She opened the cabinet and pointed mechanically at the book.
This is the Voynich manuscript. The Voynich manuscript is the only unreadable book in the universe. It is written in a code that no one can understand. Emperor Rudolph II of Bohemia purchased this book in 1586, though the book is known to be older than that. The emperor was a strange man who amused himself with games and codes. He collected dwarves — Leonard and Felix knew better than to interrupt — and had a regiment consisting solely of giants. The manuscript was sold to him possibly by John Dee — an English navigator and spy who shared Rudolph’s interest in magic and the occult. The manuscript passed through many hands, eventually being found in 1912 by Wilfrid M. Voynich. Hence the Voynich manuscript.
The Voynich contains 246 quarto pages, of which 212 contain mysterious drawings. These drawings are of botanical, astrological-astronomical, biological, and pharmaceutical subjects, which is to say, they’re of plants, stars and planets, and so on.
Sally removed the dustproof cloth, which Leonard noted was not the one in which she’d blown her delicate nose. She placed it on the scholar table, then carefully opened the book so that Leonard and Felix could from that distance see drawings of plants — book-size versions of the drawings on the wall, which Felix was about to remark on out loud, when Leonard, sensing Felix’s impending irruption, pinched his side. She covered the book again with the cloth.
This is where my lecture usually ends, Sally said. Because this is where it gets interesting. The Cathars are convinced that the Voynich reveals the secret location of the Holy Grail, though they are utterly unable to prove it. They’d like very much for it to be so because they don’t have much left in the way of documentation. If they can crack the code and prove the book is theirs, they might attract new members. The Strawberry Parfait ice cream chain isn’t exactly bringing them in.
I didn’t know—
That Parfait is Cathar? Exactly! They’ve got no outreach, no philosophy they’re willing to share with their customers, and besides, once you’re fully initiated you have to starve yourself to death, and who wants that? But Parfait lucre helped establish this university. They’re strangling Voynich studies: they’ll only allow research that supports their point of view! We Latter-Day Baconians and some other inconsequential groups have been forced underground, practically.
Baconians? Leonard asked. He couldn’t help himself. He had to know everything there was to know about Sally: if she was a Baconian, he had to know what that meant.
You don’t know anything, do you? Sally said.
Leonard and Felix shook their heads.
I’ll have to digress, then, won’t I? Roger Bacon was an English scientist, scholar, occultist, and Franciscan friar who lived from 1214 to 1294, or thereabouts, or maybe from 1220, it’s hard to know. He was the most brilliant man of his age. He wrote the Voynich! Really, you haven’t heard of him?
Does he have a food chain? Leonard asked.
No! Sally said, disgusted in a way that pierced Leonard’s heart. He decided he’d ask no more questions.
He was a Master at Oxford, then he taught in Paris. We don’t know where he was between 1247 and 1256, though I have my ideas. He became a friar in 1256, expecting that this would lead to another teaching position, but instead, a few years later, the Franciscans prohibited him from publishing. He eventually got around this through Pope Clement, formerly known as Cardinal Guy le Gros de Foulques, who instructed him in 1266 to write about the place of philosophy in theology. Am I speaking too fast?
No, Leonard said.
You have a glazed look on your face.
I think you’re very pretty, Leonard said.
Sally stomped her foot. Her freckled cheeks became pink.
I need you to listen, she said. This is very important!
Leonard listens best when someone pretty is talking, Felix said. That’s what he meant.
Oh, Sally said. Sorry.
Please, continue, Leonard said.
Where was I?
Leonard had no idea.
The place of philosophy in theology, Felix said.
Right. It was at this point that Roger Bacon produced the works for which he is most famous — and she pointed to some tomes beside her cot: Opus Majus, Opus Minus, De multiplicatione specierum.
Latin, Felix said.
Of course, Sally said. For the remainder of his life, Bacon alternately taught and suffered under house arrest, but this doesn’t interest us.
It doesn’t? Leonard said.
No, Sally said. Anyone hungry?
Code yellow
We should eat before I tell you the best part, the part nobody knows.
Jujuberries? Leonard offered.
Yuck, Sally said. Really, the only thing I like, besides legs, is, don’t laugh …
Neetsa Pizza, Leonard said.
Sally looked at him with wonder and new respect.
How did you know?
Golden Mean pizza?
Yes! she cried. It’s like you know me!
It’s my favorite too! Leonard said.
We can order one from a greeter on the Walking Grounds, Sally said.
No, we can’t, Felix said. He’d gone to the window, which he now opened. Sounds of mayhem exploded into the room — which is to say, shrieking, shouting, banging, clanging, more shouting, alarm whistles, and innumerable varieties of cacophonous song.
A riot, Sally said, as Leonard arrived to look over her shoulder.
Hundreds of neo-Maoists and food representatives were wrestling, throwing punches, and chasing one another around the Walking Grounds. Some carried sticks; others flaming torches. Strawberry Parfait soda jerks made rude gestures at pizza greeters, who brandished clipboards. Tapas chefs from Jack-o-Bites menaced scantily clad Whiggery Piggery barbecuties with kebab sticks. A tree in the middle of the ground was alight — the Heraclitans’ doing, no doubt. Only the Dadaists seemed uninterested in fighting: they were … yes, they were admiring a stoveroom sink propped against a jujuberry tree.
The music came from dueling musicians, established in different corners of the grounds — Leonard could make out the Heavenly Spheres rock band, some court troubadours, a suburban-peasant-worker chorale, bagpipes, and Whig fanfare, all egging their representatives on with morale-boosting melodies. Leonard couldn’t help but feel Pythagorean pride as he heard strains of the Neetsa Pizza theme song.
The police are arriving, Sally said, and she was right: it was their alarm whistles they’d heard, and they were getting louder. A police caravan screeched to a halt and dozens of police jumped off the back, justice sticks and ID spray in hand, some still wearing their Chipmunk Patrol sashes. They began spraying and beating fighters and passersby indiscriminately.
Oh, no! Felix cried. It’s Mom! MOM! he shouted in a voice so loud it set bells and sirens off in Leonard’s head, and made the room tremble — then Felix was off, running from the room, Leonard after him, Sally grabbing her clutchbag.
Code yellow! she shouted to Peter as they made for the stairs.
Don’t you hate that?
When they got outside they saw something they couldn’t possibly have imagined: everything — every person, every breeze, every insect, even the flame in the tree — had come to a stop, everything but the three of them, and what looked like Carol’s red afro escaping around a corner. A policeman’s justice stick was frozen in the air, his face a grimace, a Whig’s fist was immobilized two centimeters from a neo-Maoist kidney, and so on. Leonard stopped short, and then Sally, but Felix kept running toward the spot where he’d seen his mother. When he saw she was gone, he reluctantly returned.