The Anatomist's Dream

by Clio Gray

  Ullendorf murmured softly to himself, ‘Ungewöhnlich . . . außerordentlich . . .’ as he retracted the drill bit from his little tripod and then removed from the drill’s end the tiny circle of Philbert’s skull and, before taking away the retractors that were holding back the skin, Ullendorf took up a thin pen-like instrument and shook it, mixing together a couple of chemicals that released a small light and shone it down the tiny mineshaft into Philbert’s head, Philbert sensing the warmth of the little light-pen as it descended, seeing his own taupe like a poke of snail eggs huddling deep inside, thousands of tiny chrysalises row upon row, all pulsating, all ready to hatch, could already feel the ­millions of memories that were bursting to get out of him like dragonflies crawling up the reeds of Corti’s cheng waiting for the sun to warm their blood so they could unfurl their wings and fly. And he knew that when they did they would leave an exact imprint of themselves behind so he would always be able to recall every flutter and scale of every wing as they passed out of him, retain the images of their colours and their grace and the recognition of their changing, and that he was changing, right this minute, just as they would do when their time came. He wasn’t sure if anything else could ever feel so real as it did at this very moment. Up until a few seconds ago Corti’s music had been his entire world, but that world had changed and could never go back to how it had been before.

  Ullendorf released his breath, withdrew his light-pen, removed his tripod and retractors, took the little disc of bone from the end of the drill with tiny pincers, dipping it several times into a solution of salt and iodide before laying it out upon a square of muslin where it lay like an iridescent opal, pale and newborn. He ran his thread through his needle and through the skin of Philbert’s taupe and pulled it tight, blinking off the light. A single twist, a tiny knot, and Philbert’s visions ceased. He lay like a corpse, unmoving, though could still hear Corti’s cheng and Ullendorf’s breath like a breeze against his skin, a soft and gentle feeling of twist and fall as if he were an ash key separated from its parent branch, released into the wind. He knew he was falling into sleep but just before he did he saw the bridge at Hochwürden, felt like he was looking up at it from down below, seeing Hermann’s body falling down towards him and understood it had not been an ending, but release.

  15

  The Bowman and Goodbye

  Philbert was sitting in the kitchen of Frau Volstrecken alongside her son, Kaspar, the boy who broke his finger during the stramash in the synagogue. The next week the Fair was to perform for this private audience in recompense, with the added coda that Philbert be allowed to consort with Kaspar until then. Philbert would remember that morning, fresh as the bread Frau Volstrecken was removing from her oven, over the years, often visiting the adult Kaspar, their shared bouts of nostalgia having first been preceded by Philbert admiring the astonishing sculpted stonework of which Kaspar became a master. They would sit and drink too much, talk about that small good time they’d had together when they’d first met, and of Philbert’s trepanation which had fascinated Kaspar back then. It took Philbert a long while to grasp the full implications of what Ullendorf had done for him, how ever since, every instant, every second of his life, was etched inside his head like an ongoing pageant he could revisit whenever he chose. But always he and Kaspar would talk about that first morning after the operation when Philbert sat with Kaspar in Kaspar’s mother’s kitchen, Philbert feeling alive in every sinew, every thread of him, everything vivid, kicking with colour and smell, taste and touch.

  Frau Volstrecken had suborned her two young inmates to test out the cooking she was practising for the opening of the Buschenschank, the small restaurant she and her husband were planning to launch the following spring. She would be serving her soon-to-be famous strudels, and her husband his already-famous wines.

  ‘Now then,’ she said, placing a steaming golden roll in front of them. ‘This is my family’s secret recipe for Krautstrudel. It’s as good as my grandmother’s, and no one made it better.’

  She cut into the crisp pastry, small shreds of bacon and ­cabbage glistening amongst the main filling of buttered onions, Philbert and Kaspar eating like men who’ve been on the march for weeks. They’d already been fed Nockerls and noodles, slivers of fried goose liver braised with beef in sour cream and cherries, Gebachene Mäuse – sugar, rum, raisins and flour, shaped and fried in butter, little sticks of preserved angelica for their tails – both laughing that one kind of mouse was being eaten by another.

