There was another reason for choosing Mainz: it had a strange balance of the religious and the secular. The citizens had earned the right to elect their own government and manage their own financial affairs, rather than have the Church do it for them. Though my place in Engelthal hadn’t been particularly important, I’d feel better knowing we were in a city that maintained a certain autonomy from the Church. Nürnberg was too close to Engelthal both geographically and historically—after all, it was from Nürnberg that Adelheit Rotter had led the Beguines to establish the monastery.
Having decided upon Mainz, we now had to get there. I couldn’t travel any farther in my nun’s habit, because I would feel as if I were lying. Although I didn’t yet know how to define myself, I knew I was no longer a sister. We found a place that sold the current fashions, and that was an education in itself. I tried on a surcot with large openings at the arms, the kind that I’d been taught were “windows to Hell” because they’d tempt men to reach inside. Such a garment was not for me. In the end I decided upon woven tights and a simple tunic. I packed my nun’s robes into my rucksack rather than throw them away. Even if I wanted to, there was no way I could toss them as garbage.
We entered Mainz on the east side, through the gates that opened onto the Rhine. You would not believe how fascinating it was for me. There were people shouting! I know that doesn’t seem like much, but remember that I’d lived my entire life in a monastery. We pushed through the crowds by the food stalls, and past the drunks stumbling out of taverns. Not a single person bowed in my direction, as they’d always done when I was in my habit. I was just another citizen.
We headed for the poorer areas of town, in search of the cheapest accommodations we could find. Eventually we found decent lodgings in the Jewish section behind a shop run by an older couple. They were a little puzzled by why we’d want to live there, because it didn’t take the woman long to place me as Christian. I assured them that the last thing I wanted to do was press for converts, and this was good enough. I suppose our sincerity was obvious and they could see that we were nothing more than an anxious couple in love. Whether we were or not was another story altogether—I certainly wasn’t sure yet—but so we appeared to our landlady. We paid our first few months in advance and they even gave us some bread in welcome.
We took some time to explore the town, as you weren’t ready to immediately throw yourself into the hunt for work. I had my fingers crossed during that entire first week, hoping that we’d like the city and, more important, that we’d continue to like each other. Mainz was only a kilometer or two across, not so large, but there must have been twenty thousand people. A good size at the time. There was a citizens’ center with a market in the northeast corner, and the first time we visited we encountered a lively festival. The city hall was there, as well as the hospital dedicated to the Holy Spirit, the one that I’d suggested when you were first burned. There was an orchard on the west side, and a pig farm run by the Antonite monks. For some reason, they believed that raising swine perfectly complemented their other work of caring for the sick.
The sheer number of religious orders in Mainz was remarkable. There were the Franciscans, the Augustinians, the Teutonic Order, the Carthusians, and the Magdalens, and…I don’t know, too many to remember. But I was most interested in the Beguines, who were essentially nuns without any formal orders. Given my situation, you can imagine that I felt a kind of kinship with them—they were not quite of the Church but not quite of the world, either. They seemed to be everywhere on the streets and it lifted my heart a bit. Even though I had deserted Engelthal, I had no intention of deserting God.
The Cathedral of St. Martin towered over all the other churches in the city. It was built under the direction of Archbishop Willigis around the year 1000, because he needed someplace grand after securing the right for German kings to be crowned in Mainz. But on the day before its official consecration, St. Martin caught fire. It seemed to develop a taste for flames, in fact, because by the time that we arrived it had burned twice more. I always thought that there was something appropriate about that. Burned three times, resurrected three times.
St. Martin was a thing of great beauty. There were bronze doors and a stunning carving of the Crucifixion, and beautiful tracery windows that flooded the nave with amazing colors on sunny days. There was a main choir loft behind a transept and a secondary choir loft in the east. It contained the tombs of some of the archbishops—Siegfried von Epstein, I think, and Peter von Aspelt. During our years in Mainz, a tomb for Archbishop von Bucheck was added. You couldn’t step into the place without feeling the weight of its history.
After we finished our exploration of the city, you set about finding work. You knew that you’d have to start at the bottom, but you were certain your work ethic would ensure that good things would follow. Every morning you got up early to visit all the churches under construction, and every day you’d be turned away by them all. Then you started visiting private houses being built, commercial buildings, and new roads, but all these worksites turned you away as well. You became as well known around the construction sites as a colorful dog, but no matter what you did, no one would offer you a job.
Your first problem was that you refused to lie. When foremen asked about your experience, you were always forthright that you’d not practiced masonry for some time. When they asked about what you’d done in the interval, you would say that you’d been a soldier. If pressed about exactly what type of soldier, you’d remain quiet. But the real reason you were turned away, time after time, was your burns. They weren’t nearly as extensive as they are today, but try to imagine the superstition of the age. Who knew what a burned man had been involved with, especially if he withheld the details? Something sinister, no doubt.
