The Master's Apprentice, page 37
part #1 of Faust Series
“I decided on animals,” said Valentin. “They’re easier to draw than men, and I can draw them in movement. I botched a little here and there—”
“Don’t hide your light under a bushel,” said Johann. “Your pictures are excellent. Provided the laterna works, the show is going to be spectacular. Just imagine how much money we could make if we charged admittance.”
Valentin crossed his arms on his chest. “I didn’t intend to make money out of it. This experiment serves science alone.”
“Let’s talk about that again another time. It would be such a shame if—”
“I said these pictures aren’t for public viewing,” said Valentin hotly. “There isn’t going to be a spectacle on market squares or at hostels full of drunk students. That’s my final word, Johann Faustus! I’m a scholar, not a dishonorable juggler.”
The last words hurt Johann to the quick. Valentin had never spoken to him like this before. Clearly, Johann had offended his friend’s pride, but he tried not to let anything show.
“All right,” Johann said, giving a strained smile. “I heard you. And now show me the sketches one more time to remind me how to insert the glass plates.”
For the next two days, Johann hardly went to any lectures. He avoided running into others and couldn’t wait to see Margarethe again. He told Valentin he needed to prepare for his Greek exams, but the crude letters swam before his eyes, appearing to run away from him like black beetles. What if Margarethe wouldn’t be able to steal away from the other nuns? Or worse—what if she regretted her decision and didn’t even turn up? Did she still love him?
At the same time, his thoughts kept returning to his conversation with Conrad Celtis and what the scholar had told him about Gilles de Rais. When Archibaldus wrote the name on the church wall in his own blood—what had he been trying to say?
Johann tried to deduce logically like he’d been taught at the university. As Aristotle had done, he started with a hypothesis and supported it with arguments. The only plausible explanation for Archibaldus’s death seemed to be some sort of connection to Signore Barbarese. The old magister was murdered just before he was supposed to meet Johann to tell him more about Barbarese. Evidently, the eerie Venetian was indeed a follower of some devil-worshipping sect, and Archibaldus had found out—that was why he’d had to die. But why had Archibaldus written that name on the wall? Perhaps those disciples of Satan invoked Gilles de Rais; perhaps they considered him some sort of master, even if he’d been dead for a long time. That still left the question of what Tonio del Moravia had to do with all this. Archibaldus’s last words to Johann had been about Tonio, after all.
It’s about your former mentor, Tonio del Moravia. I finally know where I’ve heard the name before . . .
What was it that Archibaldus had learned about Tonio?
Johann pushed aside his gloomy thoughts and tried to focus on the Greek text before his eyes. Conrad Celtis was right. What did he care about the long-gone Frenchman? He’d try to forget Gilles de Rais. He’d try to forget Archibaldus, the missing children, his little brother Martin, Signore Barbarese, the black potion, and Tonio the sorcerer. All that mattered was the here and now.
And Margarethe.
Finally the feast day of Saint Michael arrived. In the large Church of the Holy Spirit at the market square, the priest read a mass about the victory of the angels over Lucifer and spoke about the eternal damnation awaiting all sinners on Judgment Day. The students were obliged to attend mass, but Johann only listened with one ear. In his thoughts he was already with Margarethe.
After the service he ran down to the quay, hired one of the small boats, and rowed up the Neckar to the nunnery. The vines stretching down to the banks of the river were heavy with grapes. Johann saw the vintners with their crates between the rows; they waved at the boats and laughed as they worked. It had rained in the morning, but now the sun shone warmly and humidity rose in clouds of mist over the hills and forests. Autumn seemed far away, and yet it would be October in just a few days. Johann thought there was a faint smell of cold and wind in the air already.
He docked by the little village with the mill and ran up to the convent vineyards. He looked around nervously but couldn’t see any nuns in the hills. Had he arrived early or too late? Had Margarethe changed her mind?
Then he heard giggling and whispering voices. Johann ducked behind the vines and spotted a group of four young nuns in black habits. On their backs they carried crates, which they filled rather halfheartedly. A little farther back walked an older nun, and Johann recognized her as the old hag who had taken his letter at the gate.
