The Master's Apprentice, page 33
part #1 of Faust Series
“Better watch out there. Hans Altmayer, their leader, already has it in for you. If a dozen Swabians attack you at once, not even the oh-so-proud Johann Faustus stands a chance.”
Valentin wagged his finger with mock severity. Johann hadn’t even told his only friend among the students his real name. There had already been a few scuffles between him and other students, and Johann always left his knife at home now to avoid getting into serious trouble. Larger weapons like épées and swords were forbidden on campus. But fists were enough for Johann, and he’d even used them to help Valentin out of tricky situations. Johann was considered an unpleasant opponent who was better avoided. His fellow students respected him, and some envied his intelligence and knowledge, but no one loved him. No one wanted to go out for a beer with him, and he avoided seeking the company of anyone except Valentin.
Unlike his tall, athletic new friend, Valentin was short and scrawny. His hair was thinning even though he was only seventeen years old. Like Johann, he was smart and hungry for knowledge, but he was also highly sensitive and had been the victim of many beatings. The two of them usually sat together during lectures.
“If it isn’t Altmayer bothering you, then what is it?” asked Valentin persistently.
Johann sighed and pushed the chessboard aside. Why shouldn’t he tell Valentin about his fears? Maybe his friend knew how one went about finding a married girl one hadn’t seen in two years and whose last name one didn’t even know.
“It’s about a girl,” he started awkwardly. “Not just any girl, but I fear she’s the love of my life. She’s been part of my life for as long as I can remember.”
Johann told Valentin about Margarethe, about their times together and how he’d left his hometown. He even told Valentin the real name of his birthplace. His friend frowned.
“I thought you were from Simmern.”
“There were certain . . . incidents at Knittlingen that I preferred not to mention to the rector,” said Johann. “I’ll tell you about it another time.”
“Faustus, Faustus . . . the mysterious stranger.” Valentin gave him a wink. “Whatever the case,” he said and placed his queen in front of his king, “now your Margarethe has married some winemaker from around here, and you’re looking for her. Are you sure that’s such a good idea? Maybe she’s happy with her husband and you’d be bringing unwanted memories.”
“If she’s happy, then at least I want to know—understand?” snapped Johann. “I can’t get her out of my head. Her laughter, her merry eyes—she was the sun of my life. Whenever I got too mired in brooding, she shook me awake. She . . . she rescued me more times than I can remember.”
“Enough already!” Valentin shook his head and laughed. “I can tell you’re incurably in love.” He touched his nose. “Hmm. Do you at least know the husband’s name?”
Johann shrugged. “I know nothing except that he’s a vintner from Heidelberg. For all I know, she might not even live here and the merchant in Venice was talking nonsense.”
“A Heidelberg vintner marries a girl from Knittlingen. That shouldn’t be too hard to find out.” Valentin rubbed his beardless chin. “The folks at the taverns in the Bergheim quarter might know something—that’s where most winegrowers live. Could be worth a shot. Only, I don’t know what the dear husband will say when his wife’s old flame shows up all of a sudden. We’ll have to be careful.” He grinned. “But I wouldn’t mind a few mugs of Heidelberg white—as long as you’re paying.”
“You . . . you would help me?”
“Matter of honor among fellow students! We just need to make sure old Partschneider doesn’t get wind of anything. Every night he locks this place up like a prison.”
“Let that be my concern,” replied Johann, smirking. “Disappearing is one of my many talents. You know, I used to be a magician in one of my former lives. And now back to the game.” He leaned over the board and made his move. “Bishop beats queen. Checkmate.”
Valentin smacked his forehead with one hand. “Damn, you’re good for someone who’s only just learned the game. I don’t get you—one moment you’re bemoaning your undying love, and the next you make a move as if you’ve been thinking about nothing else the whole time. Sometimes I’d really like to know what’s going on in that head of yours, Johann Faustus.”
