Act VII All Roads (Part 12)
twelve
“You…you, you look just like Mr. Murano.” Schumacher didn’t dare to look up, staring intently at the ground.
"Is that a compliment to my might, or a mockery of my obesity?" Bianca looked at the artisans, who were working with incredible skill, crafting exquisite glassware. Large and small blowpipes and tongs moved nimbly back and forth. "Neither of those words is polite for a lady."
“I think this is quite good…” Schumacher was so nervous that he slurred his words. For the first time in his life, he felt his tongue stiff and clumsy, like someone with a stutter. “Is Mr. Murano here?”
“He’s dead.” Bianca’s hands gripped the edge of the table tightly, as if she wanted to crush the wooden planks. “The glass factory caught fire a few years after you left. He got sick from the anger and soon went to his grave.”
Schumeer let out a barely audible sigh—he thought there might be no lingering hatred he feared, but immediately felt that the thought was rather impolite and inhumane. "...My condolences." He lowered his gaze even further. "I pray for him."
“Why pray for him? You should curse him and celebrate his death. He's the one who prevented you from returning to Venice.” Bianca said through gritted teeth, “He would never want a Jew to pray for him.”
Schumacher didn't know how to respond, so he just kept his mouth shut and stood there awkwardly. "You're here looking for a job?" Bianca suddenly turned her head and looked him up and down. "Let me see your paintings."
“I…I actually came to buy something, but I got lost.” Schumeer immediately slung his bulging bag over his shoulder—he had only had time to stuff everything back into his bag. “I’m sorry to have intruded into your factory.”
Bianca stared into his eyes in the firelight and extended a large, warm hand to him. “Give me your painting,” she commanded. “Don’t make me say it a third time.”
That terrifying and oppressive gaze forced Schumeer to submit. "I think I shouldn't stay here any longer; it's not appropriate," he said, but obediently pulled out a stack of papyrus sheets—covered with sketches of lamps and vases he had previously designed. "...What if your husband finds out about this?"
“What husband? I’m not married, and I never want a man staring at me like that again.” Bianca snatched the painting from him fiercely. “Now, nobody can tell me which artist’s paintings I want to buy.”
If Schumacher had ever imagined a stable and comfortable life, its best form might have been like this—but Bianca was just a glass merchant, not a wealthy nobleman or king, Schumacher thought, and she was still a woman. Even though she was large and old, taller and heavier than Monsieur Murano had been, she was still an unmarried woman, subjected to countless criticisms every day because of her identity. Schumacher thought, if I were a woman and she were a man, this would become a strangely twisted tale of beauty—but the reverse, it would all be accusations. Schumacher thought, she had no children. Did she want to remain unmarried for life like Helen?
“Draw the flesh on my arms perfectly, like a statue in a temple. I want to put this painting on the shop entrance.” The once delicate and fragile goddess of justice stood before the kiln, sleeves rolled up, raising a piece of molten glass glowing red-hot as if wielding a heavy, scalding blade. Beneath the thick layer of fat on her arms, the clearly defined contours of muscle were faintly visible. “Like before, I’m not allowed to move an inch?”
“No need, you can move as you please.” Schumeer said solemnly. His charcoal pencil moved swiftly across the papyrus. “I know how to draw.”
“Your skills are much better than before.” Bianca smiled brightly, wrinkles forming at the corners of her mouth. “But I’ve gotten old and ugly.”
“…The definition of beauty is never so narrow.” Schumeer suddenly felt a lump in his throat. “If others think you’re getting old and ugly, maybe that’s a good thing for you.”
“You’re right, that’s the clearest and wisest thing to say.” Bianca nodded. “True freedom comes from giving up these hypocritical things.”
For some reason, these words suddenly reminded Schumacher of Yakov's resentful and defiant face. He couldn't help but wonder, what is beauty, what is love, what is life? If freedom requires sacrificing love and beauty, and maintaining a constant state of lucid anger to even touch its shadow, is freedom truly something worthwhile? His pen traced Bianca's features. The girlish softness and liveliness of her youth had been lost, leaving only resilient, cold edges and wrinkles. He felt a pang of regret, regret for the passing years, and regret for the trials of reality. But he couldn't help but wonder: why do people always think purity and innocence are the most beautiful and radiant? They seem like castles in the air, a baseless illusion that people flock to. While the harshness and indifference of reality are seen as evil and terrifying, as if people lack the courage to look directly at them.
“I’ve finished drawing,” he said. “Come and take a look.”
