UNAWARE THAT A knot was about to be tied in this deformed boy’s destiny, Schuster fell asleep on his bunk in his cell. The crowd outside the monastery in the village of Heisterbach, Upper Silesia, had grown and been joined by folk from other widely scattered mountain villages. For the rumours about the miracle worker had, at a given point in time, crossed the boundary at which temptation becomes mass hysteria.
He was woken at dawn by knocking at his door. Opening it, he found Kippenberg standing outside in the corridor, clad only in his nightshirt.
“What’s up?” he asked.
The abbot, deathly pale, was holding a candle in his hand.
“Hurry,” he hissed, “for God’s sake! They’re storming the building!”
Schuster dressed swiftly, stuffed his rosary into his breeches pocket and sent a guilty prayer excusing himself for neglecting the paternosters he’d sworn to say first thing that morning. In the novices’ dormitory, where half-dressed men were running around looking for their belongings, total chaos reigned. Schuster sensed the terror in their prayers, one was sobbing, another weeping. Panic was rife. A glance at the window made him stiffen. Outside were so many dirty, emaciated people. Peasant women half out of their wits were pounding their fists against the walls and doors. Beside him he heard the abbot yelling at the top of his voice to make himself heard, “Where’s the boy, Schuster? We must get him out of harm’s way. Can’t you see they’re out of their wits?”
“Isn’t he in his cell?”
“No, I’ve given orders to search for him.”
Somewhere from the direction of the refectory came the ominous sound of a windowpane breaking. The crowd’s roar came in even louder from outside.
“They’re breaking in,” the abbot gasped. “The boy has bewitched them.”
In a corner to Schuster’s left was crouched a young novice, trembling in fear, a scapular pressed against his chest. Further down the corridor a group of boys had gathered with spades in their hands, to all appearances prepared to defend the monastery to the last. But when one of them yelled “Where’s that child of Satan? Let’s get rid of him, once and for all!” he realised he had mistaken their intention.
Turning to the abbot, he shouted, “If the peasants don’t tear him to pieces, the brethren will. We’ve got to find him.”
Leaving the dormitory with Kippenberg at his heels, he followed the passage that led to the west wing. It was just getting light. Through the windows he saw the sun rising over the limestone mountains that in the dawn of time had assumed the shape of a group of slumbering Amazons. In the foreground the mob was swaying to and fro. Everywhere were people. They had surrounded the entire building, their clenched fists hammering on the doors and windows. Howling with excitement they were after the monster, screaming out their wretchedness, their bondage, all their humiliations: the bread they had to eke out with bark from young birch trees, the eternal childbirths, the starvation, the trials and tribulations sent to them by an arrogant God who never heeded their prayers. They needed this monster, Schuster realised with bitter clarity, for their existence was so miserable they were prepared to stake their last hope on a mere miracle worker.
Neither in the west wing nor in the kitchen was he to be found. They searched the storage rooms, the lavatory, and again the cell where he slept, all with no result. Steadying himself against Schuster, Kippenberg whispered feverishly, “In the chapel. We haven’t looked in chapel.”
To a sinister accompaniment of a human battering-ram beating violently on the monastery gates they hurried along the corridors. If the sluice gate doesn’t hold, Schuster thought, they’ll all drown, and none will be spared.
Rounding a corner, they halted at the chapel door. In there, almost drowned by the din outside, sounds of the organ could be heard, desperate ancient harmonies, a lachrymose melody of unhappy love.
Opening the door, Schuster stepped into a darkness more constricting than in the passage. The crowds were banging against the windows with their clenched fists and everywhere ghostly faces with wide-open mouths and feverish eyes were screaming at them to hand over the monster.
They found him sitting on the bench at the organ, staring blankly in front of him, his feet resting on the keyboard. Julian Schuster discovered experiences can touch one another, and miracles can repeat themselves; for now, just as he had that time in Tihuan’s hut half a lifetime ago, he heard a phantom voice inside him; the very same as had been pursuing him all day, and which he now realised was the boy’s.
Help me, it pleaded, for God’s sake . . . I’ve got to get out of here . . .
Dizzy, as if a plug had been pulled out and all the blood was leaving his head, Schuster sank to the floor, his face the greyish yellow of the splinter from Jesus’ cross the house kept in a reliquary. Unmistakably he felt the boy’s presence inside himself, in the confusion rummaging about in his own mind, reading his every thought as clearly as if it were printed in a book.
“Holy Mary Mother of God,” he whispered. “The boy’s possessed.”
But he got no further. For now the very thing he most feared happened. A dull crash as the gates gave way. It was like the Flood, he’d recall later, a sea of shouting, screaming people pouring into the chapel. And somewhere amid the flailing arms and hysterical faces the boy, terrified, being carried aloft like driftwood afloat on the agitated surface of upstretched hands.
III
GROPING WITH HIS sixth sense’s antennae for this mysterious invisible person who, in an unmistakably provocative tone of voice, kept speaking to him, beside the church on the Piazza Navona where God in His active days had allowed the blessed St Agnes’ hair to grow so long it covered her private parts, to be exact on the square metre where, according to legend, the martyr had halted and generously prayed for her executioners’ salvation, exactly there, was Hercule Barfuss.
