Jack Faust - Michael Swanwick

by Unknown Author

  much. It tells so much. It tells so much. It tells so much.

  Faust continued to talk and gesture. Wagner paid him no heed. In his mind, he was seeing the policeman fall, the blood fly, the way his hand had jerked up and back with the recoil of the pistol. It was like a small wave of victory over fear and the weakness of conventional morality, an outer sign of the inner triumph of his will.

  They obtained another car in the morning, and maps for most of the several principalities of the Holy Roman Empire through which they would have to pass. By now it had become routine. This constant rush and change and discomfort was no longer a voyage but, rather, a condition.

  They set off.

  That afternoon they were patching a flat in the middle of a desolate stretch of farmland, when the roar of an internal combustion engine sounded in the distance.

  A motorcyclist, in heavy leather boots, jacket, and helmet, goggles over his eyes, came speeding up the road. He was muddy to the waist, and when he saw Faust he drew up his cycle so abruptly that it stalled out.

  "Are you from England?" the man cried.

  "Who wants to know?"

  The man pushed up his goggles. He looked dangerous. "A messenger, and onie who holds England dear to his heart. Is your name Foster?"

  "And if it is?"

  The messenger reached into his leather jacket, and Wagner nervously clasped the grip of his revolver. But the man's hand emerged with nothing more than a white square of paper. "I have a message for you. From Nuremberg."

  Faust snatched the message from the man's hand. Eagerly, he opened it.

  * * *

  THE AGENT

  Margarete's prison cell held a single mirror, a toilet, a bed, a writing desk, and a chair. It was enough. She could run Reinhardt Industries as well from this hermitage as ever she had from her corporate headquarters. Better, for there were fewer distractions.

  Rumors came to her of corporate infighting as her chief executives jockeyed to position themselves her successor, with now Wulf (or whoever it was cunning enough to use him for a front) in the ascendancy, and now Dreschler, and on occasion an unexpected (but never the same one twice) third. Sometimes she sided with one just to keep the others off-balance, firing off a memo of reprimand or undercutting a presumptuous decision with directly contradictory orders. More and more of late, however, she simply let it go.

  They could none of them wrest power from her in the little time she had left. Nor was she making any long-range plans for Reinhardt Industries. She wanted only to leave the corporation in the best shape she could. She had no illusions her influence would outlast her body.

  The jailer came down the hall, rattling his keys to alert her to his imminence. It was but one of the many small courtesies he afforded her. He unlocked the door and entered with a little bow. "Gracious lady."

  "Honest Ochsenfelder." She assumed a smile she did not feel, and with a flutter of she knew not quite what emotion, asked, "Am I to be shown the instruments again?"

  "We display the instruments of torture," he said stiffly, "only to ensure the cooperation of our clients. The purpose of the viewing is to prevent their use. I wish I could convince you of that." He glanced at the prayer-book resting upon the corner of her desk. "I see you've been using your time wisely."

  "No, my Aunt Penniger brought me that just before she fell ill." Nobody knew for sure, but it was suspected she'd had a stroke. "It was hers as a girl, and I keep it out to remind myself of her. Prayer would only make me unhappy, for I should surely pray for release—and yet there is no release for me." Ochsenfelder solemnly shook his head in agreement. "I endeavor instead to learn to accept my fate."

  "Most prisoners pray volubly. Particularly when they know their warden is near."

  "Does it influence you?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Well, then."

  Ochsenfelder looked at her with grave concern, yet said nothing. He was a forthright and resolute man, unbending in most things and yet kindly at the core, as she remembered men as having been in her youth. She took some small comfort from his presence.

  "Tell me," she said. "You do not bring food or letters. I have already been interviewed for the chronicles. We have agreed that I will not speak to the newspapers. Why have you come?"

  "To report that you have a visitor, if you will see him. An Italian."

  "Margarete Reinhardt?"

