The Cusanus Game

  Falcotti fiddled with his glasses and turned his eyes once again to the green summit of the Kapuzinerberg, on the slope of which the red roofs of the small monastery were now bathed in sunlight.

  “I can no more imagine a Gauforum or a Gauhalle up there than I can St. Peter’s,” I said with a sigh.

  He nodded. “But as for the New Vatican: The foundation stone was supposed to have been laid already on Easter. Now the date has been set for Pentecost to give all the cardinals enough time for the journey. It will be a big ceremony. The Holy Father wants it that way. He wants to show that the Church lives and is not bound to Rome.”

  “Hm.”

  “And the next day the earth-moving will already begin. The whole hill is to be hollowed out in order to accommodate everything. There was a long debate about whether a replica of St. Peter’s should be erected here. But after careful consideration the Holy Father decided against it, and now a modern solution has been agreed upon: It is to be an open center of faith, a meeting point for all who seek God, wherever they come from, from the earth, from other worlds, or from other times. Nor will it be called St. Peter’s. St. Peter’s will remain reserved for Rome, especially as there is already a long-standing church here by that name.”

  “And a long-standing tavern,” I interjected.

  Falcotti laughed. “That would be too much of a good thing,” he said, pushing his empty cup into the middle of the table. “Probably we will break completely new ground. You must have heard of the St. Matthias Pilgrimage.”

  “The St. Matthias Pilgrimage? I only know that many people come here to visit his shrine in the cathedral.”

  “His bones rested for centuries in Trier. That’s in the middle of the worst contaminated area. A few courageous believers from Westphalia made their way from Belgium to Trier. They managed to overcome all barriers and security measures. They sacrificed their lives in that brave act; two years later all of them were already dead. But they managed to bring the shrine to Paderborn. Because the authorities in Brussels pressed the city government to surrender the radioactively contaminated relic and even threatened to confiscate it and permanently dispose of it in a salt dome in Gorleben, it was secretly brought to Salzburg. There have always been very good connections between Paderborn and Salzburg. Now the apostle Matthias rests here in the cathedral in a double-walled lead sarcophagus. He will—as we all hope—find his final resting place in the New Vatican. Pilgrims are already flocking here today from Europe to pray at his grave. Admittedly, malicious tongues claim that they are coming in droves to Salzburg not only because of the apostle. Well, in any case, each week it is now more than used to make a pilgrimage to Trier in an entire year. He is now also regarded as the patron saint of the victims of radiation sickness and genetic disorders and enjoys a lively stream of intercession.”

  Falcotti put on his data glasses and stood up. “Domenica, I’m afraid I must go back to my office. I’ve had your travel chip sent to your hotel. I can’t imagine that anything else could go wrong, but should there be unexpected problems at the border, your ICom can reach me at any time.”

  “Thank you, Signore Falcotti. And thank you for the conversation.”

  “Maybe we’ll see each other in Amsterdam before your assignment begins.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for you on the Noordermarkt square.”

  “This time I won’t come as a clown,” he said with a smile, raising his hand in parting. “Have a good trip, Domenica. God be with you.”

  * * *

  I HADN’T RECOGNIZED Falcotti at first glance when I met him. He looked as if he had traveled south on vacation instead of north to work. He wore a broad-brimmed straw hat; a wide, light gray pair of pants; and a dark blue blazer with a breast pocket handkerchief—a bit old-fashioned, I found. I had liked him better in his casual outfit at the university in Rome. And what most astounded me was the fact that he was smoking! He was puffing on a long, thin cigar, which looked like the withered tendril of a viorna, a Clematis vitalba. I could barely make out his eyes, because he was wearing a pair of those dark VR glasses, which had small screens that could be flipped down over the eyes. Immediately after his arrival in Salzburg he had contacted me, and I had offered to come the next day to the papal residence in the Mirabell castle.

