“Indeed,” replied Johann faintly.
He felt very old all of a sudden. He had traveled all the way from the snowy, cold German Empire, from Bamberg to Metz and on to France, just to end up in front of closed gates. The man he had pinned all his hopes on was dying, perhaps from the same affliction Johann suffered. How much time had he left? Days, weeks? He and Leonardo were similar in this respect, too—death was reaching out for them. How could he have believed the great Leonardo da Vinci would receive him just like that—a goddamned nobody?
A nobody.
He looked at the mayor from Romorantin.
“Who must I speak with if I want an audience?”
The mayor pointed at a young man with long blond hair, a very broad nose, and a self-important expression on his face. He was holding a scroll and occasionally noted down a name. Then he continued to pace the rows. So far he hadn’t let a single person through the gate. “That is Francesco Melzi, sort of the steward at Château du Cloux. But don’t waste your efforts—the fellow can’t be bribed and is generally a real toad. He decides who is allowed to see the great master, like Cerberus, the hellhound.”
“Thank you.” Johann turned away and started heading toward the steward.
“What are you doing?” asked Greta in a whisper as she and Karl tried to keep up with him. “Are you going to threaten the flunky?”
“I hope that won’t be necessary.” Johann pulled the Figura Umana from his bundle. The pages were tattered and dirty from the long journey, and the binding was coming loose in places. “Tear it in half,” he ordered Karl. “I don’t have the strength.”
“The Figura?” Karl stared at him with shock. “You can’t be serious!”
“Perfectly serious. If we want to see Leonardo da Vinci, we have to make sacrifices. My left hand is paralyzed—I need your help. Tear it in half.”
Karl sighed deeply. Then, wearing a pained expression, he took the book and ripped it in two.
Johann thanked Karl, took the two halves, and coughed noisily until the steward finally looked at him with irritation.
“What do you want?” barked Francesco Melzi, already turning his attention back to his scroll. “You can see yourself that there is a long line. If you have a present for the master, you can hand it to one of the servants. Other than that, come back tomorrow. Or better yet, next week.”
“I do have a present indeed. But I will only give it to the master in person,” Johann said before handing Melzi one half of the Figura Umana.
“This is original work by Leonardo da Vinci,” explained Johann. “He wrote it himself. Take him the book and tell him that the second half is in the possession of an equally famous man who is waiting outside.”
Melzi frowned, his eyes shifting from the ripped pages in his hand to Johann and back. “And who is this famous man supposed to be?”
“Doctor Johann Georg Faustus, come especially all the way from the German Empire to pay my respects.” Johann bowed. “I think the master knows me. And he will recognize his own work.”
“Doctor Faustus? You are supposed to be the famous Doctor Faustus?” Francesco Melzi looked him up and down, his voice thick with mockery. “Since when does a magician and astrologer travel like an impoverished pilgrim?” He eyed Faust’s lifeless arm. “And since when is he a—pardon the expression—a cripple?”
“Since when is an underling employed to ask stupid questions, wasting the precious time of his master?” retorted Johann harshly. “Now hurry—or do I have to speak with the king first?”
Melzi gave all three of them a long, hard look before scrutinizing the large black dog. Then he leafed through his half of the Figura Umana, turned around, and walked to the gate, knocking profusely until someone opened it.
“I thought we didn’t want to be recognized?” whispered Karl after a while, noticing some of the onlookers starting to whisper and point. “After that performance, the whole world will soon know that the famous Doctor Faustus is in France. And then the pope might find out—Leo and the French king most likely keep in contact.”
“There was no other way,” said Johann. “We can only hope that we’ve managed to shake our pursuers. This meeting is too important.”
“And you really believe Leonardo da Vinci will receive you?” asked Greta.
Johann’s neck was crooked from the paralysis; now he tilted his head even farther to the side with thought. “If he’s anything like I think he is, then Leonardo possesses a very particular trait we both share.”
“Which is?” asked Karl.
