by Leo Perutz
"Balkan," Dr Gorski whispered to me.
Herr Albachary invited us with a gesture to sit down, and looked at us searchingly for a moment, before turning to me.
"I think I am correct, baron," he said, "in believing that you were my son's superior officer. Edmund Albachary, a one-year volunteer. Also I know your name from the turf, baron."
"Edmund Albachary, one-year volunteer," I said, vainly searching my memory. "Edmund Albachary, of course. It must have been some time ago. How is the young man?"
"How is he? Who knows? Perhaps he is well. He has not been living with me for the past year, unfortunately."
"Is he away? Is he abroad?"
"He's away, yes, he's abroad. Much farther than abroad, I'm afraid. If I travelled day and night for ten years I would not reach him. I also knew your father, blessed be his memory, baron, it must have been thirty years ago. To what can I attribute the honour of this visit?"
I felt rather embarrassed. I had not intended to mention my name. Nevertheless I decided to play the part that had been allotted me and told him what I wanted.
Herr Albachary listened politely and attentively without changing his expression, and once or twice he nodded as if in agreement with what I said.
"You have been misinformed, baron," he said when I had finished, "I'm an art dealer, though nowadays I'm only a collector. I have never been in the finance business, though occasionally I arrange loans to oblige good friends who apply to me, and I should of course gladly put myself at your disposal, baron. May I ask what sum you have in mind?"
"I need two thousand kronen," I said, and I noticed that Dr Gorski was shifting uneasily on his chair.
The old gentleman looked at me in surprise.
"I understand, baron, you have been speaking in jest. You are in urgent need of two thousand kronen, and two minutes later you offer me half a million for my Gainsborough."
I did not know what to say to this. Dr Gorski bit his lip and looked at me furiously. Felix came to the rescue.
"You are perfectly right, Herr Albachary, it was a joke," he said. "We knew you do not like showing your art treasures to every Tom, Dick and Harry, and we did not choose a very clever way of introducing ourselves to you. Is that your Gainsborough?"
He pointed to a painting on the wall facing us which I had not even noticed.
"No, that's a Romney," Herr Albachary said indulgently. "George Romney, born at Dalton, Lancashire, portrait of Miss Evelyn Lockwood. The original was in my possession, I sold it to an Englishman only a few days ago."
"So it's a copy?"
"Yes, an excellent job, not quite complete, as you see, some details are just sketched in. A brilliant young painter, recommended to me by a professor at the Academy. Too brilliant, unfortunately. He committed suicide."
"Suicide? Here, in your flat?"
"No, at home, in his own flat."
"But he worked here with you," said Dr Gorski, who intervened at this point. "In which room? Can I see?"
"In my library," the art dealer replied in surprise. "It's the best place, it has the morning sun."
"One more question, please, Herr Albachary. How long has your son been in an institution for nervous diseases?"
"Eleven months," the old man stammered, looking at the doctor with a horrified expression. "Why do you ask?"
"I have good reason to do so, Herr Albachary, as you will see in a moment. May I ask you to take us to your library?"
Gabriel Albachary led the way in silence. Dr Gorski stopped in the library doorway.
"There is the monster," he said, pointing to a huge book, of a size such as I had never seen before, on a carved Gothic lectern in the bow window. "That is the monster. That book is responsible for the disaster that happened to your son. That book was the cause of Eugen Bischoff's suicide. That book ..."
"What are you saying?" Albachary exclaimed. "It's true that he read that book the last time he was here. He came to look at pictures of old costumes, but when I left he was standing in front of the lectern. 'Stay as long as you like, Eugen, I'm going to have lunch,' I told him, we were old friends, I had known him for twenty-five years. 'If you want anything, ring for the servant,' I said, and he said he would. That was the last time I saw him, because when I came back he had gone, and the gentleman who was here three days ago also asked to see the book, and made notes, and said he would come back."
"He didn't come back, he couldn't, he died that same evening. Where did the book come from?"
