Cathedral

by Ben Hopkins

  She’s standing exactly where Emmerich Schäffer said she would be, outside the Jewish tailor Mannekint’s shop, all dressed in spotless white. Strange, staring eyes, auburn hair, gap-toothed, tiny, but sweet and pert as a rosehip bud. And as I look her up and down like a slavegirl for sale, she doesn’t seem to mind. Clasps her hands behind her back and does a little dance, swaying from side to side.

  “Aye, My Lord. I’m Elise,” she whispers in the end, like a mouse.

  “Can you ride behind me, or do I need to sling you over the horse’s neck?”

  “I have ridden before, My Lord, when I was a Girl.”

  “And you’re not a Girl now?”

  “No, sir. A Woman.”

  “You look like a Girl. Family name?”

  “The nuns gave me ‘Gottlieb’ so that I should love God.”

  “And do you?”

  “I do love God, sir. Very much.”

  “Why? What’s He done for you?”

  “He has brought You to me, My Lord.”

  “That’s a bloody fine answer.” She’s got spirit too, just like Schäffer said. “Shall I lift you on? Or can you . . . ?”

  “Let me assay it, My Lord.” And she tries to get her little foot in Jerusalem’s stirrup, but it’s just too high for her. It’s like watching a mongrel trying to mount a mastiff. I could let the stirrup down for her, I suppose, but it’s an opportunity I don’t want to miss. So I grab her by the waist and lift her up and over Jerusalem’s back. She’s as light as a lamb.

  “Are you comfortable like that, you tiny girl? With your legs spread as wide as . . . as . . . ”

  “My legs have been spread wide before.”

  “No talk like that once you’re in the Lady’s presence.”

  “What Lady?”

  “Your new mistress.”

  “And who is She?”

  “I’ll tell you on the road.” And I swing myself up into the saddle. “Take hold of me here and here, and grip with your knees. Ready? Hold tight!” And Jerusalem leaps off at a canter through the streets, scattering all before him. “Road! Give me Road!” I cry at the hightailing Hagenburgers, and behind me Elise screams with excitement like a giddy bridesmaid at a wedding dance.

  † † †

  He’d made it sound intriguing enough, God damn him. He has this way of wheedling his way into my thoughts, making me do things I would never otherwise do.

  If your Lordship were to go to Mannekint’s, the Jewish tailor’s, on the Schneidergass, he says, she’ll be waiting for you outside, all decked out in the new maid’s costume I’ve had Mannekint make for her. She’s sweet as honeysuckle, and she’ll make a perfect maidservant for your cousin Countess Adelheid.

  “Why do you say that?”

  Because she knows some Courtly Poetry.

  “Courtly Poetry?” I stutter. “What’s a maidservant doing reading that nonsense?”

  We’re standing outside my drinking den, the zum Sterne, in the sunlight. Me and him, Emmerich Schäffer, my adviser, my fiduciary counsel.

  “I don’t know for sure,” he says. “She’s an intriguing little fox. Grew up with an educated, itinerant family. Performers, travelling players, heretics, that kind of thing. Then when they died, she was taken to a convent, and then worked as a maid. Got into trouble with one of her Mistresses—to tell the truth, it was my own sister Grete. Who caught her with her skirts hiked up in the woodshed.”

  “I follow you, Schäffer.”

  “After that she fell on hard times. Her name’s Elise. And it just occurred to me that I could help her. And help your Cousin. And help you too . . . ”

  “Help me? How on earth is this going to help me?”

  “Didn’t you tell me that your Cousin Adelheid’s husband, the Count von Schwanenstein, sold you a parcel of land last year? For a song?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t hurt you, would it, if we had a friendly pair of eyes and ears at Castle Schwanenstein? Just in case the Count needs to raise more capital one day?”

  I see. So she’s not just a Handmaiden, she’s a Spy, a new pair of eyes and ears in Schäffer’s network of snitches and informers.

  “And there’s another reason,” he says, raising a finger. “Seven Rhine boats attacked and plundered in the last year, all between the Albe river and Illingen. All within a day’s ride of Castle Schwanenstein. Maybe somewhere on the Count’s extensive lands, there are some bandits hiding. We’ve written this letter,” he takes off his glove and presents a sealed roll of parchment, “asking for the Count’s assistance in the matter.”

