At their first meeting, Niccolo had represented himself to Savonarola as “passionately” interested in politics, but that passion was a youthful one, and more a delight in gamesmanship than anything else. It was the easy sophistry of the student who reveled in argument for its own sake—the more subtle, the better. As a result of his education, which placed a tremendous emphasis on rhetoric, the art of argumentation, Niccolo had become overly enamored of the thrill of verbal jousting. To present a devastating argument was the height of accomplishment. And what greater triumph of rhetoric was there than to then be able to turn the tables on that argument by successfully arguing the other side? Nec christianus, sed ciceronianus! Not a Christian but a Ciceronian is what he had been trained to be.
From Savonarola, Niccolo began to understand that the current political turmoil was more than just an exchange of rhetorical thunderbolts, that the struggle between the Medici and the people was more significant than that. Niccolo saw that the merits of one side were not always the same as those of the other, that, ultimately, one had to make a choice, and that this game of politics was not a superficial thing, but a matter of life and death. From Savonarola, Niccolo Machiavelli learned about something that had been hitherto lacking in his political education—fervor and commitment.
But notwithstanding his respect for the friar’s passionate defense of liberty, there were contradictions inherent in Savonarola’s approach to the present situation that continued to plague Niccolo. True, he had worked out a plan for the government of the city, a marvelous plan, detailed, well thought out, incorporating many bold and progressive measures. But what was he doing to bring that plan to fruition, to make it a reality? Was he lining up support, meeting with powerful and interested parties, attempting to piece together some sort of post-Medicean coalition? No! He was waiting!
The friar was preaching almost daily now in the cathedral to huge, frightened crowds. And every day, he hammered home the same message, simple, elegant, and final—“It is coming.” The many practical and strategic questions that Niccolo pressed upon him, urgent questions, he met with the same assurance, pronounced with the same eerie finality—“It is coming.”
Ruminating on these things, Niccolo entered the almost-deserted tavern, called for wine, and sat back, letting his eyes adjust to the blessed dimness of the place. He was tense. He had a toothache.
Gradually the wine did its work, relaxing him and dulling the throb in his jaw. Now, he felt like talking, like losing himself in distracting, irreverent conversation, but none of his regular companions seemed to be about. In fact, there were only two other patrons present besides himself, and he did not recognize either. Unless . . . unless . . . ? He had to squint to be sure, but it was him alright. Bedraggled, his feathers ruffled, his finery besmirched, besmeared, and befouled, there was still no mistaking that tasteless, unforgettable attire. It was the pink cavalier.
Since first seeing him in the company of the redoubtable walking lettuce, Niccolo had spotted this gaudy figure a number of times and had always been curious as to who he could be and what he was about. Judging from the condition of his clothing, he was having a run of bad luck. Judging from the bruises on his face and around his eyes, he had taken a beating. Niccolo approached him: “You’re not drinking?”
“Caccasangue!” he spit out in anger. “Shit and blood! The bastards took my money, and this sodden tavern keeper refuses to extend me credit!” Niccolo noted with surprise that he swore like a Florentine, but spoke with an obvious French accent.
“Don’t I look a gentleman?” he continued. “Don’t I look like a man of parts, capable of discharging my debts honestly? Caccasangue!”
Mud-stained and bloody as he was, he emphatically did not look like one who settled his debts in a timely and orderly fashion. Niccolo stifled a comment to that effect and sought to calm him. “The tavern keeper is suspicious by nature, and business is bad for him now. He’s adverse to taking risks. Besides, he doesn’t know you . . . But, if you will allow me to join you, I believe I can offer you something in the way of a restorative.”
“I would be eternally in your debt,” the cavalier replied in an oily, polite voice, his indignation vanishing as quickly as it had arisen.
Niccolo introduced himself, “And your name?” he inquired.
“Callimaque,” announced the other man with a flourish.
“Ah, then you are French as I suspected,” said Niccolo. “From what city, may I ask?”