“You’re much more confident than before.” Bianca didn’t squeeze next to him anymore, but instead took his painting and examined it closely. “And your painting is much better than before, but I don’t think I’m that beautiful and slim.”
Schumeer thought he had long since learned how to paint backlit orange hair, making the halo of light shine holyly on the back of the head, like that of an angel or a god. But now that he had learned the technique, he no longer felt it was the most important part of the painting—the looseness and fat, the wrinkles and calluses were what mattered. Temples and churches always displayed perfectly healthy bodies, as if that was how humans were supposed to be—but Schumeer thought, no one had ever taught him how to paint calluses and wrinkles. He had to figure it out himself.
“You shouldn’t buy my paintings anymore.” Schumeer lowered his head. “It will cause you trouble, just like before.”
"You've sold paintings for so many years, to countless people, yet you won't sell to me?" Bianca scrutinized him like she was examining prey. "This is an insult, a belittling of me. I'm no longer the naive little girl I once was. I've paid a heavy price for this."
Schumacher pursed his lips. He knew that no amount of fancy words could change the mind of a stubborn person.
“Stay here,” Bianca said. “You have no choice.”
Returning to Galata by boat today, the Golden Horn appeared exceptionally vibrant and dazzling in Schumeer's eyes. The waves of the azure water resembled countless tiny mirrors made of shattered glass, reflecting the blood-red clouds in the sky, which shimmered and rolled away with the waves. Schumeer thought, "It's incredibly beautiful, yet so fragile." The small boat felt like it had entered a dangerous ocean composed of countless cold blades. Reaching the shore felt like being stranded on a beach piled high with gold coins, leaving Schumeer bewildered and helpless as he carefully concealed the heavy purse tucked into his coat.
He took the money and found a veterinarian to examine the Muse. The doctor emptied the donkey's bowels, and the room smelled terrible. Schumeer was then ordered to clean the room all night, but he worked excitedly and happily all night, feeling like he had inexhaustible energy. He even lit the lamp in the early hours of the morning and washed the clothes.
“I’m so happy, Muse!” Schumeer couldn’t help but chat with the donkey, “but I know this happiness is wrong. It’s too risky.”
The muse just kept its head down, chewing its hay. The recent recovery from a long illness had left it extremely tired and exhausted.
The next day, Schumacher, as expected, overslept. He was awakened by a distant roar and squinted as he got up. A cacophony of shouts and panicked cries quickly spread through the streets.
He grabbed his clothes, which were half-dry from the stove, and hastily put them on. He opened the door and merged into the rushing crowd, instantly engulfed by the atmosphere of riots. All the Jews living in Galata were rushing to the docks to see what was happening at the Golden Horn.
"What's going on?" Schumeer asked, grabbing one of the children at random.
"The Venetians and Genoese are fighting in the port across the harbor!" The child's face was filled with innocent excitement. "Their merchant ships collided; it was terrifying!"
Schumeer's eyes widened as he pushed through the throng towards the shore. More and more people gathered, until the dock was packed with them. Everyone craned their necks to look across Golden Horn, hoping for firsthand information—especially the loan sharks and shareholders. They were as nervous as ants on a hot plate, squinting to make out the flags of the ships. Then, an even louder sound, incredibly clear, came from that direction, sending shivers down the spines of the crowd—this time, Schumeer saw with his own eyes where the sound came from.
It was a ship with a hidden catapult, flying a flag with a winged lion. A huge rock shot into the air, piercing the hull and deck of another ship like a meteor. The fragile planks shattered like eggshells, the sails rattled violently, and panicked sailors jumped into the sea to save themselves. Schumeer saw that it was a Genoese ship—its mast was broken, and a white flag with a red cross hung drooping dejectedly from it.
"Look at the tower!" a child shouted hoarsely, almost frantically excited, "They're going to raise the iron chains!"
All heads on the dock turned to Galata Tower. Schumer saw thick smoke rising from the tower, responding to the signal from across the Golden Horn. Amid gasps of alarm, a massive, rusty iron chain tightened section by section from the sea between the two towers in the bay, finally rising entirely above the water, severing the wide Golden Horn and blocking all ships in the strait. Schumer thought it resembled a lurking monster awakening from the sea, its island-like body emerging from the water to reveal itself. The air was filled with the salty, briny smell of churning seawater.
“It’s really rare,” an old man beside him murmured. “I always thought the iron chain that blocked the sea was just a legend.”
Tbc.
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