Somewhere in Italy, 1612.
No parchment, no freshly made paper. There, in the place they told him was the provider's palace, the smell was of dampness mixed with the feeling that those stone walls carried, in addition to their own weight, the clear purpose of intimidation. Something instinctive in his bones bothered him, and it was certainly not what the men who were about to enter that room could have imagined.
All the slow and planned journey he had made, just so that a book could be opened by one person. Obviously not just any book, but his book, his Grimoire. Books were still a novelty in many places and not accessible to everyone. To some, that technology seemed more like a trick, a form of witchcraft, but humanity had not yet realised what it all meant and what it implied. It simply did not know what had been born many centuries ago and was now amplifying in unimaginable ways.
That was why it was so important to find the right person, if they really existed, and he felt that belief within himself, just as he could feel the humidity in the room.
His eyes fell on the sparse furnishings of the place. The solid wooden table, carved by skilled human hands, seemed to wait like him. The chairs were mere supporting actors. The heavy chandelier on the ceiling was a silent witness, and the windows played their part in bringing hope along with the light that allowed it to pass through.
In a second, the heavy door that had brought him there opened to let in three very unusual individuals. A young man with downcast eyes whose body showed all the signs of deep shyness, a vicar whose skin rivalled a raisin for the term 'dryness,' and a man who exuded authority through his expensive clothes, although he believed that those, he wore were much better.
The young man was the clerk who would record the interrogation. Yes, it was an interrogation, and the reason for it was now laid out on the table, wrapped in thick fabric, as if something infectious and mysterious had to be hidden from ordinary eyes. They were so afraid of the unknown, of things that could bring more power, more freedom. They were definitely not ready for what was wrapped up there so carefully, but maybe, just maybe, that boy who had no idea he was the whole reason for being in that room was ready for it.
He followed the calculated gestures with which he arranged the papers, then slid his gaze over the pen as he watched the ink carefully flow onto the sheet. The boy's unmelodious voice finally sounded:
—Let it be recorded that on the 3rd day of October in the Year of Our Lord 1612, in the Palace of the illustrious Lord Provost, in the courtroom before him, lord provost Giovanni Baduário, accompanied by His Excellency the Vicar, and being under oath, the witness shall be questioned. — He paused for a second, waiting for possible guidance, and the provost encouraged him with a gesture to continue. — Tell us your name.
— Poliphilo.
—Full name.
— Just Poliphilo. — The tone of his voice changed slightly, but it was enough for the young man to stop insisting.
— Your profession?
— I... create books.
— You make books? — He tried to correct him.
— I create books, — he reaffirmed.
— Do you make books like this? — The vicar picked up the volume on the table and unwrapped it, revealing a copy of striking beauty and technical precision, compared to what they were used to seeing. The cover, with its details and inlays, seemed to emanate an impressive and hypnotic aura. For a fraction of a second, Poliphilo's eyes let out a golden glow that slid across his pupils from side to side, as if he were silently greeting an old friend and apologising for leaving him in the hands of strangers for so long.
—Exactly — he said at last.
— We had heard allegations that this was a book of magic. This book is completely strange and its pages are all blank — said the vicar, taking care to keep the book partially covered, probably for fear of touching it directly. — What is this type of paper made of? Did you come to this region to sell or manufacture such books?
—Can you see anything written in it? Doesn't it look like a harmless book? — he commented. —Has anyone here opened it?
—Answer the questions, please — the vicar insisted curtly.
—It's just a blank book, but of course, to test the veracity of my words, you'll have to open it. Does anyone see anything in it?' The provost? Perhaps the young man? —He gestured with his hands, encouraging them to leaf through the book.
The cleric could not hide a slight grimace as he slowly opened the volume a little. No, of course, the parish priest saw nothing unusual in the book. He had already suspected as much. Nor did the provost, who stood up from his chair to look and shrugged his shoulders. The young clerk glanced sideways and paid more attention when it was shown to him. He looked at the pages for several seconds and even ventured to turn a few, timidly, always under the supervision of the vicar. At that moment, Poliphilo even stretched his neck a little to catch the young man's reaction, but nothing happened.
No. He is not a Gnostic.
He let out a sigh, which caught the attention of the group. He rose from his chair.
—You... — the vicar was about to say something, but Poliphilo snapped his fingers and, before the vicar could continue, the Grimoire disappeared, leaving the group perplexed.
The provider let out a muffled cry and almost fell backwards with his chair and all.
—Holy God! — The vicar made a quick sign of the cross while the clerk cowered silently in his chair.
—Time to go — he said, staring at them with eyes that now emanated completely golden irises.
—But what are you? — The vicar looked for somewhere to protect himself from what appeared to be a supernatural being, most likely coming from some nefarious and obscure corner of hell.
Poliphilo watched him for a few seconds and finally smiled as if he were already recovering from his disappointment.
