The Gargoyle

gone unnoticed for so long. Second, it appeared that a single hand had penned the entire work, which was highly unusual for such a long document. Third, whoever had produced the book was exceptionally skilled. Not only was the script beautifully formed, but the translation itself was better than most, if not all, modern ones. But it was the fourth point that was most puzzling: the physical attributes of the manuscript-parchment, ink, lettering-suggested that it had been produced in the Rhine area of Germany, perhaps as early as the first half of the 1300s. If this was true-though it hardly could be-then my manuscript predated any known German translation of Inferno by several centuries. “So you see, I simply must be mistaken.” He trembled. “I must be! Unless…unless…”

The German requested permission to perform radiocarbon dating on both the parchment and the ink. When I granted it, he had such a look of orgasmic joy on his face that I was afraid he might pass out. “Danke, danke schön, ich danke Ihnen vielmals!”

When the tests were completed and the parchment was dated to 1335, plus or minus twenty years, the German’s mood stepped a notch higher. “This is a discovery that is so far beyond anything that I…that I…” He couldn’t even find the words for his flabbergasted delight; the translation had been made within decades of Dante’s original Italian. I decided that it would not hurt to allow further research, and I even gave the German a push in a certain direction: I suggested that he might want to focus his investigation on the scriptorium at Engelthal. The German’s mouth twitched again, and he went back to his work.

When he contacted me some weeks later, he seemed to have finally accepted that he was investigating an impossible document. Yes, he confirmed, the work gave many indications of having been done at Engelthal. And yes, the copying was highly indicative of a particular scribe whose work was well known in the years circa 1310 to 1325. In fact, this scribe had always posed a minor mystery to scholars of German mysticism: her literary fingerprints were on a huge number of documents, her talent exceeding that of any of her peers, and yet her name could not be found anywhere. Such a secret could only have been kept by a coordinated effort between the prioress and the armarius of the time but, as Engelthal was otherwise proud of its literary reputation, the great question was: what was it about this particular nun that required such secrecy?

The German’s mustache was positively dancing as he spoke of all this but, he admitted, some points contradicted the Engelthal hypothesis. The parchment was of a different quality than that found in the monastery’s other documents, and the inks seemed to be of a different chemical composition. So while the workmanship suggested that it came from Engelthal, the German explained, the physical materials did not. And-need he even add this?-Engelthal would almost certainly have had nothing to do with Dante’s great poem. “It was not their particular milieu, if you understand what I mean. Not only was it in Italian, but entirely blasphemous for its time.”

The German asked, somewhat sheepishly, whether I had any more “hints” for him. As it turned out, I did. I suggested that he might now want to divert his attention from Engelthal to the city of Mainz, paying attention to privately produced books from the mid-1320s. The scribe, I said, might have written under the name of Marianne. The German’s bushy eyebrows furrowed under the weight of this new information and he begged to know how I could offer such specific suggestions. I said it was just a hunch.

He spent the better part of a month seeking out manuscripts that matched my parameters. He called often, sometimes to update me on progress but usually to complain that the confidentiality agreement was holding him back. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to request such documents when I can’t explain why I need them? Do you think I can just go to the library and check out books from the fourteenth century?”

I could tell he was about to start talking to his colleagues, with or without my permission, so I declared his research concluded. I thought he was going to smack me in the face, but instead he launched into a series of impassioned pleas: “This is one of the major discoveries in the history of the field…far-reaching implications… radically alter what we think about German translation…” When I continued to refuse, he changed his tack. He begged for a few more days of study and I swear that he actually batted his eyes at me. I refused this request as well, certain that he’d use the time to make a high-quality copy of the original. When I demanded my manuscript back that very minute, he threatened to go public with what he knew. “A contract of law is nothing compared with such a great gift to the world of literature!” I told him that his sentiment was highly admirable; nevertheless, I would sue him into bankruptcy if he spoke a single word. At this, he suggested that Dante should have added another Circle to Hell for “book-haters” like me.

In an effort to offer some small consolation to the man’s ego, I assured him that should I ever bring forth the German translation of Inferno, I would publicly acknowledge all the research that he had done. In fact, I would invite him to publish his findings concurrently, so that he was in no way deprived of academic acclaim. And then the German greatly surprised me. “I couldn’t care less if you include anything about who I am. This discovery is simply too important to keep hidden away.”

As of this day, I still haven’t decided what I’ll do with the copies of Inferno that Marianne Engel left me. When I’m feeling particularly fanciful, I tell myself that I’ll take the Italian copy into the grave with me, just in case I run into Francesco Corsellini one more time and I can return his father’s book to him.

· · ·

I’m keeping my fake toes but I’ve declined fake fingers; the toes help with my balance, while the fingers are only vanity. Besides, with a body like mine, fake fingers are the equivalent of replacing the headlights on a crashed car.

There are still things I could do to improve my appearance, small surgeries or corrective cosmetics that might soften my roughest edges. A plastic surgeon offered to rebuild my ears using cartilage from my ribs, or to provide prosthetic ears that look like real ones. But, like fake fingers, pseudo-ears lack a functional use: neither cartilage nor plastic will allow me to hear again. The theory is that they would make me feel more human by making me look more “normal,” but when I slipped on the prosthetics, they made me feel like Mr. Potato Head. As for a phalloplasty-the surgical construction of a new penis-I just haven’t gotten around to it. Maybe one day I will, but I’ve had enough surgeries for now. I’m tired. So recently I told Dr. Edwards, simply: “Enough.”

“I understand,” she said. And then the look crossed Nan’s face, the one I knew so well, the look she wore when weighing the benefits of telling the truth against lying or keeping quiet. As always, she decided on the truth. “You once asked why I chose to work in the burn unit. I’m going to show you something that I’ve never shown another patient.”

She pulled her white coat aside and rolled up her shirt, to reveal a large hypertrophic scar that covered the entire right side of her torso. “It happened when I was only four years old. I pulled a pot of boiling water off the stove. It’s our scars that make us who we are.” And then she left the office.

So I’m left with a Depression-era dustbowl of a skull. The top of my head is like infertile fields after a windstorm, bunched up in drifts of bullied dirt. There are subtle shifts in color, shades of red and brown. All is dry and wasted, as if the skin has been waiting years for the rain to come. A few wisps of tenacious hair sway across the furrowed landscape of my skull, like survivor weeds that don’t know they’re supposed to be dead.

My face is the field after the stubble has been burned. My lips, once so full, are thin like dehydrated worms. Knowing the medical term microstomia does not make my lips less ugly. Still, I prefer this mouth to the one I had before I told Marianne Engel that I loved her.

Pre-fire, my spine was strong; post-fire, it was replaced with a snake. Now the snake is gone and I’m rediscovering my backbone, which is a good start. My right leg is filled with metal pins and I could view them as shackles forged from the remains of my crashed vehicle. I could decide to drag my accident everywhere. I won’t.

I’m exercising harder than ever before. A few times each week Sayuri takes me to the local pool, where she leads me through a series of workouts. The water itself adds buoyancy, reducing stress on my joints. On the days when I’m not in the pool, Sayuri is teaching me to skip in the backyard. I suppose it must puzzle anyone who looks over from St. Romanus. What do they think about the monster bouncing around the yard, driven by a tiny Japanese woman? Occasionally Father Shanahan sees me and waves, and I always wave back. I’ve decided not to dislike him, despite the fact that he’s a priest.

After my workouts, Gregor comes over to pick Sayuri up and the three of us have tea. At our most recent gathering, I shared the news that this book was going to be published. They had no idea I had been writing this