The Cusanus Game

  She drained her glass in one gulp and slammed it down on the table so hard that Bernd and I jumped.

  “Have you really been in a contaminated area before?” I asked Birgit.

  “Yes.”

  “Secretly?”

  She turned down the corners of her mouth in her characteristic fashion. A bitter smile. “Of course. How else—on one of the organized sightseeing tours to the death zone?” she replied brusquely.

  Birgit shrugged heavily. I noticed that she had tears in her eyes. I’d never seen her like that before.

  “You have absolutely no idea how messed up the environment is there. The land is worse than dead. It’s condemned never to bear normal life again. Chaos has truly consumed it. I’d always thought those reports were a bunch of fantasy crap: the shadow world threatening us, spreading, eating its way from the edges into our reality. But damn it, it’s really true! It’s as if you weren’t even on Earth anymore! The plants don’t know anymore what they’re supposed to look like; they’ve forgotten what color they’re supposed to be. The shape of their flowers, the time of their ripening—everything is out of control! It’s genetic chaos. Have you ever seen black clematis? Or black larkspur? Red tree fungi, the size of satellite dishes? And with some of the plant monsters growing there, you’d have to do a genetic analysis to figure out what they evolved from.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand, as if she wanted to stop herself from talking. No one said anything. We’d never seen an outburst like that from her before.

  Marcello finally broke the uncomfortable silence.

  “What were you doing there?” he asked. “I mean … you were risking your life. Why…?”

  She turned away. Her braid brushed her shoulder. “I was searching for our parents.”

  “And were you able to find out anything?”

  She shook her head, wiped tears from the corner of her eye. All of us looked silently past one another.

  What an awful party, I thought. For heaven’s sake!

  “So I won’t get the job,” she blurted out. “The hell with it.”

  “I’ve declined too,” said Bernd.

  I looked at him, taken aback.

  “You were offered a job, and you just blew it off? For God’s sake, we all know how hard it is to get anything these days. We can’t afford to be choosy, damn it!”

  He avoided my eyes.

  “I’ll find something else,” he said dismissively. “And so will Birgit.”

  Bernd seemed relieved that he had withdrawn his application. I suddenly felt really cold inside. I had secretly always hoped that we could somehow work together. He had simply thrown in the towel. Didn’t he want to stay in contact with me? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it didn’t have to do with me personally, but rather that his shyness and reserve, which I so liked about him, were nothing but an expression of his indecisiveness. He had never had to make a decision, and he would never make a decision. Birgit would always do that for him.

  “The two of you are acting as if the offer had come from the Mafia. It’s from the Vatican, for crying out loud!” I exclaimed. “Who says they’re planning to send us to Germany?”

  Everyone looked at me.

  “Because that’s where Creation is really dead. If they take the Rinascita thing seriously, then they have to start there,” Birgit replied vehemently. “And as for the Vatican: Do you have any idea how many people it has exploited for its purposes? People of good faith?”

  “Stop it, you two!” cried Bernd.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I said heatedly. “There are lots of places on this earth where Creation desperately needs a rebirth. Besides, I don’t think that the Vatican feels called to fix the damage the French have done.”

  “How do you know?” Birgit asked derisively.

  “As far as I know, they intend to clean up there themselves.”

  “Well, then they’re going to be busy for the next three hundred thousand years.”

  “Everyone is pitching in. It’s a task for the whole world,” Marcello interjected in a conciliatory tone. “Everyone has the right to decide for themselves whether they take part or not. And if I were to be sent there, I would go.”

  “Good boy,” Birgit blurted out. “But have a few of your stem cells frozen beforehand.”

  “I just don’t think that we’re going to be sent there,” I insisted, but suddenly I was no longer so sure.

  “Me neither,” said Renata. “What could we do there as botanists?”

  “Life counts,” Bernd broke in. “Damage assessment.”

  “Nonsense,” Renata snapped at him. “It’s too late there for all that.”

  “If I were you, I would definitely take a really close look at the small print,” Birgit advised us. “From the beginning, I’ve had a feeling that there’s something shady about this. What’s with all the secretiveness?”

  “Have you guys noticed that this Falcotti wears a small cross as an implant on his temple?” asked Marcello.

  “You can’t miss it,” said Birgit.

  “Direct contact to the man upstairs,” Bernd sneered.

  “Listen,” I said to him. “That’s his business. We shouldn’t make fun of it.”

  Birgit looked at me and smiled coldly. “And why not?” she asked.

  “I’ve often seen Jesuits with those,” Renata broke in. “They used to wear them on their collars.”

  “Could be a BCI,” said Marcello.

  “A what?” I asked.

  “A Brain-Computer Interface,” he explained. “An implant that gives you direct access to the networks.”