— My blood is ink and my memory belongs to everyone. I was forged in the heart of Humanity. My body is made of paper — he said, and with a gesture, he bowed in a courteous farewell. —, but I was never here. — He snapped his fingers and the ink on the pages of the register faded away as he himself disappeared, leaving a group of people who no longer knew why they had gathered.
Present day.
Giovanna stared out of the window. It was raining heavily that morning. She warmed her hands on a mug of hot chocolate while occasionally turning to look at her orders on the workshop counter, waiting to be dispatched, and then looking back at the curtain of rain outside.
Her gaze fell on the vegetable garden visible through the large windows of the restoration workshop that had once belonged to her grandfather, the old craftsman Loredano, and was now her workplace. Her sister had inherited the vegetable garden and the small orchard, while she had inherited her grandfather's profession.
— At least Nina doesn't have to water the vegetable garden. — She smiled a little, put the mug aside and turned to put the packages in her backpack and close it carefully.
With quick steps, she crossed the hall of the old property to the front door, took the raincoat from the old coat rack and put it on. She strategically left her backpack on her back, which made her look like a hunchbacked girl dressed in bright yellow, riding a bicycle through the neighbourhood streets. It was fun to imagine the impression she made on pedestrians on rainy days.
Even from there, as she buttoned up her coat, she could smell the aroma coming from the kitchen. Nina must be cooking something delicious; after all, it was Saturday, and she devoted herself to cooking, with Gio as her guinea pig, of course. Fortunately, over the years, there had been few culinary accidents, and now there was complete harmony: they both had a pact not to kill each other with their respective recipes.
—I'm leaving! — she shouted as she opened the door, and before closing it, she heard the reply echo back.
— Watch out for the rain!
She took her bike out of its safe resting place while listening to the insistent patter of raindrops echoing on the plastic cover. She opened the gate and rode slowly down the old cobbled cul-de-sac. Apparently, there wouldn't be many spectators to watch her parade today. The rain was a little heavier than usual and everyone was taking shelter inside their homes.
She needed to be quick, after all, there were other tasks to be done that day. She only had the weekends to work on her bookbinding and orders, the rest of the time was taken up by her job at the library. As she cycled, her mind made mental lists of the tasks to be accomplished. There were still so many things to sort out. Since their grandfather's death a little over a year ago, the two sisters had been reorganising the property. After all, this was not just any house; it was the home of a craftsman, and all the objects there held many memories for both of them. Choosing what to keep and what to let go was a careful task. Nina decided almost everything about the rooms of the house with her Spartan practicality, but some areas belonged to Gio. The restoration studio and their grandparents' bedroom still had boxes to be organised and rummaged through, not to mention the huge library that had been built up over the years and was now almost a showcase of the craftsman's work. Dozens of copies with unique bindings rested on the shelves and had to compete for space with both of their favourite titles, which were more modern and casual. Many boxes with work objects stored inside cupboards, drawers and scattered among shelves needed to be reorganised.
The rain eased off and Gio picked up the pace so he could get home soon; after all, none of this would tidy itself up.
When she returned, there was a meal still warm and waiting to be eaten in the kitchen. Nina had left a note saying she had an appointment at the home of a colleague from the laboratory where she worked. She had actually mentioned something about a leisure meeting a few days earlier. The rain had subsided and the sky was partially bright, but still heavy on the horizon. A respite, for sure. She went upstairs to change her clothes and returned to the kitchen for her quick meal.
She regretted how quickly the hours passed as she devoured the tasty food and washed the dishes while already glancing at the cleaning cupboard. One might imagine that Gio was crazy about cleaning, but what drove her was more a mixture of anxiety to reorganize all her grandfather's material, open those boxes that had been closed for years, and discover many other extra materials. It was not just a gesture of throwing things away, but rather a gesture of rediscovering things that had been shelved and several notebooks with detailed work information. Her grandfather had been a book craftsman with an old family tradition, and she was impressed to see everything he had done.
She had studied restoration, of course, but the knowledge her grandfather had brought from his homeland came from the tradition of making beautiful and unique handmade things. It went beyond just binding, but gave a book or any binding a particular and unforgettable touch. For her grandfather, each bound book was individual, like a person.
In a world of technology, there was no shortage of people who said that books had their days numbered and libraries would soon be extinct, but Gio believed in the power of Loredano's words, who once told her, "Books will always exist. Books are like beacons. When you hold them in your hands, they illuminate you. A book is a unique sensory experience."
Even at the end, Loredano did it with great love. At that time, she was already doing her own bindings. When he finally passed away, Gio expressed her grief sitting in the workshop, looking at her grandfather's objects and works: even at the end, there were still books to be made.
She quietly finished them and sent them to the customers. They never knew that someone else had finished them. She had managed to reproduce her grandfather's technique to perfection.