It wasn’t until the following Saturday that the two students managed to slip away in the evening. Magister Partschneider always locked the door, and the windows were barred, but in an opportune moment Johann stole the key from the hook in the hallway. Using beeswax, he cast a mold of the key and took it to the Heidelberg blacksmith the same day. With their second key, Valentin and Johann were now able to leave their quarters after dark.
The Bergheim neighborhood was in the city’s western section, not far from campus. Many craftsmen lived there, but also winegrowers whose vineyards flourished along the slopes of the Neckar River. The taverns were busy on this Saturday night. Numerous students were about, drinking wine and beer from large clay mugs, bawling their filthy Latin songs, and trying to lure the Heidelberg girls into nearby barns and press houses for a quick tryst.
Valentin and Johann had decided to visit all the taverns one after another—not an easy feat in a student city like Heidelberg. To keep Johann from coming under suspicion, Valentin would lead the conversation with the locals while Johann was supposed to remain in the background. Even though they tried to go easy on the wine, Johann felt rather drunk after the fourth tavern—and they still hadn’t learned a thing.
When they entered the fifth tavern late at night and with heavy steps, Johann saw immediately that it was full of students from the Swabian hostel. Among the half-drunk students was their leader, Hans Altmayer, who’d played a few dirty tricks on Johann already. Altmayer, the son of a wealthy cloth merchant from Esslingen, was an oaf who used his time at the university mainly to hone his bullying skills. When Johann walked past without acknowledging him, Altmayer doffed his beret mockingly. He was tall and of strong build but not very agile, as Johann had found out during their first run-in. Johann had easily outmaneuvered him in that scuffle.
“Look at that, the beggars from the poorhouse were allowed out tonight,” jeered Altmayer, looking around at his friends. “Better keep an eye on your purses now—those paupers like to pickpocket.”
His fellow students hooted with laughter, but Johann ignored them, his eyes following Valentin, who sat down at a table with some farmers. Johann leaned against a wall, where a smiling young maid soon brought him a mug of frothing beer. Hans Altmayer and the other Swabian students put their heads together and shot poisonous glances in his direction, but they didn’t dare attack him openly inside the tavern.
Johann had taken only a few sips when Valentin returned to his side. His friend seemed very excited.
“I think I found something,” Valentin said quietly. “Those farmers know of a winemaker who married less than two years ago. It’s his second wife. The first one died of the spotted fever and didn’t bear him any children—”
“And the second?”
“Comes from Knittlingen, is flaxen haired, and has freckles.”
“That’s Margarethe!” exclaimed Johann so loudly that the people standing nearby turned to look at them.
“Shh! Shut up and listen. Something appears to be wrong with the girl. They didn’t really want to say anything else on the matter and muttered something about dark forces and witchcraft—”
“What’s happened to Margarethe?”
“I don’t know! You’d have to ask her husband. His name is Jakob Kohlschreiber, he’s quite the boozer, and—”
“And where do I find him?” asked Johann excitedly.
“I’m trying to tell you.” Valentin’s mouth was close to his ear now. “He’s sitting on his own in the corner over there—see him?”
Johann turned his head slowly. In a corner, a little apart from the other tables, was a man with a large jug of wine. His thinning brown hair stuck out at the sides in tufts. His face was bloated from alcohol and his lips fleshy. He might have been a strapping and muscular young man once, but now a potbelly bulged underneath his vest, and his whole body was soft like a wet sponge. His clothes were stained but also showed that he was wealthy enough.
Johann brusquely handed his mug to Valentin.
“What are you doing?” asked his friend.
“I’m going to talk to the fellow,” replied Johann. “I didn’t travel hundreds of miles just to chicken out now. I want to know how Margarethe is doing.”
“Be careful. The man looks dangerous. And drunk.”
“So am I.” Johann turned away and walked toward the table in the corner.
The man stared into his mug without noticing him. But when Johann sat down opposite him, he looked up with surprise. Then his expression turned sour.
“And who said you could sit with me?” he grumbled. “Go back to your pals. Lazy student riffraff. There’s nothing for you here.”