  Always scheming, this Schäffer. He makes me dizzy, just thinking about him. But it’s been a long time since I’ve seen my Cousin Adelheid, and Castle Schwanenstein is always worth a visit. Adelheid loves poetry, music, song and dance, and keeps an extravagant kitchen. It’s all revelry and dissolution from dusk till dawn. Quite a change from my virtuous life with the Baroness at dull old Castle Kronthal.

  † † †

  We gallop down to the Rhine, and then trot along the banks until we come to the Erlbach stream and a pretty little grove of willow trees. Elise holds me tight all the way, as if she’s scared of falling. “Oh? Must we stop?” she says, in disappointment.

  “Horses need to eat and drink sometimes, you idiot. And so do I. There’s food in the saddle bag. Serve it.”

  And I lift her from the saddle. She stands there, dazed, for a few moments, and then remembers her Duty, and fetches the saddle bag. Lays out the horsehair rug, unwraps the provisions. Cuts me a big hunk of bread, a lump of Lenzenbach cheese, four slices of sausage.

  I start to eat. Hagenburg bread, a bloody disgrace.

  Elise kneels beside me, cutting out more bread, cheese and sausage, her staring eyes never breaking their gaze.

  “What are you looking at, girl?”

  “At you, My Lord.”

  “And is it pleasing to you?”

  “Very.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No, My Lord.”

  “Liar.” I tear her some bread, take the knife from her hands to cut her some cheese.

  “No, My Lord, do not serve me.”

  “Why not, girl?”

  “It wouldn’t be right.”

  “I decide what’s Right. Eat.”

  And she eats, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “Eat properly. Not like a damned mouse.”

  She laughs and drops her bashful hand. “Where are we going my Lord?”

  “Schwanenstein. You’ll serve my cousin, the Countess. If she likes you.”

  “A Countess!”

  “Schäffer told me you can recite Poetry. That’s good. My cousin, it’s all she cares about.”

  She finishes eating and I take her hand. “But I regret it now, this idea. To bring you there. I’d like to keep you all to myself. Who knows what will happen to you there?”

  “Is it such a terrible place, My Lord?”

  “It has a reputation.”

  “A rep . . . ?” Before she can speak, I kiss her on the mouth. She shrinks, surprised. And then kisses me back.

  “If I don’t take you now then someone there surely will.”

  “Then take me, My Lord,” she says.

  † † †

  It’s a fine sight, Castle Schwanenstein. Rising on a hillock and an outcrop of rock overlooking a bend in the silver Rhine, a lofty Keep with a slate roof, fine outhouses and stables for the countless guests that swarm in for the Countess’ banquets and tournaments, and all circled by high, proud walls. A hearty Alsatian stronghold, unconquered for centuries.

  In the keep’s Great Hall, Cousin Adelheid circles Elise, looks her up and down with arched eyebrows. A real inspection. “This is she? She doesn’t look like much.”

  “There is
more to her than meets the eye, Cousin.”

  The train of Adelheid’s overcoat hisses in the dried rushes of the flagstoned floor. “How do you know, Volmar?”

  “We have been having a conversation.”

  “Oh? A conversation?” Now she looks me up and down.

  I chuckle. “Schäffer says she knows poetry.”

  “Who is Schäffer?”

  “The young man who works for . . . He is my fiduciary counsel.”

  “Whatever that is. Something to do with money.”

  “A capable young man. Sharp as a blade.”

  The Countess comes face to face with Elise. Her eyes blink, coquettish, and then fix on the young maid. A test. “Recite for us, my girl.”

  Elise shifts, one hand slowly unfolds, reaching out from her breast. Her mouth opens. Her voice sings out:

  ein wunderlichez wunder,

  Blantscheflur sine swester da:

  On talking of Blanchefleur, Elise’s upraised arm gestures, sweeping through the air, at Countess Adelheid.

  ein maget, daz da noch anderswa

  schoener wip nie wart gesehen.

  Adelheid’s eyes shine. Flattery and amazement. “The girl knows Tristan!” She laughs. “She’s wonderful. I’ll take her.”

  Now the Count approaches, stalking. From his height, he looks down on Elise. His cat-grey eyes stroke her calves, thighs, hips. “We thank you, My Lord Volmar. Very kind of you.”