Well, young man, the voice inside Hercule now said, why so jittery? Isn’t this what you do all day long, climb shamelessly in and out of people, listen to their most hidden thoughts, the snakepit of remorse, search out their anguished hearts, the thorny thickets of their blazing megalomania and inferiority complexes, their misgivings at a world being declared round though as far as the eye can see it’s as flat as a frying pan, all their congenital pettinesses, so trivial they’d die of shame if they knew you knew about them. Sooner or later you’ll have to allow for the contrary, that’s to say, the likes of me!
He looked around, hoping for a glimpse of whomever was addressing him; but due to his own insignificant stature all he could see, at waist level, were billowing crowds shouting, laughing, children crying, women blushing, men in breeches and filthy horsehair shirts guzzling wine from leather flasks and gesturing obscenely to some actors who were performing on a stage on wheels to one side of the market place.
Who are you? he asked, a trifle nervously, unsure whether this intruder wished him ill or was just making fun of him to pass the time.
I’m made of the same stuff as you are, unfortunate man, and our gift is the most terrible thing imaginable, is it not? What excitement is there in a life where nothing’s hidden any more? You see a beautiful woman and think how sweet creation is, and the next minute her entrails are revealed to you, the darkness of her soul, the swamp of stupidity and ill will as she looks at you with disgust. You see a little boy and think, what an uncorrupted human being. And before you’ve even had time to finish your thought and your ridiculous attempt to see youth as something glorious, you hear the same old tune from the depths of his childish soul: “I’m going to be a soldier when I grow up, and kill everyone in sight!” Behind the most delightful smile lurks an assassin. Behind the priesthood’s love of mankind lurks only contempt and love of power. With the passing of the years our gifts make us cynical, and that’s for sure . . .
Right in front of Hercule, a woman, horrified by the sight of him, crossed herself, and snatched up her little daughter in her arms to protect her from whatever misfortune might be heralded by so hateful
a spectacle. He tried to read her lips, but she was too quick for him, and instead, like a faint crackling sound, he heard her think: A monster . . . bad luck. Alessandro said they put the Evil Eye on folk . . . He calmed her with a brief negation of her fear, sending a sense of harmony through her instead; at which the woman, infused suddenly with a sense of security of whose source she had no idea, gave a cautious smile.
You can see for yourself! the voice inside him said. The likes of us must always be a step ahead, open up a back door into men’s hearts, whisper a few hurried words of reassurance, but take care to shut it behind us before they have time even to realise we’ve been there, because if they catch us at it they’ll burn us at the stake as sorcerers, or throw us in the lunatic asylum, something of which you yourself, if I’m not mistaken, have the most ghastly memories . . .
The phantom voice gave another laugh, this time not at all unfriendly, but rather sad, compassionate, reminiscent to Hercule of Schuster.
What do you know about that? he asked.
I know most things. What did you think? That you’re the only person in the world to be possessed of these faculties? There are more of us than you might believe, the age of sibyls and mind readers isn’t over yet, no matter how hard the men of the Enlightenment try to bury us in formulas, or how the priesthood wants nothing better than to have us put to death. I’m one of those clairvoyants in the service of truth, and in a way I’ve come further than you. After all, you can’t see me, you don’t know who I am; whereas I, on the contrary, have had my eyes on you for several days or weeks, to be precise, ever since you arrived here in Rome in the company of that sceptical old Jesuit and started your wide-eyed tour of the Eternal City, a free man for the first time, lucky fellow!
Up on the stage Il Dottore was in the act of reproaching the young Pulcinella for his foolishness and lack of initiative in a love affair, and a man in a black mask was approaching Colombina with a knife in his hand. But the crowds were melting away. “Malocchio, Malocchio!” (the Evil Eye) someone shouted, and had our hero been able to hear it, he might have shuddered at being the object of such an accusation, before realising that the warning was directed up on the stage at Colombina, whose life was in mortal danger but who, oblivious to this wicked world, had lost herself in the memory of her beloved and, looking wholly unconcerned, was sniffing his handkerchief perfumed with snuff.
People love theatre and spectacles, the voice inside him sighed, and that’s generally how we make our livings. Has it never occurred to you to make yours as a seer? Believe you me, you’ll strike them dumb, they’ll shower you with gifts and eulogies. There’s nothing more flatters a man than having his innermost self presented in a favourable light, especially if he’s sad and full of self-hatred. Use your talents, your phantom gift, join our association, dance with us in our Festival of Fools. Before you can say knife some mentally retarded prince will be rewarding you with your weight in gold, all because you’ve got him to swallow some brilliant prophecy based on petty secrets he imagines he has managed to keep, but which you’ve seen right through all the time!
The mob began jeering at the stage where Colombina, having been so ingeniously stabbed from behind, was bathing in her virgin blood, and the final line was being delivered by a tearful Harlequin holding up the murderer’s dagger.
You poor thing, the phantom voice went on, you seem quite lost. So many people, so many thoughts and feelings, all so confusing! But beware, young man, all too often the likes of us end up in trouble. And considering what your face looks like, why don’t you wear a mask like Harlequin and Il Dottore up there? It’d spare you all the shame and cries of horror and facilitate an incognito . . .
