Jack Faust - Michael Swanwick

by Unknown Author

  "They are emotions unworthy of you." Gretchen returned to her list and made a small vexed noise. "What a tangle these affairs are; if only you were still running Father's businesses!"

  "You do as good a job of it as ever your father did."

  "Oh, I'm smart enough. But who listens to me?"

  Gretchen spent almost every afternoon in Faust's company. It was not so difficult to arrange as either had expected. Her father's illness continued to occupy both parents' attentions to such a degree that they had given over management of his factories to his daughter. It was not at all certain they understood how great these industries had grown. Gretchen spent her mornings scurrying between work sites, gathering reports, asking questions, dropping off directives, and issuing orders in her father's name. It was exhausting work, even with Faust's help.

  Help that had long been explicitly forbidden her.

  She had known something was up that day in April, for Aunt Penniger was as fluttery as a hen and exaggerated her every word and action into an unintended self-parody. Be careful, Gretchen admonished herself. So that when her parents called her before them to explain that their heretical tenant—"that engineer," Father called him, unwilling to grant Faust the dignity even of a name—had been sent away, she was not caught unprepared.

  Her parents had studied her closely then. But Gretchen, as cunning as any ancient campaigner, merely said, "Good. I am not overfond of his presence. He never blinks."

  The tension eased. A quick exchange of glances told Gretchen that she had guessed right: that her parents suspected, that they had no proof, and that they were only too happy to accept her reassurance as final.

  It was almost sad how easy they were to deceive.

  The door slammed, and there was a loud clomping of boots in the hall—Wycliffe tactfully announcing his presence in his own house. Noisily, he came up the stairs. His mournful face appeared in the doorway.

  "Jack," he said.

  Gretchen's eyes flicked up and then down again. Faust saw, and noted, and attributed her pique to a personal dislike of the Englishman. He did not know (for Mephistopheles did not deem it necessary) that it was the "Jack" that she objected to, nor how much more seriously she had taken their little game of private names than he.

  Wycliffe's expression was almost comically morose. "I think you should take a look at this pamphlet."

  Drums thundering, the procession passed by the Rathaus. Preachers had been scattered along its length, barrel-chested men with leather lungs and muscular jaws. Though they passed too quickly for any to hear the whole of their sermons, all got enough to learn the gist. "... foul and unwholesome monster!" they bellowed. "... his vile desires ... to couple with apes .. . and lusting after ... your daughters ... your mothers ... your wives!" The words echoed and rolled down the street.

  Seated about a table in the cool basement of the Rathaus, five lawyers sat discussing documents that they had been charged to argue and bribe into legal existence. They heard the drums and trumpets and did not care.

  They had more important matters to mind.

  "These are the papers for a new financial instrument to be called, ah"—Dreschler pushed his glasses up on his head and held the stack close to his eyes—"a limited liability corporation. In, ummm, essence, it is an instrument which will allow an industrialist to borrow venture money and repay it at a premium without running the legal and, ah, moral hazards of usury."

  "A neat trick," growled Kraus. "But I've seen many a neat trick explained on the gallows."

  "Oh, but this will, umm—quite openly! One sells shares in the enterprise and those investing money benefit proportionately in the profits/7 He slid the glasses back down onto his nose. "I've gone over it ever so many times/'

  "I venture it less radical an innovation, however," said Herogt, "than this charter for a mutual assurance society."

  "That's no more than a shipowners' association!" scoffed Goiter. "It merely shares out catastrophe, so that instead of one merchant losing all, all suffer equally."

  "Nobody loses anything. The occasional claim is covered by income earned while the surety sits unused."

  "Earned? Earned how?"

  "Why, by investment in Dreschler's limited liability corporations. The equity in these holdings is as good as money. Or so Reinhardt's daughter assures me."

  "Reinhardt's daughter," Goiter said darkly, "never obtained such startlingly original documents from Reinhardt."

  "Hush, hush!" Schilling tapped his nose. "We are men of the law. Let us not engage in idle speculation."

