“We’re not going to crush anything today,” was all Jaspar had said.
“And why not?” snapped Goddert. “Are you too scared?”
“No, too sensible. You can pray till the roof falls on your head, I’m going to use mine.”
“Huh! You couldn’t even use your head for a tonsure! If this poor, oppressed soul here”—he pointed at Jacob with a dramatic gesture—“is being pursued by the Devil or one of his demons, then we must call on the Lord without delay, if not just for his sake, then for the sake of Gerhard Morart.”
“That is based on the assumption that the poor oppressed soul here is right. Who says it was the Devil? Or that Jacob is telling the truth? Were you there?”
“Were you there when they cut down poor Archbishop Engelbert? You still can’t deny he was murdered.”
“What I can’t deny is that you’re a stupid ass, Goddert. Gerhard Morart, God rest his soul, fell from a great height and broke every bone in his body, which does not prove conclusively it was the Devil. Engelbert’s body, on the other hand, had precisely forty-seven wounds—”
“More than three hundred it was!”
“—as Caesarius von Heisterbach wrote in his Vita, passio et miracula beati Engelberti Coloniensis Archiepiscopi. Wounds that he could hardly have inflicted on himself. And his murderer wasn’t the Devil, but Friedrich von Isenburg.”
“He was a devil!”
“He was Engelbert’s nephew, pea brain! I have to admit, though, that Engelbert wasn’t poor. He was a robber and bully, like our Conrad. It was not without reason that the pope excommunicated him.”
“That just shows your lack of respect toward your superiors in the Church. You’d also have to admit that Engelbert led the crusade against the Waldenses and Albigensians—”
“Because he liked fighting.”
“To do penance, you mudslinger!”
“Nonsense. He couldn’t tell the difference between a penance and a pig.”
“Better than you, he could!”
And so on and so on.
Like a herd of stampeding horses, the disputation was leaving the original topic farther and farther behind. Jacob’s brain was numb with exhaustion.
Richmodis stroked his hair. “Don’t let Jaspar fool you,” she said softly. “He argues for the fun of it, but when things get serious his mind’s as sharp as a razor.”
“I hope so.” Jacob sighed. “I can’t stand much more of that kind of conversation.”
She looked at him with a sympathetic, almost tender look in her eyes. Jacob felt a sudden fear she might go and he would never see her again.
“I’ll come and see you as soon as I can,” she said, as if she could read his thoughts. They were probably written all over his face.
“Do you believe me?” Jacob asked.
She thought for a moment. “Yes, I think I do.”
“Let’s have a drink,” Goddert shouted, the formula that brought their disputations to a conclusion.
Richmodis jumped up, before her uncle had the chance to give his standard response. “No! No more drinks. We’re going home, if you know where that is.”
“But—”
“No buts.”
Goddert accepted his lot, though with bad grace, muttering incomprehensibly to himself. He’d probably soon be sleeping off the drink. The way he waddled down the street reminded Jacob of the dancing bears you sometimes saw in Old Market Square. Beside him Richmodis looked like his trainer. The wind was toying with her brown hair.
“A pretty child, isn’t she?” Jaspar’s voice came from behind him.
“She has a pretty nose,” Jacob replied. He turned away from the window, went over to the tiled stove and slumped onto the bench. Maria had been pretty, too. She could have been beautiful. Could have become beautiful if she hadn’t—Jacob shook his head. He must put these thoughts out of his mind.
Jaspar observed him in silence.
“You don’t believe me,” Jacob said.
“Well, now.” Jaspar massaged his nose. “There are whole worlds between believing and disbelieving. I believe you when you say you saw something. But was it really there?”
“It was there.”
“Perhaps you got hold of the wrong end of the stick.”
“Then the wrong end of the stick killed Gerhard Morart. Killed Maria and Tilman. Almost killed me. What more do you want?”
Jaspar frowned. “The truth.”
“That is the truth.”
“Is it? I would say it’s what you saw. Nowadays the truth tends to be trumpeted abroad all too quickly, especially when it concerns the Devil. Was it the Devil?”
Jacob looked him up and down. “If you don’t believe me,” he said calmly, “why don’t you throw me out?”
Jaspar seemed both irritated and amused at the same time. “I don’t know.”
“Good.” Jacob stood up. “Or not good. Whatever. Thank you for your time.”
“You’re going?”
“Yes.”
“I think that would be unwise.”
“Why?”
Jaspar came over and stood so close to Jacob the tips of their noses were almost touching. There was a glint in his eyes. “Because you have a soused herring in your head where you should have a brain. Because if you leave now it will prove God created a fool who deserves all he gets. Are you so simple-minded you can’t understand anything besides yes or no, black or white, day or night? Don’t be ridiculous. Why do you think I’ve spent so long listening to you, instead of handing you over to the archbishop’s justices, as was probably my duty, given the numerous petty crimes you’ve doubtless committed? You have the brazen cheek to come into my house, go moaning on at me, then stand on your measly little pride. If I were the kind of man who swallows every so-called truth whole I’d be no use to you whatsoever. Quite the contrary. A fool trying to protect a fool. Saints preserve us! Just because I don’t say I believe you doesn’t mean I think you’re lying. Oh, dear, is that too complicated? Are all those ‘nots’ too much for the poor fish inside your skull? Go and find someone else who’d invite a beggar and a thief in to listen to his life story.”
Jaspar came even closer and bared his teeth. “But if you go, don’t even think of coming back. Do you understand, you self-pitying apology for a clown?”
Jacob felt the fury rise up inside him. He looked for a devastating reply. “Yes,” he heard himself say like a good little boy.
Jaspar nodded with a grim smile. “That’s right. Now sit back down on that bench.”
Jacob looked around, as if he might find his bravado somewhere in the room. Then he gave up. His anger was replaced by a feeling that was not unlike having his head plunged into a bucket of ice-cold water. He went back to the bench by the stove and sat down.
“So you don’t believe me?” he asked warily.
“Not necessarily.”
“Do you think I’m lying, then?”
“Ah!” Jaspar made a bizarre-looking jump. “Our friend is learning the art of dialectics. May even be trying to engage me in a Socratic dialogue. No, I do not think you’re lying.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” moaned Jacob, completely at a loss.
Jaspar sighed. “No Socrates after all.” He sat down beside Jacob and clasped his hands behind his bald head. “Right. There are two men who have never done each other any harm. One night the archangel appears to one of them and announces that the other will hit him over the head with a rock and kill him. Terrified, the man picks up a rock and hurls it at the other so as to beat him to it. But his aim is poor and the other, seeing himself attacked, picks up the stone and strikes the first man dead in self-defense, of course, thus fulfilling the archangel’s prophecy. Did the archangel speak the truth?”