  I walked across the Makartsteg into the new town, passed the Landestheater and Hotel Bristol and entered the papal district, but the palace was closed off. At the entrances stood pairs of Swiss Guards. In their colorful uniforms they looked like extras in a pageant, but when you stood directly opposite them, you became aware that they were pros: cool-headed men in peak condition, trained in close combat, who could take swift, drastic action and could undoubtedly even kill if the situation required it.

  I was forced aside from the main portal with the stream of believers and saw that there was no way through. So I instructed Luigi to coordinate with Falcotti’s ICom and waited under the trees at the portal of St. Andrew’s. Ten minutes later he stood in front of me. Falcotti spread his hands apologetically as he noticed the surprised look with which I eyed his elegant appearance.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you,” I confessed.

  “The Holy Father desires somewhat more southern European flair in this city,” he said.

  “Certainly couldn’t hurt,” I said. “But I see you’re indulging in a vice that is hardly ever seen anymore nowadays.” I gestured with a nod to his cigar.

  “An unsavory one, I know. That’s why I take advantage of the opportunity when I happen to be outside,” he confessed, gazing at the Havana in his hand. “Would it bother you if I…?”

  “No, please, go ahead. I find it interesting. My father smoked those things too. Perhaps only because he could rile my mother that way.”

  “I simply can’t resist, and enjoy it,” Falcotti confessed, lighting it with some difficulty with a match. “Ever since the Austrians extended their tentacles to Central America and the Caribbean and invested in Havana to restore it to its old splendor, excellent cigars have been available here. Imported originals. Also the best rum and the finest hats.” He tapped the brim of his panama.

  We strolled eastward and entered the Mirabell garden. Visitors crowded on the gravel paths and on the grass in front of the fountain, behind which a flexomon had been mounted in a gigantic frame. The screen was flanked by muscular marble men dragging off overweight Sabine women. Under the blooming chestnut trees on the left side a youth orchestra in traditional costume gave a promenade concert. About thirty boys and girls in light green loden jackets and flat black hats sat on aluminum folding chairs around an older conductor and played a grave, solemn melody.

  We entered a small park on the west side of the castle, which was closed to visitors as well. The guard at the entrance let us pass after he had glanced at the monitor on his wrist. A stone dwarf with a spiked helmet, in a mixture of reproof and disgust, held the ruined globe out to me with his left hand. His right arm was sheathed up to the armpit in a dangerous-looking armor, with which he, in his impotent rage, visibly would have liked to strike.

  “You gave me a terrible scare in that Amsterdam simulation, Signore Falcotti,” I said.

  “With the bees crawling around on my arm?”

  “Yes. I have a phobia of those creatures.”

  He flicked the ashes from his Havana. “Then that was probably intentional, Domenica.”

  “It was part of the conditioning, I assume.”

  Falcotti nodded. “We psychologists are monsters.”

  For a moment we had sat down on a bench. The misshapen dwarves had encircled us—and I shivered.

  “It’s still too cold to sit here in the shade,” Falcotti said sympathetically, standing up. “Let’s go to a café on Makartplatz, as long as people are still waiting for the Holy Father’s appearance. Afterward, everything will be packed.”

  The Swiss Guard at the entrance was a giant, and his face looked as stony as the faces of the dwarves under the trees. We walked through an
arbor overgrown with honeysuckle, which was ingeniously designed to create the optical illusion that it stretched several hundred yards into the darkness.

  The orchestra in traditional costume, which had in the meantime segued to more lively tunes, suddenly stopped playing. The people jostled their way to the grass in front of the monitor, on which the Holy Father could now be seen: a small agile man with black eyes and animated gestures. He raised his hands in blessing and nodded with a smile. Some of the visitors sank to their knees before the screen.

  We strode to the entrance of the park. More and more people streamed in, and it was difficult to get through.

  “Your train departs early tomorrow morning, Domenica,” Falcotti informed me.

  “May I ask why we have to take the elaborate journey by train across Europe? By plane it would be under two hours to Amsterdam and by airship four or five. Is it because of the costs?”