  "Shares! Futures! Options! Taken all together, this menagerie of papers could work great mischief. They would transform finance into something perilously close to gambling."

  "Well, and yet all men enjoy gambling, and some even profit from it."

  "The only ones sure to profit from gambling are those who rig the wheel and run the games," Kraus observed sourly.

  "Which in this instance would be, umm..."

  The five exchanged looks of sudden avarice.

  The procession passed by the convent of Saint Catherine. Mother Bondage ignored it entirely. She sat staring incredulously at the pamphlet Sister Pelagia had brought her, reading the words that seemed less and less real the deeper into the text she went. "Can this be so?" she murmured. "Can this be?"

  Sister Pelagia secretly hooked a finger behind the drape and turned slightly, as if stifling a yawn. A gentle tug and she had a glimpse outside, brief as the shutter-click of a Faustian box camera: a sea of bicyclists, priests, and Clares clustered about the scarlet cape of a horsebound man who could only be the Papal Nuncio. She looked quickly back at her superior to see if a second glance might be dared.

  Mother Bondage put the pamphlet down. She looked blindly up at Sister Pelagia, found focus there, and frowned slightly. What a creature she is, the older woman thought; how unfortunate that we must use such as she. As soon as she had the thought, she was ashamed of its pettiness and made a mental note to do a penance for it later. Meanwhile, though—

  Briskly, she drew up a sheet of paper, wrote upon it a carefully considered figure, and then sanded, folded, and sealed the parchment.

  "Take this note to Konrad Heinvogel," she said. "Ask after him at the straw market; he will be easy to find. Tell him that the price I have written is firm. He is not to haggle and he must give you the money today or I will sell what he wants to somebody else. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, Reverend Mother. Only—what is it you are selling him?"

  Mother Bondage sighed deeply. "Our microscopes."

  Three students stood in a tavern doorway, watching the procession. One snatched a flung pamphlet out of the air and squinted at the title. "The Origin of Species." He glanced within and made a face. "What's all this about?"

  "If you hadn't spent the past month at the bottom of a wine barrel," his fellow explained patiently, "you would know that it is Faust's contention that men are descended from apes."

  To be difficult, the third said, "There was a woman in France who gave birth to a litter of rabbits. This was testified to by many, for it happened during Sabbath services. She fell into a swoon during the Introit and the coneys came pouring from beneath her skirts. Surely this indicates a closer linkage of mankind to the animal than might commonly be deemed comfortable."

  "Your argument would be stronger if she had given birth to apes."

  "Or magistrates!"

  As they were laughing and punching one another, a preacher strode by and, gesturing wildly, cried out to the sky, "Oh, Lord, send us a strong arm, a righteous fist, with which to smash your foe! Give us heroes to destroy that demon's work! Lord—"

  In his wake came a surge in the crowd. But those running to keep up with his words found themselves crowded to a halt here, for the street bent and narrowed before the tavern. They shoved and elbowed. Somebody shouted his displeasure. Another shook an outraged fist.

  Suddenly the air shimmered with a dangerous feel, the silent crackle of immi
nent violence. The students all felt it, a hot flush that ran up the spine and into the skull. The smell of unwashed bodies took on a sharper edge. They shivered with anger and unclean desire.

  All about them others were responding to the same impulse. Eyes glinted oddly. Teeth shone. A burly carter clenched both hands and screamed, "Death to Faust!"

  "Easily enough said!" jeered the third student. "Only, where is he? Who has seen him this past month?"

  "He may be hidden," retorted a pock-faced rag of a woman, "but his hatchlings are not—and we all know where their nests are!"

  A spontaneous growl swelled up from the crowd. "Yes!" somebody shouted. "The scientists!" cried another. Stones were plucked from the ground. Sticks appeared in hands. "To the laboratories!"

  As quickly as that, the mob was formed.

  Then everyone was in motion. The students were sucked out of the doorway and carried along by the flood of bodies, unable to go against its surging currents, even had they wished to. Ignorant of where they were bound or for what purpose, they yet shouted as lustily as any for blood and action. It was—in a dark and brutish way—enormous fun.

