The Cusanus Game

“We’d better pay,” I suggested. “Why don’t they debit it from our IComs, like they do everywhere else?”

  Renata laughed. “Not in the Olandese Volante, Domenica. They take only cash, just like a hundred years ago. And they still write the bill by hand. It’s part of their image. But they also make the pasta by hand, just like a hundred years ago.”

  “That I have nothing against.”

  The other patrons had already departed or sought refuge inside the restaurant. Two waiters rescued the place settings and the utensils from the three short rows of tables that had been set up between the entrance and the pozzo on the small square. FREEDOM FOR FRIULI AND ALTO ADIGE, someone had sprayed with inelegant handwriting in ugly sulfur yellow on the gray sandstone of the pozzo. I beckoned to the waiter, placed the money on the tablecloth, and weighted down the bills with a plate.

  “Do you think we’ll get home dry?”

  “If not, we’ll have another espresso on Campo Formosa or at the Colleoni and wait until the storm has blown over.”

  We didn’t make it. As we turned the corner onto Salizada San Lio, the storm broke.

  “I know a shortcut!” Renata cried over the patter of the rain, and started to run. I followed her back around the corner and along Calle del Paradiso. Above me shutters were being hurriedly closed and latched. In front of me were steps; Renata had already climbed them and was hurrying down the other side. I lost sight of her. Above me, slanted to the left, spanning the street, I saw a slender filigree stone triangle. I hastened up the steps, blinded by the rain. It was a bridge. Under it the black water of a canal.

  Suddenly I saw a face—only for the split second of a glaring lightning flash, followed immediately by a brief crash of thunder and darkness—the unearthly bearded face of an executioner under a turban looking at me indifferently. The executioner raised the ax …

  I don’t know whether I cried out in terror. I staggered with weak knees down the steps, did not dare to look up again, stumbled to the right along the Fondamenta and then to the left down a narrow street leading out onto Campo Santa Maria Formosa.

  The square was deserted. Renata was nowhere to be seen. The raindrops made bubbles in the puddles. The Café da Egidio, which had been our destination, was unlit. Suddenly I was overcome by fear that I had veered off course and ended up in a strange world. I looked around. There was no one in sight on the vast square. I suddenly felt as if I were the last human being on the planet. Everyone else had abandoned it. The rain pounded on the tin roof of the kiosk and the porch overhang of the house to my right.

  “Where are you?” shouted Renata. She appeared under the awning of the Al Burchiello.

  She had covered her head with a plastic bag like a three-cornered hat and was waving. I rushed over to her, full of mortal fear.

  “What happened?”

  I slipped in a puddle. She caught me. Water ran down her face. I buried mine in her shoulder and sobbed, clinging to her as if she were the last handhold in an unknown universe.

  “What’s the matter, Domenica?”

  “I met my executioner,” I gasped.

  “Your executioner?” she asked uncomprehendingly.

  Renata held me steady with her small, strong hands and pushed me away from her until she could look into my face.

  “He raised the ax.”

  “You’re all mixed up, girl. Let’s get a grappa.”

  The sharp taste did me good. Gradually I composed myself and stopped trembling. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

  “That must have been the head over the gate at the Ponte del Paradiso. But it looks more dumb than threatening,” Renata said with a laugh. “And how could it raise an ax? It’s just a head.”

  “He raised the ax,” I insisted.

  IV

  Letters from a Witch

  The crux of evolutionist historicism: this past is not among the forebears of our present.

  JEREMIAS WOLF

  The cardinal counted the leather containers that were attached to the packsaddles of the beasts of burden. In Brussels he had managed to acquire state-of-the-art astronomical instruments and in Leuven several scholarly manuscripts, which he had had carefully packed for the journey. He reassured himself that everything was still there.

  The morning dawned.

  “Get up!” the captain of the city guard shouted.

