Crivano has been only half-listening; he shifts slightly in his seat. There is a substantial corpus of literature on dreams, he says, but my own expertise in the area is far from complete. Perhaps you will permit me to study the issue further, to meditate on it for a few days, before I conceive a diagnosis. There may well be physic to help clarify these phantasms.
Of course, dottore. My curiosity is inflamed, but my urgency is not great. And I shall myself seek out the writings you’ve mentioned. I must confess that I have already been lured into the pages of the Oneirocritica of Ephesius, a book whose utility in these chambers until recently consisted of flattening curled paper on humid afternoons. It is a strange and wonderful thing, dottore, for a man of my age to awaken feeling younger, with the sense that the daylit world has grown sharper and more vivid before his eyes. It is surprising, too, to find the invigorating agent linked so closely to memories of the past, changed though those memories might be by the lens of the dreaming mind. It is not generally a tonic for old men, this act of remembering. Don’t you agree?
Crivano notes the trenchant cast of the senator’s white eyebrows, and he takes a moment to respond. I suppose, he says, that that depends on what is being remembered. Dottore de Nis has spoken to me of one you might consult on this matter. An expert on the art of memory, hailing from Nola, who is currently a guest in the home of Lord Zuanne Mocenigo.
Contarini spits out a rough laugh. Yes, he says. I’ve met the Nolan of whom you speak. An interesting fellow. Disagreeable. Quite deluded, I think. I understand from my colleagues at Padua that he has applied for their vacant chair in mathematics, which, from what I can follow of this man’s thinking, seems somewhat akin to the Turkish sultan’s chief astrologer seeking to become the next pope. I have begun writing letters in support of one of his competitors—the son of the famed lutenist Vincenzo Galilei, lately resident in Pisa—who seems rather promising despite his relative youth. You learned of the Nolan from Trist?o, you say?
That’s correct, senator.
I see, Contarini says. I hope you will forgive an old man his harangues, Vettor, if I remind you to exercise caution with Dottore de Nis.
Crivano gives the senator a broad, empty smile. As always, I receive your advice with gratitude, he says, but I have seen nothing at all in Dottore de Nis’s conduct worthy of censure.
You would not. Nor would I. In fact, I would trust—I have trusted—Trist?o de Nis with my life. The pressing issue is not what we see, but what the Inquisition sees.
Crivano smoothes his beard, runs a thumb across his pursed lips. I am told, he says, that the Inquisition is weak in the territories of the Republic. Is this not so?
It is indeed so. And it is aware of its weakness. And like a starving animal, it now hungers after anything more vulnerable than itself. Jews and Turks are now entirely safe within our city, provided they identify themselves and keep to their approved areas. Likewise, all established Christian families have little to fear. But for new Christians like Trist?o—for any person who navigates the boundaries between the discrete communities of our polis—dangers do remain. Because the conversions of the Jews of Portugal were coerced by King Manuel, the sincerity of Portuguese Christians is always suspect here. Dottore de Nis has many friends among the learned men of the Ghetto, including several widely reputed to be alchemists and magi. I also know him to be acquainted with Turkish scholars. The great affection he engenders among noble families—members of this household foremost among them—has thusfar kept him above reproach. But if the wrong person were to denounce him, it could be very bad.
Do you believe Trist?o to be sincere in his profession of faith, Senator?
In the end, what you or I or anyone else believes will not matter.
Of course, Crivano says. I understand completely. But I humbly put the question to you again. Do you believe that Dottore de Nis is sincere?
A flash of irritation clouds Contarini’s face, then dissipates. He reaches across the desk to lift a large hexagonal crystal—perfectly clear but for a few fine capillaries of gold—that weights a stack of his correspondence. He shifts the crystal absently from palm to palm. Do you read Boccaccio, Vettor? he asks.
Not in a great number of years.