  I shrugged and looked inquiringly at Renata. She nodded. “A window into cyberspace.”

  “Well, so what?” said Birgit. “Computer-assisted smartass.”

  “Were you guys asked too what time you’d want to be sent to if that were possible?” Marcello asked, steering the conversation in another direction.

  Birgit waved the question aside. “That was clearly part of some psychological test. Do you know what I answered? A week before the Cattenom disaster, with a well-armed strike force, I said. To neutralize the idiots there on time.”

  Bernd nodded. His eyes shone.

  Oh, Bernd, I thought.

  “I can’t imagine any task that would be assigned to such a motley group,” said Marcello.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “They made Ernesto an offer too.”

  “Which Ernesto?”

  “Ernesto Caputi. He studied physics.”

  “He’ll get a Geiger counter hung around his neck,” Birgit declared, laughing a bit too loudly. “That’s obvious.”

  She was sad—and a little drunk.

  “And Marco too.”

  “Which Marco?”

  “Marco Brescia. I think you know him, Domenica.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “As for him, I’m sure that he can’t tell a columbine from a carrot,” Birgit said. “He’s a medievalist.”

  I was fed up with all the chatter and went out into the kitchen. Renata was slicing bread with a large kitchen knife. As she did so, I saw for the first time that she was missing part of the pinky and ring finger on her left hand. She noticed that I was staring at the mutilation.

  “You should be more careful with the knife,” I hastened to say casually, nodding at her hand.

  She raised it and held it in front of my eyes. “Bang,” she said.

  I looked at her questioningly.

  “Have you ever seen lattice towers flying?” she asked. “Like falling angels. With outspread wings and hurling thunderbolts.”

  “You were with Alto Adige? Did you blow up power lines too?”

  She nodded and gazed at her mutilated fingers. “I got lucky,” she said. “I sacrificed only two inches. The Austrians never caught me. Otherwise it would have certainly turned out worse.”

  She raised the bread knife to her throat. The bright specks in her dar
k brown eyes flashed like fragments of amber. Her cheeks had turned red. I had never seen her so cheerful.

  “You’re glad that you have a job prospect.”

  Renata nodded. A happy smile lit up her round, almost peasantlike face. Her muted charm revealed itself only at second glance. She had beautifully curved eyebrows and a small, heart-shaped mouth she never put makeup on; her small, even teeth dug involuntarily into her lip when she thought hard. Her curly hair she wore combed back simply, looped in a loose knot and held with a sort of clasp—a smooth, bulbous piece of pinewood that looked like a small, half-opened fist, in which her hair was fastened with a long pointed pin. On the rounded “back of the hand,” the object was sky blue with alpine flowers painted on it by a naive artist of her homeland. Obviously a very old piece.

  Renata came from the region of Bolzano. After the “referendum” and the “annexation” of South Tyrol, she had joined the freedom movement Alto Adige and had fled from the Austrian security service to Venice. There she had struggled along with various jobs and fulfilled her university entrance requirements.

  As a child Renata had already learned to conceal herself from the eyes of the occupiers and to move without attracting attention. I remember how surprised I was when I touched her for the first time. Renata had often sat in front of me at lectures. One day it struck me how shabbily she was dressed. Her clothing was clean, but threadbare and patched in several places; clearly she could not buy anything new. That was an unfamiliar experience for me, for I had never had to give clothing a second thought. Father had had connections with textile companies and fashion studios; mother’s closets overflowed with outfits, dresses, skirts, pants, blouses, and sweaters that she had not worn even once, because they were too fashionable for her, and she, as she put it, did not want to walk around like “one of those hussies” with whom he dealt—strictly professionally, as he insisted. In my school and university years, I had helped myself to this supply without a thought and had rarely had to buy anything. The next time I went home, I packed a large plastic bag full of clothes that might fit Renata and brought them back for her. She scrutinized me, but said nothing.

  “If you want to have this stuff,” I said, “I really don’t need it.”

  She did not even glance into the bag, just stared at me silently.

  “I’ve been wanting to give it away for a long time,” I said with a shrug; I almost felt as if I had to apologize for the gift.

  Finally, with a rapid hand motion I had noticed her make a few times before, she brushed her upper lip and the tip of her nose, as if she had a sniffle. Then she reached for the bag, put her arms around me, and whispered, “Thanks.” It sounded as if she was moved, but it might have only been the throaty sound of her native dialect. I took her in my arms, probably more overwhelmed than she was by my own generosity and kindheartedness—and as I did so, I realized with astonishment how dainty and delicate-boned she felt. She must have weighed less than 110 pounds and was as lithe as a cat.

  My Renata. How much easier it would have been if we had been able to stay together.