My dear man, as you and all the world knows, there is only one city in France. Need I elaborate?”
“Petulant,” thought Niccolo, “and as pompous as his pink sartorial splendor would lead you to believe.” But he saw the hole in the Frenchman’s armor: “Tell me now, in Paris is it the fashion to curse in Florentine when one is aroused? Have the French, in fits of anger, taken to hurling violent, bloody imprecations like ours, ‘Caccasangue!’ for example?”
Monsieur Callimaque, the rose-colored “Frenchman,” eyed Niccolo warily, sizing him up as an opponent. Then his face broke into a broad grin. He shook his head and lifted his cup to Niccolo, acknowledging that he had been bested and his charade discovered.
“One always curses in one’s native language,” said Niccolo firmly. “Shall we make the toast to Signor Callimaco, then?”
“Done! To Callimaco Guadagni, Florentine! And to Signor Niccolo,” added the other, dropping the French accent. “A man who is no fool and apparently does not suffer fools gladly.” They both drank.
“Why the French accent, then?” Niccolo wanted to know. “And the . . .” he made a sweeping gesture with his hand, “the regalia?”
“Business purposes,” declared Callimaco.
“And, Lord, what a business it must be,” thought Niccolo, eyeing the stained pink silk mantle embroidered with flowers. Niccolo also recalled that nearly every time he had seen the mysterious Callimaco, the latter had been in the company of a well-to-do, if less than handsome lady.
“May I inquire as to the nature of that business?” said Niccolo. “I surmise that you provide certain ‘services’ for ladies of distinction.”
“Services indeed! I know what you’re implying! That I’m a hired man, a paid performer, a gigolo! Or worse, a ruffian! A procurer! Oh, Niccolo, no! This time you’ve guessed wrong.” He crossed his arms and acted offended. “I’m a professional man,” he huffed.
“Alright, I’m sorry. So what profession do you exercise?”
“If you had not jumped to your vile, unforgivable conclusions, I would have already told you. I am, in the most general sense, a man of science, a medical man.”
“Then you’ll pardon my observing that you are not exactly dressed like a medical man—sober black gown, square hat?”
“For the present, my practice has, shall we say, gone off in bold new directions. For example, I have been able to concoct certain medicinal preparations much prized by the good ladies of this city.”
“And what sort of medicinal preparations are these?” asked Niccolo.
“My most popular item has been a solution for bleaching the hair blond. It seems to sell very well here in this city of raven-haired beauties.”
“Cosmetics,” said Niccolo, obviously amused. “That’s what you do, sell cosmetics? You dress like that and purse your lips like a Frenchman to sell cosmetics?”
“You scoff, but it’s very effective, this attire,” Callimaco explained, “Women here are willing to pay twice as much for exotic French preparations. Blond hair from a French jar, to them, is more shimmering, more luxurious, more beautiful, and more enviable. I give them the opportunity to indulge themselves.”
“And you profit accordingly,” Niccolo pointed out. “So you’re not really a medical man, then, in the generally accepted sense of the word?”
“I beg your pardon!” the indignation was back. “I’ve studied at the University in Paris and am a doctor of medicine!
“You did? You are?” Niccolo was genuinely surprised.
/> “Indeed. As you so deftly pointed out, my native tongue is Florentine. I was born here, but my family removed to Paris when I was two or three years old. Political problems, like everyone else. I was raised in Paris, and, eventually, took a baccalaureate in medicine at the Sorbonne. That is the truth.”
“Why come back here, then, Dottore? Aren’t there any sick people in Paris?”
“Oh, more and sicker than you can ever imagine. Foul air and dirty water see to that. But with my studies complete, and my parents dead, there was nothing to hold me in France. I wanted to see the world and what better place to start than the land of my birth?”
“So here you are in the land of your birth, an accomplished man, a doctor of medicine. Then why in heaven’s name are you peddling hair coloring?”