  A scraping, a singing. A high ringing note hovers, trills, echoes against the stone. The Count, surprised, turns and looks:

  It’s my sword, drawn from its scabbard in one swoop. I hold it aloft.

  Seeing my naked blade, the Count starts. Liveried servants stand. Schwanenstein’s liegemen’s hands clutch their pommels, move to block the doors.

  “Listen all of you,” I call out into the great hall. The point of my sword swishes round to point at Elise. I look around the room, looking everyone in the eyes in turn. “Be good to this woman. Or answer to me.”

  All turn to look at the new servant; petite, gap-toothed and trembling.

  “She is under my personal protection.”

  LAMPBLACK

  (ANNO 5002. YUDL BEN YITZHAK ROSHEIMER I)

  And it did not come. We waited and it did not come. And in my heart I knew it would not come and yet I waited. In our hands were letters from the great Rabbis of Spain and Italy, saying that it would come, that the year 5000 would be the year of our Salvation. Even the Rokeach, he of blessed memory, had sent letters from Worms. And in my library I have a computation, rigorous and strange, that claims that the year 5000 will mark the end of the dominion of the Hanged One, may his name be blotted out.

  Yet all these speculators are Liars and Frauds. We have proved ourselves unworthy of redemption, and truly Judah the Pious of blessed memory says that it is a sin to divine the time of the Coming. I say with the Rambam, he of blessed memory, I believe with full faith in the coming of the Messiah, and even though he tarries, I await his arrival with every day. Amen.

  Silence is a slippery thing, it is hard to define exactly what it is. Yudl stands in the empty house, eavesdrops on this so-called Silence, and finds that it is full of creaks and crepitations, of cats’ whispers and spiders’ weavings.

  Yudl’s hand trembles on the Forbidden Book’s red leather binding. The Slippery Things bother Yudl, they slide and slip round his head like snakes. The Slippery Things. Like Silence. Like Eternity. Like Nothing, Everything, What came Before and What will come After. The forbidden questions. They crowd in the corners of the dark, between the letters of the Law.

  Floorboards in the upstairs room knock and crack, the echo of the morning’s footsteps, or a ghost?

  His Father, suddenly home from the beth midrash?

  The whole house creaks, stealthy, like a thief. Shelves lean down towards his shoulder, dust fingers his neck.

  Yudl’s palpitating heart races in his mouth. He slips his Father’s red leather book back into the secret shelf. Takes the key and locks the Library. Runs upstairs, kisses the key so that it will not betray him and eases it back into its hiding place in the straw of his parents’ mattress.

  Then the boy of ten summers stands on the creaking stairs, his blood pounds at the door of his heart. Then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing Good and Evil. His trembling hands flatten the unruly fair hair beneath his cap, shake out the Library dust, all trace and sign of his Transgression.

  His eyes have been opened, he has read his Father’s Secrets. Two years ago Father was awaiting the coming of the Messiah. And yet he said nothing? And yet they did not prepare for His Coming? Why did they not clothe themselves in sackcloth and ashes? Put their feet in icy buckets and repent their sins? Wait on the roof of the house for a golden cloud to carry them to Jerusalem?

  He runs down the stairs and out of the creeping, leaning, secretive house. Out into the courtyard, and through the alley to the bright, busy Judengasse street.

  

  Yudl had first seen the secret red book two weeks ago. He was in the courtyard shelling peas with his Aunt when he heard his Father calling his name. Which can mean only one thing: he’s done something wrong.

  Yudl stands in the tiny Library; little more than a large cupboard. His Father is at his reading chair, surrounded by the tottering shelves. A lamp twists on a chain, hanging above his Father’s inclined head. He doesn’t turn round to face the boy. “Where is the Alphabet book I lent you, Yudl?”—“The Alphabet book, Father?”—“The Alphabet of Rabbi Akiba, Yudl.”

  A pause fills the room. “I lent it to Barukh.”

  A longer pause. “Yudl. Did you ask my permission to lend it to Barukh?”

