“Benno,” William said.
Benno shook his head, in vigorous denial. “No, Brother William, you know I was consumed with curiosity. But if I had come in here and had been able to leave with the book, I would not be here now keeping you company; I would be examining my treasure somewhere else…”
“An almost convincing argument,” William said, smiling. “However, you don’t know what the book looks like, either. You could have killed and now you would be here trying to identify the book.”
Benno blushed violently. “I am not a murderer!” he protested.
“No one is, until he commits his first crime,” William said philosophically. “Anyway, the book is missing, and this is sufficient proof that you didn’t leave it here.”
Then he turned to contemplate the corpse. He seemed only at that point to take in his friend’s death. “Poor Severinus,” he said, “I had suspected even you and your poisons. And you were expecting some trick with poison; otherwise you wouldn’t have worn those gloves. You feared a danger of the earth and instead it came to you from the heavenly vault…” He picked up the sphere again, observing it with attention. “I wonder why they used thit particular weapon…”
“It was within reach.”
“Perhaps. But there were other things, pots, gardening tools… It is a fine example of the craft of metals and of astronomical science. It is ruined and … Good heavens!” he cried,
“What is it?”
“And the third part of the sun was smitten and the third part of the moon and the third part of the stars …” he quoted.
I knew all too well the text of John the apostle. “The fourth trumpet,” I exclaimed.
“In fact. First hail, then blood, then water, and now the stars … If this is the case, then everything must be re-examined; the murderer did not strike at random, he was following a plan… But is it possible to imagine a mind so evil that he kills only when he can do so while following the dictates of the book of the Apocalypse?”
“What will happen with the fifth trumpet?” I asked, terrified. I tried to recalclass="underline" ‘And I saw a star fallen from heaven unto the earth and to him was given the key of the bottomless pit… Will somebody die by drowning in the well?”
“The fifth trumpet also promises many other things,” William said. “From the pit will come the smoke of a great furnace, then locusts will come from it to torment mankind with a sting similar to a scorpion’s. And the shape of the locusts will resemble that of horses, with gold crowns on their heads and lions’ teeth… Our man could have various means at his disposal to carry out the words of the book… But we must not pursue fantasies. Let us try, rather, to remember what Severinus said to us when he informed us he had found the book…”
“You told him to bring it to you and he said he couldn’t…”
“So he did, and then we were interrupted. Why couldn’t he? A book can be carried. And why did he put on gloves? Is there something in the book’s binding connected with the poison that killed Berengar and Venantius? A mysterious trap, a poisoned tip …”
“A snake!” I said.
“Why not a whale? No, we are indulging in fantasies again. The poison, as we have seen, had to enter the mouth. Besides, Severinus didn’t actually say he couldn’t carry the book. He said he preferred to show it to me here. And then he put on his gloves… So we know this book must be handled with gloves. And that goes for you, too, Benno, if you find it, as you hope to. And since you’re being so helpful, you can help me further. Go up to the scriptorium again and keep an eye on Malachi. Don’t let him out of your sight.”
“I will!” Benno said, and he went out, happy at his mission, it seemed to us.
We could restrain the other monks no longer, and the room was invaded. Mealtime was now past, and Bernard was probably assembling his tribunal in the chapter house.
“There is nothing more to be done here,” William said.
With the infirmary, we abandoned my poor hypothesis, and as we were crossing the vegetable garden I asked William whether he really trusted Benno. “Not entirely,” William said, “but we told him nothing he didn’t already know, and we have made him fear the book. And, finally, in setting him to watch Malachi, we are also setting Malachi to watch him, and Malachi is obviously looking for the book on his own.”
“What did the cellarer want, then?”
“We’ll soon know. Certainly he wanted something, and he wanted it quickly, to avert some danger that was terrifying him. This something must be known to Malachi: otherwise there would be no explanation of Remigio’s desperate plea to him…”
“Anyway, the book has vanished…”
“This is the most unlikely thing,” William said, as we arrived at the chapter house. “If it was there, as Severinus told us it was, either it’s been taken away or it’s there still.”
“And since it isn’t there, someone has taken it away,” I concluded.
“It is also possible that the argument should proceed from another minor premise. Since everything confirms the fact that nobody can have taken it away …”
“Then it should be there still. But it is not there.”
“Just a moment. We say it isn’t there because we didn’t find it. But perhaps we didn’t find it because we haven’t seen it where it was.”
“But we looked everywhere!”
“We looked, but did not see. Or else saw, but did not recognize… Adso, how did Severinus describe that book to us? What words did he use?”
“He said he had found a book that was not one of his, in Greek…”
“No! Now I remember. He said a strange book. Severinus was a man of learning, and for a man of learning a book in Greek is not strange; even if that scholar doesn’t know Greek, he would at least recognize the alphabet. And a scholar wouldn’t call a book in Arabic strange, either, even if he doesn’t know Arabic…” He broke off. “And what was an Arabic book doing in Severinus’s laboratory?”
“But why should he have called an Arabic book strange?”
“This is the problem. If he called it strange it was because it had an unusual appearance, unusual at least for him, who was an herbalist and not a librarian… And in libraries it can happen that several ancient manuscripts are bound together, collecting in one volume various and curious texts, one in Greek, one in Aramaic …”
“… and one in Arabic!” I cried, dazzled by this illumination.
William roughly dragged me out of the narthex and sent me running toward the infirmary. “You Teuton animal, you turnip! You ignoramus! You looked only at the first pages and not at the rest!”
“But, master,” I gasped, “you’re the one who looked at the pages I showed you and said it was Arabic and not Greek!”
“That’s true, Adso, that’s true: I’m the animal. Now hurry! Run!”
We went back to the laboratory, but we had trouble entering, because the novices were carrying out the corpse. Other curious visitors were roaming about the room. William rushed to the table and picked up the volumes, seeking the fatal one, flinging away one after another before the amazed eyes of those present, then opening and reopening them all again. Alas, the Arabic manuscript was no longer there. I remembered it vaguely because of its old cover, not strong, quite worn, with light metal bands.