The Lens and the Looker (Book #1 of The Verona Trilogy) Read online

"Right in front of your eyes. Due, tre, quattro," he said pointing to pots with Roman numerals on them. Then the enactor Master paused. He clapped his hands and held them together in an act of contrition. "Oh, I'm-a so sorry, Romero. I thought . . . But of course, you cannot read numbers. Don't a-feel bad, Romero. You just came to the bigga city from the country. Soon we all sit down and I teach you your numbers."

  "You'll teach me to read numbers?" Hansum said, somewhat flustered. "I can read numbers, just not this type. And I can read words too." Lincoln couldn't help smile a little. 'Hansum doesn't looks so smart now,' he thought.

  "Ha!" the Master laughed. "Romero, don't feel bad and don't tell una fib grande. We gonna be friends we always tell-a the truth. You read? Come on, I hardly read. We're craftsmen. Why we need to read? But we do need to know a few numbers. Don't worry. I teach you soon."

  Lincoln watched Hansum pause, smile a bit, then sigh. "Sorry, Master Cagliari. Whatever you say. So, this is number two, this is number three and this is number four." Now Lincoln began to admire how cool Hansum was keeping as he realized, 'He's settin' this guy up good.'

  "Good boy, Romero," the Master said. "See, it's best when we do like God wants and be honest Christians. True, eh Maruccio?"

  "It's all number two to me," he responded, smiling.

  The Master held the pot marked II in front of the boys.

  "Here, feel it." Both took a pinch of the contents between their fingers. "Now try il numero tre. Number three." Lincoln almost dropped the first grit absent-mindedly to the ground but made a show of putting it back in the pot. The Master smiled. They both tested numbers three and four. Number three was a much finer grit. Pot number four's grit was almost like powder. "We take the pots over to the lathe, and this mixing bowl, a measure cup and a brush too. Romero, don't forget that brass bowl." They carried the items to the little table by the lathe. "Good, now let's get busy. Maruccio, take this mixing bowl and put three little cup of warm water in it." Lincoln went over to the fireplace and measured out water from the cauldron over the fire.

  "It's ouchie," he warned as he handed it back.

  The enactor winked as he took the supplies. Then he scooped out a cup of the number two grit. "I pour it in the water and mix it up with the brush till it's a paste." He stirred it for the better part of a minute. "Now, I paint it on the glass. There. Nice and thick. Good. Romero, give me the brass bowl. Grazie. See how the bottom of the bowl is round. That is the exact shape of the lens we want. Now we take the bowl and put it over the glass and start the lathe." His arms tensed noticeably as he leaned his whole body onto the spinning disc. As the harsh scraping lessened, he removed the bowl, applied the pasty grit to the glass again and repeated the process several more times. This done, he wiped the glass with a rag. It was still not clear, but there was a further reduction of the glass and it was more in the shape of a finished lens. "Maruccio, wash out the brass bowl, the mixing bowl and the measure cup. Then we do the number three grit."

  Though Lincoln was loathe to admit it, he was quite impressed. He said, joking, "Yes Master," and saluted. While he was at the barrel he heard the Master ask Hansum, "Eh, Romero. You think you could work the lathe one day?"

  "Sure. It doesn't look that hard. But I can see it takes practice."

  "Oh yes, lots of practice. But I think you smart enough."

  Lincoln was back at the lathe with the washed tools. "I can work the lathe too," he said.

  "Of course you will, Maruccio. One day," the Master said. "But you are too small now. You need more weight and muscle first. Maybe in a year. You be a good assistant for now, cleaning tools and handing them to us while we work. We must work as a team to make many lenses."

  "That's not fair," Lincoln complained.

  The Master took the bowls and inspected them. He made a tisking sound and pulled out some of the old grit, holding it under Lincoln's nose. "Maruccio, I told you to make sure there was no old grit in the bowls. We only want the finer grit to touch the glass now. If you want to work the lathe some day, you must do things precisely, for lenses are precise things. Wash them again," he said somewhat curtly. When he returned, the Master reinspected them. With a little nod of approval, but no words of praise, he repeated the process of brushing and grinding with the number three and then number four grit. "For number four I put in a little less grit so is more watery," the Master said, mixing the new paste. "And I press on the bowl a little less hard. I let the grit and the lathe do the work now." After half a dozen applications, the Master took the wet rag and wiped the lens again. "Good."

