Death and the Devil

by Frank Schätzing

  He came closer. So close she could feel his breath on her face.

  “Prove to me that God doesn’t exist,” Richmodis repeated, her voice quavering.

  “I could do that,” he said quietly, “but you wouldn’t like it.”

  “Just because I’m a woman?” she hissed. “Gerhard’s murderer is not usually so softhearted.”

  A frown appeared on his forehead. “There’s nothing personal about this,” he said. Oddly enough, it sounded as if he meant it.

  “There isn’t? That’s all right, then, I suppose.”

  “What I am doing, I am doing for a purpose. I don’t take pleasure in killing people, but it doesn’t bother me either. I have accepted a commission in the course of which the deaths of several people became necessary, that’s all.”

  “That’s not everything by a long shot, from what I hear.”

  “Remember what killed the cat, Richmodis. I’m going now.”

  “Why do you make people suffer so much?”

  He shook his head. “It is not my fault if people suffer. I bear no responsibility for their deaths. How many people die in whatever manner doesn’t concern me. It doesn’t make any difference. The world is pointless and it will stay that way, with or without humans.”

  Fury welled up inside her. “How can you be so cynical? Every human life is sacred; every human being was created by God for a purpose.”

  “God does not exist.”

  “Then prove it.”

  “No.”

  “Because you can’t.”

  “Because I don’t want to.”

  “Prove it!”

  “Why?” The look he gave her was almost pitying. “I know He doesn’t exist, but you have no right to demand I prove He doesn’t. If you insist on thinking I won’t because I can’t, I can live with that. You can believe what you like as far as I’m concerned.”

  He lifted up the gag.

  I’m losing him, thought Richmodis. I must learn as much as I can about him. There must be a spark of feeling somewhere inside him. “What did they do to you to make you like this?” she asked, surprised at her own question.

  The expression froze on his face.

  For a brief moment Richmodis thought she had managed to get through to him. Then suddenly he smiled again. “Nice try,” he said with a mixture of mockery and admiration, then quickly stuffed the gag between her teeth, turned, and headed for the door, his cloak swirling. “Unfortunately not quite good enough. Don’t worry, I’ll be back. I might even let you go. You’re safe here. Now neither the Fox nor your uncle will dare go around spreading stories about a supposed murder.”

  The hinges creaked as he opened the door. Richmodis had a brief view of a courtyard with a wall beyond.

  “Behave yourself, like a well-brought-up girl should.” In the fading light of the late afternoon he was just a shadow, a figment of the imagination, a bad dream. “And if you need proof of the complete absence of Divine Providence and the pointlessness of human existence, just think of me. One of millions.”

  The door slammed shut behind him. She was alone with the rats.

  Urquhart slumped back against the wall of the abandoned warehouse and closed his eyes. The images were threatening to return. He felt himself being dragged down into the red whirlpool of memories from which waves of sound rose up toward him, those strangely shrill tones he would never have thought a human being capable of producing.

  No! That is not me, he told himself. They are someone else’s memories. I have no history.

  His muscles relaxed.

  The servant who had described the way to the old warehouse had also given him a message that told him that Jaspar and the Fox had es-caped from Little St. Martin’s. Urquhart had expected it. He congratulated himself on the success of his visit to Severinstraße. It didn’t matter that they had got away. Not in the least. They could call off the search for them.

  He considered briefly whether it would not be better to kill the woman now. He was going to kill her anyway, when it was all over, so why not now? No, it made better sense to keep her alive for the moment. He would need her to entice Jaspar and the Fox into his trap. And anyone else who had heard their story. He would arrange to hand over the hostage tomorrow evening. Once he had them all there, he could kill them one by one and set the building on fire. A few charred skeletons would be found. An accident, that would be all.

  Assuming it would be of any importance after what was due to happen on the morrow.