Johann smiled. “Curiosity. Who can resist a visiting magician?”
Just then the gates opened and the steward waved at them impatiently.
“Come in,” ordered Francesco Melzi unhappily. “I don’t understand why, but the master really wants to see you.”
Karl followed the doctor with a thumping heart. He hadn’t expected Leonardo da Vinci to receive them. The news of Leonardo’s imminent death had shaken Karl almost as badly as his master. Leonardo da Vinci was—along with the much younger Raffaello, who was currently making a name for himself in Rome, and the eccentric Michelangelo, who had decorated the Sistine Chapel a few years ago—one of the greatest painters of the Christian world. To Karl, who would have liked to become a famous painter himself, meeting Leonardo came equal to an audience with the pope. And now this man, whose works of art had already made him immortal, was apparently dying?
No one is immortal, thought Karl wistfully. Not Leonardo, not I, and not even the doctor.
He looked over at Greta, who didn’t seem too upset. Her thoughts were probably still with John. The way the two of them had touched down by the harbor had been more than friendly. Karl felt a twinge of jealousy, and he cursed himself for being glad that she’d had to part with Reed.
Behind the walls, they walked through huge, parklike gardens. The manor house was much more magnificent from this side than from the front, consisting of a two-winged main building crowned with gables and an octagonal tower. Several steps led up to a portal, and an old servant wearing a threadbare, dirty linen frock waited outside. The man looked more like a gardener than a footman, leaning tiredly on a stick that served him as a walking aid.
“Our dear Battista will lead you to the reception room,” said Francesco Melzi tightly. “I have given instructions that the conversation cannot last longer than a quarter of an hour. Not a minute longer. The master is extremely weak. The devil knows why he wants to see you at all. A sorcerer, ha! Not even that can save him now.” Shaking his head, he turned back toward the gate.
The old servant bowed and limped ahead of the travelers. The rooms they passed were plain and clean, no pomp or pageantry. It smelled of pickled cabbage and wood fire.
“I wouldn’t have thought your reputation reached this far,” whispered Karl to the doctor. “I wonder if Leonardo would show us some paintings? I heard he brought some of the most beautiful ones to France. I would love to know how this sfumato—”
“I didn’t come here for advice on shading and brushwork,” growled Faust.
“I know,” said Karl with a sigh. “But I still fear the great Leonardo knows more about painting than about medicine.”
“We shall see.”
They entered a long room with an open fire crackling at one end. The room was dominated by a table that took up almost the entire length, atop which stood vases filled with fresh flowers. Late-afternoon light fell through the tall windows. The servant, who clearly struggled to stand for long, sat down on a stool in the corner. Karl sensed that Battista was secretly observing Johann, but every time he turned to look at the old man, his gaze was lowered.
Thus they waited for a long while. Just as Karl decided he would ask the servant, a door creaked open and a stooping old man came in. Karl took off his pilgrim’s hat, his knees shaking as if he were a young maid before her wedding. Seeing the famous master face to face was more than he could ever dream of.
Leonardo da Vinci wore a knee-l
ength rose-colored tunic and a yellow cap—bright, garish colors one would expect to see on a woman. The most notable features were his beard and the white hair that reached to his shoulders and framed his wrinkled face. Sparkling beneath the extremely bushy eyebrows was a pair of alert, youthful eyes that didn’t seem to match the face of an old man at all. Strangely, they reminded Karl of the doctor’s eyes, radiating spirit and wit and studying everything with childlike curiosity. But while Faust’s eyes were dark, almost black, this man’s eyes were pale blue, like the sky on a beautiful day in March. The old man spread his arms and gave a little laugh.
“Three dusty travelers and a large black dog,” he said to the doctor, who took a low bow. Karl and Greta followed his example. “I’ve heard about the dog, but I always imagined its master differently. Somewhat more”—he smirked—“imposing, scarier, well . . . more magical.”
“We tried to avoid causing a stir,” replied Johann, holding the old man’s gaze.