  "But it's not like the lens we saw when we came in," Hansum said.

  "Yeah. It's not clear. It's still got like tiny, tiny scratches all over it," Lincoln observed.

  "Oh, she's no finished yet. That was just the grinding. Now we do the polishing."

  "All that work for a little piece of glass?" Lincoln questioned.

  "Come," the Master said, cheerily. "We clean up the grinding equipment and get the polishing tools ready."

  The small table by the lathe was cleared and jars, bowls, brushes, files and rags were returned to the wooden bench. The Master moved everything back into a neat order, exactly as it had been when they arrived. Turning back to the lathe, he said, "And we clean up the lathe too." The machine was covered with glass shards and grit.

  Chapter 9

  'All this work for one small lens. Ridiculous,' Lincoln thought.

  The Master took a small straw whisk and brushed the mess off of the lathe and onto the floor. He told Hansum to get the larger straw broom from the corner and sweep up the mess into a pile.

  "I can sweep," Lincoln offered.

  "No, it's okay. You help me." The Master had Lincoln help him carry over a different brass bowl, another mixing bowl, a much smaller measuring cup and a pot. "What you notice is different about this brass bowl, eh Maruccio?"

  Lincoln inspected it. "Oh, it's got that sticky stuff at the bottom of it."

  "And what's that stuff called?" the Master asked.

  "Oh, uh . . ."

  " Mastic," Hansum said offhandedly while he swept.

  "I was just gonna say that!" Lincoln flashed.

  "It's all right, Maruccio," the enactor said. "This is all very much to learn the first morning. Patience. Maruccio, get that little shovel and help Romero pick up the dirt from the floor. Put it in the dust bin."

  Lincoln made a face and got the ash shovel. As he leaned down to hold it for Hansum, he said, "I knew it was mastic."

  "Sorry, man. But be cool. Can't you tell? He's trying to play us against each other."

  "I would concur," Pan whispered. "Remember, you are both on the same team."

  "Oh," Lincoln said.

  "You are playing along wonderfully, Master Hansum. Master Lincoln, follow his lead."

  "We get back to work now," the Master called. "I want at least one lens made before dinner. I usually have five or six done by now."

  With the workplace cleaned, the polishing began. Master Cagliari gave the mixing bowl and a tiny wooden cup to Hansum. "Put eight little cups of clean, hot water into this bowl." When Hansum handed the bowl and cup back, the Master took the cup and filled it with a dark red, almost brown powder. "No use the grit brush. We use a very clean blush brush. The powder is called ossido del ferro. Iron oxide, like rust. You know what rust is, eh? She's beaten into a powder, very, very fine." The Master then liberally brushed on the thin paste to the glass. "Now, look at the bottom of the bowl. See the sticky stuff all over the walls of the bowl? What's that called again, Maruccio?"

  "Mastic," Lincoln said quickly.

  "Si. Good, good. The mastic she holds in place the tiny little bits of iron so they don't roll around like the grit. Now, Romero, get lotsa paste on the brush and when I take the bowl off the glass, you paint on more. Quickly. Rapidamente. We do this three, maybe four times. Rapidamente. Okay?" The enactor moved the cord so it wrapped around the largest groove of the spindle. Hansum took the bowl and brush and stood
at the ready next to the Master, stirring it continually as he watched.

  "What should I do?" Lincoln asked.

  "You keep you big ears open and your little mouth shut," the Master answered as he began pedaling. "You learn! Capiska? Understand!" The mastic-lined bowl came into contact with the lens. Since the mastic was still hard, there was a slight jerking and the spindle wanted to slow. Zzzzzziip, zzzzzzzipp, zzzzzzziip, went the lathe. You could see the tension in the enactor's arms as he held the bowl in place, struggling to keep it from moving the slightest fraction. Then he slowed his pedaling and pulled the bowl away. The spindle came to a quick halt. "Pronto, Romero." Hansum slathered on more of the thin iron oxide paste. "Ancora," the enactor said, and the lathe quickly came back to life and he reapplied the brass bowl. The red iron oxide liquid flew out from the centrifugal force of the spinning dop and onto the Master's hands. The enactor stopped the lathe again and pulled away the bowl. "Quickly, Romero, pronto!" Hansum repeated his job on the now steaming lens. "The bowl, she gets warm and then she gets hot." Between the third and fourth application, the Master reached over and moved the cord from the largest spindle to the smallest.