  Three darkly dressed figures, who had been cowering next to the landing, rose. Their clothing was dirty; their sidelocks curled from under their hats and hung down to their chests. The three men had been bound together with thin chains, the older one between the two younger ones. They wore wretched footgear; the toes of one of the men peeked out from his shoe. Two officers of the city guard drove them from behind with their pikes. The three prisoners eyed the weapons silently and impassively. They shivered in the morning cold.

  “They’ve known for more than twenty years that they are not permitted to stay in the city at night,” the captain declared to no one in particular, as if he had to excuse his official act, “but they try again and again.” When no one paid attention to him, he barked: “Move! Or do I have to make you?”

  “You don’t have the say around here!” exclaimed the ferryman. “This ferry is from Deutz. We ferrymen are not subject to the city council of Cologne, but to the archbishop. Bear that in mind. Remove the chains from those men!”

  At that moment, a rat crawled out from between the planks, an enormous animal of an unusual color—more grayish white with reddish spots than grayish brown. Sniffing, it scurried along the edge of the dock. One of the officers jabbed at it with his pike—playfully, more to scare it away than to impale it. Like lightning, the rat had jumped on the weapon, had climbed the shaft in no time, and stood a handbreadth from the officer’s face. The rat then made a noise that sounded to the cardinal, from where he was standing, almost as if it had spoken, hissing a warning. But that was nonsense, of course.

  The man recoiled in fright and threw the spear away from him. “The devil!” he cried, pale with horror, took a stumbling step back, and fell on his behind. “The devil!” The pike clattered to the ground, and the rat disappeared between the planks over the water.

  The cardinal turned with surprise to the man, who sat on the ground and gawked around, his eyes wide with terror. “The devil?” the cardinal asked with curiosity, scrutinizing the man.

  “Apologies, Your Eminence,” said the captain, signaling to the officer with a brusque hand gesture to pull himself together and get up from his undignified position. He then got to work unlocking and removing the prisoners’ chains. He threw them grumpily over his shoulder. Then he turned away and spat in the river.

  Nicolaus scrutinized the prisoners, who seemed not to have even noticed the incident with the rat. They made an apathetic impression as the officers drove them onto the ferry with their pikes. He had endorsed the expulsion of the Jews from the city, but the measure had not brought about the hoped-for solution. The conflict between the council and the archdiocese continued to smolder, and Hussite-influenced preachers constantly rekindled the acrimonious atmosphere between the denominations and religious currents. For many, Rome’s word carried no more weight. No one seemed to want to obey. The world was in a state of dissolution.

  The cardinal nodded to his groom to lead the horses onto the ferry. Their hooves clip-clopped on the planks, and the man tethered the four animals to the railing side by side. They were uneasy and eyed anxiously the foaming dark water of the river. The ferryman shouted a command, and the ungainly, heavy vessel cast off. With their long oars the oarsmen pushed it off from the rocking, wooden dock. It started to turn. The river was already swollen, even though it was only mid-March. In the Black Forest and in the Vosges, the thaw had probably already begun.

  “Row!” the ferryman shouted at his oarsmen. “Or do you want to dock in Düsseldorf instead of in Deutz? Row!”

  The cardinal turned to his young companion, who wore a blue beret on his thick, shoulder-length hair, o
n which he had boldly stuck three quills as a sign of his occupation.

  “Well?” asked Nicolaus, resuming the conversation that had been broken off for a while. “What else happened?”

  “If I may, Your Eminence, since when does much happen in Cologne?” asked Geistleben, taking his knapsack off his shoulders and dropping it next to him on the floor. “A handful of little Roman monks arrived who fled from Constantinople, because the Turk is approaching the gates. They moan and ramble on about the end of the world and scrounge and beg for benefices. Oh yes, and a little witch is about to be put on trial. But you have surely heard about that.”

  “Not a word,” Nicolaus replied, shaking his head with displeasure. “Is it spreading here too, that awful folly of torturing women and putting them to death?”

  “Yes, certainly. It is getting worse everywhere. People are afraid of the spawn of the Antichrist, who gnaw at the limbs of the Church and eat their way deeper and deeper into its heart.”