“Silentium!” she hissed, and the younger sisters flinched as if they’d been struck. Apparently they weren’t allowed to speak while picking grapes.
Margarethe wasn’t among them. Johann sneaked away as soundlessly as he could and continued to scour the hillside. He didn’t dare call out, and so he walked about aimlessly until he finally spotted a lone figure singing softly while she carefully plucked the grapes from the vines. It was an old nursery rhyme, and Johann’s heart grew as heavy as a lead weight.
Growing in our garden are parsley and thyme; our Gretchen is the bride, she’s looking so fine. Red wine, white wine, tomorrow morn you shall be mine.
He and Margarethe often used to sing this song as children, and to hear it here by the Neckar so many years later almost broke his heart. He remained hidden behind the vines and watched her. Now that she thought she was alone, he could almost see her old smile. Johann drank in the moment before addressing her with a low voice.
Margarethe gave a start, then she turned to him. Her eyes looked both happy and sad at once.
“So you came,” she said.
Johann nodded. “I’ve been longing for this day.” He stepped out from between the vines and brought his hand up to her cheek. “Margarethe—”
But she pulled away. “I’m a nun now, Johann. You know what that means.”
“Isn’t it permitted to touch nuns?” He winked. “Has God forbidden it? Or was it just the grumpy old crone I saw back there?”
“I belong to God now. He protects me and keeps me from harm. He will also ensure that the boogeyman won’t come back.”
Johann rolled his eyes. “Let’s talk about something else. Look what I brought you.” He pulled out a deck of playing cards he’d bought off a peddler the day before. “Draw any card.”
She hesitated for a while, but then she picked a card, and a smile spread across her face. “Jack of hearts . . . So you’re still a magician.”
“And a great one at that. After I left Knittlingen, I joined a troupe of jugglers. We crossed the Alps and stayed in Venice after we traveled Italy.”
As they meandered through the vines together, Johann told Margarethe all about his adventures with the jugglers; about the gifted fiddle player, Peter Nachtigall; the old drunkard, Archibaldus; about Emilio and strong Mustafa. Only Salome he left out, and neither did he mention his time with Tonio del Moravia. Johann knew Margarethe had never liked the creepy magician, not even as a child. And he was afraid that Tonio would remind her of that fateful afternoon in the clearing in Schillingswald Forest.
“A merchant in Venice told me that you were here in Heidelberg,” said Johann at the end of his report. “I left the troupe to find you. I thought . . .” He paused.
“You thought what?” She gave a sad smile. “That I’d drop everything and go with you? You knew I was married.”
“But what sort of a marriage is it?” demanded Johann angrily. “Your husband sends you to a nunnery just because you told him of your nightmares!”
“Jakob did right,” replied Margarethe. “I feel safe here.”
“But do you love him? Have you ever loved him?”
She laughed with despair. “Where do you live, Johann? It was never about love. After the . . . incident in the forest, I was no longer an option for the merchant family from Bretten. There were . . . rumors—involving you, too. And so my father had to marry me off further afield. Jakob Kohlschreiber seemed like a good match to him. Admittedly, he’s not the gentlest, and he drinks, but he’s a good businessman.”
“And a good businessman knows when his wife has become worthless,” Johann replied bitterly. “Namely, when she has nightmares and says a few strange things.”
“They are no nightmares, Johann,” Margarethe said quietly. “It’s the truth. The boogeyman will return. He will return and change the world. The final battle between good and evil is near. He told me so himself.”
“He? What . . . what are you talking about?” Johann laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d gone crazy.” He regretted his words instantly, but it was too late. Margarethe’s lips became two thin lines.
“Do you know what day it is?” she asked eventually. “It’s the day of Archangel Michael. When the angel Lucifer rose against God, it was Michael who stood up to him, together with all the other good angels, the seraphim and cherubim. He threw Lucifer and his followers from the heavens and they fell deeply, right down into hell. But the bringer of light never gave up. He wants to come back—he wants to rule the earth. And very soon the day will come when he shows his evil face again!”