Every night you’d drag yourself home, but you’d take a moment outside the door to our lodgings. You’d straighten your clothing, and then clench your fists and splay your fingers a few times before shaking a smile onto your face. I know this because I used to watch you through the little window. Before you entered, I’d reposition myself so that you never knew that I’d seen it.
My pains in adjusting to our new life were different. I felt oppressed by the freedom. With no schedule of prayers to follow, I visited the churches around town on my own time, but it was different praying when I really didn’t have to. I started teaching myself to prepare food, something I’d never done in the monastery. I stuck with fresh vegetables and fruits, thinking I couldn’t go wrong, until, after a few weeks, you indicated that you’d appreciate something more “substantial.” That meant something heated, something involving meat. Overcooked, undercooked, mixed improperly, I managed to destroy just about everything I lit a fire under. You smiled your way through my efforts, hiding the scraps in your pockets and telling me that I was getting better. More kindness on your part. In the end our landlady, who could no longer stand the smells from my kitchen, finally showed me enough tricks to get by.
But cooking was simple, compared to playing the role of a lover. God, was that terrifying! But again you were patient, certainly more than I could have reasonably expected. Perhaps in part that was because of your burns; some nights you were too tender to be touched. You weren’t innocent and it would have been naïve of me to expect that, but you never apologized for the fact that you’d known women before me. There was the time before we met and the time after, and that was that. Just as I’d left my previous life behind, I had to accept that you’d done the same. For the most part it wasn’t too difficult, although sometimes I had to wrestle my jealousies into the closet when you weren’t looking.
There was an advantage to your experience in the arena of physical love. Strangely enough, it was the same thing that I had spent my entire life trying, but failing, to perfect in spiritual love. I never had to lead, I only had to receive. You introduced me to a sensuality that I had no idea I possessed. I discovered that I…Look at me, all these years have passed, and I still blush. I still can’t
talk about it. Let’s just say that I had always lived with my vows, but after a few months with you I realized that a life of chastity was hardly any life at all.
In any case, I adjusted to living outside the monastery. I still visited St. Martin but I was soon praying for your health and success in finding work, which meant I was praying for what I wanted to happen rather than for what God did. Outside the church, I found myself talking to the Beguines on the street, and I struck up friendships with a few.
The Church basically considered it unbecoming for amateurs to meddle in the affairs of God, but that’s not how it appeared to me. The Beguines were working the streets and living out their vows of poverty; they presented quite a contrast to the churches, for I was discovering that the majority of priests were unqualified and even corrupt. The Beguines supported themselves on what they earned from small crafts and hospital work, supplemented with people’s donations, rather than by imposing mandatory taxes. Each night they returned to their beguinages so they could start the whole process again the next morning, and their sincerity was beyond question. It was not long before I came to believe that the main reason the Church opposed the Beguines was because these amateurs made them look bad.
The Beguines couldn’t quite figure me out. I could speak at length on the Bible and I could read both Latin and German. I had studied all the biblical scholars and masters. I knew about Mechthild von Magdeburg, a mystic of great importance to the Beguines, and was familiar with her masterwork, The Flowing Light of the Godhead. I knew all these things, but I couldn’t—wouldn’t—tell them how or why. I was impressive but confusing. What interested them most, however, was my extensive knowledge of bookmaking. I knew more than their own experts, who made the Pauper’s Bibles they handed out on the streets.
Winter was approaching; you still hadn’t found employment, and the repeated rejections were taking their toll on you. The construction managers were becoming increasingly hostile to your repeat visits, and each night you dragged yourself home with less energy. You started berating yourself for the inability to “do what any decent man should be able to do.” I was learning yet another lesson about the outside world, the lesson of male pride. I wanted to help you but any suggestion I made was met with anger. It didn’t make it any easier that I knew you were angry with yourself, not me.
Another major impediment was that you lacked your journeyman’s papers, which were expected of any worker your age. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t your fault, that it was never your plan for both your parents to die while you were still a boy. But there it was. The Masonry Guild was strong and you simply didn’t meet their requirements. Something had to be done, and quickly, because our funds wouldn’t last forever.
So I made two decisions, and told you about neither. The first thing I did was to offer my services to the Beguines. Not as a member, but as a freelance worker.
Their production of the Pauper’s Bibles wasn’t complicated, just woodblock printing of images and text, but I found them impressive nonetheless. So few people could read that the pictures were the only way to bring religious stories to the masses. Stories from the New and Old Testaments were placed side by side, so the reader could contemplate their connection: rather than underestimate the readers, the Beguines tried to engage them in reflection. Still, I knew that I could improve the quality of the writing and suggest better scene combinations. The Beguines were unconvinced, so I provided some samples and they had to admit I was good. When they remained leery about including an outsider in their work, however, I decided that it was time to tell them about my life at Engelthal.