  “What sort of talk is that, Geistleben? It is not the Antichrist who gnaws, it is greed that gnaws, it is vanity that gnaws, it is lust that gnaws in the flesh of our brothers and sisters.”

  “Well, indeed, that is your affair, noble lord. You undoubtedly understand more about it…”

  “Quite true.”

  “But the East will fall, Your Eminence. Half the Empire—”

  “What else was to be expected? I saw it with my own eyes, Geistleben. Catacombs full of writings, accumulated for centuries, with the knowledge of millennia from all over the world. But no one reads it; no one can even sort through it! Schemers and empty-headed scholars swarm over it like rats. Everyone gnaws at everyone else. Often at their own flesh. No wonder, then, the enemies are lurking. That’s how it is everywhere. Here in our lands too. It was often painful, what I saw on my journey to Flanders and the Netherlands. It fills me with bitterness and rancor. As for the archbishop, however—we spoke daily during the concilium, but he did not mention a word about planning to hold a witch trial.”

  “Well, Your Eminence, he seems to be not at all so certain. He doesn’t want to make any mistakes. Once before he has been at odds with the Pope, old von Moers. After almost forty years in office—simply excommunicated.”

  “That was Pope Eugene. He held it against him that he had voted against him at the Council of Basel.”

  “But that was a deep shock for him in his old age.”

  “Pope Nicholas reinstated him. He won’t want for anything.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “When I stayed here on Christmas and New Year’s Day, I heard rumors of a woman who had been found with a strange collection of herbs. Is she the one?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “And she is to be put on trial?”

  “The archbishop has sought advice and support from the highest authority. A commission is to come from Rome, to investigate the case, whether devil’s work is actually involved…”

  “Why wasn’t the woman forced to renounce all vengeance and banished from the city, as usual?”

  “There were inflammatory speeches. A young priest was very active, a zealot from Swabia, Bartholomäus von Dillingen is his name—he is a preacher at St. Maria im Kapitol. People call him ‘Witch Bart.’ If I may, Your Eminence, an evil snooper. He watched her every step for weeks. After his sermons, an angry crowd always proceeds to the Old Market square and demands that she be made short work of. She was ultimately turned over to the episcopal judge, for the archbishop is insisting on the main jurisdiction, as the law would have it. He had her interrogated. She was found guilty, but he isn’t doing anything. He’s biding his time.”

  “What were the results of the interrogations?”

  “A serf who encountered her in the summer on the Moselle testified that, without touching him, she used devilish powers to cast him to the ground with such force that he was black and blue all over his body and felt pains in his chest for weeks. He heard laughter that sounded like the bleating of a goat and could smell the definite stink of sulfur. A citizen with whom she lodged testified that she told her that one could fly from Cologne to Rome in an hour. And under torture she spoke heedlessly. She confessed to having flown through the air herself. It was the herbs, though, that determined the outcome.”

  “How so?”

  “Over the whole summer she had gathered a collection of seeds—kernels from grain and fruit, blossoms from all sorts of flowers and plants. For medicinal purposes, she claimed. These seeds were sorted neatly into little canvas pouches and labeled and inscribed with Latin words. But these words were incomprehensible. A sort of secret system of classification, Your Eminence, which … well, so it seemed to me, is strangely coherent, but of which no one has ever heard, as the professors of medicine brought in from the university confirmed. This system points to heretical, arcane knowledge and cannot possibly be of godly origin…”

  “Of devilish origin, then…”

  “The commission of professors came to that conclusion. The young woman lied through her teeth. Went so far as to claim that the Holy Father himself sent her to collect little seeds and flowers.”

  “The Holy Father?”

  “Yes, in order to save Creation, she asserted.”

  The cardinal shook his head. “She is surely confused. An unfortunate creature. The woman should not be treated this way. Such a thing is shameful.”

  “Verily, I look at it the same way. Especially as she has more education than can be ascribed to the devil, or—if I may—to the archbishop, for that matter.”