“Bad luck and hard necessity. I applied for a license to practice medicine and membership in the guild. But with no one to sponsor me and not enough money to ease my petition along, there were delays. In the meantime, I had to eat. I treated a few patients—and did a superb job, I’m no charlatan—but the guild found out. There were heavy fines and a lot of righteous posturing by greedy old men! Pompous assholes! This would not look good, not at all, this would not advance my cause, this was a matter of grave concern.
“So here I am, reduced by circumstances to a cruel fate, mixing cosmetics and hawking my concoctions to the vainglorious and usually ugly daughters of Florence.”
“It could be worse,” said Niccolo philosophically.
“It is worse,” he indicated his torn clothing and his bruises.
“You do seem to have been badly used. What happened?”
“A misunderstanding, that’s all,” It was clear that Callimaco did not want to discuss it, and Niccolo probed no further. They drank for a while in silence, Niccolo idly running his tongue back and forth over the tooth that was giving him trouble.
“Hey, medical man,” he said suddenly, “what do you know about toothaches?”
“The tooth?” said Callimaco coming alive. “I know everything there is to know about the tooth, the jaw, the mouth, the tongue! You have a toothache?”
“For days now, it won’t go away.”
“Then I shall treat it. You have nothing to worry about. But first my fee, another round of this bracing red!”
Callimaco was brimming with goodwill and excitement. “In an hour’s time,” he said, “You will forget that tooth ever existed.”
A horrifying thought struck Niccolo. He was almost afraid to ask. “You’re not talking about an extraction, are you?” he said hesitantly.
“Of course not! That procedure we use for only the most dire sort of emergency. No, I have a salve of my own invention that works miracles! Draws out the pain, no matter how severe, no matter how rotted the tooth.”
Here, he drew Niccolo close to him and in confidential tones whispered, “Do you know what the active ingredient is? The secret ingredient? Come now, you’re an enlightened soul, you understand these sorts of things. Let me tell you. A white dog turd—dried and crushed!”
A wave of revulsion crossed Niccolo’s face. “You intend to put that in my mouth!”
“If I hadn’t told you, you would never have known. Be brave now. And don’t worry, you won’t taste anything. I assure you. There’s oil and mint mixed in to make it pleasant-tasting, like a confection or a digestive pastille.”
With Callimaco’s coaxing, Niccolo gradually submitted to the idea. And while he didn’t really want to dwell on it, he was curious about one detail. “Why a white dog’s turd?”
“You’re not listening,” said the medical man. “I didn’t say a white dog’s turd, but a white dog turd. You, as a grammarian should be more sensitive to the nuances of your native tongue.” He obviously enjoyed needling his new patient.
“In other words,” the doctor continued, “it is a question not of the turd of a white dog, which in most cases would be brown, but of a dog turd that is white in color, regardless of the color of the dog. And do you know how to produce a white dog turd?”
Niccolo pleaded blissful ignorance as to this esoteric procedure.
“It’s all in the diet,” said Callimaco, eager to display the extent of his scientific knowledge. “If you feed a dog nothing but bones, after a few weeks, voila—white turds. Dry, chalky, and for some reason, supremely efficacious against maladies of the tooth and gums.” He clapped Niccolo on the back. “Let’s go then. And don’t worry. You can trust me!” Niccolo took a few more gulps to steel himself for the coming ordeal.
As they passed out into the street, Niccolo noted that a diminutive hunchback had fallen asleep on the pavement, propped against the tavern wall. Callimaco too, spotted the small sleeping form. With a few quick steps, the eminent man of modern science stole over to his side. He brushed his fingertips back and forth carefully across the hump and looked up tremendously pleased with himself. Beaming, he mouthed the words to Niccolo—“Porta fortuna! It brings good luck!”
“Oh, God,” thought Niccolo, “what have I gotten myself into?”
They did not have far to go to Callimaco’s bottega, which was in the same neighborhood as the tavern. This location did not inspire confidence. “Down here,” said Callimaco, eager and solicitous. He led the way into a dark, narrow street that was more a tunnel than a public thoroughfare. Niccolo knew this was not the quarter where doctors maintained their studios and apothecaries. Murkier trades were plied here. Zodiacal signs adorned many of the doorways—astrologers! Acrid smoke and strange odors announced the presence of alchemists.