Upon learning this, they could not bring me into their ranks fast enough. They didn’t admit it aloud, of course, but I suppose they thought that if they rubbed up against me, maybe a little bit of Engelthal would rub off. While they couldn’t afford to pay me, they made me gifts of bread and turnips. This actually made things easier because when you came home from job hunting I could tell you, honestly, that the food was a charitable donation. I didn’t have to say that I was earning while you were not.
The second thing I did, I’ve never told you before now. Please remember that it was a long time ago, and I hope you’ll forgive me.
You got up one morning and prepared for your daily search for work. I asked, casually, about which churches you’d visit, and you answered that you’d start with St. Christoph before moving on to the Poor Clares and then St. Quintin. After that, you really didn’t know. When you went out the door, your heels dragging, I put on my nun’s robes for the first time since leaving Engelthal. I headed to St. Quintin, knowing that it would take some time before you arrived there.
“It will be a beautiful church,” I said to the construction manager. “The nave seems relatively short and the aisles are tall. It’s an interesting effect.”
He thanked me, but knew full well I wasn’t there to talk about architecture. Politely—because who wants to insult a nun?—he asked about the real purpose of my visit. I’d come on behalf of a friend, I answered, a man in need of work. A man covered in burns. The manager rolled his eyes and answered that, yes, a man like that came by every goddamn day, pardon his language, but they had enough workers. Besides, the man’s appearance unsettled the other workers.
I used my most soothing voice, the one I’d developed specifically to speak about God. “But surely a man must not be judged by appearance alone. I know for a fact that this man has an excellent heart and a history in stonework.”
The manager responded, politely again, that your work history seemed to have been interrupted for many years while you were some sort of soldier, and a mercenary unless he guessed wrong.
I neither confirmed nor denied the construction manager’s guess but I did suggest, rather cryptically, “There are soldiers who fight on God’s behalf, men whose actions are necessary but not bragged about in public. So I ask you again, in constructing a church as fine as this, surely there must be room for one more worker? Even one with some holes in his history? I can personally vouch for his character.”
He looked me over from top to bottom and asked where, exactly, I was from. I answered that I was from Engelthal, not indicating that I was no longer an active sister. I couldn’t tell if the man was impressed or not. He’d obviously heard of Engelthal, because he nodded. He said that he’d see what he could do but that he wouldn’t make any promises.
“I thank you for indulging me. Should you find a spot for him, please do not tell him that I was here. He’s a proud man and it would be well if he believed his persistence had paid off.” I bowed and, for good measure, mentioned to the manager that I’d pray for him.
After changing out of my habit, I headed directly to St. Martin. Not to pray for the construction manager’s soul, as I’d suggested, but for my own. My deception in the clothing of the Church had made me sick to my stomach. When I left the cathedral, I did not have any feeling that I’d been forgiven. I had asked for a sign, but none was shown.
Until that evening, when you came through the door exhausted but smiling and covered in stone dust. “One of the managers took me on today.”
Weeks passed, and you made a favorable impression at the site. When work ran out at St. Quintin’s, the manager recommended you to St. Stephan’s. It continued that way through the winter, you shuffling from one church to the next. You built a small reputation and made some friends, and each day you were overjoyed to bring home a handful of coins. I heated water and filled a large bucket so that I could wash you. You were still scarred and tight, and I massaged your body until the knots loosened. The work was difficult for any man, but because of your injuries it was twice as bad for you. Still, you were becoming stronger each day. I’d feed you whatever we could afford, usually only turnips or dark bread, cheap cuts of sidemeat, and whatever I’d secretly earned from the Beguines.
There was always just enough money to keep us in our lodgings. Our landlady continued to teach me about cooking and introduced me to some of her friends. It
took time for them to accept me, because relations with Christians had always been complicated for the Mainz Jews—stories were still told about the massacre at the hands of Emich’s Crusaders, and how the archbishop had once tried to expel all Jews from the city. But as they were living and conducting business within the city, it was impossible not to deal with all types of people. I suppose they decided that since I never pressed my religion upon them, they could accept me as an individual.
So now I had some Jewish acquaintances to go with my Beguine associates, and you had the construction workers at sites all over town. I stopped praying for a sign that I’d made the right choice in leaving Engelthal. I knew that I had.
In the spring, a mason you’d befriended made an unusual and unexpected offer. He said that he was “tired of training stupid little boys” and was longing for the company of a man. If you didn’t mind the low pay, he’d petition the Masonry Guild for a special exemption to take you on as an apprentice. He warned that it would not be easy and that there’d be a cut in your current income, but in the end you’d receive your journeyman’s papers. We only discussed it for a few minutes before deciding that an offer like this might never come along again. There was some difficulty in convincing the guild but in the end they agreed, and that’s how you became the oldest apprentice in Mainz.
You threw yourself into the work, arriving early and leaving late. You did whatever was asked, never complained, and paid deep attention to all your instructions. It didn’t hurt that you had a natural aptitude for stone. The lessons you had learned under your father had not been lost over the years.
The Gargoyle Page 27
