Today, Alphaios was especially happy to escape the confines of the monastery. The morning had been spent in a dull chapter meeting that Brother Richard, possessed of a good heart but small mind, had stretched out interminably. And lunch had been uninspired even by monastery standards.
It was a false spring day. More rain and cold would come before winter released its grip on the city, but today he would enjoy the contrast of warm sun and chilled air. The sun was brilliant, and he could nearly finish the page that had been absorbing him for days.
He decided to take a parallel route to the scriptorium and crossed Broad, then went right for two blocks before turning again. Not far from the library, he entered a tree-lined street of well-kept brownstones which seemed to be private residences. Beside each stoop was a tiny yard surrounded by a short, ornate iron fence. The little patches of plant life were all well-tended, and in a few yards, the presence of gloves and trowels showed eagerness for an end to winter.
The street was mostly quiet until Alphaios heard a long, curved tusk of a musical note. It was the unique, unmistakable soar of the clarinet opening to Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue. It was coming from a townhouse with all its doors and windows thrown open to the air. The music overfilled the house and spilled into the street. The occupant was no doubt feeling particularly sentient on this rare day and wanted to absorb both the freshening air and the music. He admired the occupant's openness to sensation, and found a perch on a step and sat down to share the experience.
Through eight changes in key, through multiple tempos and rhythms, he listened. He listened through long rolling waves of piano runs that seemed to fill the keyboard three times over, and through boisterous horns, sailing trombones and blue notes. He listened through the low muttering of the bassoon, the wah-wah-wah of muted trumpets and brassy notes finished raucously. Through elegant strings swaying like summer maples in a strong breeze.
The music nearly tumbled over itself in its run to conclusion.
He could think of no music more vibrant, more suited to a day like this. And surely the clarinet had been invented with just this rhapsody in mind.
When quiet replaced the music, he became aware he was not alone. Three others had also paused to listen, among them a well-dressed but bedizened man who noted, "Cool," as he strode away.
Alphaios sat a little while longer. He'd heard Rhapsody in Blue just once before, many years ago in Rome. The music was very different from that of his Grecian countryside and from European classical music, and so much more cerebral than the shards of pop music he had heard in the streets of Rome. It was a whole new idiom. For Alphaios the artist, it was like seeing a whole new spray of colors for the very first time. He remembered hoping one day he could visit the place where this brash, compelling music originated. And now, in his excursions almost every day through the city, he could see its very source.
But Rhapsody in Blue was somehow not complete. Even as he heard it, Alphaios hungered for just a bit more; his was a taste not quite sated, a sensation not quite completed. This must be some of the genius of the piece—a still-whetted appetite, a search for something just out of reach. That was why the music so well characterized this American city he was coming to know. He found himself wishing for more time living the city and less time shut away.
The music still filling his mind, Alphaios rose from the stoop and waved his thanks to a man who appeared in an open window.
He would begin today's work by proofing three bifolia the scribes had recently completed with text. He would compare them against the original book to make sure there were no deviations. If they were acceptable, they would go back into the broad flat drawers to await his colors. If not, he would mark them with a slash of black ink, review them with the scribes, and destroy them.
In Alphaios's experience, all hand-scribed texts, all the way from early Christianity until the invention of the printing press, showed the peculiarities of their creators. Most illuminated manuscripts were handmade copies of prior documents and revealed the personal characteristics of successive scribes as well as changes in religious teachings. Old errors became codified and new errors made, which in turn could inadvertently influence doctrine for unwary readers. Ignorant or playful monks, careless proofreaders, powerful patrons, church politics and, changing dogma all conspired over time to modify the appearance and messages of these books. Greetings and news bulletins to other monasteries, jokes, complaints, even rude remarks about abbots and bishops showed up. Caricatures of both cardinals and saints, some of them profane, could also be found.
He had learned to be especially attentive when he proofed the lower portions of newly scribed bifolia. The large sheets of vellum being used for this modern copy were expensive, and the scribes, experts themselves, exercised great care. Nonetheless, they would find it easier to discard a leaf when an error was made nearer its beginning than its end, after hours or days had been invested in its preparation; the further into the work, the greater a scribe's wish to mask an error. Of course, as this whole enterprise was to create a faithful copy, the eccentricities of the original would be copied, too. Text lines that wandered out of level, letters that crowded one another, lack of visual balance, all were to be reproduced exactly.
To the unpracticed eye, most true copy errors would be indistinguishable. It was, in fact, more likely that deliberate adherence to irregularities in the original would be perceived as mistakes than any errors newly made. But to Alphaios, any deviations from the original were fatal flaws that demanded correction. He would not hesitate to slash black ink across an otherwise meticulously prepared page if it did not satisfy his eye. Already each of the scribes, and indeed he himself, had suffered the indignity of watching hours of work ground to confetti by the shredding machine. XM had taken to calling it "feeding the dragon."