Now she was the artisan in that workshop.
Her eyes scanned the small wooden boxes with dividers containing unique objects, corner pieces, metal pieces for stamping on leather in Gothic, Aldino, Grolier, Dentelle, and many other styles. There were so many of them, and many were already properly separated and cataloged. She smiled as she reorganized the beautiful typographic pieces and tried to put them in her own order of use, her order. Each bookbinder had their favourites.
There were also books with notes, studies, and her grandfather's own drawings for cover designs. She had also learned to do this and was now struggling to create her own style.
It was a long process. What for some might be a simple task, for her was meticulous work that required a lot of patience and organization.
She hadn't even noticed that the hours were passing and night was quickly taking the place of afternoon. Finally, she turned on a lamp on the table to organize the materials on it, but it soon became a fragile light in the face of all the darkness that slowly engulfed the workshop. The windows let in a soft night light that languidly lay on the furniture. The rain returned, soft and steady, touching the glass with tiny drops that slid in waves to the floor. An almost hypnotic sound settled in, and Gio continued mechanically to separate records and stack boxes with parts. She seemed to have separated almost everything when she stopped for a moment to see the fruit of her labour. A small happiness settled in her heart and made her smile.
Almost done, Grandpa.
A loud thud.
Gio was so focused that the sound made her jump slightly. She looked at the window, but the sound hadn't come from there. She searched for the source of the sound around her in the dim light. Perhaps something on the workbench in the center of the workshop? Had a box fallen? All remained obediently in the places where they had been arranged. She walked slowly toward it and glimpsed an empty space on the table where she had not separated anything. Well, until now it had been empty.
Lonely and surrounded by piles of boxes, there was something. A shape whose volume resembled a somewhat worn and heavy-looking leather book seemed to be there.
Gio's eyes blinked a few times. She took off her glasses and wiped them on her shirt. When she put them back on, it was still there, much clearer than before. The lonely book among the boxes. She stopped and could now feel her own breathing change slightly. It seemed a little scary, but she was almost certain that the book was somehow following the rhythm of her breathing, as if it were doing so itself.
It was minimal, almost imperceptible. The book seemed to move slightly under the leather that covered it, like an animal silently stalking someone who is watching it. Strange, but completely fascinating.
Bona hic invenies...
Gio was slightly startled. That phrase came to her mind as if someone had said it, but she hadn't heard an external voice. She knew that phrase well, but it wasn't her own thought. It had just popped into her mind, soft, impersonal, and ancient.
A feeling of fascination took hold of her for a few seconds. It wasn't really fear that she felt. Something like a slight electric shock ran through her body and she felt her hands lose their strength slightly. Her eyes remained fixed on the book and now she could see the details of that mysterious body on the counter.
There were details, markings, worn symbols, and its corners were made of some aged metal. Something strange was happening with that book because it seemed decrepit, but incredibly new at the same time, as if it had been made recently, and especially, made for her.
Her hand rose hesitantly, and she thought about lightly touching the object. It was definitely there for her. A feeling of recognition rang in her mind, but she couldn't quite figure out how. She only knew that maybe she should touch the book. She closed her eyes for a few seconds to try to pull it from her memory.
What is this memory? What is this?
Her eyes opened and, in an impulse to touch the object, her hand slid through the air toward it.
—Don't touch it — the command sounded behind her with the force of a projectile hitting crystal.
Gio felt a chill as if something had awakened her from a strange dream. She seemed to lose her balance, but she was still standing, steady. Lightning echoed unexpectedly, cutting through the soothing rain, and she turned to locate the owner of the voice.
Her body simply did not react as she watched the young man before her with his completely unfamiliar clothes and expression. His eyes, lips, everything exuded great confidence. An unexpected golden reflection crossed those dark brown eyes, like a reflection of gold on the cover of an old book. He seemed confident in front of her, who, in turn, had no idea who or what she was actually seeing. It took her a few seconds to realize that the lamp had gone out and, at that moment, the only source of light was outside. Even in the dim light, she was impressed that she could see him so clearly. The feeling became more intense when she saw him move.
A very gentle gesture of his hand produced a slight flourish in the air, and she felt something like a gust of wind behind her. She turned her face to discover that the mysterious book had disappeared. Her breathing seemed to be the loudest sound in the room now.
—I found you. — The voice struck her again like a call, and she turned faster.
He had disappeared.
As if she had regained all her senses, Gio fell into herself like someone who falls on their feet after falling off a cliff. Her hearing seemed overexcited, and the rain, which had been soft before, sounded very loud, as if a heavy downpour were falling outside. The lamp was on again, and her breathing sounded loud and irregular.
He staggered backward, bumped into the counter, and took one last look at the empty space where the mysterious book had been before leaving at a fast pace and practically running up the stairs to his room.