Notes written in books are, more often than not, vital information. They are also a sign of respect for the book itself. Because books were expensive and rare, it was taken for granted that they would have a long life; for this reason, their owners deposited their most important secrets between the covers—on the margins of the text or on the flyleaf. Births, earthquakes, gossip, crimes, revelations: all of them can be found in old books, some preserved in public libraries, others in archives or private collections.
A few days ago, my eyes fell on a note written in ink—now faded, though at the time it must have been of the finest quality, in a vivid shade somewhere between purple and brown. The letters are, of course, Cyrillic, but the note itself is in Romanian: a short recipe for a sleep elixir. The author wrote it on the back of an illustration from Erotocritus, a book I bought during my student years from a socialist antiquarian bookshop.
I immediately imagined that the person who wrote it must have suffered from insomnia. But the truth was quite different. The author was very young, an apprentice to the great Anastasie the Sorcerer, who lived in Bucharest toward the end of the eighteenth century.
Anastasie’s house, preserved for several decades after his death, was one of the grandest in the Stejarul district (roughly where the Palace Hall stands today). It had a monumental door framed by two columns and a single step, since one entered directly from the street into the shop, where the sorcerer sold elixirs and offered “consultations.” Because his remedies included foodstuffs—especially cheeses, olives with herbs, fish dried in a clay oven, and the like—his shop was officially classified as a grocery.
He had many affairs to attend to, so he took on a thirteen-year-old apprentice who could read and write, having studied at the school of Saint Ionica Church. I know this because the boy signs the very page I mentioned earlier, carefully listing the details he considered important: Tache, apprentice to Atanasie the Sorcerer.
Naturally, the sorcerer did not reveal his secrets to the apprentice. He did not explain his recipes or treatments. Tache was useful for carrying goods, running errands, delivering parcels to clients, and so on.
Though still a child, the apprentice observed how the world worked and had a genuine desire to learn. Whenever he found a free hour, he would visit his former teacher, who owned a number of books.
Tache knew how to listen. He was attentive, like those people who later find their way to success in life. Of course, he never neglected his duties as an apprentice, always answering kindly and ready to carry out any order.
One day, intending to ask his master a few questions, he entered the house—truly impressive, with many rooms and a spacious attic where Anastasie prepared elixirs and ointments. Standing there, mouth agape with astonishment, the apprentice discreetly witnessed the work of the famed sorcerer. And thus he learned the miraculous recipe that brought sleep filled with unforgettable dreams.
It was an expensive elixir, beyond the reach of most people, surrounded by a true mythology. Few Bucharesters had not heard of it. The sleep elixir made you forget all your sins, wiped away your sufferings. One could easily recognize those who had taken it by their serene, luminous faces. Moreover, the patient experienced a dream that clearly showed them which path to follow in life and whom it was wise to befriend.
Tache watched the entire process without making a sound, scarcely daring to breathe. He was fascinated, lifted into a state of total happiness, straight into the higher spheres reserved only for the chosen.
Afraid he might forget the ingredients, he ran off at once, stopping first at his former teacher’s house, where he found him copying a book—a commission for someone else.
Seizing a favorable moment, Tache grabbed an illustration from a pile of pages and, pretending he had urgent business, slipped away quickly.
On the back of that illustration from Erotocritus, he hastily wrote down the recipe he had witnessed, and, to make sure it was known who the author was, he signed it with all the importance he felt his role deserved.
From that point on begins the beautiful life of the apprentice Tache.
First, he prepared the miraculous elixir for himself and had a long dream. Upon waking, he knew exactly what to do. He sold the elixir—not the recipe—to a few wealthy people from Lipscani, then to some apothecaries, carefully avoiding Anastasie’s clientele. In less than a month, he had secured his livelihood. Without explanation, he abandoned his apprenticeship and distanced himself from his family, who, not understanding what had happened, merely said God be praised—there were fewer mouths to feed.
Tache’s activities were discreet. He rented a room in a cheap but central inn and invested in his appearance, exactly as he had dreamed. With a single set of fine clothes and a scarf artfully tied around his neck, he became a different person altogether, acquiring a reputation as a visionary and a learned man. He was not an ordinary healer like poor Anastasie; he knew how to read books and tell you precisely what you needed to do. Today we might call him a consultant, even a psychologist—manipulative, perhaps, but with a valuable skill: the ability to learn quickly.
For every pain, for every problem, he prescribed the same remedy: the sleep elixir.
At first there were only a few clients. Then the elixir began to circulate throughout the city. Serene faces appeared everywhere—people determined to take their lives into their own hands. Some abandoned secure occupations for a dream; others intensified competition and, eventually, social conflict, for many became daily consumers of Tache’s potion. Entire neighborhoods were deserted as people went in search of more prestigious districts. Certain that their place was near the princely palace, some even attempted to storm it. Others believed themselves invincible heroes.
As was only natural, the conviction spread that no one in the world deserved respect. The year 1789 was one of chaos—though I must admit that some of Tache’s patients did accomplish praiseworthy things. That was the year Bucharest was divided into districts and neighborhoods, and Nicolae Lazăr printed a history at Cișmeaua (in Mavrogheni’s printing house). Most people, however, turned the city upside down, obsessed with their own social advancement, in a mass movement comparable to Facebook or other modern means of collective exaltation.
In the end, it was Anastasie the Sorcerer who put his foot down. After some expense, he located his former apprentice. Do not imagine that he made a scene or demanded explanations. He simply slipped a drop of poison into his drink, putting an end to such a brilliant rise—and to a plagiarism that, as you know, is never truly proven.
That autumn, the Austrians entered Bucharest and ruled it for nearly two years, so people blamed them for the disappearance of both Tache and the city’s ambitions.
The sleep elixir was forgotten. The page from Erotocritus passed from hand to hand, kept among cherished objects—because I forgot to mention that the illustration depicts a fragment of their dreams.
As for myself, I did not attempt to prepare Tache’s elixir. Whenever I enter the kitchen, nothing goes well for an entire year. Besides, the recipe mentions a plant I could not find anywhere, though many people still speak of its virtues. So as not to forget it, I told its story in Homeric, where it appears as a central character.