“Margarethe, stop! That’s—”
Johann had blurted the request so unexpectedly that he didn’t know what to say next. Margarethe gave him a challenging look.
“There’s something inside you—I can see it. Something dark, as if the boogeyman already tried to drag you down. Has he? Tell me.”
Johann thought of Tonio and the pact they sealed one rainy night in the woods.
You’ll fare well with me . . . Shake on it.
He thought about the handshake in Knittlingen and the gruesome death of Margarethe’s brother. He thought about the black potion in the woods near Nördlingen, the squirming bodies in the trees, and the fits of temper that had overcome him regularly ever since. But they were nothing but phantoms—ghosts of the past that could no longer touch him.
“No one tried to drag me anywhere,” he replied firmly. “I’m a faithful churchgoer, Margarethe.” He smiled. “Evil has no power over me.”
Johann knew he was lying. He went to mass only on Sundays or when he was forced to, like today. The last time he had prayed properly was at the grave of Peter Nachtigall in Italy. And he didn’t think his prayer had reached God’s ears.
God was far away.
But now Margarethe was standing in front of him, his angel on earth. If he didn’t want to lose her, he had to lie. What else could he do? Her time at the nunnery had left its mark, but he felt certain that he’d find the old Margarethe again if he was given enough time.
“I pray to all the saints to watch over me every day,” he said imploringly.
Margarethe nodded. “Pray to Saint Anna, because she helps those who have come close to evil. Will you promise?”
“I . . . I promise,” said Johann, remembering that Conrad Celtis had also asked him for a promise a few days ago. He held up a hand. “I swear it upon my mother’s soul.”
The words had come out before he could think too much about them, but they had a profound effect on Margarethe.
She laughed.
She laughed as merrily as back in the old days, when they’d played in the hay in Knittlingen. Johann’s heart leaped with joy.
“I’m so glad, my dear Johann. We’re in God’s hands.” She took a step toward him. “And I’m sure God won’t mind you touching me now.”
Slowly, he reached out and stroked her cheek. Margarethe closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, as if enjoying the scent of old memories.
“It’s so good to feel you,” she said softly. “It’s like coming home.”
He ran his hand through her hair, and Margarethe sighed. Then Johann couldn’t wait any longer. He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. Margarethe winced a little but she didn’t pull away.
“God will forgive this, too,” he whispered. “What can God say against love? Love is the only weapon we have to fight evil.”
She trembled when she squeezed his hand. “Go with God, Johann,” she breathed and turned away.
“When can I see you again?” he asked quickly.
“In three or four days, perhaps.” Margarethe looked down. “That’s when I’ll be working in the vineyards next. And now go, before the mother superior catches you. My magician . . .”
She smiled at him one last time before turning around and disappearing between the vines.
“My magician . . . ,” whispered Johann, unable to move.
But in fact it was the other way around. Margarethe had cast a spell on him.
17
FOR THE NEXT few months, Johann was on a permanent high. He met with Margarethe whenever possible. The nuns often worked out in the fields around Neuburg, and occasionally they even came to the convent’s small outpost in Heidelberg. Johann’s meetings with Margarethe were always brief and secretive—a few heartfelt words, a touch, a kiss. Johann sensed that Margarethe was opening up to him more and more. Her remarks about the boogeyman and the return of Satan became less frequent, even if she didn’t drop them entirely.
Johann tried a few times to get more than a kiss, but Margarethe evaded him each time.
“I’m promised to God,” she’d say as they lay together in a field, hidden behind bundles of straw and hay carts. “If the convent wants me to, I will take my vows next year. But even now as a novice, I belong to God.”
“I spoke with God in my prayers,” said Johann. “He only wants us to be happy.”
“Aren’t we happy?” asked Margarethe.