  The Italian was strange to her. A short burly fellow with dark curls and the widest shoulders she had ever seen. He entered, hat in hand. "Guido Cavarocchi," he said briskly. "I have been engaged by a certain friend on your behalf." Then, pretending to cough into his hand, presumably so that he could later deny the name were it necessary, he added, "Wycliffe." In a normal voice, he said, "You need not fear being overheard. I have bribed the jailer to ensure our privacy."

  "Really!" she said, startled. "And you speak so openly of

  it."

  Cavarocchi sighed. "You hold me to shame. It is a degenerate age, madame, and I fear I have been as corrupted by it as anybody."

  Her heart immediately went out to him. "Take my chair. I'll sit on the edge of the bed."

  "Thank you." He placed his briefcase on his lap. "Our mutual friend told me to speak with you in the frankest possible manner. Even at the expense, he said, of making the truth out to be something worse than it is. He believed that soft words and subtle arguments would only antagonize you."

  "Exactly what are you trying to say?"

  "Jack Foster has left London."

  Faust!

  Involuntarily, Margarete's heart leaped. Sternly, she called it to heel. She folded her hands and briefly shut her eyes to regain her composure. "And therefore?"

  "Good lady, there is only one place he could be headed, and that is to this cell. There is only one woman for whom he would leave behind a host of industries the least of which—I beg your pardon, but I was told to be frank—dwarfs your own. In sum, he is coming here, and to see you."

  "I—" Margarete found that she was trembling. She glanced back toward her desk, where his photograph stood in a silver frame. It did not calm her. She did not know what to say, what to think. She hardly knew how she felt. "I... am at a loss."

  "To continue. England requires that the architect of her prosperity return to his work as soon as possible. Needless to say, such a return must be voluntary. Therefore we need such coin as the Magister himself values above mere wealth, power, industry—in short, you. It is my mission to secure your wholehearted cooperation and your freedom as well."

  She stared off into a future with Jack. His hand in hers. His body in bed beside her in the morning. His eyes staring into her own. His voice telling her what to do.

  They would have to flee to England. But that would not be much of a burden. She would learn the language. Perhaps she could bring Abelard to cook for them. In any event, they would live comfortably. They should never want for money or servants or ease. They'd have gardens and coaches and pedigreed dogs. She could rely on Jack for all of that.

  They would stand together in a church and be married. They would have children—three of each, and all of them precious to her. But the oldest boy would be her particular darling. Faust would want to name him Euphorion or Hyperion or some such faddish neo-Classical nonsense, but she would hold out for Wilhelm, after her father. He would grow tall and strong; he would shine in her eyes brighter than the sun itself.

  With such a father, it would not be expecting too much for all six to live and thrive. In time they would marry and present her with grandchildren.

  Most important, Jack would always be there with her. When she was sullen and out of sorts, he would tease and tickle her until she laughed. When he was oppressed by his many cares and obligations, she would kiss each sorrow away. By slow degrees her waist would thicken. Silver threads would appear in his beard.

  They would grow old together.

  "Exactly how," she asked, "do you intend to convey me from this place? The walls, I
am told, are three feet thick. You do not, I hope, intend to harm the guards."

  "Nothing of the sort." Cavarocchi clicked his tongue dismissively. "They will simply be paid to close their eyes as you walk out. In order to make the escape look plausible, a woman of roughly your size and appearance will be brought in to perform some small task—to adjust your dress, perhaps, so that you will look your best for the trial. Nobody would deny you that.

  "The woman will exchange clothing with you, and stay behind, lying covered in your bed. You will leave in my company, and I will smuggle you out of town in a wagon with a false bottom. This also is for appearances' sake—the city forces will be on guard against accidentally discovering you. Once quit of Nuremberg, you will travel in ease and comfort to London. A house will be provided you, servants, and an appropriate allowance. Faust will be located and informed of your whereabouts." Cavarocchi spread his arms, smiling. "A farce, admittedly—but one with a happy ending."

  "And the woman who is to be left here. What's in it for her?"

