The Cusanus Game

  Don Fernando visited me.

  “You know what those letters could bring about, Domenica.”

  I looked up to the beam on which he was enthroned, fat and well nourished in his warm coat.

  “Yes, but I don’t really care.”

  “History could take a different course,” he pointed out.

  “Maybe a better one. A world without witch mania, a brighter, more rational world—one that is more receptive to the sciences. Maybe it would be good enough to be included in the corpus of the multiverse,” I replied.

  Or were those vain hopes, which would soon founder on the inertia of history, the inertia of humanity? Don Fernando didn’t give me an answer.

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT I dreamed again of the deserted world. This time no eye hovered over me. The sky was empty and nearly black, though the sun still shone over the horizon. The dunes cast long, sharp shadows. I stood on the shore of the dried-out ocean, in the depths of which night gathered and rose like black water. Beyond the abyss, along the murky gray precipice, the wind wafted clouds of smoke, which seemed to rise from burning underground coal seams.

  “What’s that?” I asked Don Fernando, who was by my side.

  Don Fernando raised his head and sniffed the air.

  “There,” he said, “lie the ashes of billions upon billions upon billions of chronicles of possible worlds that failed.”

  VIII

  … And a Winter

  In one inconceivably complex cosmos, whenever a creature was faced with several possible courses of action, it took them all, thereby creating many distinct temporal dimensions and distinct histories of the cosmos. Since in every evolutionary sequence of the cosmos there were very many creatures, and each was constantly faced with many possible courses, and the combinations of all their courses were innumerable, an infinity of distinct universes exfoliated from every moment of every temporal sequence in this cosmos.

  OLAF STAPLEDON

  “Witches must be burned in winter,” my inquisitor from Swabian Dillingen, the dean of St. Maria im Kapitol, had explained. “Then their ashes cannot wreak havoc in the fields. They will not poison the crops or the grass for the cattle.”

  Candlemas. It was a windy day; the cold spell had broken. The clouds scudded across the sky so fast that it could make you dizzy to watch them. Gusts tugged at the banners and pennants adorning the gallery from which the archbishop intended to follow the spectacle. He washed his hands in innocence. His judge only carried out the investigations and handed down the sentence. The execution fell under the jurisdiction of the city council.

  The stake had been erected. The crowd flocked to the square, but it was silent. No high spirits were perceptible as at the execution of the murderer I had witnessed in spring. Worried looks were directed at the sky, in which light and shadow alternated as the wind shook the shutters and roof hatches of the tall houses. Would the striga take revenge in her hour of death with flying sparks and conflagration? Would the devil rise up with a fiery wind, fluttering as a red cock from gable to gable? His Excellency the archbishop too looked up to the sky with a scrutinizing gaze; the pale, sagging face of the well-nourished old man seemed beset by doubt.

  The executioner ordered his assistants to set up buckets filled with water around the execution site and to dampen the brushwood so that the flames wouldn’t blaze up too fiercely. That made it easier for the condemned woman: She wouldn’t feel the angry bites of the flames but would perish beforehand in the smoke.

  She had been clothed in paper, and a paper cap had been put on her head on which herbs, mandrakes, lightning bolts, and eyes had been drawn. Last rites were administered to her. The bells of St. Martin nearby were silent. This soul did not need to be announced to heaven; it would go straight to hell. Then the bundles of straw were kindled and thrust into the brushwood all around. In no time the execution site was surrounded by a dense cloud of smoke. Coughing, the executioner’s assistants backed away, and hesitantly flames surged up.

