Death and the Devil

by Frank Schätzing

“Between wine and piss I can.”

  “Ha! Prove it. As long as someone doesn’t tell you it’s wine—talking of which, shall we have another one?”

  “Why not? Let’s have another one.”

  “What’s all that?” asked a bewildered Jacob.

  Richmodis stared grimly down at the candlelit cellar. “That? That’s my father and uncle.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “They call it learned disputations, though the only thing in dispute is who can finish his glass quickest.”

  “Do they do it often?”

  “Whenever they can find a suitable topic.” Richmodis sighed. “Come on, we’d better go down and join them. They’d have difficulty getting up the steps.”

  “But it’s early!” exclaimed Jacob incredulously.

  She gave him a scornful look. “So what? I just thank the Holy Apostles they don’t drink in their sleep.”

  Shaking his head, Jacob followed her, taking care not to slip on the greasy steps. At the bottom they found themselves in something that was more like a cave than a cellar, though surprisingly spacious. What was immediately obvious was that it was a well-filled wine store. There was a constant drip of moisture from the ceiling and a slightly foul smell from the latrine, which Jacob had noticed next to the cellar. “Dungeon” was the word that occurred to Jacob, though one he would not have minded being locked up in.

  Even stranger, however, were the two men sitting on the floor, a candle between them, earthenware jugs in their hands, continuing their debate as if Jacob and Richmodis were simply two further casks that would form the basis of some future dispute. They were around fifty. One was short and fat, with no neck at all, a bright red face, and a few remaining hairs, the color of which had gradually faded to somewhere between brown and nothing. His fingers were grotesquely twisted, recalling trees that had been struck by lightning. A thin, wavy beard, obviously attempting to emulate Jacob’s shock of hair, stuck out in all directions. Despite the cool temperature, sweat was streaming from his every pore.

  The other was the exact opposite. Emerging from the plain habit was a long scrawny neck on top of which a round head, equipped with a dangerously long, pointed nose and chin, which always seemed to be on the attack, was nodding back and forth all the time. Apart from the arched brows he was completely bald. From the sum total of his physical attributes, he ought to have been frighteningly ugly, but strangely enough he wasn’t. His little eyes glinted with intelligence and high spirits, and the corners of his mouth were turned up in an expression of permanent amusement. Jacob was immediately drawn to him.

  And both were talking and moaning, moaning and talking.

  “Silence!” shouted Richmodis.

  It was as if St. Augustine had performed a miracle. They shut their mouths and looked at each other in bewilderment. The fat one grimaced, as if he had a headache.

  “Why are you shouting, Richmodis, my child?” he asked.

  “Jacob,” she said, without taking her eyes off the man, “this is my dearly beloved father, Goddert von Weiden. Beside him you see my uncle, the learned dean and physician, Dr. Jaspar Rodenkirchen, master of the seven liberal arts and professor of canon law at the Franciscan College. Both must have been sitting in this cellar since around midday yesterday, and they ask me why I’m shouting.”

  “I quite agree with my daughter,” said Goddert von Weiden, in a voice as solemn as if he were laying a foundation stone. “Our behavior has been unchristian in the extreme. If you hadn’t gone and filled your cellar with wine, I could lead a life that was more pleasing in the sight of God.”

  “Your birth wasn’t pleasing in the sight of God,” Jaspar teased him with a wink in Jacob’s direction. After a certain amount of toing and froing Richmodis and Jacob had managed to lure the two disputants out of the cellar. They continued their disputation as they made their way up to the surface, but turned out to be less drunk than Richmodis had feared. Now they were sitting under the oppressively low beams of the downstairs room, around a table with an elaborately woven cloth showing St. Francis preaching.

  “You’re wearing my coat,” Goddert remarked.

  Jacob felt weary and worn out. The pain in his shoulder was almost unbearable. He would have been quite happy to take off Goddert’s coat, but by now his arm was stiff and almost useless.

  “He’s wearing your coat because he needs help.” Richmodis came out of the back room and placed a yeast cake on the table.