Callimaco sensed his apprehension. “Oh, don’t worry about the surroundings,” he said brightly. “I told you I was short on funds when I set up shop.” They passed through a doorway, down several steps, and into a dank corridor. There was a musty, rotten smell in the air. At the end of the long hallway, across a littered courtyard, they began their climb. They were both a little winded when they finally reached the landing where the staircase ended, six stories above street level. “My study,” announced Callimaco proudly from behind Niccolo, who had preceded him up the stairs.
Since Niccolo was the first to obtain the landing, he was the first to see it. “It seems someone has returned your hat,” he said.
“Thank God,” said Callimaco, bounding up the last few steps, but his mouth dropped open when he saw his once-glorious headgear fastened to the door with three heavy, iron nails and a dagger in the center.
“I wonder, is somebody trying to tell you something?” said Niccolo.
“A practical joke,” said Callimaco with a sheepish smile. “They do things like this all the time around here.” Ignoring his crucified hat, Callimaco pushed the door open and ushered Niccolo into his chambers. After their labors in the damp, gloomy stairway, Niccolo was surprised to find the room flooded with light. They were just under the roof, where a high, gabled ceiling sloped down on all sides. Motes of dust danced in the shafts of sunlight that poured down through large windows cut high up in the walls. Niccolo heard his friend barring the door behind them.
When his attention settled to ground level, he saw everywhere an unlimited profusion of junk, a welter of tools and instruments, flasks, coils, and distillation apparatus. The walls were lined with row upon row of shelves packed with multicolored vials and jars and earthenware containers and pots and cauldrons. There was a huge fireplace crowded with more equipment. There were tables piled high with books and littered with charts and drawings. Niccolo noticed bones that appeared to be human. It looked like a sorcerer’s workshop from the dark ages. It looked like the laboratory where Doctor Faustus would one day sell his soul to the devil.
Callimaco had gone over to a corner where several low pens were built against the wall. The yapping of small dogs could be heard from that direction. Niccolo eventually followed. Peering down, he saw a lively black terrier springing up and down into the air and against the side of his enclosure on stiff little legs. Man’s best friend and, no doubt, Callimaco’s fantastic
machine for the production of dental remedies.
“See,” said the physician, pointing to the evidence, “didn’t I tell you?” On the floor of the pen, under the excited, jumping animal were scattered the raw material—mostly chicken bones—and the end product—the desiccated, chalky little balls of “secret ingredient.”
Mercifully for Niccolo, who had a weak stomach, Callimaco had already prepared a sufficient quantity of the balm in advance, and so his patient was spared the ordeal of its step-by-step concoction. The doctor rummaged through his collection of dusty, unlabeled jars, muttering to himself until he found the right one. He opened it and sniffed to make sure.
“Here it is, Niccolo. Now, please be seated,” he said dragging a chair into the sunlight. “Right here,” he said positioning his patient so that the direct rays fell upon his upraised head. “Now open your mouth, and let me have a look.”
Niccolo opened hesitantly and the doctor peered in. As he proceeded with his examination, Niccolo began to feel more confident. There was something reassuring about the way this man’s quick but firm fingers moved about his mouth.
While the doctor was thus absorbed in Niccolo’s teeth, Niccolo studied his new friend’s face. It was rare that a face came this close to his own without the express intention of kissing or being kissed. It was rare to see this close up a face that needed shaving. And, Niccolo noted, Callimaco’s stringy brown hair needed combing. But the blackened, puffy left eye, the broken lip, and the bruises across his cheek and chin did not altogether hide a handsome and well-proportioned set of features. There was intelligence in his dark eyes, and, for the moment, a look of considered concentration that betokened professional understanding and concern. “Maybe he does know what he’s doing,” thought Niccolo.
Machiavelli: The Novel Page 21