  He who had caught the pamphlet, however, was careful to stow it away in his purse. He knew a man who fancied himself a necromancer, and spent his nights in graveyards resurrecting corpses and crucifying dogs in a vain effort to get spirits and hobgoblins to serve his will. A man who would pay good money for such twaddle.

  Last in all the procession came the monkey, wearing a placard reading fauste—his cousin. The citizens pelted it with fruit and then stones. It screamed with every hit. The children cheered derisively. A stone drew blood, and this only excited the crowd to greater efforts.

  The Papal Nuncio, riding just before the monkey, saw and looked away. Cardinal Verrone was a decent man, if not a particularly religious one, and hated cruelty in all its manifestations. If it was his duty to witness such barbarity, he was under no obligation to approve of it.

  At the plaza before the Ladies' Gate, a platform had been built for him to speak from. He silently groaned to see how steep the steps were. His aged buttocks were still sore from the long journey from Rome, and the rest of his body was variously mosquito-stung, blackfly-bit, and rashy from the heat. But as there was no help for it, he did not complain. As he climbed, he thought with longing of his mistress back home. Lucia had grown undeniably fat and possibly a little sullen in the thirty years they'd spent together but, still, she suited him. He could talk with her about simple matters and in plain language; in all the world only she knew or cared how he felt about things. He missed her terribly.

  From the platform he could see the throngs radiating outward into the surrounding streets. Directly below him, one of the monks, a burly man, was angrily arguing with the civil guard. So not everything was going as planned! The monk gestured toward a distant window from which—it was one detail among many—broken furniture was being thrown. There was so much going on, and so little he cared to know about!

  He unscrolled his parchment.

  He cleared his throat.

  As he read, all fell silent.

  It had taken a drawn sword and high words to drive the vandals from the room. But they were weaklings and dullards who had acted on impulse and without any clear idea of why they were there. Such men were easy to cow. And then the city soldiers had come, and as quickly as that the rioters had melted away.

  In the aftermath, Lienhard Behaim leaned back against the door, arms crossed, watching his younger brother crawl about the floor. Weeping, Mathes sorted through the litter of broken glass, bent metal, and smashed cabinets that had been his laboratory, searching for something whole enough to salvage.

  Lienhard had the eye of a born merchant. He judged the value of what had been destroyed, and dismissed it as a trifle. He had lost ten times more with the overturning of a single wagon in the Po, not six miles from its intended market, and never blinked. Mathes was different, though, a dreamer, impractical. As his brother, it was Lienhard's duty not only to see that Mathes's extravagant hobby did not bankrupt the family, but to make something of the boy as well. So that, on reflection, the rioters seemed to Lienhard to have been a gift straight from Heaven.

  When his thoughts were all in order, he said, "You recall the Florentine monk Savonarola, and his bonfires of the vanities?"

  Mathes looked up, face puffy and already beginning to bruise from the blows he had taken in defense of his equipment. He shook his head in a baffled sort of way. "Yes?"

  "When our Uncle Hochstetter was young, he went to Florence on business and witnessed one: a pyre sixty feet high, covered with masks, playing cards, musical instruments, silk dresses, indecent pictures, fine furniture, Venetian mirrors. He stood in the Piazza della Signoria, as it was being assembled made a few quick calculations as to how many wagon-loads were there, and sent a messenger to Savonarola offering five thousand florins for the lot."

  Mathes picked up a flattened coil of wire, tried to straighten it, let it drop. Finally he said, "What's your point?"

  "Simply that we have a far more valuable load of vanities heaped before us, and one that will not require wagons to carry away, for it exists within men's minds, and these men have legs. This radio, for one—how much would such a device be worth to a general? Or an admiral?"

  Bitterly, Mathes said, "What use is the radio to anyone now? Who would dare soil their hands with a device so tainted with the stench of the notorious Monkey Faust?"