  Thus things took their course. I remember nothing. With whose eyes was I to see? I knew how the terrible event unfolded. Images were engraved in my mind—of simulated fires, of the corpse burnings on the ghats of Varanasi. As execution by fire typically takes place standing at a stake, gravity takes on a substantial share of the destruction of the body. When the fatty tissue of the breasts is completely ablaze, the temperature reaches over a thousand Kelvin. The face is quickly consumed down to the skull and teeth. Ears and nose smolder away and disintegrate in a matter of minutes. The steam buildup from the boiling brain fluid escapes through the nasal cavity and eye sockets and turns the inner ear inside out. Then the neck vertebrae lose their connection; the head sinks forward onto the chest and finally falls off. The abdomen bursts and the seething bowels plummet along the legs, which have been burnt into sticks. The intestines drag the other internal organs down with them into the embers. The exposed blackened ribcage is scarcely distinguishable from the burnt pieces of wood. The spine and pelvic bones hold out the longest, are ultimately shattered by the assistants with pokers, pushed into the embers, and covered with the rest of the wood while the servers collect their equipment, pull the cloth from the makeshift altar, and fold it up, while the executioner wipes his heated face with a handkerchief and drinks the longed-for sip of wine from the tin jug handed to him.

  * * *

  DID SHE STAY by my side after her death by burning, my shadow sister? Did the molecules of my body still exchange subatomic particles with her incinerated body? Was she still bound to me by the entanglement of matter? Was I from that moment on clad in a shimmering cloak of appearing and vanishing particles from her universe—in a drift of chance and nothingness? No. Her state had changed. Her world line, which had previously run parallel to mine, was frayed and severed. A part of her body had entered the matter of this world; it had become part of the crust of this planet and its sea of air. Another part had turned into light, into photons, which in their peculiar timelessness and ubiquity have been rushing through the cosmos ever since and will do so for as long as it exists, a tiny bundle of radiation that illuminates the darkness between the stars. At the same time she had become part of me, a remembered image, spreading across the memory fields of my cortex. She had found a refuge and home in me, in my inner self, which she had saved by taking on the terrible alternative, so that I could reach the safe shore of a world in which I was not condemned as a witch to be burned at the stake. Only, where was I living? In the world from which I had formerly come, or had I strayed into an alternate one?

  * * *

  THE JUDGE HAD me brought to him and informed me that His Excellency the archbishop had decided to suspend the sentence and postpone the execution. Questions, particularly with respect to visions of the future, had arisen in my case that might be of significance in high places. Advice had been sought in Rome and the sending of an investigative commission had been requested. The request had been granted, and now the arrival of scholars and clergymen was awaited. That was, however, not anticipated before early summer, for the noble lords could not be expected to take the journey across the Alps before the thaw or to entrust themselves to a ship during the winter storms. For that time, it had been decided, a stay in the dungeon was advisable, but under eased conditions.

  Had my letters reached their addressee after all? Had Nicolaus Cusanus intervened on my behalf?

  “Is the cardinal in the city?” I asked the mute. He nodded.

  “He is departing tomorrow bright and early,” said Don Fernando, who was again crouching on his beam.

  Then he had certainly not received my letters. Even a very busy man such as he would have been curious and would have had me brought to him to question me and to form an impression of a woman who had appealed to him in that way and demonstrated knowledge of his works. Probably the judge had confiscated the pages and added them to the trial records. Or …

  “Admit it, in reality you never passed on the letters,” I said bitterly
to the mute.

  “Which reality do you mean?” asked Don Fernando.

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT I dreamed of the stake. But instead of me being burnt, it was Falcotti. As his head leaned forward, his temple burst, and the silver cross he had worn under the skin flowed like a bright rivulet down his blackened cheekbones.

  Someone shook me awake. It was pitch-black in the dungeon. I heard the moaning whine of the mute nearby. Again he reached for my shoulder. I brushed off his hand and stood up.

  Above me I heard a scurrying. Was it Don Fernando?

  “Come on,” he said. “You have a visitor.”

  “The cardinal?” I asked anxiously.

  Don Fernando chuckled. The mute opened the dungeon door; from outside candlelight fell in.

  “I thought I heard voices last night,” I said. “Has the commission from Rome arrived?”

  It seemed to me as if I had heard Falcotti’s voice behind the door. Or had that been part of my dream?