  He observed the long shadows of the battlements in the courtyard. They were creeping toward the building as if they were about to grasp it. The black fingers of fate, quite poetic! Perhaps he should write poems. By now he had accumulated so much wealth that he could devote the rest of his life to the only worthwhile occupation—enjoyment. Without regret or remorse, without limits, without purpose or plan, without feelings of guilt, without a single thought for the past or future. His pleasures would be boundless, his indulgence endless, and the images would fade for good and never return. Perhaps he would set himself up as a scholar and build a palace of wisdom with a court that could become the Santiago de Compostella of philosophical inquiry, to which the greatest intellects of Christendom would make pilgrimage. He would encourage bold speculation and then amuse himself royally at the expense of the fools who sought the meaning of life. He would encourage them and then drop them at the decisive moment. He would prove that God did not exist, nor anything similar to Him, that the world was just a black abyss in which nothing was worth aiming for apart from the enjoyment of the moment, with no regard for morality, obligation, or virtue. He would even demonstrate the meaninglessness of this ridiculous nominalism since there was no reality at all behind general concepts, no good, no evil, nothing.

  The ruler of nothingness! A delightful idea.

  He had this one last commission to complete, here in Cologne, then he would give up killing and devote himself to enjoyment. His mind was made up.

  Urquhart pushed himself away from the wall and left the tumbledown courtyard. Matthias and he had agreed to meet every two hours between now and the early morning, in case something unexpected should crop up. That would leave him plenty of opportunity to check on the girl. Perhaps he would even feel like a conversation.

  THE MESSAGE

  They put on the leper’s clothes before they reached the city wall, out of sight of the guards on the gate. Jacob was still afraid of infection, but Jaspar assured him there was no danger. They took up their rattles and approached the city gate. It was worth a try. Although lepers were only officially allowed in Cologne on certain days of the year, the regulation was not very strictly applied as long as the beggars had their distinctive dress and rattles.

  Today the guards seemed to be in a charitable mood and let them pass. They went through Cock Gate, making plenty of noise. No one who saw them bothered to give them a second look, so no one noticed that the white cloaks covered habits instead of knee breeches, nor that the two fatally ill men were the picture of health.

  Jacob had had his doubts. “A pretty conspicuous disguise.”

  “And therefore an especially good one,” Jaspar had replied. “The best of all. The ideal way not to attract attention is to behave in as conspicuous a way as possible.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “By all the saints! Have you been basking in the light of my wisdom for two whole days with no result at all? Anyone who is after us will assume we will be creeping around the city like thieves in the night. They’ll be on the lookout for two little mice scurrying along, heads bowed. That we might attract attention to ourselves would never occur to them.”

  “Not to the servants, but perhaps to the Shadow.”

  “Even he’s not omniscient.”

  As they walked through the city, not particularly hurrying, the sun was going down and everything in the streets merging into a uniform gray. Jaspar kept having to grab Jacob’s coat. “Don’t run.”

  “We’ve got plen
ty of time, have we?”

  “Yes, but only one life. Lepers don’t run.”

  An east wind came up, blowing leaves and rubbish along the street. They crossed New Market Square, where the cattle market was just finishing, strolled along to Sternengasse, and from there toward Highgate. Their only problem was trying to avoid the charitable attentions of a few good Christians who wanted to give them money or food. They muttered something about a vow that forbade them from accepting alms in the street. However nonsensical they were, vows were looked on as inviolable. No one questioned a vow.

  As they turned into Severinstraße, the first raindrops began to fall and it became noticeably colder. “Can’t we go a bit quicker now?” Jacob urged. “There’s hardly anyone left out in the street.”

  “This is precisely the place where we have to hobble along like two lepers with one foot in the grave,” said Jaspar, unmoved. “If they’re still looking for us, they’ll have posted someone near my house. No one will find anything odd about lepers begging at the door, but seeing them having a race would arouse suspicion in even the dullest mind.”

  Sulkily Jacob bowed to fate and pulled his hat down over his face. The rain got heavier. By the time they reached Jaspar’s house, they were soaked through.