  Lienhard smiled. "Why, whoever said it was his? The scoundrel was so popular for a time that none dared say a word against him. Yet among his many crimes was this, that he took the credit for the work of others. I happen to know that he had nothing to do with the invention of the radio, nor for that matter, of telegraphy."

  "What? He—then who? Who did invent them?"

  "Little idiot," Lienhard said fondly. "Who else but you?"

  Wycliffe heartily agreed with Faust and his harlot that the wisest course was sit out the scandal and wait for tempers to cool, as surely they would. He agreed not because he thought it true—he did not—but because he never made an offer of aid until he judged his man ready to take it.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Wagner entered, out of breath and white as a sheet.

  "I was followed," he announced to the room.

  "Here?" Wycliffe glanced toward the bookshelf; a volume there contained an already-primed pistol within its hollowed pages. 1

  "No, of course not. I am not an idiot. But had I not shifted myself to evade pursuit, this house would surely be in flames right now."

  Faust patted Gretchen's hand reassuringly and, without relinquishing it, perched carelessly on the arm of her chair. "You exaggerate."

  "Do not think so!" Wagner turned wild eyes upon his master. "I was in the plaza when the bull was read. The Pope has cried anathema upon you."

  "What!?"

  The chair toppled behind them as both Faust and Gretchen started to their feet.

  "You have been excommunicated."

  Wycliffe had the knack of being able to observe people closely without seeming to do so. He noted Faust's glance: how it went to the door, then to Wagner, to himself, and finally to his doxy. And he read the thought: I am in great danger, but still I command loyalty; I have friends and thus influence, and it would be shameful to show weakness before the woman I love. Faust's chin rose. A noble look came into his eye.

  Before he could voice his defiance, however, Wycliffe said in a gently regretful tone, "Jack, you're among Germans. They won't just shun you; if you stay, you'll be dead within the week. You must leave. Your life depends on it."

  "He's right," Gretchen said.

  "Master, we must flee."

  "I have a coach ready, with foodstuffs and enough gold to see us to London. You will find safe haven there, and more. England's far-seeing monarch will extend you the money and authority to—"

  Again Faust's glance darted about the room, from the door to Wycliffe, past Wagner to
a chest where his papers were kept, and then finally, lingeringly, on the woman. Which Wycliffe read to mean: True, I dare not stay here; Wycliffe has his own purposes for aiding me, perhaps; yet in England I can continue my work; and Gretchen will come with me, and that is all that really matters.

  "You are right," Faust said, shaken. "To stay is to die." He smiled somberly at Gretchen. "We must flee, and I fear you will be able to take no more with you than the clothes you now wear. But new clothes can be bought. And there will be wealth for you in England, I promise, and honor as well."

  "My love!" Gretchen cried, stricken, "I—"

  Standing where she could not see him, Wycliffe held up his left hand and significantly tapped the slim gold ring there. Faust nodded.

  "There is more! Once free of this hideous city, your parents can no longer prevent our marrying! An English priest can perform the ceremony as well as any. Or a French or a Belgian. The choice is yours—a lavish ritual at our leisure, or a simple one and soon, whichever pleases you more."

  "Sweet love, I cannot!"

  For an instant Faust stood unmoving, his face as perfect an allegory of astonishment as any mummer's-mask. Then he shook his head bearishly, unbelievingly. "What are you saying?”

  "I cannot go with you. This is my life. I have obligations, position, my family to think of. There would be consequences. What would become of the men employed in our factories? Father is too feeble to oversee them. Without me, the enterprises will fail, and those who have worked hardest to make them succeed will lose their all."

  "They have brought it upon themselves."

  "No, they have not!" Gretchen's eyes flared. "Not everyone cheered on your persecutors. Some were silent, perhaps, from fear. Others—who knows what they thought or said or did? As for those who turned against you, what of their wives and children? Have I no obligation to them?"

  "No. You do not."

  "Yes, I do. I am a merchant's daughter, and if I know one thing it is this: The books must balance. Those who have entrusted my family with their loyalty must be repaid in kind."