  “No. It is not to be expected before May or June—if it sets off at all,” said Don Fernando.

  “Who is it?”

  “Come on already!”

  I felt my way up the stairs.

  The air was cool. It was early in the morning, shortly before daybreak. No one was out, but somewhere nearby a horse snorted. The mute blew out the candle. I vaguely made out three riding animals in the street and a man holding the reins.

  “What’s this about?” I asked suspiciously. Was I going to be eliminated?

  “I’m taking you away from here,” the man replied. He was short and wiry, as far as I could tell in the first daylight. He wore a pointy felt hat with a feather on it, breeches, and thick knitted socks. His jacket was padded and had many pockets. He had a weather-beaten, friendly face. When he briefly smiled, I noticed that two upper incisors were missing.

  “Who are you?” I asked him.

  “Whoa!” he exclaimed, reining in the shying horses as Don Fernando crept by them, heading toward the river.

  The man noticed that my teeth were chattering with cold. He pulled a cloak from one of his saddlebags, wrapped it around my shoulders, and with strong small hands buttoned it over my chest. I noticed that his left hand was mutilated.

  “We have to hurry,” he said. He swung himself into the saddle, reached out his hand to me, and pulled me onto the horse behind him; then he spurred the animal and rode across the cathedral square toward the gate.

  The man had gathered his long gray hair into a sort of ponytail and fastened it behind his head with a pin in a wooden clasp. I stared at the clasp. It was old, and the blue paint had worn away, but in some places I recognized contours of gentians and edelweiss. Was I dreaming? What a wonderful morning! I balled my hand into a fist and punched the back in front of me one, two, three, four times …

  “Renata!” I cried. “Renata!”

  “Hey! Hey! Stop beating on my back!” she shouted back.

  A wave of joy washed over me. I buried my face in her padded jacket, embraced her with both arms and felt under my hands her small breasts, which had grown thin.

  “Renata!” I sobbed.

  The gate was already open. A group of Jews was being led down to the first ferry, which would bring them to Deutz. They were chained together; probably they had been apprehended in the city after nightfall. Other passengers were already on board, among them a clergyman wearing a broad-brimmed hat and his groom. The packhorses were laden with cumbersome containers and carefully sewn cases of hard leather. Suddenly two officers barred our way and leveled their pikes at us.

  “Take the reins!” said Renata, handing me the straps of the packhorses plodding along behind us. “For God’s sake, don’t let go. In their packs are the results of more than twenty years of fieldwork. And hold on tight!”

  Renata steered the animal toward one of the guards.

  “What is it?” she shouted.

  “Who are you two?”

  “I’m afraid it would take somewhat too long to tell you that,” she declared with a laugh, kicked the spurs into the horse’s flanks, and simply rode over the man. The pike rattled on the pavement. The other, who was rushing to help his companion, she lashed across the face two, three, four times with the riding crop, until he could no longer hear or see and tumbled backward. Then she drove the horse down to the dock. I clung to the reins of the packhorses and pulled the shying animals along behind us, while clutching Renata with the other arm.

  We clattered across the planks of the floating dock and onto the ferry, which was ready to cast off. Renata fished a handful of coins out of her jacket pocket and slapped them into the ferry master’s outstretched hand. “Cast off!” she shouted to him.

  He raised his eyebrows when he saw the amount in his hand.

  “Row!” he commanded loudly. “Row!”

  Bracing their long oars against the dock, the oarsmen pushed the vessel off into the current.

  “Halt!” cried the leader of the guards.

  “Are you out of your mind?” the ferry master called back. “We’re already in the middle of the river.”

  “You’ll pay for this!” the officer shouted furiously.

  “Control yourself! We Deutz ferry masters are not subject to the Cologne council. Bear that in mind!”

  “Halt!” the clergyman now exclaimed as well, raising his hand; he pointed to a figure wearing a knapsack and rushing from the gate down toward the dock waving both arms. “Isn’t that one of the archbishop’s scribes?”