"My son brought it back from Amsterdam. What is the meaning of all this, for heaven's sake? What is in the book?"
"That we shall find out straight away," Dr Gorski said, opening the heavy, copper-lined cover. Felix stood behind him, looking over his shoulder.
"Maps," Dr Gorski exclaimed in surprise. "Theatrum orbis terrarum, an ancient geographical work."
"Maps engraved on copper and coloured by hand," Felix read aloud. "Dominio Fiorentino. Ducato di Ferrara. Romagna olim Flaminia. Nothing but maps. Doctor, we've made a mistake."
"Go on turning the pages, Felix. Patrimonio di San Pietro et Sabina. Regno di Napoli. Legionis Regnum et Asturiarum principals. Next come the Spanish provinces . . . Stop. Don't you see? The back is covered with writing."
"Quite right, doctor, it's Italian."
"Yes, old Italian. Nel nome di Dominedio vivo, giusto e sempiterno ed al di Lui honore. Relazione di Pompeo del Bene, organista e cittadino délia città di Firenze . . . This is it, Felix, we have it. Herr Albachary, will you let me have the book?"
"Take it, take it away from here, I never want to see it again."
"Yes, but how, for heaven's sake? How can I take it away, I can hardly lift it."
"I'll send two strong men from my laboratory," said Felix. "It will be at my place at three o'clock this afternoon."
NINETEEN
In the name of the living, eternal and righteous Lord of heaven and in His praise. Description by Pompeo del Bene, organist and citizen of the city of Florence of the events that took place before his eyes on the night of Simon and Jude in the year MDXXXII after the incarnation of Christ. Written in his hand.
As I shall complete my fiftieth year tomorrow and as to all appearances a man in this city may lose his life before his time more easily than he believes, I shall this day, after refraining from committing it to paper for many years, confess the truth so that it may not be forgotten and relate what happened during that night to Giovansimone Chigi, known as Cattivanza, the renowned master builder and painter known today as the Master of the Day of Judgment. May God forgive him his sins as I pray He will forgive mine and those of all His creatures.
When I was a boy of sixteen I chose to devote myself to the art of painting from which I proposed to earn my livelihood, and my father, a silk-weaver in the city of Pisa, sent me to the workshop of Tommaso Gambarelli, with whom I worked on many great and fine works. But on 24 May, on the eve of the holy feast of Pentecost, on the same day as the enemy took Monte Sansovino, the said Tommaso Gambarelli died of the plague in the Spedale della Scala. So in the name of God I sought out another master and went to Giovansimone Chigi, whose workshop was next to the second-hand dealers' booths in the old market.
This Giovansimone Chigi was a small and surly man. He wore a blue cloth cap with ear flaps in summer and winter alike, and anyone seeing him for the first time might well have taken him for a Barbary pirate rather than a Christian and a citizen of Florence. He was so mean that he gave me less than half a loaf a week. Before I had been with him for seven weeks I had already spent five gold florins of my own.
One evening when I came home from mathematics school my master was in the workshop deep in conversation with Messer Donato Salimbeni of Siena, a physician who was in the service of the Cardinal Legate Pandolfo de' Nerli. Messer Salimbeni was a man of fine intelligence and venerable appearance, widely travelled and highly experienced in the art of preparing medicines and potions. I knew him from my time with my previous master, when his excell
ent remedies had given me great relief after I caught a fever from the damp air on a ride to Pisa.
When I entered Messer Salimbeni was looking at a picture of the Madonna surrounded by angels while my master was pacing up and down in front of the fire, for it was cold. When Messer Salimbeni saw me he beckoned to me to approach.
"And this one?" he asked.
"I have only him," my master replied, with a grimace. "He paints flowers and small animals in praiseworthy fashion, and that is what he is best at and, if I needed to put owls, cats, song-birds or scorpions into my pictures, he could be really helpful to me."
