Act VII All Roads (Part 11)
eleven
The next day, Schumacher pushed open the guild's door again. "What's that smell?!" Fernando exclaimed, pinching his nose. "You went to that fish sauce factory?"
"I'm never going back to that place again; it's inhuman work," Schumeer sighed dejectedly. "Any new assignments today?"
"How could there be new ones so quickly?" Fernando handed him a mint leaf. "You looked through them all yesterday and still couldn't find a suitable one?"
“…Actually, there are two other companies I haven’t asked about.” Schumeer popped a mint leaf into his mouth, feeling much better. “Lately, I’ve been getting rejected by clients not because I’m Jewish, but because I’m Venetian.”
“It’ll be fine once this period passes.” Fernando said listlessly, taking a mint leaf and holding it to his nose. “It’s not the first time people have been hostile to the richest. But they wouldn’t dare to actually fight; our governor has an invincible fleet.”
The richest man? The invincible Armada? Schumacher sighed inwardly. He was a Venetian, yet these things had nothing to do with him. He thought that the nobles and wealthy merchants meeting at the Doge's Palace were causing a stir, while he, a nobody in the minnows, was suffering terribly. He was still a skilled and knowledgeable man; at worst, he could support himself by doing the work nobody else wanted in the fish sauce factory. Thinking of this, he couldn't help but feel some sympathy for the small merchants who had closed their doors and boarded ships to return home, and he no longer thought of them as cowards.
"Thank you for your comfort." Schumacher tried to pat Fernando on the shoulder, but the boy dodged it.
"Don't touch me, or I'll stink like you!" Fernando shrank behind the counter.
"I can't be bothered to give you a friendly look!" Schumeer went out. "I'm leaving!"
He had just lied to Fernando—Schumelt thought, and he had nowhere else to look for commissions. Twenty years had passed, and his former friends had either become high-ranking officials living in seclusion, or, like him, had vanished without a trace. Schumacher wondered, why wasn't there a place where he could paint honestly and earn money based on his skills, without having to be reserved or lower himself?
He quickly abandoned this naive fantasy and got up to head towards the Genoa concession.
"Master, have you really gone mad?" Helen saw him and couldn't help but pull him into the house and close the door. "You still dare to come to the Genoa concession? Aren't you afraid of being falsely accused of being a bandit? My God, what is this smell!"
Schumacher noticed her employee roll her eyes at her disheveled appearance. "I'm Jewish, and people are too busy worrying about that to care," Schumacher joked, taking a step away from her.
Helen scrutinized the straw leaves hanging on Schumacher's clothes. "...Are you in trouble?"
“To be honest,” Schumacher nodded frankly, “I also have an elderly grandmother living in Galata, who is ill…”
“You don’t need to tell me all this.” Helen winked at the employee. “Come upstairs, let’s talk.”
Helen owned a long-haired, pure white cat with heterochromia. As soon as the two sat down, it ran to Helen's lap and curled up obediently. Helen removed the thimble from her thumb and ran her fingers through its soft fur to stroke it. But after only a few strokes, the cat jumped off her knees and began sniffing Schumacher's hem. As it sniffed, its paws quickly began raking over the fabric.
"Don't do that!" Helen had no choice but to scoop it up and throw it out of the room, then close the door. "Please don't mind it, it just gets a little excited when it sees strangers."
“It’s nothing!” Schumeer held a bowl of hot soup, finally able to lower his arm that had been raised high, and placed the bowl on the table. “Cats love fish soup.”
His soup was filled with plenty of fish, topped with minced garlic, onions, and cherry tomatoes, and seasoned with basil; it even tasted faintly of home. It seemed that the tastes of Genoese and Venetians weren't so different after all. Helen sat opposite him, observing him. Schumacher quickly finished the whole bowl with bread—he had been cutting back on his diet lately and hadn't been able to eat so heartily in a long time.
"Do you need to borrow money?" Helen suddenly asked.
Schumer nearly choked on his soup. “I’m not that bad off, and I don’t need to borrow from you. Galata is full of loan sharks.” He couldn’t help but burp. “…I just want to find some commissioned work from you.”