“Even though you’re much admired?”
“Much admired and much scorned.”
Da Vinci stepped forward, the two men standing face to face. Karl studied his two idols. It seemed to him like the meeting of two equal forces, two poles, simultaneously attracting and repelling each other.
“I see. A Doctor Faustus who doesn’t want to cause a stir,” said Leonardo into the silence. “What a shame. I thought you always arrive amid lightning, thunder, and smoke. That’s what I’ve been told, at least. I heard you sent the collective delegates of the empire running with a dragon at Bamberg.”
“That’s a slight exaggeration.” Johann smiled. The ice seemed broken, or at least there was a truce. “And by the way, I can’t fly, in case you’ve heard that, too. Not on a broomstick or a dragon.”
“Then it is all the more surprising that you took this long journey upon yourself just to visit an old man who is waiting for the end,” replied Leonardo. His voice was bright, somewhat feminine. He spoke Italian with the doctor, a language Karl knew almost as well as Latin. Greta, on the other hand, probably struggled to follow the conversation. She bent down and patted Little Satan, who had started to growl at the old servant.
“So it’s true what they say outside?” asked Johann with a worried expression. “Your life is coming to an end. You don’t look overly frail to me, though, if I may say so.”
Leonardo gave a dismissive wave. “I am not as feeble as they think or as the doctors try to tell me. Still, I feel that my time is nearly over. I . . . have my reasons.”
Karl looked more closely at Leonardo. As far as he knew, the great artist was in his late sixties, but he looked much older, drawn, as if some sort of demonic force had sucked out his strength before his time. Karl suddenly noticed that Leonardo’s right hand was hanging down limply, and his whole right side seemed a little stiff. The doctor noticed, too.
“Does your condition have anything to do with this paralysis?” asked Faust, nodding at Leonardo’s arm. “I’ve heard of it.” He cleared his throat and gestured at his own lifeless hand. Then he said in a low voice, “I think we have something in common, Master Leonardo. And neither of us has much time left.” Karl heard the anxiousness in his master’s voice. “Could it . . . could it be possible that we suffer from the same ailment?”
Leonardo said nothing for a long while. Outside, a blackbird chirped; time seemed to stand still. The head of the old servant had slumped onto his chest; he’d probably gone to sleep.
“Maybe,” said Leonardo eventually, looking at Johann very closely. “My ailment is very rare. Only very few share my affliction. To be honest, you would be the first one I’ve met in my life. Is that the reason you came here? Your paralysis?”
“I admit I had hoped to find an explanation here for this strange disease. Perhaps even the prospect of a remedy.”
“The ways of man are finite, and we can’t explore every path, Doctor Faustus. At least not with the usual methods and the brief time we’re granted.”
Leonardo pulled the torn half of the Figura Umana from a pocket in his tunic and held it out to Johann. His long, delicate fingers were studded with gemstone rings. “I never thought I’d see those pages again. I was in financial difficulties back then, and the Duke of Milan was kind enough to help. I always assumed he would burn the work.”
“It is an honor to return it to you,” said Johann. “What I want to know isn’t in these pages.”
“Some things oughtn’t to be written down. They are too awful—too . . .” Leonardo hesitated. “Too outlandish. People would never believe them.” He gently placed the ripped manuscript on the table between them.
“Then tell me about those things.” Faust carefully added the other half of the book so that it looked like it had never been torn apart. “Sometimes thoughts must complement one another to form a whole.”
“True indeed.” A mischievous smile spread across Leonardo’s wrinkly face. “I think the two of us can learn from each other, Doctor Faustus. Brothers in spirit.” He paused and gazed at Faust’s limp arm. “And maybe even more than that.”
Not long thereafter, Greta hurried back to the port of Amboise.