  He shook his head. “That’s part of the conditioning as well. The committee has decided that all candidates of the Rinascita Project are to travel through the ravaged areas so that they see what was done to God’s Creation there. In this way, your mission is vividly brought home to you.”

  We found a free table in the café of the Hotel Bristol and both ordered a großer Brauner.

  Falcotti flipped down one of the small screens on his glasses over his eye; on it a pinhead-sized light blinked.

  “Excuse me, please,” he said, then stubbed out his Havana in the ashtray and pressed his forefinger to the small cross in his temple.

  “That looks good,” he said after a while. “Thank you.”

  He took off the glasses and put them down on the table.

  “Have you ever traveled before?” I asked.

  “To Amsterdam?”

  “No, in time.”

  He scrutinized me for a moment before he answered. “Only when it’s absolutely necessary. But I shouldn’t talk about it any more than you should, Domenica. I too have been conditioned. Let’s talk about something else instead. How do you like Hotel Altstadt?”

  I told him.

  * * *

  I HAD TO be at the train station before dawn. A sleepy Janez brought my luggage from the room to the taxi that Luigi had scared up after a long back-and-forth. He had to gain unauthorized access to a local network and connect with the city’s central exchange. In Austria nothing seemed to proceed via international satellites anymore.

  Joseph Goebbels gave me the cold shoulder. I knocked against the bars of his cage.

  “No parting ‘Sieg Heil’?” I asked the bird.

  He did not deign to answer.

  A bus brought the two or three dozen passengers who had gathered to the border. At the customs office at least a hundred trucks waited to be cleared for departure; in between stood buses full of pilgrims who wanted to return to Germany.

  “What smells so strongly of burning here?” I asked my neighbor, a young man who was on his way home to Munich. He wore his ICom as an earring.

  “That’s the sawdust,” he explained. “Whole mountains of sawdust over there at the old container terminal. They’ve been burning for years. Some claim the Bavarians intentionally set fire to them by shooting flares. But it was probably kids playing with fire.”

  “Why doesn’t anyone put it out?”

  “It can’t be extinguished. Or at least they’ve tried several times unsuccessfully. Deep inside the embers keep smoldering, and it smokes and stinks horribly. During föhn winds you can smell it as far as Lake Chiem.”

  I looked out the window. Morning seeped through a leaden cloud layer, which hung low over the city and had gotten caught between the mountainsides like a dirty ice floe in a ravine. It cut off the top part of the panorama. The upper half of the mountain with the Hohensalzburg fortress had disappeared; the chicken coop had been raised. Of the Kapuzinerberg only the lower part could be seen. The summit—with the Gauburg or the Vatican—was separated by a membrane. It was as if the city had been punched out of a nightmare. Half an hour later we crossed a bridge. On both sides stood watchtowers with LasGuns.

  “Take a look at that,” said my neighbor. “Razor wire all the way into the water on both sides of the Saalach, mobile mines, automatic laser-firing devices. It’s hard to believe that fifteen years ago you could cross back and forth here as you pleased. When I was little, I often went fishing with my father at this spot. No one knew that there had once in the dim and distant past been a border here. Now it’s again as it was in the Stone Age. That’s really sickening.”

  “I always thought the Bavarian and Austrian conservatives got along so well.”

  “Well,” he sighed, “there used to be something to that. But it was like a spontaneous engagement in a beer tent. When sobriety returned and it came down to it, that was the end of the solemnly sworn Alpine alliance. Bavaria was jam-packed with four million nuclear refugees from Thuringia and Saxony. Do you know what that means?” He spread his arms and puffed out his cheeks. “They offered the Austrians a few contingents of them, but they declined. ‘Keep away from us with those Germans! We’re already saddled with a million Slavs and half the Balkans, despite the Klagenfurt resolutions and an intensified repatriation decree. More are coming in than we can repatriate.’ So they closed the border between Bregenz and Passau.”

  My neighbor made a dismissive gesture and stared sullenly out the window.

  “Italian?” he asked suddenly.