  "Now it'll go faster," Hansum said.

  "Si," the Master said, pushing hard with the bowl against the glass. Over the din of the treadling and zipping, the Master added, "Now she's really gettin' ouchie. Ouchie, ouchie, ouchie!" he repeated. And then he stopped and pulled the bowl away again. Hansum went to brush more paste onto the lens. "No more," the Master said, out of breath. "She's finished. Here, feel the base of the bowl. Careful."

  Both boys touched the bottom of the bowl at the same time. It almost burned their skin.

  "Ouchie!" they both said, this time both laughing.

  "Now look, look what you helped make," the enactor Master said. He went very close to the glass and gently blew on it. "The heat is so great," he said in a stage whisper, "the glass, she starts to melt just on the surface. All the tiny little cracks get filled up with liquid glass and she becomes smooth." Satisfied the glass was now cool enough, he took a clean rag and wiped off the film left by the paste. The boys leaned in and saw how that disc of crude glass had been transformed into a smooth, convex dome.

  "Next time I get to do the brushing!" Lincoln insisted.

  "Now we grind and polish the back," the Master announced.

  "My God, there's more!" Hansum exclaimed.

  "Eh, no takin' the Lord's name in vain!" the Master said, his eyes flashing angrily again.

  "Sorry, Master Cagliari," Hansum said, putting his hands up in mock defense. The Master scowled a bit, but then smiled.

  "Maruccio, take the mastic bowl and blush pot and put them back on the tool table. Then bring over a big flat pumice stone. You think you can figure out which it is?"

  "You got it, Master man," Lincoln said as he picked up the used tools.

  "Now Romero, I remove the lens and put it on backside out," the Master continued. "Come. Hand me the wood shim." The lens popped off. "Now we go back to the mastic pot."

  "When do you think I can try the lathe?" Hansum asked.

  "Oh, maybe in a month or two I will gamble a few discs on you."

  "Hey, look at me!" Lincoln shouted from across the room. Lincoln had taken off his safety glasses and put on the finest pair of spectacles from the finishing table. Beautifully polished tortoiseshell frames were perched precipitously on the end of his nose. The strong lenses magnified his eyes and made them look like two sunny-side-up eggs.

  "MARUCCIO, NO!" the Master shouted. His trained actor's voice was so loud it startled Lincoln, who then jerked his head. The elegant spectacles flew off his tiny nose and fell onto the floor with a very unfortunate crack.

  "Oops," Lincoln said.

  Chapter 10

  CRACK!

  Shamira winced as she saw the heavy metal cleaver come down hard on the leg joint of a sheep. Crack, it went again, and she saw the leg separate from the carcass's hip. Several tiny spurts of blood had sprayed up and splattered the burly man's apron. The butcher turned his attention to the Signora.

  "Signora Cagliari, buon giorno," the butcher greeted. Thunk! He embedded his implement deep into the block for safekeeping, then he held out both hands. "God has made a wonderful day for us today, eh?" This master's hands were red too, but not with ossido del ferro. "How is your good husband and my friend, Master Cagliari?"

  "Master Sacchetti, how nice of you to ask. He is well. And your good wife and children? How fare they?"

  "Oh, another mouth to feed soon. Soon there will be eleven."

  Shamira's eyebrows raised.

  "Another blessing from God. Such luck, Master Sacchetti," the Signora said.

  "Yes, yes. We are truly blessed." The master butcher turned and looked down at a boy of perhaps nine. He had just removed a chicken from a wooden cage and was holding it gently, stroking its neck. "Angelo," Sacchetti boomed, "I told you to cut off its head, not caress it! Now hurry up, useless son, there's work to be done!" The little boy's face changed not at all at the rebuke. He stopped stroking the chicken and grasped its feet. As he stood up, the animal's body fell. Its wings beat the air and it clucked wildly. Angelo sauntered to a chopping block behind his father. Shamira followed the boy with fascinated horror as the butcher continued. "Signora Cagliari," he said, wiping his hands on his bloody apron, "how may I be of a service? I have some wonderful liver of calf today. Oh, and I have beef hearts, your husband's favorite."

  Shamira had to lean to one side to see around the butcher and continue watching the boy and chicken. Angelo had the fowl's wings contained and it was lying on its side on the block. The boy put his hand on the bird's neck and smoothed its feathers gently, as if it were a pet. Shamira smiled.