And indeed, Johann was happy. Margarethe was nearby, he was studying at the greatest university in the German empire, and his prospects of an academic career were brilliant. Most students had gradually stopped making fun of him or treating him rudely, although, Valentin aside, he still had no real friends at the university—he was too ambitious, haughty, and aloof. But Rector Gallus and several other doctors and magisters were on his side. He also met up regularly with Conrad Celtis at the castle, where they held animated discussions. Among other subjects, they discussed the latest inventions.
“I heard they are planning a clock for the bell tower at Saint Mark’s Square in Venice that announces the beginning and the end of our working day,” said Johann one evening as they sat in Celtis’s dark study. “Until now, men followed the course of the sun—it almost seems like clocks are taking over this task.”
Celtis nodded. “And I hear there are apparatuses now that not only measure the hours but the minutes and even seconds. Seconds! No longer than the blink of an eye.” He rolled his eyes theatrically. “Time is racing and we race with it. Where is this going to lead?”
“Consider the advantages if everyone went by the same time,” said Johann. “Merchants could arrange meetings far more easily, and labor gets a value, measured by the number of hours.”
Celtis laughed. “Well, the best time will always be the one that flies along without us even noticing where it’s going. I must admit, conversations with you come very close to this feeling. They are, well . . .” He smiled. “Rather refreshing. Johann Faustus certainly has a quick tongue.”
They never spoke about Gilles de Rais, and most of the time, Johann managed to forget the name and everything it entailed.
The only major setback during this period involved the laterna magica. It happened during the misty month of November, when the mirror was finally installed and the casing complete. They closed the shutters of the shed and lit the oil lamp inside the box. With trembling hands, Valentin pushed one of the glass plates with the animal pictures into the designated slot. But all that showed on the wall of the shed was an obscure, flickering shadow.
“Damn it,” cursed Valentin and fidgeted impatiently with the glass plate. “The light source is far too weak. All the work we put in—and now this!”
“I don’t think it’s just because of the source of light,” Johann said with a frown. “The light is much too diffuse, shining in all directions.”
“Well, you can’t capture the light like a herd of wild horses,” said Valentin mockingly. “As soon as it finds a way out, it goes wherever it wants to. If only I’d never seen those drawings. What a waste of time.” He was about to shove the apparatus off the table when Johann held him back.
“We’re not giving up yet,” he said sternly. “Maybe we’ll find a way to focus the light better.”
“Sure, sure,” jeered Valentin. “Where the great Giovanni Fontana and Leonardo da Vinci failed, the oh-so-famous Doctor Faustus will succeed.”
“Who knows, perhaps they’ll call me that one day,” muttered Johann. A vague idea was buzzing through his mind, but every time he tried to grasp it, it slipped away.
Johann continued to be wary of Hans Altmayer. He got the impression the fellow was hatching something. Whenever they passed each other, Altmayer grinned, placed one finger at his beret, and hinted at a bow.
“Look at that—Herr Faustus, the doctors’ pet,” he’d say. “Just you wait. The higher you climb, the farther you fall.”
“And if you never climb, you remain forever in the stinking gutter,” retorted Johann as he walked away.
Johann experienced his personal eureka moment during a lecture by Rector Gallus about Archimedes’s principle.
Winter had moved into Heidelberg by now. The snow piled up in the lanes and made it difficult to get around. It was so cold in the lecture halls that the students shivered in their coats and hats. Johann finally understood why the berets had padded earflaps. The small stoves weren’t nearly enough to heat the large rooms. Saint Mary’s Chapel was the worst, the wind howling through its drafty windows. White clouds came from the mouths of the doctors as they spoke, and thin sheets of ice spread across benches and desks.
It was a bitter cold morning in January, but at least the sun shone weakly through the windows. As usual, the rector wore his strange-looking eye glasses, but the students were accustomed to the sight by now. He took them off only occasionally, when he gazed into the distance. Gallus was talking about the buoyancy of objects when a ray of light fell through the window and directly upon his glasses, which were lying on the lectern in front of him. Johann noticed with amazement how the weak light was bundled in the glasses and appeared on the opposite wall as a bright speck. The speck was brighter than the pale sunlight streaming through the window.