“Trust me, I’m just as sick of those good-for-nothings as you are,” replied Johann, trying to sound as sober as possible. “My father is a vintner and sent me to college here. But I’d rather learn a proper trade instead of all that useless nonsense. I wouldn’t be much good as a merchant, either—something hands-on would suit me, like a smith or carpenter or growing wine.”
“Mmh, yes, winemaking is an honest profession,” said Jakob Kohlschreiber, looking a little less surly now.
Johann casually dropped a coin onto the table. It was one of the last he’d kept from Venice. It was made of pure silver, and Kohlschreiber eyed it greedily. Johann snapped his fingers at the young maid.
“Is it possible to get something better than this sour swill in here?” he asked haughtily.
When the girl saw the coin, she turned on her heel and returned shortly thereafter with a jug of wine and two fresh mugs. Johann filled them and pushed one mug over to Kohlschreiber.
“Be so kind and share a jug with a young guy who’s trying to forget his misery,” he said.
He didn’t have to ask Kohlschreiber twice. He emptied the mug and filled it again.
“Not bad,” the vintner said. “Almost as good as my own wine.”
“But what use is the best wine when the wench is no good?” said Johann, taking a long sip and watching Kohlschreiber from the corner of his eye. “My girl ran away with another fellow just the other day—and I haven’t stopped drinking since.”
Jakob Kohlschreiber gave a bitter laugh. “My woman ran away, too, but not with another man. Her cold body would still lie in my bed, but her mind was somewhere else. Probably on Blocksberg Mountain, where the witches dance. Damned sorcery!”
Johann leaned forward. “How do you mean?”
“Well, the woman is possessed by the devil. I should have known. I met her through my brother-in-law, who sometimes goes to Knittlingen on business. Do you know Knittlingen?”
Johann nodded uncertainly. “A little.”
“Well, there was a well-situated girl. The dowry wasn’t very big, but she’s the daughter of the Knittlingen prefect. I thought it was a good bargain. And she’s easy on the eye.”
Oh yes, she is, thought Johann. As beautiful as the sun after a dark night.
“I was deceived,” Kohlschreiber went on angrily. “The devil’s inside that woman—but the father never said a word! Apparently, she didn’t speak for weeks following an incident in the woods with some young lad. She didn’t say much with me in the beginning, either.” He burped and wiped his lips. “Not the worst trait for a wife to have, really. I don’t like bickering women. But when I tried to perform my marital duty, she stopped talking altogether. The only time she said a word was in her sleep—terrible words . . .” Kohlschreiber lowered his voice. “She spoke about Satan, about missing children, and about a hand reaching for her . . . ‘The boogeyman, he is coming to take me, he will take us all,’ she muttered in her dreams. Like I said—that woman’s possessed by the devil! ‘Go away, go away,’ she shouted, and the next morning she couldn’t remember a thing.”
“So . . . so what did you do?” asked Johann.
“What do you think?” Jakob Kohlschreiber leaned back and crossed his fat arms on his chest. “At first I was going to hand her over to the authorities. I mean, who wants a witch in their house? Next thing you know, you fall under suspicion yourself. But then I changed my mind and sent her to Neuburg.”
“To Neuburg?”
“The Benedictine nunnery on the Neckar. For all I care, she can spend the rest of her life kneeling before the altar. The Neuburg nuns are particularly strict. I kept the dowry, of course.” He gave a malicious laugh. “I’m going to drink it away until I find a new wife. But this time I’m not going to be cheated—not for the third time. The first one couldn’t have children, and the next one turned out to be a witch. Damn the useless womenfolk! Hey, where are you going?”
Johann had sprung to his feet. His drunkenness had vanished and he suddenly felt very sober. If he sat here for a moment longer, he would throw his mug at the obnoxious fellow.
“Got to get back to the hostel,” he muttered. “Keep the wine.”
“Well, I won’t say no to that.” Kohlschreiber studied Johann with his small eyes. “There’s something about you I don’t like, boy. You’re up to something, aren’t you? What is it?”