“You shouldn’t be looking for work with me.” Helen crossed her legs. “Why don’t you go to that young master of the Kanakakis family? He mentioned you to me a month ago. Even if he doesn’t have any work for you, he can conjure it up out of thin air and pay you accordingly.”
Schumacher's hand trembled, nearly causing the bowl to slip from his grasp. "They've been here?" he exclaimed, rising abruptly from the table. "But don't tell anyone I came looking for you!"
“They don’t need to use this wretched place of mine; we have to be the ones serving them.” Helen tried to comfort him, but she was reluctant to touch his foul-smelling clothes, so she withdrew her hand. “I won’t tell, don’t worry. But aren’t you going to explain why?”
Schumeer took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair and letting out a long sigh. The ruby ring on Yubi's hand and the tattoo on Yakov's chest flashed before his eyes. He shook his head, trying to banish those bizarre images from his mind. "Thank you for your understanding," Schumeer said seriously, turning his eyes. "I'm not exaggerating; it's better if you don't know this."
Helen watched his troubled expression with curiosity and suspicion, and tentatively took the bowl from his hand—but Schumacher showed no sign of changing his mind. She thought that perhaps this man was being sincere.
“You’re neither here to borrow money nor to find the Kanakakis family. What help can a tailor like me offer?” She poured Schumacher another bowl of fish soup. “Logically, you’re a Venetian. You have a guild, tax-free privileges, and can make a fortune doing whatever business you want, unlike us who live in constant fear and endure turmoil.”
“Please don’t make fun of me.” Schumeer felt a strange embarrassment. “I am Venetian, but I am also Jewish. I am neither a wealthy merchant with several large ships and shipping routes, nor a patriarch with many large loans and bills. I am just an old painter.”
Helen laughed—and Schumeer noticed a hint of schadenfreude in her voice. “When I first met you, I never would have guessed you were such a stubborn person.” She picked up the wine jug and poured herself a glass of light wine, quite pleased with herself. “Why don’t you paint something sensational and make a living by creating a reputation? If you had been a famous painter twenty years ago, you would be very familiar with these things.”
“Sigh, it’s easier said than done. If I were doing something else trivial, it wouldn’t matter.” Schumeer’s mouth was stuffed full of fish and bread again. He complained, his cheeks puffed out, “But everyone has their own pursuits and principles. For me, it’s art… and you know, sensationalism isn’t an easy thing to do.”
“You are a competent painter, but not a competent businessman,” Helen commented, holding her wine glass. “You are neither like a Venetian nor a Jew.”
“…That’s why I came to you.” Schumacher sighed. “At least I knew to ask you for help.”
"What a strange paradox," Helen exclaimed. "If a person truly loves a profession, he will find it hard to tolerate its filth and will not tolerate even a speck of dust in his eyes. But then he will not be able to follow the rules and unspoken rules, making it difficult to make a living from it; while if a person only engages in a profession for the sake of making a living, he can tolerate all kinds of sordid things without any bottom line. But he will not be able to achieve the pinnacle of skill, nor will he be able to derive any joy from it, and will simply endure it as a transaction."
Schumacher shut his mouth. He felt that the words, which praised him while belittling him, were quite reasonable.
"Are you interested in glassware?" Helen suddenly asked. "You are a Venetian, after all."
“I can only draw, I don’t know how to blow glass!” Schumeer stared at her. “Glass craftsmen start their apprenticeships at eleven or twelve years old, I don’t have the chance to learn now!”
"You can draw, and you can also draw some complicated design drafts for craftsmen."
"Craftsmen rely on experience; they don't need design drafts!"
“Not necessarily,” Helen said with a smile. “There are some places in the Venetian concession that make fine glassware. I guess they would be happy to have a master craftsman help them.”
Schumacher, holding the address Helen had given him, went there with some skepticism. He didn't really believe a Genoese merchant could recommend a good place—a crystal factory, as half the glass shops owned by Venetians were called that. He returned to the concession and followed the route into a winding, secluded alley.