  * * *

  OF THE ROUGHLY thirty applicants, five were left: Renata Gessner and Marcello Tortorelli, both botanists, who had taken the exam with me; Ernesto Caputi, who studied theoretical physics and had specialized in boundary layer quantum phenomena; Marco Brescia, who had gotten his degree in European history of the late Middle Ages; and me. The rest had not qualified or had backed out like Birgit and Bernd when the rumor surfaced that the Istituto della Rinascita was planning to send the recruits into the death zone to take stock of the devastation.

  * * *

  “A CALL, DOMENICA.”

  “Who?”

  “Keller, Bernd.”

  “Accept. — Yes, Bernd?”

  He hemmed and hawed. “You shouldn’t sign the contract, Domenica.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Do you want me to pass up this opportunity? You know well how difficult it is for us to find a job. So leave me alone, all right? I accept your decision, even though I’m disappointed about it. I’d always imagined that we could set off together and … But okay. You made your decision. If you even made it. Was it your own decision?”

  “Domenica … That’s not so important…”

  “Yes, it is, damn it! It’s very important!” I blurted out. “You’ve hidden behind her back again. As always. I bet you’re calling me secretly.”

  “Don’t get so worked up. I just want to give you some advice.”

  “And what’s your advice? Not to sign the contract. For what reason? Give me a reason!”

  He was silent. Then he said, “I can’t. It has to be of your own free will. You have to decline or take the job of your own free will.”

  Gradually I was getting angry.

  “What is this nonsense, Bernd?”

  “I just … They’re doing something with you. Something bad. Something monstrous. I saw today what they…” His voice was trembling. He broke off.

  “What did you see?” I asked, disconcerted.

  I had never known him to act like this. He was distressed.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Listen, Bernd. We’ve known each other for such a long time. What’s going on?”

  “Please, let it be, Domenica. Please … for your sake…”

  “Now talk already!”

  “I can’t tell you, Domenica. Believe me, I can’t.”

  “And why can’t you?”

  “It … it would destroy the world.”

  “Say that again.”

  “It would destroy the world. Our world.”

  I took a few deep breaths. “Are you crazy?”

  “No.”

  The silence drew itself out.

  “Okay, Bernd. Thank you for your advice.”

  “But it really has to be your absolute free will, whatever you do.”

  “I understand.”

  I had not understood a word.

  * * *

  “WHO ACTUALLY STARTED this urban legend that we would be sending you into radioactively contaminated areas?” Falcotti asked us during the final meeting.

  “I don’t know,” I answered evasively.

  “I heard it from Birgit Keller,” said Marcello, “our fellow botany student. She had applied too.”

  Falcotti nodded.

  “Well, the opposite is the case,” he said emphatically. “We will be sending you individually into areas of Europe that are still absolutely unpolluted and scarcely touched—at least as far as fieldwork is concerned. The physicists and historians will be needed at the base from which we operate in order to support the people outside and ensure their return. Therefore you will have to complete quite different trainings. Those will be conducted in Venice, because here in Rome we don’t possess the necessary technical equipment. Your later place of operation will be Amsterdam. As strange as it may sound, the center of the Istituto Pontificale della Rinascita della Creazione di Dio is under construction there. It’s an ecumenical project and serves exclusively scientific, technical purposes. It’s about the salvation of God’s Creation, the salvation of the future, yes”—he spread his arms in an all-embracing gesture—“about the preservation of this our universe.”

  “Oho,” Renata said sarcastically. “Then let’s get cracking. To my knowledge, we have only the one.”

  Falcotti looked at her thoughtfully and nodded. “You’re quite right, Signorina Gessner. We do.”

  * * *

  “A CALL, DOMENICA.”

  “Who?”

  “Ligrina, Maria.”

  “Accept!—Mother! Finally!”

  Right at the outset I once again made the mistake of asking her how she was doing. It just slipped out of me, and that same moment I knew I shouldn’t have done it, for as usual she began to complain. It was all too much for her, the house and the café, and Grandmother was no help to her; on the contrary, more and more she had to take care of the old woman as well.

  “
Mother, I have a job!” I interrupted her lament. “A steady job for at least two years! I’m going to Venice and then to Amsterdam.”

  “Why would you do that, child? How can anyone in these uncertain times hit on the idea of going abroad? Now, when everything is topsy-turvy, ever since the EU was dissolved and the Moros and other foreigners have been threatening us from all sides.”

  “Mother, I have to advance in my career. Finding a job today as a botanist is hard.”

  “Come to Genoa. Here there are enough trees and plants to study. Here you’ll be in good hands.” In my mind I saw myself cleaning the house, sweeping the terrace, wiping the tables, and serving guests late into the night, who always talk the same stupid nonsense and expect you to be unable to contain yourself with laughter at their dumb jokes.

  “Mother, I have to finally earn my own money…”