  A third pause, even longer. “No.”—“Come here.” Yudl takes three steps forward and his Father’s hand grabs his collar. “Kneel.” Yudl kneels. His Father’s face is dark with anger, he holds out a crumpled scroll. “Do you know what this is?”—“The catalogue, Father.”—“And did you write in here, that you have lent our book to Barukh?”—“No.”—“And what did I tell you to do, if any books leave this house?”—“To write it in the catalogue.”—“And what will you do now?”—“I will go and fetch the book from him. Straight away, Father. Straight away.”

  Yudl races down the narrow stairs and into the yard where his Aunt is still at work with the peas. “Where are you going, Yudl? Your work isn’t done.” No time to explain. Yudl hurries across the yard to Cousin Barukh’s, knocks on the back door, kisses his right hand, touches the mezuzah and enters.

  There is the beautiful Leah, plaiting her black hair. “Is Barukh at home?” asks Yudl. “No,” says Leah. “Where is he?”—“How should I know?”—“At the beth midrash?”—“Am I my brother’s keeper?”—“Don’t be frivolous.”—“Don’t be cheeky.”—“Can I go out by your front door?”—“Don’t we always tell you, our house is not an alleyway. Go round the side.”—“Why?”—“You’ll make the floor dirty and I’ve just cleaned it.”—“My shoes are clean, let me in.”—“Said the cat to the mouse. Get out.”

  Yudl runs back out to the courtyard. The chickens cluck and flutter out of his path. His Aunt shouts at him. “Yudl, come here and finish your chores.”—“Not now, Auntie.” He turns to his left down the alley, past the office room rented by the Strawhead Goy. And there he is, Strawhead, walking in from the Judengasse. “Hello, Yudl.”—“Hello, sir.”—“Where are you running to?”—“Nowhere.”—“You’re running nowhere fast. Where’s your cap?”—“Inside.”—“Don’t you need it?”—“No.”

  Yudl slips past Emmerich Schäffer in the narrow alley, through the wooden gate and into the Gasse. Late afternoon sunlight, rattling carts, the smell of dung. Yudl’s uncovered head glints gold; he too has fair hair like the Goy; rare, strange.

  Yudl runs the fifty paces to the beth midrash. Praise be to the Etern
al One, Barukh is there, trimming candlewicks. “Barukh!”—“What?”—“I need back that book I lent you.”—“Ask Aberle.”—“ Why?”—“I lent it to him.”—“DID I SAY YOU COULD LEND IT TO HIM?”—“Did you say I couldn’t?”—“No, but . . . ”—“So don’t shout at me.”—“I’m sorry.”

  Rabbi Menahem, at his lectern, looks up sternly at Yudl. “Why are you shouting? Is this a tavern?”—“No, Rabbi.”—“Behave. Or get out of here now.”

  Adonai Adonai, protect me. May Aberle be home and have my book in his hands . . . Five doors down the Judengasse, through the rickety ashwood gate, down the muddy, smelly alley where chickens peck in the day and rats run at night. At the wall of the Jewish Cemetery, turn left, say a blessing for the dead, spit to ward off ghosts, skirt the Nachmann stables and the shokhet’s slaughterhouse where dogs and cats wail for scraps. Into dark, dank Sheol Street, which the goyyim call the Sumpfgass. Two-storey shacks totter in stinking shade. On the other side, in the sun of the Rhinegate Street they sell shining soup pots and strawberry tarts, and here, in the rented shadow of the shops, ten families crowd and swarm.

  “Aberle! Aberle!”—“Who’s calling?”—“Yudl!”—“Which Yudl?”—“Yudl ben Yitzhak!” An attic shutter opens and Aberle’s downy chin pokes out, followed by his beaky nose and his blinking eyes. If I were like Aberle my father would be proud of me, thinks Yudl, all he does is read. “You have my father’s Alphabet of Rabbi Akiba!”—“Yes.” Praise be to the Eternal One! He has the book! “What about it?” asks Aberle, irritated. Yudl must have interrupted him reading the Song of Songs, dreaming of the dusky skin of the Queen of Sheba. “My father wants it back, that’s what.”—“Come and get it tomorrow.”—“No, now.”—“Why now?”—“Why ask ‘why now’? Whose book is it anyway?”—“Books belong to no one, knowledge is a commonwealth.”—“Tell that to my father.”—“I will tomorrow at schul.”—“But give me the book first.”—“No, you midget, go away.” He closes the shutter.