This was a well-hidden shop, away from the main road, with fewer and fewer pedestrians, until finally none remained. Schumeer carefully tiptoed past a boy, half-grown, sleeping with his head tilted back on a bench—he had no idea why a child would be sleeping there. A wave of heat blew onto his face from the wall—the house's door was open, and the kiln inside shone with a blazing, bright light, as if it contained an erupting volcano.
Several craftsmen, dressed in thin clothes in the chilly early spring, looked much like blacksmiths. One threw an unknown powder into red-hot quartz sand and limestone, stirring it, and as if by magic, the colors inside became vibrant and translucent. Another was holding a long, thick tube, blowing air into it while rapidly rotating it. The red-hot glass at the end of the tube dripped down like molten maltose, quickly swelling into a round and regular bottle. Another was using tongs to hold another string of red-hot glass, waiting for him to finish his work, constantly pulling and shaping the glass until it was as thin as a thread, so it could be wrapped around the bottle to create patterns.
The craftsmanship is truly superb, the artisans so skilled and reliable. They possess unparalleled mastery of this dangerous and difficult art, coupled with an utterly devoted and focused passion, Schumeer thought. He stood in the alley, mesmerized. Until one of the artisans dampened the edge of the glass, waiting for it to cool and solidify—the man looked up and saw Schumeer's small mustache and two braids.
"What the hell!" he shouted, immediately dropping the half-finished piece of glass. "There's a Jew spying on us while we're working!"
"Oh, I didn't mean to!" Before Schumeer could react, two sweaty, burly arms grabbed him under the armpits and dragged him into the sweltering factory. Sweat immediately beaded on his back—the craftsmen were pulling him towards the burning kiln. "You didn't even lock the door, and now you blame me for accidentally seeing you, accusing me of peeping?" Schumeer shouted at the top of his lungs. "If you wanted to keep it a secret, why didn't you take precautions yourself?"
"Jacob!" A short, stocky man, who looked to be the most senior and oldest, stepped forward, shouting and cursing at the door, "Did you die out there?"
Sure enough, Schumacher saw the sleeping child run to the doorway, his face covered in drool, too frightened to wipe it away. "I...I fell asleep! I'm so sorry!" he stammered, his knees trembling uncontrollably.
“You were sleeping soundly. How could a blind Jewish guy not see the shop in front and ‘accidentally’ wander into the factory in the back?” The man snatched Schumeer’s backpack, his dirty hands reaching inside to rummage around. “There’s a pen and paper; you’re definitely trying to secretly write something down!”
"I'm an artist!" Schumeer was furious when he saw his carefully packed backpack turned upside down, with expensive paintbrushes and supplies scattered all over the floor. "I'm here to find work!"
“How can a Jew be a painter? I’ve never seen a Jew other than a moneylender or a doctor.” The craftsman picked up the parchment scroll from the ground, opened it, and examined it. “Abraham Moshe. And a Venetian?”
“I don’t expect you to apologize to me, but can you let me go now?” Schumer struggled relentlessly. “Who’s the boss here? Who’s in charge? I just want to find a job!”
He thought to himself, having gotten himself into this mess, any chance he might have had was probably gone—Schumel couldn't help but sigh. His luck had been terrible lately; perhaps some demon of misfortune had possessed his soul, causing him to stumble and make trouble at every turn. In the firelight, he saw a tall, fat, disheveled woman being summoned, radiating a terrifying rage, like a monstrous lion lunging out of a cave, ready to devour him alive—that must be the owner of this "crystal factory." Schummel silently prayed, "Please don't let her take me to the embassy for trial, so I can't even stay in Constantinople."
A head of bright, fluffy, lion-mane orange hair emerged from the shadows into the light, the kiln firelight making the strands appear gilded. "Which dared to try and steal my family's secret techniques?" Anger flushed his round face, freckles dotting his cheeks and nose. "I'll kick his ass to pieces!"
Schumacher gazed at that familiar yet unfamiliar face. He had painted this face many times, and he would never forget it in his life.
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