Hercule Barfuss was intent on trying to locate whomever it was, somewhere amid this sea of people, playing hide-and-seek with him. And by and by, albeit very faintly, he managed to trace the outline of his observer, perhaps only because he was being allowed to do so. Never before had he encountered so cleverly closed a mind.
He searched at waist level, between men’s legs, amid the belts on women’s skirts, instinct telling him that the man who was addressing him stood at the same lowly altitude as himself, was perhaps squatting down, or leaning over, the better to survey him.
Not bad, he heard the phantom voice say. You’re getting closer, bird or fish or something in between! Anyway, what are you doing here all by yourself? Where’s that guardian of yours, that Jesuit brother?
At the Vatican, he replied, on the same wavelength the other was speaking on, as he shut out the stench of rotten fish, of horse droppings and rubbish barrels, the sweet sickly smell from spice vendors and florists’ shops, ignoring a shove from a drunk in the crowd, who a moment later, staring down horrified at this grotesque apparition, crossed himself. He shut off all four of his other senses so as to focus wholly on his search for the source of this petulant voice inside his head.
At the Vatican? Do you have the least inkling of what plans are being concocted over your head? Doesn’t it occur to you that the abbot had some special design in sending you all this way? If I were you I’d watch my step. And what about the girl you’re searching for, have you found any traces of her? There there, don’t forget I’m as familiar with your thoughts as I am with the contents of my own trouser pocket, you simply haven’t learned to shield them. I’ve been following you for two weeks now and you’ve noticed nothing.
Following me, why? he asked, surprised.
People like you interest me. For professional reasons. You might be useful to me, but everyone has to go through a trial period . . . I’ve checked up on you, put you to certain tests, to see what you’re made of. The problem here appears to be the girl, you simply don’t seem able to get her out of your mind.
What do you know about Henriette? he asked nervously.
No more than your unending obsessions have revealed. Anyway, how was your journey? From what I understand, you’ve come as a pilgrim from afar.
How was my journey? he thought. Each day had been like Creation’s first. Not a moment had passed since he’d left the monastery without his experiencing something for the very first time. Unfamiliar smells, the landscape, changing as he and Schuster had travelled south, the plains, rivers, the stupendous Alps; people they had met or looked at through the carriage windows, the colours and tastes, the pines and olive groves that as twilight fell over the fields looked like sleeping animals. The world’s sheer size and wealth had filled him with amazement. But on another score the voice was right: a thousand times on his journey he’d taken soundings amid all these people. Somewhere out there, in this continent called Europe, he kept thinking, she must be. Somewhere in this complex weave of time and events that links people together she must have left her imprint, dropped a stitch. Such was the hope he had nurtured ever since they had left Silesia. If only he could come across a memory of her in the mind of someone who had seen her, whether recently or long ago made no odds. Encounter someone who’d glanced at her if only for a brief instant yet retained the image of this girl for whom he never gave up searching, and whom he loved with a force able to defy the laws of nature.
In the gloom of taverns he had fumbled in the innermost psyches of chance encounters, floated adrift in their memories, been shipwrecked in an archipelago of sorrows, gone astray in a nautical chart of dreams. In draughty attic rooms shared with travelling salesmen and pilgrims, in the transient atmosphere of post houses, in godforsaken villages, at the gates of clamorous cities, by waysides, changing horses at the post stations, in the unassuaged longings of men in whom painful memories suddenly flared up like torches, in the pasts of beggars that struck him like sad melodies as they stretched out their hands to passers-by, engrossed in a happier past that had been sunnier, warmer, better. Day and night he had gone on searching in his mad hope that the age of miracles was not yet over. But nowhere had he found any trace of her.
Get a hold of yourself, the voice interrupted his ruminations. Stop thinking about that girl and look behi
nd you!
He gave a start. Up on the stage the actors were taking a final bow after their last act.
Slowly the crowd dispersed, clearing his view. Now, in the light of the Roman sun, Hercule saw him very clearly. His instinct that had told him to look for his observer at eye level had been correct. The person in question was standing only a few yards away, beckoning eagerly to him to follow. Not bent double, as he’d guessed at first, or squatting down to get a good look at a real-life monster. It was a boy, dressed in a tatty black coat, his face hidden behind a Venetian-style carnival mask.
It was in the October following the storming of its gates that the head of the monastery had decided to send Hercule to Jesuit headquarters at the Borgo Santo Spirito in Rome, there to be examined by the Inquisition’s special committee on demonology, which had only recently, after some years lying fallow, retrieved its authority.
According to the version Abbot Kippenberg had given Schuster, what they wanted to ascertain was the source of the boy’s gifts. Did these derive from a brighter or a darker source? Were they subject to some rational explanation in line with those modern Enlightenment ideas that, to the horror of some and the secret delight of others, were gradually gaining ground even in the venerable Society of Jesus.
The Horrific Sufferings Of The Mind-Reading Monster Hercules Barefoot: His Wonderful Love and his Terrible Hatred Page 9
