“If I can find it,” Fust said quietly. He looked at Peter’s cap, then back up at his face. “My say-so hasn’t counted much, these past few years.”
“I did your bidding.” He’d never satisfy him, ever. “I stayed, as you requested, learned this trade. I think I’ve done my duty by your wishes.”
Fust took a long breath, and then he slowly let it out. They stood a pace apart, but between them Peter sensed a packed and hard-edged distance, dense with disappointments.
“You left me long ago,” his foster father murmured. “Your choices, as you call them, have been yours a good long while—more his, I think, than mine.”
“This isn’t anything to do with him—but me, my life.”
Fust gave the lightest shrug. “I have no power over you. You’re nearly thirty, well past any hope of listening to guidance.”
“I’ve listened to you more than half my life.” Peter’s chest was filling now, the heaviness between them seeping ineluctably inside. “I listen to you still, and ask you to consider my own happiness.”
The large head dipped, and Peter saw the losses layered in those once-bright eyes. “I wish you well—you know I’ve always only wished for you the best,” his father said.
“Then wish me this,” he softly answered. “We’ve almost done what we set out to do—together. Let’s finish it that way. Let me remain—not lost to you, but near, giving you books, and grandchildren to honor you, as long as I am able.”
Fust closed his eyes and sought; he prayed. His forehead creased as he stood waiting to receive, head bowed above the linen altar of the chest on which reposed his crucifix.
“Go then with God.” He opened up his eyes. “May you and yours remain forever in His hands.” He held one hand out toward his son, a look unreadable upon his face—bittersweet in parting, yet softened by the bond that always would exist between them.
His hand hung half a heartbeat in the air until Peter clasped it.
“I always hoped and prayed to make you proud,” he said. “And that will never change.”
A flicker lifted Fust’s gray lips, and with a nod he shifted toward him and the two of them embraced.
What was this feeling that shot through him, prying open every vessel underneath his skin? That prickled at the lining of his chest, lifted the blood into his cheeks, the hairs upon his arms, as he stood with one hand lifted at that bright blue door? The gold of summer lighted the blue glaze, the same blue tint that once had stained her fingertips. He’d half forgotten he could feel this, had consigned it to a frozen depth. But now he knew, his fingers reaching for the knocker: this was joy.
Klaus Pinzler’s shock was clear upon his narrow, bearded face. His mouth worked for an instant as he looked upon the long-lost suitor on his doorstep. His eyes went to the bunch of daisies Peter had gone culling from the fields.
“I’m much delayed,” said Peter slowly, letting time expand, so that in this one drawn-out instant the whole year past might dissolve. “I’ve been a fool,” he told the man. “But I would hope to learn more patience in this house.”
Klaus wonderingly shook his head. Across his cheeks, a fleeting twitch. “You are a lucky man.” His lips made a straight line. “Luckier by far than I might have allowed.”
Anna, then, had spoken of him somehow. Her father stepped back and opened wide their house.
Peter should have made his declaration then—as Anna’s mother came to join Klaus, drying off her hands and searching Peter’s face, his Sunday clothes, with anxious eyes. But this to him would have been one more wrong he did their daughter. These were new times, he a new man. He could not ask her father until he showed her the respect that she was due: to choose herself, and to give freely her own hand.
“With your permission, I would speak to Anna,” Peter said. Klaus looked at his wife. Alone, he’d have refused, but Anna’s mother nodded.
Above them, stepping lightly down her ladder, floating almost, Anna came: not retiring, but aglow, her dark hair flowing. Her parents disappeared behind the curtain to the kitchen. Peter held his arms out as she put her foot on the last step but two, and she released the rail and soared toward him. He smelled vanilla in her hair and musk; his lips brushed the soft down upon her cheek. Blood hammering, he set her down, hands lingering about her ribs, the dainty cage that held her heart. Her skirts were full as he went down upon his knees.
“Peter,” she said, reaching out her hand, but he would not be raised. He took it, pressed it to his lips. He looked up in those large and shining eyes and could not speak at first for the emotion.