  “What now?” asked Jacob.

  “Now? We knock and beg for alms. Rolof opens the door and lets us in—”

  “You of all people come up with a stupid idea like that?” Jacob broke in. “No sensible person would let a leper into his house.”

  “But Rolof is not a sensible person, everyone knows that. Don’t try to beat me at my own game. At least we’ve made it this far. Once we’re inside we’ll get rid of these clothes, then I challenge anyone to prove they saw two lepers go in.”

  He knocked loudly on the door several times.

  “No one in,” said Jacob.

  “Impossible.” Jaspar shook his head in bewilderment and thumped the door with his fist. The house echoed with the sound. “Rolof’s always in at this time.”

  “Perhaps he’s asleep.”

  “Not impossible,” agreed Jaspar, annoyed. “I think you’re right, Fox-cub, he’s taking a nap. Just you wait!” With that Jaspar hammered on the door with both fists, as if he were trying to make a hole in it. Jacob looked around nervously. That wasn’t the normal behavior of a leper anymore. Jaspar seemed suddenly to come to the same conclusion. He stopped hammering and started looking worried.

  “What if they’re waiting for us inside?” whispered Jacob.

  “That’s what I was trying to establish by knocking,” Jaspar growled.

  “Without success.”

  “Huh! Anyway, these servants are thick as two short planks. They won’t even give us a good look. They’ll be too scared.”

  “But what if—”

  “If your long-haired friend’s there, we run for it.”

  Jacob was hopping nervously from one foot to the other. He swung his rattle a bit for good measure. Then he grabbed Jaspar by the arm. “I think we should get away while the going’s good.”

  Jaspar raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, yes? And go where?”

  “I—” That was the question. Where? “No idea. To Richmodis and Goddert’s place, perhaps?”

  “Oh, brilliant!” Jaspar mocked. “What a genius! He’s too cowardly to go in himself, but he’s quite happy to put Richmodis in danger.”

  “All right, all right.” Jacob turned away, his face red with shame. “A stupid idea, I agree.”

  “It was. But we all say stupid things sometimes. Come on, let’s just go in and get it over with.”

  Jaspar pushed open the door and they went in. It was dark in the room, just a few embers glowing in the fireplace.

  “He hasn’t even kept the fire up, the useless lump!”

  Jacob peered into the gloom. “You can’t see anything.”

  “We’ll soon see something. Where’s the candlestick?”

  Jaspar stomped across the room to a shelf opposite the fireplace, while Jacob tried to make something of the dark shapes. The table, a stool, the bench by the fire.

  A shadow, massive, motionless.

  “Jaspar—”

  “Don’t interrupt. Now where’s that blasted candlestick?”

  “There’s someone here.”

  “What?” There was a clatter. A spark flared up, then another, and the room was gradually bathed in soft, golden candlelight. It fell on the fireside bench and on Rolof.

  “God in heaven!” Jaspar whispered. Hesitantly they went over to him. Jacob felt he wanted to be sick. He also wanted to look away but found he couldn’t.

  “Whatever have they done to him?”

  Rolof’s eyes were staring at the ceiling. His nose had been smashed in. But that was a mere detail compared to the way the murderer had arranged the body. A long hank of thick dark hair cascaded down from his wide-open mouth onto his chest and curled up over his fat belly. Which had been—

  “They’ve slit him open,” Jacob gasped.

  Jaspar was grinding his teeth. “Yes.”

  “But why? What had he done to them, goddammit? He was no danger to them. He…” His voice failed. With sudden realization, he pulled the hair out of Rolof’s mouth. “Richmodis,” he croaked.

  Jaspar pointed to Rolof’s forehead. “Look.” It sounded almost matter-of-fact, as if he were drawing attention to some interesting object. Except that his finger was trembling.

  Jacob leaned forward. “What on earth is that?”

