Q, Luther Blissett [children's ebooks online .txt] 📗
- Author: Luther Blissett
- Performer: 0156031965
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The bishop called that Diet to find a compromise between the two sides that would allow him back into the city, and if it were up to burgomaster J�defeldt, who is able by right to participate in the delegation of townspeople, a compromise would be reached, to our disadvantage: von Waldeck would concede a few municipal freedoms to keep J�defeldt’s rich Lutheran friends happy, he’d regain control of his principality and liquidate the Baptists, and the people would get shat on. Divide et impera, the old story.
There wasn’t much option but to send the whole caboodle sky-high. We forced J�defeldt and the Council to accept the presence of the representatives of the people of M�nster we had chosen for the occasion: a monstrous giant, a highwayman, a pettifogger, and us lot all standing right behind them.
We climb the stairs one after the other, in an orderly line, trying to strike a pose. Knipperdolling has tears in his eyes, spluttering away as he tries to control his laughter. He was the first one to put the big man’s name forward, when we were looking for the right person to head our delegation: ‘Tile the Cyclops! Yes, yes, he’s the man to put our case!’
The hall where the Diet is being held, in the home of the knight Dietrich of Merfeld, one of the silverest tongues ever to lick a bishop’s arse: inlaid beams, coarse tapestries on the walls in a vulgar style, tuppenny swank. The thrones on which the bishop’s vassals are seated open up like the wings of a bird. The host sits to the right of the throne, swollen with pride: all the banners are spread to impress the poor ignorant burghers.
Throne in the middle, lion’s-head wooden hand-rests, the Episcopal coat of arms next to his family escutcheon perched atop the seat-back.
Very impressive, dressed in black from head to toe.
Shiny boots; fine woollen breeches and an elegant blouse; the buckle on his belt, keeping his sword in place, a thoroughbred Toledo to judge by the inlay; the Episcopal ring gleams on his finger, gold and ruby, and on his chest gleams the princely medallion of the empire. Inside, a thin, upright body.
The face of the enemy.
Silver hair and grey beard, a hollow face, no cheeks to speak of, the woodworm of power devouring him for years.
Von Waldeck: five decades worn lightly, the expression of an eagle that has spied its prey from above.
Here he is.
Tile Bussenschute, overawed by the gold and the decorations, manages a bow, placing the stitches and buttons of Knipperdolling’s clothes in the gravest danger.
One of the bishop’s knights twists around in his chair, stretches his neck and hoists himself up, hands on his armrests, to see who is hiding behind this mountain of flesh making sluggishly for the centre of the room. Until the cyclopean box-maker bows deeply to reveal, behind him, the nonchalant grin of Redeker.
It’s a moment to cherish. Melchior von B�ren, attacked on the road near Telgte not more than a month ago and robbed in broad daylight, finds himself face to face with the man who ran off with his land-taxes. Perhaps he doesn’t recognise him immediately: he squints to see better. Heinrich Redeker can’t help himself, he darts� forward as though to he’s about to leap the great back in front of him in one bound, face red, chest out.
‘Your arse still giving you gip, my friend?’ he mutters between teeth.
In reply, the robber’s victim draws his sword in a flash and waves it in the face of the startled Bussenschute: ‘Fight, you dog, you’ll pay back every florin with a drop of blood.’
‘In the meantime, have a few drops of this!’ our delegate yells at him, spitting him full in the face, over the shoulder of the head of the delegation.
The Episcopal knight tries to reply with a blow of his sword. The gesture makes Tile Bussenschute more than a little nervous, as he feels the blade passing an inch from his ear. He reacts immediately: he opens his hand wide and, using all the strength in his arm, pushes it full in the face of the swordsman, who falls to the ground along with his chair, knocking over two other knights.
J�defeldt yells at them to stop it, and tries to hold Redeker back.
Von Waldeck the eagle doesn’t lose his composure, he doesn’t say a word: he observes us with the best look of contempt in his repertoire. Redeker delves into his own: insults directed at his parents, the dead, the holy protectors. He uproots and topples his adversary’s family tree with the force of his obscenities.
Our own von der Wieck starts screeching into the midst of the confusion, trying to adopt the tone of the serious advocate that he has never been. ‘Within the venue chosen for a Diet, immunity for all and a complete ban on weapons!’
Von B�ren’s comrades hold him back as he tries to get at Redeker, J�defeldt makes vain attempts to calm everyone down, embarrassed and as purple as a helpless baby.
Everything comes to a standstill when von Waldeck rises to his feet. We stand rooted to the spot. His gaze turns the hall to ash: he now knows that the burgomaster is nothing, we’re his adversaries. He stares at us in silent fury, then turns around contemptuously and leaves us, he limps towards the door, escorted by von Merfeld and his personal guard.
M�nster, 8th February 1534
Full many a nun crept o’er the walls that night
And from the cloister made her reckless flight;
With concupiscent lusts they were afire
And brazenly indulged their keen desire.