“Get up,” she whispered, smiling, bending, dropping a light kiss on his head. The brush of her against him, breathing, the slight pressure of her breasts, fired him with desire. Firmly then he grasped her by the waist and held her out, away.
“If you will have me,” he said huskily, “I would make you my beloved wife.”
She opened her red lips; her cheeks flared up. “Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes.” She smiled; her body shuddered, and the tears sprang in her eyes. She freed her hand to dash them, and then, turning, looked toward the alcove where her parents waited. “Papa said yes?” she asked in a low whisper.
Peter stood and reclaimed both her hands. “You had the right of first refusal.”
A look of sheer delight infused her face. She bit her lip, a girl again; a little laugh escaped. “You never follow any rules.” She was still smiling, dark eyes bright.
“Just rules you give, from this day on.” He pressed her hands back to his lips. She beamed at him, and then, all seriousness again, she smoothed her skirts. “I’ll wait upstairs, then.”
He watched her float back up. Then he turned back to the old ways, formality and gravity, the manner in which such things were done. He sought and gained permission, posted banns. The fathers settled terms, modest though they were. Fourteen days later they all met again beneath the painter’s roof to seal it with the handshake. The harvest was upon them; they’d have to wait at least until the grain was in. But in the eyes of Mainz their fates were joined, and so at last could be their bodies, after all this time.
It happened in a hayfield one late summer evening, when the sky was a deep teal, pricked by some early stars. The handles of the pitchforks jutted from the stacks in a loose ring that Anna fancied wove a charm around them. Her dress was sprigged with flowers, but the flowers he most wanted were these two, he said, and peeled the fabric from her shoulders. She lay against the mound, and arched her back, eyes closed, as he caressed her breasts with lips and hands. Her legs and skirts were wound and crossed around his hips, and he could feel her strength, her force, her youth and hunger, in the flexing as they kissed. Gently Peter slipped his hand beneath her head and raised it, looking for a moment into those clear dark eyes. “I would not hurt you for the world.” She laughed and pulled his face to hers. “No one can hurt us now,” she whispered, and he felt himself expand and open, with a rush of blood, the power flooding through his body and then hers. She cried out as he entered her, but just as quickly threw her head back, opened to him. Squeezed and rolled with him in pure abandon, like the creatures that they were, alive, aroused, withholding nothing underneath the open sky. They fit together like two interlocking pieces, red and blue, then gilded, flecked about with stars: the sense of freedom and surrender, when it came, was nothing he had ever felt before. No one could touch them now; he fondled her; he grazed his lips upon her throat, her belly. Anna darted her light tongue across his cheeks, his closed and dreaming eyes. She’d always be there, at his side. Her skin beneath her clothes was just as white as the thin vellum she had finally accepted as that other love of his—those metal letters with which henceforth she would share his life.
CHAPTER 6
THURSDAY AFTER SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX
[65 of 65 quires]
22 August 1454
THE FINAL SPRINT was blind, their bodies pumping with rote motion. The last page to come off the press was from Ezekiel, th
e prophet. Gutenberg was there as the sun set, to watch all hundred eighty copies of that page emerge that final night. All that was left now was the gathering of pages into books and printing off the guide to rubrication.
Already Peter sensed it all unwinding: Keffer and Ruppel printed the master’s letter of indulgence; the Bechtermünzes and the extra boys had been let go, at least for several weeks. Peter and Mentelin prepared the guide that would be used to letter in the red incipits and explicits, lines of prologue, with instructions for their proper placement in the printed text. The psalter waited patiently: all efforts were directed toward the Bible, and Autumn Fair.
The night advanced, and then the run was halfway done. The master stood by Neumeister, joking with the men as each page was peeled off. Peter stood up suddenly. “He never thinks of anybody but himself,” he said to Mentelin, who only nodded, eyes fixed on his lines.