  “I beg your forgiveness,” said the ferry master. “As much as I would like to do it for you, noble lord, we are already too deep in the current. Even if we tried with all our might, we couldn’t return to the dock. The scribe will have to take the next ferry. It departs before midday.”

  The clergyman gave an understanding nod. The young man with the knapsack stopped running and spread his arms in resignation. From under the dark damp planks of the dock a loud squeal rang out.

  “Don Fernando,” I said.

  “Who?” asked Renata.

  “The rat who kept me company in my dungeon,” I replied.

  “A rat?”

  “An educated rat, with whom I had many stimulating conversations.”

  “I don’t remember you being so funny, Domenica,” she said, wrapping her strong arms around me.

  The dimples in her cheeks had grown deeper. She looked tough and wiry, but had grown thin and—terribly old. And as if she had overheard my thoughts, she said, “How young you’ve stayed.”

  “And yet it was a hard year I went through here. A wonderful summer, a bitter autumn, and a horrible winter.”

  “A year! I’ve been here for twenty-three years,” replied Renata. “Our friends sent me to the year 1429 by mistake. But I don’t want to complain. It was a glorious time.”

  “Why didn’t you return sooner?”

  She shrugged. “Should I have? I like it here. I kept putting off returning to Amsterdam. Besides, I’d promised to keep an eye out for you. And as it turns out, it wasn’t for nothing.”

  “How did you find me?”

  She rummaged in her jacket pockets and pulled out a torn piece of paper. Come get me, was written on it. Prison on the cathedral square in Cologne, on March 10, before daybreak. It was my handwriting.

  “I didn’t write that,” I said.

  Renata wrinkled her forehead.

  “Then you will write it at some point. As a traveler, God knows, you have to get used to paradoxes like that.”

  The ferry master joined us. “You were in quite a hurry, it seems to me,” he said.

  Renata raised her hand. “We haven’t done anything wrong, master,” she replied with a gap-toothed grin. “More like a private feud with the authorities.”

  “You’ve spent a good bit of money on it, huh?” He laughed. “But it’s all the same to me,” he assured us, jingling the coins in his jacket pocket.

  “Who’s the noble lord?” I asked, gesturing with my chin t
o the clergyman with the broad-brimmed hat, who stood with his groom near the horses at the railing and looked across to the eastern riverbank.

  “That is Nicolaus, the son of old Krebs of Kues, a river boatman like me,” he declared proudly. “His boy has amounted to something in the service of the Church. The Pope appointed him cardinal.”

  My knees grew weak. Less than ten paces from me stood Nicolaus Cusanus. Should I go to him and reveal to him that it was I who wrote him letters from the dungeon? But perhaps he had never received them. He might think I was trying to put on airs or was not quite right in the head. I didn’t dare.

  “Your favorite philosopher, I remember. You sat every day on his grave slab in San Pietro in Vincoli. Now he’s standing in front of you in the flesh. What a stroke of luck! But you don’t look exactly delighted. You don’t have the courage to speak to him, do you? It’s a strange feeling, I admit. I don’t know whether I’d do it. ‘Keep away from all VIPs.’—eighth commandment,” Renata reminded me.

  “I wrote him letters from the dungeon,” I confessed.

  “Are you crazy? ‘Beware of polluting historical sources.’ Did you forget that? You can easily set off a new universe that way, on which you would then drift away as if on a broken-off ice floe. Incidentally, that was my greatest fear when I first realized that I had ended up twenty years farther in the past than planned. I feared drifting off due to carelessness and wrong decisions into a universe that had no connection with our future. Perhaps that was the true reason I kept putting off my return to Amsterdam,” Renata said, rubbing her forehead. “I was simply afraid of finding nothing and no one there. No tunnel … But gradually I began to feel at home in this world. And now I’ve found you. So I can’t have drifted far.”

  She brushed a gray strand of hair from her forehead.