  "Frau Holt has a child who needs some very expensive surgery. She welcomes the opportunity and—my word upon it!—blesses your name for providing her with it."

  "What becomes of her after my escape?"

  Cavarocchi made a puzzled face. "She'll be held briefly, no doubt, and then released."

  "Am I to pretend to believe this?" Margarete snapped. "The city of Nuremberg will suspend its own laws and free a pauper woman who helped a notorious criminal escape? Have fear and prison so melted my brains that you expect me to believe this?"

  For a long time the Italian was silent. Then, humbly, he said, "Forgive me. I was expecting a woman so eager for release she would not think things through."

  "No, I am beyond ignoring consequences."

  "Very well. Give me a moment to think." Cavarocchi clasped his hands and bowed his head. He looked like an actor mentally preparing himself to go onstage. And once she had this thought, Margarete felt she understood the man. He was a chameleon, assuming whatever emotions best suited the situation.

  She had owned chameleons once, slow and whimsical creatures that she kept in a glass tank in her office. But they had died.

  "Very well! It will not be easy to get Frau Holt off. But hers is a lesser crime than yours and since it will be done for the sake of her child, the judges might plausibly extend her mercy. Buying such men will be terribly expensive. But no price is too great to bring Faust back to London, and therefore no price is too great to secure your liberty."

  "You truly intend to bribe every official in Nuremberg?"

  "We shall do what we must." Cavarocchi stood. "You need time to think, and I to act. I will return tomorrow."

  Margarete was appalled. She was no innocent, but it was a shocking thing to have the entire city revealed as corrupt from the judges through the jailers and so down to the city guard. Cavarocchi had spoken of buying every official in Nuremberg as if it were merely a cause of ruinous expense.

  She did not think she could go along with it. To do so would be to become as corrupt and dishonest as her oppressors. Surely one could not do so knowingly and willingly. It would have to be done by small and incremental steps, eyes shut and unaware.

  It was not possible for her to rejoin the unthinking world, becoming as she had been before, sleepily and smugly ignorant of consequences. There were thoughts that once thought, could not be unthought. She could never be Gretchen again. Gretchen was an evil game she had once played. No more.

  Faust was coming for her!

  She did not want him to see her this way. Caged and humbled. The sight would live in his mind, poisoning whatever image he held of her, forever lessening her in his esteem.

  There was not much time, then. One way or the other, she must decide soon. She dared not be here when he reached the prison and came to her cell.

  A jangle of keys.

  Ochsenfelder entered, carrying a covered dish. "My wife made this for you," he said. "It's gooseberry pie."

  "You may thank her for me. Leave it on the desk."

  "She is very concerned about you," Ochsenfelder began. "She—"

  "Again, thank her. Please leave now."

  Ochsenfelder left, looking puzzled and a little hurt.

  It was wrong, perhaps, to treat her jailer so harshly for having human weaknesses. But he had behaved toward her as a stern and loving father would toward his own errant daughter, and she had responded to that. One of Margarete's lovers, a Florentine woman, had once told her of the time a man she had trusted as a second father had put a hand upon her rump and made a coarse suggestion; she had run home and cried for hours. The authority that an older man could extend over a younger woman was in the nature of a sacred trust. It was a foul thing to violate it.

  Whatever she was guilty of, it was not half so bad as Och-senfelder's betrayal of that trust.

  Perhaps she should accept Cavarocchi's—Wycliffe's—offer. To stay was not only to die, but also to accept the authority of a system that was rotten from the basement all the way up to the weathercock. It implicitly endorsed the ethical superiority of men who neither understood her situation nor adhered to their own professed standards.

  What was the moral thing to do?

  Somebody had to decide upon her guilt or innocence. Not the courts. She no longer believed in them. Cavarocchi was right. When judges and magistrates could be bought, and jailers bribed to turn a blind eye, how much outrage could one feel when lesser criminals merely took advantage of the services offered them?

  They could not judge her.