  “Just the thing!” exclaimed Jaspar.

  “Neither of you deserve it. Do you realize, Father, since early yesterday I’ve been looking after the house, seeing to the customers, dyeing the cloth, and slaving away from morning to night, not to mention having to invent the most ridiculous stories to stop the men pestering me?”

  “Including that one?” asked Goddert warily, pointing at Jacob.

  “Of course not!” She gave Jacob a look full of warmth and started to tear off pieces of the loaf and hand them around.

  “Jacob gave me a whistle,” she said with unmistakable pride.

  “And what did you give him in return?” Jaspar giggled.

  “Father’s old clothes.”

  Goddert von Weiden went even redder in the face, if that was possible, but instead of the expected lecture, he just cleared his throat and bit off a piece of his cake.

  Jacob was totally baffled. “Weren’t you telling me he chased you all around the house crying blue murder?” he said in a low voice to Richmodis.

  “I did,” she replied with an impenetrable smile.

  “But he—”

  She leaned down and said softly, “I was pulling your leg. He’s the most kindhearted of men. Only you must never tell him or he might start getting too full of himself.”

  “Hey!” shouted Goddert, cheeks bulging. “Stop that whispering.”

  “Why shouldn’t they?” Jaspar snapped. “Just because no woman wants to whisper in your ear anymore.”

  “I have them whispering in my ear all the time, blockhead. The only whispers you’ll get will be in the confessional.”

  “If I waited for women to come from you with something to confess, I might as well close my confessional down.”

  “You’d never do that. You’d have nowhere left to indulge your lascivious desires.”

  “Do not blaspheme the sacrament of confession, Waldensian!”

  “Waldensian? Me a Waldensian?”

  “And a lying one, too.”

  “Ridiculous. Accusing an honest craftsman of heresy! Anyway, the Waldenses are—”

  “I know, I know.”

  “You know nothing. You’re just not interested in ecclesiastical matters. Though I can well understand your dislike of the Waldenses. They want to ban people like you from saying mass and accepting presents.”

  “What do you mean, people like me?”

  “Unworthy priests who commit fornication.”

  “The Waldenses never said anything like that, you simpleton, and I wouldn’t care if they did. Have you got rheumatism of the brain or something, trying to argue about the Waldenses with a scholar? Don’t you know they deny purgatory and their lay brothers preach against the veneration of saints?”

  “They do not.”

  “Oh, yes, they do. You won’t be able to pray to St. Francis when your back hurts, and when you’re dead there won’t be any requiem mass for your soul, no prayers, nothing. That’s what your Waldenses want, only they don’t even stick to their own rules.”

  “You’re joking! They unmarried, every one of them, and—”

  “And?”

  “And they do nothing that is not according to the pure teaching of Christ.”

  “They don’t? Then why were three of them put on trial in Aachen this summer?”

  “Certainly not for going to that house in Schemmergasse.”

  “I did not go to that house in Schemmergasse.”

  “Pull the other one.”

  “And I’ll tell you another thing, y
ou son of an aardvark sow. They are heretics and were quite rightly placed under ban at the Synod of Verona.”

  “The Synod of Verona was a joke, a bad joke. It was only called because the pope was worried about losing his income from indulgences.”

  “The ban was promulgated jointly by God’s representative on earth, Pope Lucius III, and the emperor, Frederick Barbarossa, because, as you seem to know, astonishingly enough, your tatterdemalion Waldenses in their sandals are against indulgences. But I ask you, what will happen if we have no more indulgences? Do you want to deprive people of the God-given opportunity of buying their way out of the consequences of their minor transgressions? And I have to tell you, Goddert, there’s a disturbing tendency to overemphasize the poverty of the clergy. I sometimes worry we are turning into a nation of Cathars and Albigensians. Do you realize that our magnificent cathedral, which will tower over the Christian world, was only possible through indulgences?”

  “Oh, you can keep your indulgences. That may be all well and good, but it can’t be right to condemn to death preachers who are against the death penalty themselves.”

  “The Waldenses are only against it so they can spread their heretical beliefs unpunished.”