He sighed, and bent down to throw two oak logs on the fire. Then he went on:
"When I was young I did much fine work and enhanced the fame of this city with my art. It was I who made the bronze St Peter which you still see in front of the altar in the church of Santa Maria del Fiore. At that time more than twenty sonnets were pinned to my door, all of them praising my work and me, and I was also showered with other and greater honours. But now I am an old man, and I can no longer do good work."
And he pointed to a Christ teaching in the temple and to a Mary Magdalene being borne up to heaven by angels, and said:
"What you see there is nothing. I am well aware of it, and you have no need to say so, for nothing is more oppressive than adverse criticism. In my youth I saw visions, and I saw God the Father and the patriarchs, I saw the Saviour, the saints, the Virgin Mary and the angels. I saw them in marvellous fashion wherever I looked, up in the clouds and here below in my workshop, I saw them with a clarity and vividness that the intellect alone could never achieve; and as I saw them so did I paint them, and there were not many artists who were my equals. But now my eyes are dim and the visionary fire has gone out."
Messer Salimbeni was leaning against the wall. I could not see him in the darkness and only heard his voice.
"Giovansimone," he said, "all human wisdom and knowledge is patchwork and less than patchwork, is smoke and shadow in the face of the Lord. Nevertheless it has been granted me when raising my thoughts to God to solve some of the mysteries with which this transient world is filled, and I can give you back what you call your power to see visions, and I can even awaken it in those who have never before possessed it, and I can do so with ease."
My master listened attentively to this, and for a short while stood deep in thought. Then he shook his head and burst out laughing.
"Messer Salimbeni," he said, "the whole town knows that you boast of many secret arts and skills, but that when it comes to putting them into practice you always have excuses ready. What you have just been telling me was certainly no more than another of your boasts. Or did you learn the art of which you spoke at the court of the Mogul or the Grand Turk?"
"The art of which I spoke," said the learned physician, "is not one of those heathenish arts, for I owe it to the goodness of God alone. It was He who showed me the way to knowledge. "
"In that case," my master replied, "all I desire is to see something of that art. But let me tell you one thing, and that is, if you make a fool of me, it will be so much the worse for you."
"Today there is not much more we can do than to agree on a day when we can do the thing," Messer Salimbeni said. "But first I advise you to consider very carefully, Giovansimone, for it is a stormy sea on which you are about to launch yourself, and perhaps it would be better for you to stay in harbour."
"You are right, Messer Salimbeni," my master replied. "This is a case for caution, for everyone knows you are my enemy, though you speak to me with the respect to which I am entitled. I cannot trust you."
"It is true, Giovansimone, and there is no point in passing over in silence the fact that there is something between us," said the Cardinal Legate's physician. "You had a quarrel with Dino Salimbeni, my brother's son, and he spoke hard words to you, and you said aloud so that all those present could hear you: 'Just be patient, the day will come when this matter will be settled,' and a few days later he was found dead on the path through the fields leading to the monastery of the Servi friars, he lay there with a dagger stuck in his neck."
"He had many enemies, and I foresaw his misfortune," my master muttered.
"It was a Spanish misericordia dagger, and the smith's name was engraved on the blade," Messer Salimbeni went on. "It belonged to a man who had fled here from Toledo, and they seized him and took him before the Eight. He denied his guilt and insisted that he had lost the weapon the night before among the traders' booths in the Old Market, but they didn't believe him and he mounted the cart."
"All honour to the verdict of the Eight," said my master, "and things that have happened are over and done with."
"Things that have happened are never over and done with," said Messer Salimbeni. "And those responsible for them have to face divine justice."
"Let me just tell you this," my master replied. "I had a commission to paint St Agnes with the book and the lamb, and I was at home working on it when Messer Cino came seeking to make his peace with me, and we drank together and parted as friends. And next day when the crime was committed I lay ill in my bed, as I have witnesses to prove. And, as truly as God is in His heaven and I pray that He will be merciful to me on the Day of Judgment, so it was and not otherwise."