.
Redeker concentrates on the coin he’s turning over in his hands. He looks at the wall for a moment and then half-closes his eyes, and knocks back his fifth beer and schnapps chaser.
‘It’s the last one,’ he assures us immediately as we are heading back to our table.
There’s a great crowd gathered around the two arenas set up between the tables in the Mercury tavern. It’s the Carnival tournaments this evening: on one side they’re dancing to the sound of the lute, and the last one to stop dancing wins a barrel of beer; on the other there’s a pint of beer and schnaps for whoever throws a coin as close as possible to the wall without touching the wall itself. Redeker is the undisputed champion.
Knipperdolling has a tab with the landlord, and he’s plunging into it for all he’s worth. Four empty beakers are already lined up in front of his spongy nose. He gets up on his rather unsteady feet and stands on his chair, trying to call the attention of the room and starts improvising, to the lute-music, a song about what everyone’s talking about:
What drove them from the cloister must have been
A serpent bold, a spirit most unclean.
And then, when in their folly they had fled
They sought out impure company instead
Two tables away, someone picks up the guild-leader’s rhymes, and continues the description of the fugitives from �berwasser. He doesn’t get to the end before someone else has taken up the invitation and celebrates Rothmann’s actions beneath the walls of the convent. It goes like this: whoever started the song, in this case our Knipperdolling, buys a drink for the one who brings it to an end. It’s a competition to see who will leave the whole tavern without a verse to add.
‘The best bit was when he reminded the nuns of their procreative functions. I don’t know how he kept a straight face.’ Kibbenbrock recalls, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘Right, though, wasn’t he?’ someone else throws in. ‘What’s so funny? Even the Bible says we’ve got to multiply.’
‘Of course, and what made me laugh was the abbess facing the window, trying to call her sisters back to the love of their only true husband!’
‘That old whore von Merfeld! She’s an old bitch and the bishop’s spy! So long to all those lovely novices.’
A round of beer arrives, paid for by Redeker with the booty collected in Wolbeck. The little bandit dances on a table to the rhythm of the chants in his honour. He’s drunk. He lets his trousers down as he swings his hips, loudly repeating the invitation made to the nuns by Rothmann’s supporters a few hours ago: ‘Come on sisters, consolation for these poor men!’
An old man with a pair of big whiskers hugs me and Knipperdolling from behind: ‘The next round’s on me, boys,’ he exclaims contentedly. ‘Ever since I discovered my dick, I’ve been standing under the convent windows with my mates at Carnival time propositioning the nuns but, my God, I’d never managed to get them to escape like that. Fair play to you, well done!’
We raise our beakers to drink to the compliment. The only one who leaves his on the table is Jan of Leyden. Strangely, he still hasn’t said a word. He’s sitting stock still in his seat, looking apathetic. If I know him well he’s pissed off because he didn’t come with us to raise hell under the �berwasser tower. He tried to get a similar result with the prostitutes in one of the city brothels, inviting them to give a free fuck to anyone who would have himself rebaptised by Rothmann, but he got only insults for his pains.
He raises his eyes and sees that I’m staring at him. He starts irritably scratching his shoulder as though to act nonchalant, but it doesn’t work. He exploits a moment’s silence and butts in: ‘Hey, people, this is an easy one, look: Who am I, eh? Who am I?’ He scratches himself harder and harder, using a soup-covered spoon. Knipperdolling stiffens in his chair. Some people look elsewhere to avoid the direct question. I feel duty bound to save them: ‘You’re Job scratching his boils, Jan, it’s obvious.’ Then, turning back to the others, ‘How come you didn’t work that one out? He was brilliant, wasn’t he?’
A chorus: ‘Yes, yes, bravo Jan!’
The actor mocks himself: ‘Yes, fine, all right, that was an easy one. But pay attention now.’ He slips from his chair and under the table with a catlike movement, blowing hard between his teeth: ‘Who am I? Who am I?’
Knipperdolling stands up as quietly as possible, murmuring that he has to go for a piss.
From below the voice insists: ‘Don’t leave just because you don’t know! I’ll give you a hand: “Yet hast thou brought up my life from corruption, O Lord my God. When my soul fainted within me I remembered the Lord my God.”’
‘Who’s reciting the Book of Jonah from memory in the pub?’ The incredulous, rather amused voice belongs to Rothmann, who has just arrived at our table. The prophet barely has time to re-emerge from the belly of the whale before a roar of admiration explodes for the conqueror of �berwasser. A week ago he made all the women of M�nster give up their jewels and hand them over to the fund for the poor, now he’s persuaded a throng of nuns to embrace the renewed faith.
‘You used to need money to attract women,’ observes a weaver, ‘now you’ve got to have an interest in the Scriptures. What on earth are you doing to our ladies, Bernhard?’
‘I’m not going to say a word about your ladies, but all you had to say to the novices of �berwasser was that if they didn’t leave, God would bring their bell tower
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