  “Yes.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Beautiful.”

  “That I’m Italian or that you guessed right?” The question was on the tip of my tongue. “Or do you think I’m beautiful?” But I kept my mouth shut. I had learned from experience that such mocking counterquestions confused some men.

  So I said, “Thank you,” and gave him a smile.

  The man smiled back.

  On the Bavarian side even more pilgrim buses sat in traffic, lined up for half a mile before the approach to the bridge.

  “So much piety?” I asked at random.

  My neighbor gave me a meaningful look.

  “St. Matthias!” he snorted. “Nothing but pack rat pilgrims! Austria is a rich land. Here you can buy all the things that have not been available in Bavaria for a long time.”

  “But not for marka bavarese,” I quoted the taxi driver on my arrival.

  “That might have been our state government’s greatest idiocy, to reintroduce the mark by referendum. Outside Bavaria no one accepts them, not even the Albanians. How could anyone be so stupid?” He tapped his forehead. His ICom swung on his earlobe.

  “Pack rat pilgrims. Such masses every day?”

  “Of course,” he replied. “That’s the blessing of St. Matthias and the Holy Father. You can’t deny a pious person access to the sites of his faith. But you can take him for a ride and relieve him of his money. That’s always been the case, hasn’t it?”

  “I think so.”

  * * *

  IN FREILASSING A modern express was waiting for us, a streamlined articulated train, painted pine green and fawn brown, with the white and blue Bavarian state coat of arms on each car and the inscription BAVARIAN STATE RAILROAD—FREE STATE OF BAVARIA. Despite the streamlined outfit it somehow made a quite dignified and immensely traditional impression.

  Although the train had only first class, it was completely packed. On the luggage racks and in the aisles were piles of cartons, baskets, and bags belonging to the pack rat pilgrims. I saw containers of olive oil, plastic bags with boxes full of spaghetti and other pasta, canned meat and fish, coffee, cane sugar, bananas and oranges, palm butter—yes, and alcohol: rum, slivovitz, grappa.

  Many of the travelers spoke a German I had trouble understanding. Some gave me dirty looks when I claimed my reserved seat. They displayed a mixture of satisfied greed and grim readiness to defend—their fingers tightly clutching their possessions on their laps. I looked around in vain for holy water and devotional objects. More pack rats than pilgrims.

  The lands
cape rolling by looked very fertile. Lush shades of green, meadows, pasture. I had always wondered why green has a soothing effect on us, why the sight of an open verdant field fills us with a feeling of calm and peace. Is it the genes in our chromosomes that we have in common with grazing animals that signal to us: Take it easy, everything is absolutely fine, there’s food in abundance?

  But the first impression deceived. We were passing through a battlefield: decline everywhere. Overbred monoculture in dissolution. Ecological disasters. There were more and more stretches where on both sides of the railroad embankment the vegetation had been scorched, trees cut down, and massive amounts of herbicides and fungicides employed. It looked terrible and yielded nothing. The native flora fell by the wayside. The mutants rose again, regrouped.

  For the first time I glimpsed Clematis vitalba nigra, the blackish green variant of the common clematis, which after the plutonium accident of Cattenom had first appeared on the Middle Rhine. I knew that the “viorna,” as we Italians called it, had already completed its triumphal march across Europe before the turn of the millennium and had colonized almost all the railroad embankments between the Kattegat and the Strait of Messina. Many called it “gray claw” because of the gray-bearded claw-shaped inflorescences that survived the winter. “Old man’s beard,” the British called it—and, curiously, “traveller’s joy,” although it offered anything but an uplifting sight. The nigra variant surpassed even the original form in robustness and growth. It overran the other vegetation and pressed it to the ground with its sheer weight. “Death cloak,” some people had therefore recently begun calling it, or—erroneously—“black ivy,” and it had not confined itself in a long time to the slopes on both sides of the railroad lines. Unstoppably, it penetrated orchards, mixed forests, river meadows, and fallow land to bury and smother everything under it.