  “How so? Is she a nun? From what order?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s odd … no one who has sworn a vow of humility would speak like that. And her Latin, oh my…”

  “A noblewoman then?”

  “Not a chance!”

  “A simple woman? You are making me curious.”

  “You will be even more surprised, Your Eminence, when I tell you that she wrote you letters. It emerges from them that she seems to be quite well acquainted with you.”

  “What do you mean, she is acquainted with me? Is she from here? From Koblenz? From the Moselle?”

  “No, certainly not. No one really knows where she is from. Some claim that she comes from Amsterdam, others that she is from Sweden, was the assistant of a court physician there. Her appearance, her speech point more to a Roman, perhaps Florence, Siena … who knows? But definitely not from the countryside. By no means. She is educated. Knows things even I have never heard of. At times, I think she came…”

  “Yes?”

  “… from another world.”

  “You mean, from distant lands?”

  “Very distant lands, Your Eminence. Of which we still know nothing.”

  “A sibyl perhaps, from the Orient?”

  The scholar shook his head hesitantly. “Those prophetesses speak obscurely. She speaks more with the light of certainty. It seemed to me—how should I put it—as if the darkness were in our heads more than in her words, if you understand what I mean, Your Eminence.”

  The cardinal lowered his gaze thoughtfully. “From where might she know me? Has she ever crossed paths with me? Has she spoken with me? In Rome perhaps? But I don’t remember ever having met a woman of that sort…”

  “It does not seem so. I don’t think she knows you by sight. It is more—how should I put it—as if she were acquainted with your writings and with you as a very famous man.”

  “You’re speaking in riddles, Geistleben. How could she be acquainted with my writings? And me, a very famous man? That I am not, God knows. She must be confused.”

  “It would indeed be no surprise. She has, after all, spent months in the dungeon. The icy cold has afflicted her. She is sick and desperate. Without friends or acquaintances.”

  “Did she confide in you personally?”

  “No. I caught only fleeting glimpses of her now and then, when she was brought to an interrogation. I read the transcripts.”

  “You were permi
tted to see them?”

  “Well … as a scribe in the chancery of the archbishop I could not help taking notice of them. I worked for him for almost a year. I write quickly and largely flawlessly, you should know. But now boredom drives me onward.”

  “The letters to me…?”

  “Are in the records for the commission from Rome. They will—I assume—eventually be delivered to you, as soon as the case is concluded. But so that you would not have to wait too long, I’ve taken the liberty of copying for you one or two letters that came into my view, Your Eminence.”

  “So you copied documents that are under lock and key and—I presume—classified…?”

  “Well, apparently not so classified. Far more than that, they are incomprehensible, mysterious—but extremely remarkable.”

  “You are carrying the copies with you?”

  “Yes, indeed. I fetched them from the hiding place as the synod members set off and your departure too was approaching. I hastened after you to be on the ferry with which you are crossing.”

  “And intend to sell the copies to me now, I assume, after you have sufficiently piqued my curiosity.”

  “Stop it, Your Eminence! You have a reputation as an experienced merchant, especially when it comes to rare items.”

  “Copies of obscure letters from an alleged little witch, who, in a state of confusion, claimed to know me. Indeed, Geistleben, a rare item. I have to grant you that.”

  “I foresaw it: There would be no chance of haggling with you, Your Eminence. I will give them to you as a gift. You are known throughout the land as a generous man. Your magnanimity is proverbial.”

  “Now, now! Do not mock. I know what people say about me.”

  “Nothing could be further from my mind! You will certainly repay a poor little scribe and traveling scholar, noble lord.”

  “How about it, Geistleben? I saw you working diligently during the synod. I can always use a scribe who is quick with the quill and has a sharp mind. Good at copying writings of all sorts and tongues.”

  “Many thanks, Your Eminence, for your confidence and your magnanimous offer, but I am drawn away. I would like to finally move on. First Strasbourg, then Paris, to study there the Lullian art of which I have heard.”