Instead of replying, Johann walked away, and the winemaker refilled his mug.
Almost blind with grief, Johann headed for the exit. He just wanted to get out of there; he didn’t even take the time to look for Valentin. As he was about to go through the door, Hans Altmayer blocked his way.
“And where are you going in such a hurry?” asked Altmayer. “Did you steal something, you—”
He didn’t get any further, because Johann thrust his fist into Hans Altmayer’s face. All his anger discharged in one single punch. Altmayer went down with a gasp of pain, and his comrades took a step back. Johann’s expression told them not to come near. Something eerie and unpredictable flickered in his eyes as if he were a wild animal.
“You will regret this,” cried Altmayer, holding his nose while the blood formed a red puddle on the stone floor. “You will regret this, you arrogant bastard!”
But Johann didn’t hear him. He had already rushed out into the street. A chilly breeze swept through the night, but it didn’t dampen his anger and his grief. Margarethe was so close to him and yet as far as if she were in Venice or Rome—or even farther.
She was at a nunnery.
15
JOHANN STAYED IN bed for two days. He reported himself sick, didn’t attend lectures, and spent the days staring at the ceiling of his room. Not even Valentin got through to him. His friend brought him bread, soup, and thinned wine, but Johann only drank the wine and left the rest untouched. When Valentin begged him to tell what had happened, Johann said nothing.
Johann felt as though night had descended upon him and there was no hope of daylight returning. Ever since he’d decided in Venice to seek out Margarethe, this goal had given him the strength to carry on. Now he’d found Margarethe, but she was unobtainable. He’d never even find out how she was doing. The Neuburg convent was only about an hour away from Heidelberg, but it was practically impossible for an outsider to speak with the nuns. The Benedictine sisters were very withdrawn and hardly ever left the walls of their nunnery—least of all addled young souls sent there by distraught husbands or fathers. Those were the only men who might occasionally be granted access, but no one else.
No one else.
An idea flashed through Johann’s gloomy thoughts. He sat up in his bed and reached for the bowl of soup. Suddenly he felt ravenous. His usually bright mind had been boarded up for the last two days, but finally he saw a way.
A plan was ripening in his mind.
On the morning of the third day, Johann told Magister Partschneider that he was feeling better. He picked up his satchel with his quill and papers and went outside as if heading to class. He was careful not to let Valentin see him leave. His plan was only half-baked, and he was afraid his friend would talk him out of it. He turned north toward the place where small boats lay moored near the university chapel. He hired a rowboat from a fisherman and paddled up the Neckar, which was still lazy and calm in early September. To the north and the south rose Heiligenberg and Königstuhl, the two mountains that cradled Heidelberg in their middle. Vineyards stretched on both banks of the river, and sweaty winegrowers carrying packs were hard at work harvesting the first grapes. Margarethe’s husband, Jakob Kohlschreiber, was probably among them, unless he was sleeping it off somewhere beneath the vines. Hatred welled up in Johann. He gritted his teeth and rowed faster.
The river went around a gentle bend, and the bridge and the city disappeared out of sight. The Neckar wound its way into the Odenwald Mountains, the wooded ranges at whose foothills Heidelberg was situated. It wasn’t long before a monastery-like complex appeared on the slopes above the left bank. It lay on a plateau among meadows above a small village with a mill. A narrow path lined with linden trees led up to the imposing stone building. Johann tied the boat to a dock and walked up the hill, forcing himself not to run. Somewhere up there was Margarethe—so close and yet out of reach. He slowed down and finally arrived at the nunnery, which consisted of a church, several outbuildings, and the abbey. The entire complex was surrounded by a wall, and vineyards rose on the slopes behind it up to the edge of the forest.
Maintaining his distance, Johann circled around the complex, keeping a close eye on any window he saw. He tried to figure out which ones belonged to living quarters. On the east side, the wall ran close to a bulky building, and Johann thought he could make out moving shadows behind the second-story windows. He guessed the room beyond those windows might be the parlatory—the only place where the nuns were permitted to lead longer conversations.