  Perhaps she deserved death. But they would kill her for the wrong reasons. They would kill her for a night of pleasure—one among many—in which she'd failed to take precautions. Once she discovered herself pregnant, every step leading to this stone cell was foreordained.

  Was this justice? It was not.

  Only one person was qualified to judge her. Only one woman was fit to declare sentence.

  The next morning Dreschler came in response to her summons.

  He entered and she nodded toward the chair. He sat and she remained standing. It did not bother him in the least. He looked up at her with his soft lopsided smile, his sleepy eyes, waiting.

  Two sheets of paper rested facedown on her desk.

  "Tell me," she said. "How did the city council come to know of my abortion? That was your work, wasn't it?"

  "No, no, no!" he cried. "When word of your, ah, unfortunate mistake—"

  "My abortion."

  "Yes. When it came out, I had security track down the source. You would scarce, ah, credit this, but it was proved beyond any doubt to be the work of your own—"

  "Cousin Wulf." She shrugged, and lit a cigarette. "Well, I don't believe you, but that hardly matters now. Take a look at the paper on the left."

  Dreschler picked it up and, lifting his eyeglasses, read. An expression of profound satisfaction slowly spread itself over his face. This first version of Margarete's will, while not leaving him anything material, gave him the explicit recognition as her successor that he coveted. He opened his mouth to speak, and Margarete gestured him to silence. "Now the other one."

  He read. His expression changed. This version named Wulf as her successor. He looked up at Margarete, but said nothing.

  "My trial is scheduled for Tuesday. I'll be dead soon."

  He still said nothing. Dreschler was not a good man, but he was unquestionably an intelligent one. You could dangle the juiciest bait before his nose and he would not snap at it. He had discipline. She wished there were somebody else to entrust with her holdings. But unfortunately, Dreschler was the best available. She'd done all she could for Reinhardt Industries, its shareholders, and its employees.

  It was time to let go.

  She waited until their mutual silence had grown full and ripe. Then she raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

  Dreschler nervously cleared his throat. "What is it you want of me?"

  "Not much. Two items. I've written them
down."

  His face softened when he saw the first item on the list, then hardened when he saw the second. Ruthlessness, however, being another of his virtues, he only said, "Do you have any directions for the running of the plants?"

  Koenig needed more support staff if the plastics exhibits were to be ready before the Exposition opened. The new man in the benzene research group had reported they were low on supplies, and this so directly contradicted his supervisor's assessment that there was clearly something wrong somewhere, and this would have to be looked into. Accounting had been doing an exemplary job for so long that most of upper management had forgotten what a shambles it had been before the shake-up. It was time to hand out a few awards and certificates before morale fell again. Her list of things to do was endless.

  "No,” she said. "I'm sure you'll do an excellent job."

  Cavarocchi entered, all business. "Our people have already spoken to two judges; a third is being approached this morning. Others may need to be blackmailed; operatives are currently at work. So what you desire is certainly possible. If you are willing to take my word that it will be done, you can leave the day after tomorrow. If you want to await assurances—"

  "I am not going. I thank you, but I choose to stay."

  Cavarocchi's face froze. "May I inquire why you ... ?"

  "No. Please don't. I am sorry, but my reasons are personal."

  He sighed. "I did not want to show you this."

  From his attache, he removed a newspaper. He unfolded it before her. jew'S-whorei screamed the headline above a very unflattering photograph of Margarete being taken to jail. She looked haggard, of course—the abortion had taken place only hours before—but also, somehow, both wracked with guilt and unrepentant.

  "Look at this!" Cavarocchi slapped down a second, a third, a fourth tabloid, one atop the other, headlines overlapping. murderess/slut/criminal/whore! "And this. And this. Look. See. What chance do you think you'll have in a court of law? What chance? Justice? Mercy? Don't make me laugh."

  She took the first newspaper, folded it so she didn't have to look at herself, and read the article. "That dear, sweet, gentle, thoughtful man," she mused. "So he had a Jewish grandmother? I wonder if he even knew." She returned the paper.