  “Not at all. It’s the pure Christian faith they preach. I would even go so far as to say Christ himself is speaking through them.”

  “Don’t let anyone else hear you say that.”

  “I don’t care who hears me. I’m not saying I’m a Waldensian myself, but their insistence on the sacraments of penance, communion, and baptism seems to me more in keeping with the teachings of Christ than the outrageously dissolute behavior of the mendicant orders—or your expensive wine cellar.”

  “What have you against my wine cellar?”

  “Nothing. Shall we have another?”

  “Enough!” Richmodis brought the flat of her hand down on the table.

  “And what’s your opinion on this subject?” Goddert, who was obviously looking for allies, inquired of Jacob.

  “I’m not interested in politics,” said Jacob in a weak voice. He could not repress a groan as he felt another vicious stab of pain in his shoulder.

  “See what you’re doing?” said Richmodis angrily. “He needs help and here you two are, arguing like a pair of tinkers. Nobody’s having another drink here. Not even you, Father.”

  “What do you say to that?” Goddert wrung his hands in despair. “Other children talk respectfully to their parents. Well, then, Jaspar, you’re the physician, do something.”

  Jaspar Rodenkirchen gave Jacob a severe look from under his knitted brows.

  “Pain?” he asked.

  Jacob nodded. “In my shoulder. It’s getting worse all the time.”

  “What happened?”

  “I ran into a wall.”

  “Makes sense. Can you move your arm?”

  Jacob tried, but the only result was a further wave of pain.

  “Right.” Jaspar stood up. “Richmodis, help him get his coat and jerkin off. I need to take a look at it.”

  “With pleasure.” Richmodis grinned and immediately started fiddling with Jacob’s clothes.

  “Can I help?” asked Goddert, making an attempt to get up.

  “Better not. We want to make him better, not kill him.”

  Not kill him? thought Jacob as he took off the coat with Richmodis’s help. Don’t worry, there are others who want to take care of that. Laboriously he managed to peel off his jerkin.

  Jaspar gave his shoulder and arm a close examination. “Hm,” he said. His fingers felt Jacob’s shoulder blade and explored the back of his neck and his collarbone. “Hm, hm.”

  He examined his armpit, then the shoulder again. “Hm.”

  “Is it serious?” asked Richmodis with concern.

  “Leprosy’s serious. Come here a minute, Richmodis.”

  Jacob saw him whisper something to her, but couldn’t hear anything. She nodded and went back to him. “Would you have any objection,” she asked with a coquettish smile, “if I embraced you?”

  “Er—” Jacob gave Goddert a questioning look, but he just shrugged his shoulders. “No, of course not.”

  Richmodis grinned. Jacob felt her soft arms around him. She held him tight and pressed him so close he could hardly breathe. She was warm. He felt the first stirrings of arousal and forgot the pain for a moment. He didn’t notice that his injured arm had been left out of the embrace, hardly noticed even when Jaspar grasped his hand.

  Richmodis looked at him.

  Her lips parted slightly and Jacob—

  “Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!”

  For a second everything went black. He felt like being sick. Without warning, Jaspar had almost torn his arm out, while Richmodis pulled with all her might in the opposite direction. Now she let go. His knees almost gave way, but he managed to stop himself and staggered over to the bench.

  “What was all that about?” he panted.

  “Move your arm,” said Jaspar calmly.

  “I think I deserve some explan—What’s this?” Jacob rubbed his shoulder and stretched out his arm. It still hurt, but nothing like as much as before.

  “What did you do?” he asked, uncertain.

  “Nothing. I just put the joint back in place. It was slightly out. Not completely, the pain would have been too much to bear, but it wasn’t quite the way the good Lord intended. Do you feel better now?”

  Jacob nodded. The feeling of wretchedness had vanished. With his arm, his mind was back in working order, too. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Don’t mention it,” bellowed Goddert in his genial manner.

  “What have you got to do with it?” cried Jaspar in annoyance. “If you’d helped, we’d have been burying him now.”