He let himself into the scriptorium to begin his work. He found Inaki there, holding a severely damaged bifolium in his gloved hands. He nodded to Alphaios and then toward a worktable where several ruined leaves lay. "These are the worst of them. They've been weighing on me."
While Alphaios had looked at each one separately, he'd not had the courage to bring them together as Inaki had done today. They stood together in silence for a long moment until he cast a sardonic glance toward Inaki. "We're very fortunate."
"We are indeed," the archivist said. "But perhaps you could shed some light on just how."
"The water didn't ruin the whole book. It seeped in almost randomly, leaving nearby pages in reasonably good shape."
"And," Inaki said, "we know it's of the ‘use of Paris,' the dialect of the Parisian archdiocese. Therefore, we also know what comes before and after the damaged pages, and can determine with reasonable certainty what text was on them."
Alphaios continued the give and take—it might lead somewhere. "Except in the suffrages to the saints." The suffrages would contain references to specific saints that could provide a clue as to the patron of the book, and therefore where it was made. Unfortunately, one of the pages of the suffrages was also unreadable.
Inaki ignored the tangent. "We can use the pattern of the pages around them and draw inferences as to how the text was distributed on them. How many lines might be on a page, and where."
"And which of the four painters worked the quire," said Alphaios. "Jeremiah, for instance."
The archivist was about to respond in rhythm, but instead turned abruptly toward Alphaios. "Four? Who's Jeremiah?"
"One of the painters. I gave him the name. It isn't unusual for there to be several illuminators in a single work."
"And scribes as well. But you've concluded there were four? And named them?"
"Jeremiah did the Expulsion of Adam and Eve and the nativity. And all but two of the other most significant pages. At least of the ones that are intact. Inaki, he's truly a master. If this book had become public, he would be as well-known as Masaccio or Fra Angelica. Or the Limbourg brothers."
"What about the other three?"
"Zechariah illustrated the calendar of the saints and did its lettering. The artistry's fairly typical of the time. What makes the calendar so extraordinary is the quantity of gold and silver, and of course its size. It wasn't uncommon for calendars to have been created separately, and that's the case here. Zechariah's hand isn't found anywhere else in the book. Outside the calendar, Zephaniah did the decorated initial letters, the versals. They're beautifully drawn. Let me get some examples, and I'll show you."
Alphaios went to the drawers, drew out several intact bifolia, and laid them on his worktable. "Not only did Zephaniah draw and color the versals, he painted most of the inhabitants and histories inside them. Many of the miniatures in the borders are his as well. His visual perspective is fairly primitive, though, and his human figures are stilted, quite typical of the early fifteenth century. That would be consistent with the initial conclusions of the scholars in 1972. But look at the lines of the versals. They're long and confident."
Inaki was completely absorbed. "Who else?"
Alphaios went back to the cabinets and withdrew another piece of parchment. "Obadiah. He's a master of the visual eye, the seeing eye, and he's one of the reasons this book is so stunning." He pointed to the flowers in the margins. "Definitely Obadiah's work. The brushwork is exceptionally fine. The petals are delicately veined, and his use of shadow makes them seem to float above the page. The vines connecting them are intricate and seem random rather than patterned. His colors mirror the natural world, but are just slightly more vivid—bright but not artificial or forced. He also did the two full-page paintings that aren't Jeremiah's. His work suffers, though, when dealing with larger subjects."
The archivist stood back on his heels, appraising Alphaios. "That's all of them? No others?"
"Just the four."
"Have you seen any of their work before?"
"Certainly none of Jeremiah's. But Zephaniah and Zechariah, I can't say. They were fine artists for their time, but not extraordinary. The calendar is beautifully designed and exceptionally lavish, but its content and artistic techniques are fairly typical. Still, I don't believe I've ever seen their content duplicated anywhere else. The subject matter, of course. I mean the specific sketches and color patterns."
"What about Obadiah?"
"If the date of the book is truly early fifteenth century, Obadiah was decades ahead of his time. The only other work I've seen that matches his technique in flora comes much later."
Inaki stood quietly for a moment. "So, how does all of this help us with the ruined pages?"
"It's time we select one and try to put it all together. Whatever we do, it'll have to pass muster with the commission. I can tell you've put some thought into it. Do you have one you'd like to start with?"
"I'll look at the quires. It makes sense to work it out on one where the rest of the quire is largely intact."
"Good. Anything from the Vatican?"
Inaki nodded. "Seems the book of hours was logged into the Vatican Library in 1555, after it was already in the papal chapel. That's very unusual. There's no record of how it got there, or where Cervini might have acquired it. No provenance was found—no receipts, and no mention on acquisition logs or the Vatican catalogue."
"Odd."
"It also appears that Cervini undertook a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in 1552 at the behest of Pope Julius. There are a number of pilgrimage roads to Compostela, and they're trying to find the one he took."