Her heart was beating fast, and not just because she was running. The meeting with Leonardo da Vinci had been impressive, but she hadn’t been nearly as moved as Karl. The men had conversed in fast Italian, and she had felt excluded. She’d soon realized that Leonardo wasn’t interested in her. Faust had introduced her as his daughter, but Leonardo had merely given her a nod. The conversation had soon shifted to scientific subjects and painting. Greta had understood that all three of them were welcome to stay at Château du Cloux, much to the dismay of Francesco Melzi. The quiet old servant had shown her to her room, and an equally old maid had brought her hot water. As soon as Greta had washed the dust from her face, she slipped back out the gate past an astounded Melzi.
Now she was heading down to the port, where John was waiting for her.
John.
She couldn’t get the red-haired, freckled, eternally grinning lad out of her mind. He buzzed through her thoughts like a fly. She was attracted by his charm and his wit, and most of all the ease with which he viewed the world. It was an ease both she and her father lacked.
Greta’s shoes sounded loud on the cobbled street. Now that it was evening, the lanes were quieter. Business was finished for the day, and the hordes of officials and courtiers were sitting in the castle or in their villas with a glass of wine. Since their hasty goodbye earlier that day, Greta had thought about the previous night again and again. It had been wonderful—more than wonderful. She and John had made love in the royal gardens of Blois for hours on end. She hadn’t felt the cold or the stones or the wet grass beneath her. In John’s arm’s Greta had slept well for the first time in a long while, without nightmares of dead children and a chalk-faced man beneath a bridge.
If he had noticed that it was her first time, he hadn’t let on. Greta was confused. She barely knew John, and yet he felt so familiar. She thought of his touch and his kisses and walked faster. Her mind was spinning. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him so soon after they’d met. She wanted to learn more about him, wanted to make love to him again, wanted to make love to him many more times. And now she would stay here at Château du Cloux with her father and Karl, and he would carry on his journey toward the Atlantic.
The Atlantic.
Greta stopped in the middle of the street. She had been unsure for so long, but now she believed she knew what she had to do. If John would have her, she would go with him! She could work just as hard as any man, and the boat would carry her far away—far away from all the horror and dark memories. John would take her to a better world. What did she have to lose? Her father had reached his destination; maybe Leonardo da Vinci would truly be able to help him. Karl would be fine without her. The two of them would understand. They had always known that it would come to this one day.
It was time to say farewell. Her life was heading in a new direct
ion.
Greta arrived at the harbor with a spring in her step. Sweating laborers carried crates past her; the air smelled both of stale water and of the great, wide world. Greta counted the vessels; there were more than this morning, a confusing maze of masts and sails. She walked toward where the Étoile de Mer had been.
And stopped dead in her tracks.
The boat was gone.
Greta looked around. She had to be mistaken. Perhaps it had been moved? But search as she might, the Étoile de Mer was gone. Finally she stopped one of the laborers and asked him in broken French about the boat. The man gave her a quizzical look at first, then his face brightened.
“Ah, l’Étoile de Mer!” he said. “Elle a quitté le port, il y a deux heures.”
Greta tried to clarify several times, but the man insisted.
The Étoile de Mer left port two hours ago.
Greta suddenly felt exhausted, as if she’d been walking for days. She dropped onto one of the bollards and stared out over the river, where vessels drifted past in the light of the early evening. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She felt so stupid, so ridiculously simple and naive, like a young girl from the country. She had made a mistake that she’d never made before.
She had trusted a man.
And she had been terribly disappointed.
9
IN THE WEEKS AND MONTHS TO COME, JOHANN WOULD often think back to the time he had spent at Château du Cloux with Leonardo da Vinci. He relished every minute, and every word uttered by the famous artist seemed to give him strength. Leonardo also flourished, despite his age and illness. It was as if two halves that had used to be a whole had found one another: on the one side there was Johann’s analytical, crystal-clear reason and his ambition, and on the other was Leonardo’s creative, chaotic way of thinking, as if he viewed everything through the eyes of a child and saw coherences where no one else had ever noticed any. Leonardo da Vinci was Johann’s new teacher, and Johann drank in each of the old man’s words.
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