  "Or I have a wonderful sausage from pig and beef," the butcher went on, "all stuffed in sheep's intestine. The taste of the fat, it melts in the mouth."

  Shamira could hear the sales pitch vaguely, but couldn't take her eyes off the boy and chicken. Her family got most of their animal protein from wild game. 'And they wouldn't dare have a child kill an animal,' she thought. 'This is all a setup.'

  "No, no. Nothing so exotic as beef heart," the Signora continued. "I was thinking of something simple. We have three more mouths to feed."

  "House guests? Why not the beef heart to spoil your visitors?"

  The bird was now quieted and still. Angelo kept one hand on the bird and the other slowly moved to his side. Shamira's smile vanished as Angelo picked up another cleaver from the ground and lifted it over the bird.

  "No, not guests," the Signora answered. "We have two new apprentices and a kitchen girl. This is Carmella. She just arrived from . . . Carmella, what in the world is the matter?"

  Shamira was tugging on Signora Cagliari's sleeve frantically.

  "The boy . . . the boy . . . the bird . . . the boy is going to . . ."

  Clabunk! The cleaver came down and cut the chicken's head off in one blow. Shamira blanched.

  "There's the idea," Mistress Cagliari said cheerfully. "We'll have fresh chicken." A dizzied Shamira felt the well-trained enactor grab her arm and start leading her away before the butcher disemboweled their upcoming dinner. "We shall be back soon to pick up our meal."

  "Of course, Signora," Signor Sacchetti said in a courtly fashion, and then shouted, "Angelo, don't leave the merchandise lying in the dust. It's sold!"

  Shamira felt herself being led through a market filled with stalls. In her haze she heard the Signora speaking in a friendly, singsong manner.

  "Yes, we shall make chicken and fennel for dinner. Have you made that before, my dear?"

  "He, he killed the bird."

  "Yes, it will be a good first meal for you and the boys. We do not have meat every day, you know. But this is a special occasion."

  "He chopped off that poor chicken's head!"

  "And the Lord gave man dominion of all the land and creatures upon it. Including chickens," she laughed. "It will be delicious. Come. We've much t
o do. Keep your eyes open. I want to be able to send you here alone in the future."

  Chapter 11

  The market was a noisy, friendly place, a festival for the eyes, ears and nose. There were hundreds of stalls with many medieval specialists working in them. Shamira, remembering what she had learned in school about History Camps, was amazed at the thought that every one of these hundreds of enactors had chosen, as their avocation, to perform a craft in the same way it had been done a thousand years before they were all born. The first place the Signora steered them was a foodstuffs stall.

  "Buon giorno, Fiamenta," the Signora said. "This is Carmella, my new kitchen girl." Shamira felt perturbed about being the center of attention in this play story and frowned. "You will see her come in the future to shop. Make sure you give her good produce, like you do for me."

  "So nice to meet you, Carmella," Fiamenta said. "Welcome to Verona."

  "Hi," Shamira responded blandly. Here they bought raw, shelled almonds, dried fennel, salt, black peppercorns, sticks of cinnamon, ginger root, cloves and some delicate saffron threads.

  Just down the row of stalls, they entered a fresh produce booth where the Signora purchased fresh dill and parsley. Each herb was bundled with a sprig of itself wound around the bunch.

  Shamira found it hard to keep her steely exterior in the bakery, though. She loved the aroma of freshly baked bread. This wasn't a stall, but a stone house with a huge, open oven dominating its interior. Loaves at all stages of production were around her. There was dough being mixed, kneaded, left to rise, and finally, a man with a sharp, wooden knife, making two slits at the top of the risen loaves just before they were put into the brick oven on a long-handled spatula.

  "Why are they carving an X on the top of the bread?" Shamira asked.

  "That's not an X," answered a smiling, flour-covered baker. "That's the cross of Cristo. When the loaves come out of the oven, it is like they had been blessed. The two slices, when baked, turn into the cross of our Lord." They bought four large, round loaves.

  The chicken was plucked, gutted and waiting for them by the time they got back to the butcher's. Signor Sachetti had wrapped it in a rough burlap cloth for carrying. The Signora took and held it out to Shamira. Shamira then held it as carefully as possible, so as not to touch any of the raw flesh.