  There were smears on Rolof’s forehead. Symbols joining up to make a complicated pattern.

  “Writing,” replied Jaspar. “That’s why he did that to him. The murderer needed blood to write.”

  “And what—”

  “A message.” He sank down on the bench beside Rolof and put his head in his hands.

  Jacob shuddered. He was afraid to hear the truth, although by now he suspected it. “Out with it,” he said hoarsely. “What is the message?”

  “She’s alive. Silence.”

  RHEINGASSE

  Johann rested his chin on his hand and stared across the table, uncertain what to reply.

  After Matthias had sent the servant to tell Urquhart the way to the old warehouse, Johann had tried to call an immediate meeting of the group, a vain hope on a busy weekday. At least Theoderich, a somewhat tipsy Daniel, and Heinrich von Mainz had turned up. In a few short sentences he told them about the hostage. Their reactions varied. While Heinrich, as usual, had no clear opinion, Theoderich looked unhappy. Johann could understand that. They had set off an avalanche. The situation was beginning to get out of control. Now it was Urquhart who was making the rules, while the original purity of their goal was being increasingly tarnished by crude necessity. The means were becoming an end.

  Daniel, on the other hand, was delighted; he could not praise Urqu hart’s astute move highly enough. Johann felt disgusted at his own son. Of course Daniel was right. Though only from a coldly rational standpoint. More and more, Johann was asking himself whether they had not in fact become slaves to a barbaric attitude that was pushing them in the wrong direction.

  After that he had tried to work for an hour but couldn’t keep his mind on it. Eventually he gave up and went home to pray and to go up and see the old woman to let her know what was happening and to take reassurance from her steadfastness of purpose.

  The old woman was asleep.

  He had stood at the window for a long time, staring out into the rain that had started. Evening was approaching and with it the time of the family meal, but he did not feel in the least hungry. Feeling weary, he asked Hadewig to leave him to his own devices for a while and had withdrawn to his study, hoping the night would pass quickly, even though he viewed the coming day with horror.

  He had not been alone for long.

  It was Kuno. The young patrician begged to be allowed to attend their meetings again.

  Johann was silent, trying to hide his uncertainty behind a blank expression.
Deep down inside he could understand Kuno better than ever. But they had gone too far. They could not go back now, and that was Kuno’s fatal mistake. Wanting to reverse everything, even if he did claim to support the cause wholeheartedly again.

  Johann clasped his hands and slowly shook his head. “No,” he declared.

  “What are you afraid of?” asked Kuno.

  “Your unwillingness to accept the logical consequences of your decisions,” Johann replied. “You volunteer to take part in a struggle, but you want to fight it without weapons. You want to defeat your enemy, but at the same time spare him. Wars are won on the field of battle, not inside your head. I wouldn’t put it past you to destroy us all just because you thought you could save someone else.”

  “That is not—” Kuno objected.

  Johann raised his hand and cut him short. “I’m saying this because I think you are far too sentimental. Not that I’ve anything against feelings, but we should never have let you join the alliance. We had no choice, I suppose. None of us had. Now, though, I do have a choice. To trust you or to exercise caution.”

  “And you don’t trust me?”

  “No. You’d be lying if you tried to tell me you’d gotten over Gerhard’s death and given it your approval.”

  “I never claimed I did! It’s just that I believe in our cause, as I always have done.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Kuno started to say something, then hesitated.

  “Well?” asked Johann.

  “All I do know,” said Kuno in deliberate tones, “is that people who have done us no harm have had to die. We feel an injustice has been done to the members of our families who have lost their lives or their freedom, not because they harmed anyone, simply because they wanted to protect their rights. Yes, it’s true I agreed to a plan, the consequences of which I reject, and I am well aware there is something contradictory in that.” He leaned forward, looking Johann calmly in the eye. “But you, too, Johann Overstolz, subscribed to that plan. Has it not occurred to you by now that you cannot combat injustice by acting unjustly yourself?”