Q, Luther Blissett [children's ebooks online .txt] 📗
- Author: Luther Blissett
- Performer: 0156031965
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The sun filters through the middle of the dark clouds. A ray of light pierces the grey blanket and lights Cellarius’s face. ‘I’ve tried not to tell people too much about you. You were a colleague of mine at Wittenberg University. You’ve been held up on business, and only now have you been able to join your wife, who came here to talk to Capito.
Cellarius tells me about the two most important religious figures in the city, Bucer and Capito, decidedly tolerant characters, lovers of theological disputes and closer to Zwingli than to Luther. He says I’ll meet them very soon, perhaps this very evening, on the occasion of a dinner presented by my future host.
Strasbourg, 3 December 1527
She’s in the garden of Herr Weiss’s big house. From behind a column, without being seen, I follow her fine profile, the mass of hair that she wears loose, her slender fingers against the edge of the basin.
A cat goes and rubs against her cloak. Her caresses look like the repeated gestures of a ritual, and her murmured words sound like a magic spell: there’s something strange about her movements, casual in a strange and fascinating way.
I come out into the light that is raining down from above, but behind her, so that she can’t see me. As I sidle up beside her, I become aware of the sharp smell of woman, an intoxicating blend of lavender and humours, that crossroads of earth and sky, heaven and hell, that makes you die and resuscitate in an instant. I fill my nostrils and study her from close up.
A cool voice: ‘Are my monthlies driving you out of your mind, man?’
She turns around, with bright black eyes.�
I’m astonished: ‘Your smell…’
‘It’s the smell of low things: freshly turned loam, the body’s humours, blood, melancholy.’
I plunge a hand into the icy water of the basin. Her eyes attract mine; her mouth a strange curve in her oval face.
‘Melancholy?’
She looks at the cat. ‘Yes. Have you ever seen the work of Master D�rer?’
‘I’ve seen the Imitatio Christi, the cycle on the Apocalypse…’
‘But not the melancholy angel. Or you’d know that it’s a woman.’
‘How so?’
‘It has feminine features. Melancholy is a woman.’
I’m confused, I feel the itch of desire spreading through my body, beneath my clothes.
I study her sharp profile. ‘Would that be you?’
She laughs, shivers run down my spine. ‘Perhaps. But the woman is in you, too. I’ve known Master D�rer, I posed for him once. He’s a sombre man. Frightened.’
‘Of what?’
‘The end, like everyone else. And what about you, are you frightened?’
It’s a serious, curious question. I think of Frankenhausen.
‘Yes. But I’m still alive.’
Her eyes laugh, as though she’d been waiting for that answer for years.
‘Have you seen blood flow?’
‘Too much.’
She nods gravely. ‘Men are scared of blood, that’s why they make war, they’re trying to erase its terror. Women aren’t, they see their own blood flow every time the moon changes.’
We stay silent, looking at each other, as though her words had imposed a� silence with their sacred wisdom.
Then: ‘You’re Ursula Jost.’
‘Which would make you Lienhard Jost?’
‘Your husband.’
The same silence, sealing an alliance of fugitives. Her eyes scan the details of my face. Her hand slips under her cloak, then on to my wrist, where an old scar is etched: her finger runs along it, marking it with the red of her blood.
I feel myself turning pale, a wave of cold sweat spreads beneath my shirt, along with the sudden desire to touch her.
‘Yes. My husband.’
Antwerp, 5_th__ May 1538_
‘The city was calm, Michael Weiss, my host, was generous, and my “wife” was amazing. And just for a change I had a new name. I owed Martin more than I could have given him in return. The circle of doctors whose company Cellarius kept included people who were truly anomalous for that repressive age, They wanted to debate.
‘Wolfgang Fabricius, known as Capito, was the one I was most curious about. Although he claimed to be a fervent devotee of Luther, he had a certain regard for the ones who were starting to be called Anabaptists, and seemed to want to include them within reformed Christianity. He asked me lots of questions, with a curiosity that seemed sincere to me. He had read and admired the writings of Denck. I didn’t tell him I’d known the old rogue, but I enjoyed testing his tolerance with the occasional provocation.
‘I also met Otto Brunfels, the botanist, an expert in the curative capacities of plants, who was compiling a universal herbarium and was interested in the natural world. I couldn’t extract a great deal of information from him about his faith, but I sensed that he must have sympathised with the peasants at the time of the revolt. He was a mild character, opposed to violence, filled with guilt for the way the insurrection had ended. One day, when our mutual trust must have seemed solid enough to him, he even made me read some notes for a work he was writing, in which he argued at these were times in which true Christians, as in the time of Nero, would do better to hide their rites in the catacombs of the soul, concealing their faith and pretending to sway with the prevailing wind as they awaited the coming of the Lord. This private religion of his made me smile from time to time, but it was interesting to talk to him.