“My father should be here,” he said to Gutenberg. Amazing, that a man could live for sixty years and still remain so ignorant. The master was all smiles; his breath was ripe. “Indeed,” he said. “A step or two ahead as always, Peter. I am in your debt.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” he responded wryly. A boy flew through the darkness to fetch Fust, and then Lorenz arrived with Keffer, pushing one of Gutenberg’s more precious private barrels. The wine was poured and shared around to all except the printers at the press. Fust came, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and when the last page settled on its pins, the master stopped the pressman with a hand. With a tilt of his gray head, he gestured toward his partner. Fust and Gutenberg put all four hands upon the bar.
“Heave-ho,” the master cried, and they both strained and with great effort dropped the platen.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” Fust murmured as the master peeled the page off, clearly stirred.
“Oh ye of little faith.” Gutenberg laughed.
He spun and took up glasses, handing them around. “Well, men,” he said, and raised his high. “We made it, thanks to you—and the protection of the Lord.” His eyes were burning just as bright as Peter’d ever seen them. He clanked his cup against each man’s in turn and stood for a long moment before Fust. “Let the Bohemians and Dutchmen eat our dust.”
“Amen,” Fust said. He was moved, and yet contained, it seemed to Peter.
The master turned to Peter. “There’s nothing like it on this earth.”
It was Mentelin who said they ought to raise a glass to Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, whose feast day had just passed. It was the order of Cistercians, after all, who had first harnessed God’s Creation for man’s use.
They raised their cups, and Peter wondered if he’d ever climb that mountain track to their great cloister above Eltville that the master had described some years before. The men were jabbering, the winecock flipping back and forth, and in that exultant clamor a strange and lonely feeling stole into his heart. He saw himself a solitary pilgrim, toiling all alone up the steep slope. To Gutenberg, they’d reached the summit: the dizzy height, the shocking newness of this Bible he had birthed. It was all his, the toil, the brilliance, and the long, exhausting haul. And everything that followed now for him would be a spreading, and a forking, from this monumental start.
Peter watched his flying hair, his twisted beard, the sparking in his gold-flecked eyes, and knew it was a moment Gutenberg could savor, and he should—though Peter felt a caving-in, surrounded by his fellows.
So much had come between the middle and the end. So little thought was spared for what might come thereafter. He watched his father nod farewell, slip out the door. His thoughts turned then to Anna, and to the psalter he had come to think of as his own, waiting patiently to be composed.
Hans was leaning on the wall with one knee up, foot braced behind him. He’d told them all that when the book was done, he’d pack his things and head back home to Strassburg. Though things were changed between them, Peter could not picture it—the workshop without Hans’s gnomish, precise presence. He was a loyal servant, and old-fashioned, he supposed.
The smith looked straight across the room at him and raised his cup. Peter touched a finger to his cap in answer. Hans straightened, bellowed “Oy!” The tumult stopped. He barked out, half embarrassed, “A toast then too, to Peter. Fancy hands kept us on track.”
The master added his hoarse voice to their loud cheers. “I give you Peter Schoeffer, men—the greatest printer who yet lives, save one!” There was a flash of warmth between the master and his long-ago apprentice, just before the roaring laughter.
Gutenberg had told him, not a week before, that he should never spurn that bread-and-butter work, that there were many ways to beat their plowshares into swords. He reveled in the war against the Turk, the master said: it was a matching of the wits, the wages of the devil beaten back by their own tempered, brilliant sword.
The master told them all that night that they’d have work in Mainz so long as he had breath. No danger, Ruppel cracked, of running out of that. Gutenberg just laughed. Not just such mighty works, he went on, but books small and large, in Latin and the common tongues, for princes and for paupers and the church. “That is”—he grinned—“so long as they keep off my back.” They had to hand him that: for all of Dietrich’s power, he had never learned about their secret scriptures.
The wine was put away; the folded sheets were hung to dry. As they closed up, the master put one hand on Peter’s back and said, “You choose your quires.”