  Philbert had never tasted such things before and, though he had them many times down the years, often cooked by Frau Volstrecken herself, they were never so crisp, nor smelt so good, nor held their flavours quite as perfectly as they did that first time, and he would remember those quiet, food-stuffed afternoons with Kaspar with a special passion, as well as the conversation they had later in the Volstrecken’s barn.

  ‘So is it true then?’ Kaspar asked, twisting a stalk of dried clover through the gap in his front teeth. ‘About your head, I mean?’

  ‘Is what true?’ Philbert replied, pretending not to know what Kaspar was talking about.

  ‘Is it true that loony doctor actually sawed through your head?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Philbert replied casually, as if such a thing happened every day. ‘Right through.’

  ‘Wasn’t there loads of blood and stuff?’

  ‘Swept it up in buckets,’ Philbert elaborated.

  ‘And what Lita said . . . is that true too? Is your head really filled with marbles?’

  His voice trembled with the hope of it and Philbert, who didn’t want to lie exactly, nor let his new friend down by telling him the truth, took the central path as provided him by Lita.

  ‘Sort of,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. ‘Actually, I brought you one.’

  Kaspar was up quick as a flea, sick with excitement, his friendship about to reap its reward because he was a boy who loved stones in every form, trawled rivers and streams for them, made of them his life. Carefully, Philbert placed the folded cloth on the flat surface of the bale between them and teased back the corners, just as Ullendorf had folded back the skin of his scalp. And there it was, a small round bead, green as pond-water, just a flick of something red, twisted deep within.

  ‘Erstaunlich!’ gasped Kaspar, picking the bead up carefully between finger and thumb. ‘Is that your actual blood inside there?’

  ‘Blood?’ Philbert repeated, a little annoyed he hadn’t thought of this particular piece of fabrication himself.

  ‘And this came out of your actual head? Unglaublich! Don’t they make the most awful noise rattling around inside all the time?’

  This level of detail took Philbert by surprise, but Kaspar was too entranced by his little piece of Philbert to notice.

  They laughed about this episode down the years, but Kaspar always kept his fascination for Philbert’s head and what he kept locked away inside, and also kept that bead with its lick of red; Philbert in return tried to explain what had happened that day, how it seemed ever after as if the whole world was stepping lightly to one side so he could view it from a different angle; how at times he heard a gentle scraping, as if someone was re­arranging the furniture inside his head. Philbert had not been alarmed by this, nor had he found it unpleasant, only reinforcing the growing sensation that his taupe was like a deep, deep well, every new experience a stone thrown in, each ripple noted and recorded. It might be mislaid for a while, but as long as Philbert was alive it could never be lost.

  A couple of winter months in Finzeln always suited the Fair of Wonders well, giving them time to rehearse new acts and plays, polish up their routines, try variations, adapt the old to the new. Whenever they needed money or food and the weather allowed them passage, they would go off in small troupes to the outlying villages, staying a few days here, a few days there, but always returning to Finzeln, like puffins to their burrows. Kwert spent many hours readi
ng from his Philocalia, and yet more in ­meditation. He’d been profoundly affected by Ullendorf’s ­operation on Philbert’s taupe and would place the whittling of it – the little circle of Philbert’s skull, given to him by Ullendorf – within his palm, staring at it until it became the entire ­universe, because for Kwert it represented far more than the mere ­application of modern science. Like every Hesychast, he believed utterly that the human body was a prison cell of skin and bone whose only duty was to keep safe the soul inside, carrying it like a pearl, like a lamp within a vase, and could not help wondering how much of Philbert’s soul’s light had leaked out that evening Ullendorf had drilled into his head. He’d noted a subtle change in Philbert since, the boy undoubtedly being more thoughtful, more introspective, despite the attentive friendship of Kaspar Volstrecken. Kwert was a seeker of signs and had been expecting something, but not at all what actually came, by which time they’d already left Finzeln a few days behind.

