortal flesh, housing immortal souls.

Tristão nods, but seems distracted. He reaches for the water-pitcher and empties it into the chamberpot, rinsing the wooden rod and the long spoon as he pours. When the water is gone, he sets the pitcher on the counter. Then he lifts the chamberpot, swirling it in his right hand.

Indeed, he says. But here we should be cautious. Often we are told, and rightly so, that we can know God by knowing ourselves, for we are made in His image. We are not base, it is said, but divine. Yet this, perhaps, is saying too much. For even in our baseness — in our excrement — we might discern the work of our Creator.

All things come from God, Crivano says. Even shit can be sublimed.

But should it be?

Tristão fixes Crivano with a fierce glare. Then he steps to the windows, and with a smooth sudden motion slings the chamberpot’s contents into the canal below. The liquid strikes the surface with a weak slap.

Should it be sublimed? Tristão says. Should it be transcended? When we seek to do this, is our desire truly to know God? Or is it to know that God truly is as we always have imagined him: the perfect distillate of our corrupt selves? So — we are made in the image of God. Have we considered what this might mean? Innumerable are the egos in man , Paracelsus writes, and in him are angels and devils, heaven and hell . Perhaps God too is like this. Pure and impure. Is it so difficult to imagine? A God of flesh and bone? A God that shits?

His voice chokes off, as if overwhelmed by some passion: rage, sorrow, Crivano can’t guess which. Tristão drifts away, toward his own approaching form in the mirror-talisman; the image of his torso gradually fills the glass. With the silver window eclipsed the room seems to grow smaller; Crivano shuffles his feet to keep his balance.

I want to know, Tristão says, how God is unlike us. I want to know how our eyes become traitors. To know what they refuse to see. I no longer seek to transcend, nor even to understand. I want only to dirty my hands. To smell. To feel. Like a child who plays with mud. I believe the key is here—

His fingers brush the flat glass before him; they’re met by fingers from the opposite side.

— but not in the way that others have said. The Nolan warned us of this. Do you remember? He said the image in the mirror is like the image in a dream: only fools and infants mistake it for the true likeness of the world, but likewise it is foolish to ignore what it shows us. Therein lies the danger. Do we look upon these reflections without delusion, like bold Actaeon? Or, like Narcissus, do we see only what we wish to see? How can we be certain? With love in our hearts, we creep toward each shining surface, but we are all haunted, always, by ourselves.

Tristão raises his other hand to the braided-glass border of the mirror. Then he lifts it from its easel and turns, bearing it before him like a platter. Crivano glimpses the top of his own head just inside its frame; he backs away in alarm.

I would like you to have this, Tristão says.

Crivano grimaces. No, he says. You are — you are far too generous, my friend. You paid so much.

I have no further use for it. I needed it to arrange my mind for the challenges I am soon to face, but now I am ready. And I cannot travel with it. Our passage through the Alps is it certain to result in its breakage. And if someone were to find it — the risk is too great, you see. Shipboard, however, it may travel safely. Take it, Vettor. Or tomorrow night I must cast it into the lagoon.

The talisman’s tilting plane catches the cracked stucco of the ceiling; the cracks sweep and jerk across its surface. Crivano shuts his eyes and pictures the strongbox of coins that paid for it: the bend in the drunken gondoliers’ oar. Very well, he says. I thank you.

He makes no move to take it. Tristão holds it, a bemused look on his face, then sets it on the countertop. The mirror’s retreat feels like the snuffing of a light, the closing of a door: Crivano is both relieved and diminished by its departure. I shall have this wrapped securely for you, Tristão says.

Yes, Crivano whispers. You’re very kind.

Are you all right, my friend?

Crivano’s arms shiver, as if he’s cold, though he is not cold. He sighs. I’m quite tired, he says. I should rest.

That is wise. Tomorrow will be difficult. And the many days to follow.

I would like to see Perina.

The words rise to Crivano’s throat with the timbre of a challenge — which, he supposes, they are. He and Tristão watch each other in the darkening room. Firelight glints in their eyes. Their shadows move with the wind.

No doubt she is eager for your visit, Tristão says. She has been concerned for your well-being, but unwilling to disturb your sleep.

If Tristão knows the rest — the last secret, the one that would unravel Crivano completely — he gives no sign. Perhaps he has judged Crivano unraveled enough.

You will find her in the room beside your own, Tristão says. Go to her now, my friend. Then sleep. Sleep soundly, with all my gratitude.

Crivano nods. He raises his left hand in salute, and turns toward the exit.

Tristão’s voice comes again as he opens the door. Oh, Vettor, it calls. I took the liberty of extracting a tincture from your henbane.

Crivano stops, half-turned in the doorframe. My henbane, he says.

Yes. In your box of physic you had a very large quantity of what appeared to be biennial henbane. An alarming quantity. I think it is better not to travel with so great a measure of the raw plant, so I have made from it a tincture, which will be much easier to transport. When the extraction is complete, I will bottle it and put it among your things.

My things?

Your box of physic. Also, your trunk. If you need them, you will find them in the storeroom below. If you like, I can have them brought to your room.

A fresh chill settles on Crivano’s neck. When did my things arrive? he says.

I cannot be certain. A footman found them inside the water-gate last night, just after sundown. I assumed that you had them sent.

Crivano’s brow furrows, but the muscles of his face are too weak to hold the expression. Instead he smiles: an airy drunken smile, with no mirth in it. Yes, he says. Yes, I suppose I did.

In the darkening kitchen Crivano finds a tallow candle, lights it with a brand from the hearth: the mutton-fat smokes and sputters as a glow fills the room. The cheese and bread and apples the Jewess set out are greatly diminished; Obizzo must have eaten and retired. A pile of iron filings still blots the tabletop, casting a small shadow on the wood.

Three soft knocks bring Perina’s voice from behind her door: a vague sound, either an invitation to enter or a request to keep out. Crivano tries the latch. The portal swings open.