"He'd spent some time in Trent," Alphaios said, "so he must have had some acquaintances there. Perhaps he covered some old ground. Or went by boat—Rome and Barcelona are nearly at the same latitude. Either way, it's likely he would have traveled through northern Spain. Any word from your other library friends?"
"Nothing yet. So we wait."
"Yes. Wait and work."
Inaki began to put the bifolia away, and Alphaios turned to the scribes' recent work. Today's pages survived his eye, and he slid them back into their drawers to await his brushes. From a separate cabinet, he withdrew a bifolium on which the text had been completed and which already reflected some of the vibrant colors of his craft. He painted cerise into the intricate checkerboard margin. He didn't finish the page as he'd planned, but the conversation with Inaki had been encouraging.
After capping his paint and cleaning his brushes, he opened another drawer and slid out a leaf that would be a major undertaking. He hungered for it, but would study it many more times before laying paint to parchment. He took it under the big south windows and stood looking at it. Today, again, its beauty took his breath away.
This page alone was priceless.
It bore no text. It was a face-page for a prayer to St. Anne, mother of the Virgin Mary. Despite the damage, it was rich with color, and in appearance and content, one of the most striking pages in the book.
Laid against a background of lavender decorated with small gold St. Julian's crosses were three framed pictures. They had been painted by an artist of surpassing talent. It was Jeremiah's work.
The background of the central and largest picture was a distinctly European town with a crenellated castle, a cathedral church, and many large houses. In the forefront sat the Virgin Mary as a young woman, cradling in her arms the adult, crucified body of Jesus. Behind Mary stood St. Anne, one hand on Mary's shoulder, the other reaching an open palm to touch the face of her grandson. Mary's eyes were on the face of Jesus. The eyes of St. Anne were cast upward to the open sky. Far to the left stood a withering dogwood tree.
Most of the bottom third of this portrait was lost to damage. Mary's feet, Jesus' feet, and the one dangling hand of the lifeless Jesus were missing. Those features Alphaios could repair, using Jeremiah's eye and technique. But some details could not be known with certainty. For instance, had wounds to Jesus' feet been depicted? If so, where? How? Were Mary's feet bare, or in sandals? Did the foreground contain some object or theme of significance?
The second picture was up and to the left, a small portion of it covered by the first. Here, in an unusual portrait, St. Anne held the infant Jesus. The Virgin Mary sat at her feet. Behind them was a choppy sea with distant fishing boats drawing up their nets ahead of a storm. Where the land met the sea, mid-distance, was a man in a crimson robe and cardinal's hat. With such a prominent placement, the cardinal was a contemporary whom the book's patron wished to honor or impress.
The central figure in the third picture, which was at the upper right and also slightly behind the first, was also St. Anne. Rays of white heavenly light enveloped both her and Mary, who was depicted here as a young girl, not yet a woman. They were walking in a golden field dotted with shocks of harvested grain. Behind them were a substantial farmhouse and stable with several domestic animals. In one hand Mary held a clutch of wheat, and in the other a goblet. This, too, was a family portrait, with the body and blood of Christ a prominent part of the genealogy that was to come.
The dedication of this whole page to St. Anne clearly indicated that the person who commissioned the book placed great value on her.
St. Anne had been honored by early Christians not only because they believed God had selected her to bear Mary, but because through Anne, Mary was born free of all sin. By divine intervention, Mary alone was free of the original sin that has burdened every other man and woman since Adam and Eve fell from grace. This, not virgin birth, was Mary's own immaculate conception.
The names of Anne and her husband Joachim, father of Mary, were not mentioned in the scriptures; they were found only in later church texts. Nonetheless, interest in her had grown from the second century forward, and Alphaios knew there were some who believed that Anne, as well as Mary, had given virgin birth. This point of view was not evident in this particular book of hours, but wasn't uncommon at the time. It wasn't until 1677 that the Vatican would declare that Anne had conceived Mary through mortal means.
The hour was late, and Alphaios returned the parchment to its place. When a few minutes later he left the library, he turned and walked directly to the monastery. His mind was full of music and images.
It was not unusual for him to be preoccupied during supper and evening prayers. He used this time to reflect on the wondrous, disorderly spirit he found beyond the walls of the monastery. He did not want conversation, so was glad that such quiet was not only welcomed by his brothers but expected. Truth be known, he was now far more attentive to his theological life in the mornings, before his excursions into the city, than after he returned. But yet, he admitted to himself, still not completely so.
Tonight he reflected that for every idea or detail written in a book or painted on some clean white surface, there were important ideas or details left out. Did George Gershwin know his audience for Rhapsody in Blue would want just one more bar of his music, and then another, and then just one more?
Had Jeremiah shown the wounds of driven nails on Jesus' feet? Could the question be resolved?
Joachim had bounced his grandson Jesus on his knee and Grandmother Anne had dipped a cloth into goat's milk to let him suckle. What about Joseph? How much of Jesus was formed by the love and guidance of his mortal, even if not biological, father?
Alphaios fell asleep to a remembered clarinet glissando.
~*~*~