  First off, his donkey got sick, hind legs swelling up overnight like mushrooms, great hard cords running their length that budded ulcers at every turn. Kwert, the supposed healer, tended her and stroked her, poulticed and pussed her, but then Kwert got sick too, and every breath he drew was cracked, sounding like leaves being driven up an alley by the wind and, below his jaw, an abscess bled itself black, and he began coughing up phlegm the colour of rotten plums. Philbert and Lita were ­terrified and tried to help Kwert, preparing and administering the various remedies he dictated through grinding teeth: ­ointments made from agrimony, chickweed and groundsel, salves of beeswax and softened resin, bitter pills of garlic and ground hemp. But nothing made the slightest bit of difference and Kwert and his donkey lay side-by-side beneath the stretch of canvas pulled from his cart, bundled up with straw to keep them warm, the donkey on her side, legs puffed up like pastry, stinking of pus, burning like a tar barrel. Every boil that died down on the donkey seemed to grow up twice as fierce on Kwert as he moaned and creaked beside her, the boils ballooning and bursting so the air was noxious with their seep and spill. It was the last week of February, and there was no doubt that neither man nor beast were going to make it far into March without intervention. It was Philbert who made the decision, trekking all the way back to Finzeln on his own, bringing back with him the same doctor who had already shed so much light into his own life.

  They arrived back on the first day of March, the entire camp anxious and cold beneath the blank blue sky, watching with hands to their brows to shade out the sun as Doctor Ullendorf’s carriage grew from a dot in the distance to normal size. Philbert couldn’t know that Ullendorf had been tracking the Fair’s ­progress; that he’d been studying all the measurements and notations he’d taken back in Finzeln of Philbert’s head and had anyway been about to seek them out. He couldn’t have been gladder to see Philbert when he came banging on his door just as Ridente had done a couple of months before, Philbert clinching onto his hand like a crab the moment he appeared, urging him with every breath to get back to the camp and quick.

  Ullendorf took one look at Kwert and his donkey and knew immediately what was wrong.

  ‘Get me oak-bark and acorns,’ he commanded. ‘Get me ­mistletoe from the apple trees, get me witch-hazel and sorrel and pads of dried moss, cobwebs and honey.’

  Lita and Philbert set to, scurrying across the fields like mice, burrowing deep into the woods with their baskets. They returned scratched and torn, Doctor Ullendorf sat by the fire, hands gloved, a long needle held between his fingers, its sharp tip going from red to white in the flames. The astringent was made as he ordered and the honey melted, and then Kwert’s arms and legs were held rigid and bare while Ullendorf struck through and through the marauding boils as though bayoneting an enemy.

  ‘Pile on plenty of clean straw,’ bellowed Ullendorf, after Kwert’s wounds had been washed and dressed. ‘I want him hot as a hedgehog in a gypsy’s pot. And then,’ he said, seeking out Philbert’s eye meaningfully, ‘I want a platter of dumplings and a casket of Volstrecken’s wine. You and I have been travelling more than three hours, young man, and saving lives is hungry work.’

  All was done as he ordered, Kwert heaped over with straw, blankets and sheepskin rugs, and Ullendorf’s food was brought. He sighed as he dipped his dumplings into his cup and ­swallowed them whole, drank the casket dry, then leant himself against the back of the Kwert Mountain of blankets and went to sleep. Philbert, by contrast, spent a troubled night, for Ullendorf had spoken quite correctly about how long they’d travelled; what Ullendorf hadn’t spoken of was what he’d proposed to Philbert during that travelling. His researches in Finzeln were almost done, he told Philbert, all that remained was to draw up his conclusions from the comparisons made between the native German population and the third generation of incoming Italian Jews, who had made their home beside them, integrated but not intermarried, as dictated by their faith. All this he spoke about in great detail to Philbert on that journey, saying it would soon be time for Ullendorf to leave Finzeln and return to his home; and that when he went he wanted Philbert to come with him, an idea too huge for Philbert to think about while Kwert was still at death’s door.