"Giovansimone," the physician explained, "it is not without good reason that they call you cattivanza, wickedness."
When my master heard himself referred to by that name by which he was known his fury knew no bounds, for that was something he could never tolerate, and his fury deprived him of reason and he took the wheel-lock musket he kept loaded in his workshop and brandished it like a maniac and yelled:
"Get out of here, you rogue, you priest's bastard, get out of here and never let me set eyes on you again."
Messer Salimbeni turned and went down the steps, but my master ran after him with the musket in his hands, and I heard him raging and cursing outside the house for a long time.
Some while later, it was on the eve of the feast of Simon and Jude, Messer Salimbeni turned up again, and he spoke and acted as if there were nothing between him and the Master.
"The day you were waiting for has come, Giovansimone," he said.
The Master looked up from his work, and when he recognised Messer Salimbeni he grew angry again.
"What are you doing here again? Didn't I throw you out?" he said.
"This time you will welcome me," the physician replied. "I am here so that we may do what we discussed, because the time has come."
"Just go away," the Master said irritably. "You said dreadful things about me, and you shall pay for them."
"To those who have done no wrong my words did not apply," Messer Salimbeni replied, and then he turned to me and said:
"Come, Pompeo, this is no time to sit idly playing the flute. Go and get me this and this."
And he gave me the names of the herbs and substances he needed for his fumigations and the quantities he needed of each. Among the herbs there were several I knew nothing about, and there were others that grow on every hedgerow. He also wanted two pints of brandy.
When I returned from the apothecary's the two were in agreement in every particular. Messer Salimbeni took the herbs and the substances from my hands and explained to the Master that this was this and that was that, and then he made everything ready for his exhalations.
When he had finished we left the workshop, and on the way down the steps the Master showed Messer Salimbeni that he had a sword and a dagger under his coat.
"Messer Salimbeni," he said, "don't think I should be afraid of you if you were the devil himself."
We went down the Via Chiara, crossed the Rifredi bridge, and passed the fulling mill on the other side of the river and the little chapel where the marble sarcophaguses are. It was a bright night and the moon was in the sky, and at last, after we had been on the way for an hour, we came to a hill on one side of which the ground fell steeply to a quarry. Nowadays there is a house there called the Villa all
'Olivo, but then goats browsed there in the daytime.
Here Messer Salimbeni stopped and told me to gather brushwood and thistles and make a fire, and he turned to my master and said:
"Giovansimone, this is the place and the time has come. Once more I say unto you: Take counsel with yourself, for he who submits to such an ordeal must be of strong and confident temperament."
"All right, all right," the Master replied. "Stop beating about the bush and begin at last."
Messer Salimbeni then very ceremoniously described a circle round the fire and led the Master into the circle, and then he threw a little of his fumigatory material into the flames, and as soon as he had done that he left the circle.
A thick cloud of smoke rose out of the fire and surrounded the Master, and for a while concealed him from my sight, and when it thinned Messer Salimbeni threw more material into the flames. Then he said:
"What do you see now, Giovansimone?"
"I see the fields and the river and the towers of the city and the night sky, and nothing else," the Master replied. "Now I see a hare running across the fields and, oh, wonder of wonders, it has been tamed and saddled."
"That is indeed a remarkable sight," said Messer Salimbeni, "but I think you will see many more such tonight."
"It's not a hare but a goat," the Master exclaimed. "It's not a goat but an oriental creature the name of which I do not know, and it makes the most extraordinary jumps and leaps. Now it has vanished."
The Master began bowing as if greeting someone.
"Look!" he exclaimed. "My neighbour the goldsmith who died last year. He doesn't see me. Poor Master Castoldo, his face is covered with sores and boils."
"Giovansimone, what do you see now?" the physician asked.
"I see jagged rocks and ravines and gorges and caves, and I see a rock, coloured black and hovering in the air, which is a great and hardly credible miracle."