‘The most difficult of them was Martin Bucer. I met him only once, at Capito’s house. A gloomy, serious man, terrified of the ruin of the times. Resistant to life.
‘It was an elegant city, Strasbourg, cultivated and at the same time peaceful and remote from the hatred that was ripening beyond its walls.’
Eloi pours me some water so that I can continue. He doesn’t open his mouth, he silently savours each word, his eyes sparkle in the shadow like a cat’s eyes.
‘Ursula was a strange, witchlike woman. Raven-haired, sharp nose, a face both hard and sensual. We couldn’t pretend for long: passion took us by the hand, it drove us wild straight away. She had no history either, I didn’t know where she came from, her accent didn’t give me a clue, and I didn’t want to know, that’s how it was, simple. She crept over to me, sinuous and silent as a wildcat, pressed her breast to my back and then I noticed her desire. What gripped us both was that uncertainty, not knowing. If we had been somewhere else it would have been different, everything would have been.’
‘Did you love her?’ His voice is hoarse.
‘I think so. The way you love when you have no past, all you’ve got is an endless present, promising nothing. God no longer had anything to do with our lives: they had been erased completely, maybe she too carried the memory of a disaster, of some terrible misfortune. Maybe she, too, had died once before. Often, at night, after making love, I thought I could read it in her eyes, that suffering. Yes, we really did love each other. She was the only person to whom I could confide all my impressions about the circle of characters I moved among during the day. She didn’t say a word, she listened attentively, then all of a sudden she would confirm my uncertain judgement with some lapidary phrase, a phrase which, a moment later, I found myself agreeing with entirely, as though she had read my thoughts, as though her reasoning were quicker than my own. And I am sure that that is how it was. She didn’t have Ottilie’s angry courage, although sometimes, in her rage, I saw the worry of that great woman, my master’s wife. She was different, but nonetheless extraordinary, one of those creatures who make you thank God for granting you the chance to walk the earth by their side.’
I stare at the dusk that is entering our study, and once again I see that sinuous body.
‘We knew from the first moment. One day we would wake up somewhere else, far apart, for no necessary reason, following the twisted path of our lives. Ursula was a season, a fifth season of the soul, half autumn, half spring.’
Antwerp, 6 May 1538
The new chisel does a terrific job. Balthasar wasted no time: I found it this very morning on the table in the study. The tip removed shavings of wood like a spoon in butter, while Eloi’s incredulous gaze accompanied each blow of the little hammer, every scrap of sawdust that flew on to the floor, every detail of Strasbourg Cathedral emerging in relief from the little panel.
‘Quite remarkable,’ he observes, pursing his lips. ‘Where did you learn to use your hands like that?’
‘I’ve put more effort into swordplay than I have into this,’ I reply, picking up the sharp tool. ‘I was in Strasbourg. I was working as a compositor at a printing-press in the city. There was a bloke who did the illustrations for the books. During his breaks he put down the plate and burin and picked up his gouge: he made portraits of all of us, and gave us all dozens of copies. He was forever saying that a beautiful thing need never be unique. He was the one who taught me to carve wood.’
He studies the drawing for a moment, then points to the date in a corner. ‘You haven’t practised your hobby for a long time.’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘You know, I’m always on the road. I used to keep my hand in by carving little statues that I would give as presents to children. I took it up again in M�nster, as well. But, you know…’ A smile covers my excuse. ‘I lost my tools somewhere.’
Eloi leaves the room and reappears with the usual bottle of liqueur. By now I know what that means. He fills my glass to the brim. ‘I didn’t know you’d found yourself a job in Strasbourg.’
‘Thanks to Cellarius. I’d always been attracted by the printers’ workshops. Books have a special fascination for me.’
The chisel removes some shavings. It’s time to move on to the knife for the smaller details. Eloi breaks off to follow the phases of the work, then he starts talking again. ‘Fill me in. In Strasbourg you had found a certain tranquillity, an affectionate friend, a woman who was full of life, a trade. Why didn’t you stay there?’
I look into his eyes, speaking slowly. ‘Have you ever heard of Melchior Hofmann?’
This time he’s incredulous. ‘You’re not going to tell me you knew him too?’
I nod, in silence, smiling at his reaction. ‘You might say that he was the final reason for my leaving. A lot of things had happened by then.’
I realise that I’m starting to enjoy telling the story. I enjoy creating suspense and interest. Eloi, too, must have noticed the change. Every now and again he helps me along; at other times, like this, he stays silent, waiting for me to go on.
‘With the passing months Ursula, started getting more and more impatient about the prevailing atmosphere in the city. She kept telling me there were plenty of people in Strasbourg with innovative and brilliant ideas, but the only thing that distinguished it from other German cities was the possibility of expressing those ideas in a cultivated and refined form. Her battle-cry became “In Strasbourg, living is the real heresy.”’
I raise my eyes
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