  The next morning Philbert found Ullendorf at his post, beginning to exhume Kwert from his blankets as Philbert rushed forward to help. Once his body was revealed Philbert was astounded to see that Kwert’s boils were dry as bones abandoned on the desert of his yellowing skin. His breathing had broken back to even stride, disturbed only by occasional and incoherent murmurs, snatches of prayers perhaps, foreign words and phrases. His skin was hot to the touch, but no longer clammy, and twenty-four hours later Kwert was sitting up, sucking at pease-soup thickened with curds, the donkey ­wobbling to its knees, licking at the drips, eager for anything his master could spare. Two days later both were up and about, thin and winter-worn for sure, sag-skinned, slack-jawed, but both alive and both recovering well.

  Amongst the Fair’s folk Doctor Ullendorf was a hero, more than that, a miracle worker without whose help Kwert would certainly have died. He was a bit of a strange one, that went without saying, for they none of them held much with ­doctoring, having seen what it could do in the wrong hands. Kwert was a trusted healer, but when the likes of Kwert got sick well, that was that. Or so they’d always thought. Then Philbert had fetched this oafish-looking doctor with his idiot’s smile and hair like curly dock, and not only had he dug a hole into the Maus-Junge’s head with the lad living to tell the tale, but now he’d gone on to heal the healer, and the healer’s donkey too. Ullendorf explained that the sickness suffered was common enough, called Glanders to those in the know, but the Fair’s folk didn’t know, and regarded Ullendorf with awe. So when he also told him that the Volstreckens were planning to open the doors of their Buschenschank for the first time at the end of the week Maulwerf took the lead and declared they would return to Finzeln with Ullendorf, and there he would be guest-of-honour at the Grand Opening to celebrate Kwert’s survival in style. It boded well, Maulwerf told them, that their season had started so auspiciously, so they upped sticks and crowded back along the lanes to Finzeln and to the open arms of the Volstreckens, who were delighted to welcome them in.

  It was a night Philbert would long remember, the kind that torqued your heart on a spit just to think on it, and think on it he often did. People always said you can never go back, that what’s done is done, and though the latter part of this sentence was as true for Philbert as for everyone else, the first part was not, for Philbert was discovering that he could go back to the past whenever he chose. He couldn’t change a thing about it, but he could close his eyes and live it all over again just as he’d lived it then, with every colour, every smell, every touch just as real to him as if it had happened only a few moments before.

  So back to Finzeln went the Fair, all sat around the tables of the Buschenschank, the red and white checkers of the running cloths marching over the boards as Frau Volstrecken lit the lamps. At the end of
the long room, lined with barrels all along one side, Kapellmeister Corti waved his orchestra into half-baked order; Herr Volstrecken filled mugs and glasses with wine, delighted to see his friends back again for his opening night; and Frau Fettleheim had a table to herself, piled high with all sorts of dishes and plates, appointed Frau Volstrecken’s official taster, Frau Fettleheim having boasted many times of being an assistant cook in her youth at the Imperial Palace. That’s what she said, and she was as entitled to her tales as was everyone else. She’d always sworn it was all the tasting for salt and seasonings that had made her the way she was today, and that at one hundred dishes a week to taste it would have done the same to anyone. The rolls of her belly made the table shake as she spoke of far gone days with misty eyes, and no one had the heart to argue.

  Rabbi Ridente raised an arm, lifted his glass, calling for hush, nodding to each of the company in turn, and in particular to the large Dr Ullendorf who took place of honour next to Kwert. Ullendorf’s curly hair tweaked out from under his hat every time he moved his head or smiled his big open-door smile, and beside him was Kwert, fever-free, the welts on his skin calmed to a sea of pinkish domes like shrinking jellyfish stranded on a beach. The dancing troupe somersaulted a saltambalique across the room, directed by the man they called Harlekin, who always seemed to stand in shadow, keeping his head half-turned so no one could see his eyes. It was all part of his mystique and a part he stuck to rigidly, always standing like the spectre at the ­wedding feast, reminding everyone that fate is fate and no one can escape whatever theirs might be.