  Richmodis slapped the table again. “Do you think you could stop quarreling for a moment? Jacob has something to tell us.”

  Goddert raised his hand. “I do have a question.”

  “What?”

  “Who is this Jacob, actually?”

  “Correct,” Jaspar broke in. “That’s a damned good question. Whom have I been treating?”

  “He’s a—” But Richmodis got no further. Jacob had raised his hand and was astonished when all three fell silent.

  He told them his story.

  FROM THE LIFE OF A FOX

  It was a quiet year.

  The emperor issued an unpopular edict against the autonomy of cathedral cities, especially Cologne. The archbishop of Cologne confirmed the consecration of the Church of the Maccabees. A preaching order took over a building in Stolkgasse and a priest was convicted of murder. Otherwise nothing much happened.

  Jacob was born.

  He very quickly lost count of the number of his birthdays. There was nothing unusual in that. Very few knew exactly how old they were. His parents were peasants, taciturn folk who farmed a hide of land on the estates of the cathedral chapter in Worringen, a village outside Cologne. Their annual rent was two pfennigs. They weren’t married, since that would have required a further payment of six pfennigs, which they could ill afford.

  Jacob’s earliest memory was of a hollow in the clay floor. He was put there when his parents and older brothers and sisters were out in the fields, or doing their labor on the home farm. Over the edge he could see the fire in the middle of the floor and steam rising from the large earthenware pot above it. At first he was too small to get out of the hollow on his own, but as he grew bigger, he kept on going off. When they found him in the plowed field or among the pigs, they would put him back in, until there was no point and, anyway, the hollow was occupied by his successor.

  He didn’t know how many brothers and sisters he had either. His mother used to talk of a blasted army, but she smiled as she did so. She had problems counting, especially since some died soon after birth and she was constantly pregnant. His father beat her for that, but he also beat her when she refused to let him have his way with her. Jacob could never remember her rebelling against this treatment. She alwa
ys tried to smile, while the look in her eyes became sadder and sadder.

  That was the way things were.

  Just when he could walk and therefore, according to his father, also work, several of his brothers and sisters all died of some fever. He did not have the impression his father was particularly sorry. His mother cried, but that was probably more for the pain she herself had had to endure. Then she apologized to God for succumbing to such unrestrained grief and stared into space. A priest came and the bodies were removed.

  That didn’t make the helpings at mealtimes any bigger. They ate gruel and gruel and gruel. By this time Jacob had learned that there were much better-off peasants with farms belonging to the chapter estates. They got on well with the steward and some even had good Sunday clothes. His father, who, day in, day out, wore the same homespun, moaned about them at every opportunity, calling them crawling lickspittles. It made no difference to his fortunes. Jacob did not know why his father was poor. In fact, he knew nothing except that he wanted to get away and see the world.

  He must have been three or four when his mother took him to Cologne one day. She had to deliver some hose she had made to order for the cathedral chapter and Jacob went on and on at her until he was allowed to go, too. One of the steward’s men happened to be going and took the pair of them in his cart, which was at least better than having to walk.

  And that was how he came to fall in love for the first time.

  It was a chilly May day, but the whole city was thronging the streets, while thousands of burghers in their finery were streaming out of the gates bearing flowers and branches. The people had come, they were told, to see Isabella of England, who was to stay in the city before going on her way to marry the emperor, Frederick II. The archbishop of Cologne was accompanying her to Worms, where the wedding was to take place. To the glory of the city, which for the archbishop was basically the same as his own, he had arranged for her to stay in Cologne for six weeks. The citizens were beside themselves. Isabella in Cologne! The emperor’s bride was said to be more beautiful than the sun, more delectable than the morning dew! Arnold, the prior of St. Gereon, was overwhelmed to be allowed to welcome her in his house for the duration of her stay and shower her with luxury. Arnold, whose pride was only exceeded by his garrulousness, went on to everyone about it. His boasting became so outrageous that the archbishop considered withdrawing the privilege, at which Arnold quieted down somewhat and awaited Isabella’s arrival with the same quivering impatience as all the other inhabitants of the city.