It touched him, that he understood that need in him: to have the darkest, crispest ink, the cleanest bite, to gather for his copy the most perfect sheets that he could find.
“What about you?” the foreman asked. “I can easily assemble two.”
“Wait a while.” Detached, almost amused, the master lifted one scraggly eyebrow. “You never know what ballast you might have to drop.”
Anna oversaw the painting of the quires by that odd Austrian inside her father’s workshop. As the painter finished every sheet that Fust had set aside, she hung it carefully to dry, then marked it and refolded it. In this way, she said, she moved now through the scriptures as she pictured Peter doing all those months: verse by verse, chapter by chapter, book by book.
“I am amazed, I find,” she told him. Perhaps it was that fine illumination, married to his text, which helped her to accept it. His type was artificial, yes: but even so the words it made were still the same. Vain, to stand against it: printing would roll out and inundate the world regardless. “But maybe there can still be care in it.” She looked intently at him. She prayed each day that they might keep some contact with the old and treasured ways.
They moved the rest of the copies Fust required up to the Kaufhaus on the day before the convoy left for Frankfurt. Two dozen had been earmarked for his buyers, who had taken the whole book illuminated, rubricated, and then bound.
Fust and Gutenberg were bent above the benches in the pressroom, mumbling like witches: this score, then fourscore more, also spoken for by long-since-spent deposits. In all, eighty copies still remained to offer at the fair. Each double set of books weighed nearly a stone: what beasts indeed, thought Peter, looking at each massive pile. Twelve hundred eighty-two imprinted pages: from the doorway of the shop they looked like giant loaves.
A dozen paper copies went in Fust’s cart, and then another eight of vellum. Hard as he tried, Peter couldn’t read his father’s mood. He had not shared his thoughts since he’d received the full accounting. Yet all would work out right; Peter felt it in his bones. They’d sell them all and right the ship somehow. The joy of finishing, and love, did buoy him. All was in place to carry on: Mentelin would stay in Mainz, to finish off the psalter type, while Peter went to Frankfurt with the partners.
The copies Peter had selected for his father were exceeding fine. Fust did not take the time to notice. He simply nodded when the cart was loaded, and asked if Peter could help put them into storage. He had arranged to have the barrels carted to the Kaufhaus treasure roo
m on the first landing. Both keys were needed to unlock that space, one held by Kraemer of the grocers’ guild, the other key by Jakob.
“A tidy fortune,” said his uncle as they tripped the tumblers in the proper order. Tightly Johann Fust said, “Yes.”
Twelve paper, each at thirty guilders; eight vellum, each at ninety: eleven hundred guilders, in their raw, unpainted state: another hundred when they added in the painting and the binding.
“You ought to keep the lot,” his brother said, “for all the likelihood you’ll see a penny more.”
“Tsss,” hissed Fust. He glanced at Peter as if he didn’t want his son to hear.
It pierced him to the quick. He felt a sickening, familiar pang—one he’d not felt for many years. Not since he’d first arrived in Mainz and entered Jakob’s shop—an interloper, fatherless, untrusted. How dare they? Peter thought, his face tight. How dare Fust think that he could not be trusted? He ought to take his love and ride to Frankfurt—then keep riding, throw off this suffocating loyalty, once and for all.
Kraemer had slipped away; the brothers Fust stood stroking their two chins, one whiskered and one bare.
“We leave at first light,” his uncle said to Peter.
Peter looked at Fust. “It sounds as if I’d be more welcome on the boat.”
Gutenberg had argued that the convoy, even with its large armed guard, was too unsafe. He planned to take the books upriver on the ship himself.
“Don’t be absurd.” Fust made a sour face. “I never said it was your fault.”
“It?”
“This mess,” said Jakob.
“Come,” his father said. “Sit with us for a minute.”
They climbed up, then sat facing one another in the office until Fust leaned forward. “I need to know,” he said, “which stand you’ll man.”
“What are you driving at?”
“We need a close eye kept on the deposits.”
Gutenberg's Apprentice Page 32
