The Witch of Cologne

by Tobsha Learner

  As the red wig slips from the young transvestite’s head to reveal a crown of dark cropped hair there is something about the aquiline beauty the cleric recognises. Dropping his pipe, he dives into the mêlée of flailing arms and flying punches.

  ‘Alphonso!’ he screams.

  He reaches the bleeding actor and pulls him out of the forest of wrestling men that has suddenly sprouted on the tavern’s floor. Together they bolt up the stairs to the sanctuary of Detlef’s chamber.

  ‘The fortunes of the actor are as fickle as the sea and invariably involve indignation of one sort or another.’

  Alphonso, stripped down to undergarments of bloomers and a short petticoat, winces as Ruth stitches a deep gash in his forehead.

  ‘I cannot describe what an odyssey it has been, a great epic of tragic and absurd destiny. I no longer have a heart,’ he declares dramatically.

  ‘I was grieved to hear of the death of Prince Ferdinand,’ Detlef tells him solemnly. Alphonso’s masquerade of frivolity immediately switches to the raw vulnerability of a grieving youth.

  ‘Sacrificed to his uncle’s ambition. Murdered on the battlefield fighting the Ottomans. I begged him not to go—he had about as much soldiercraft as I have—but he was determined to prove himself to that wretched relative of his. It was a plot, I knew it, I had gathered information myself for Leopold’s Jew, Oppenheimer. I warned Ferdinand but he would not heed me. Leopold needed a Hapsburg martyr—well, now the bastard has him.’

  Pushing Ruth’s hand away, Alphonso tries to hide his sudden sobs. Detlef, sorry for the actor’s loss of the young prince he so obviously loved, puts his hand on the man’s heaving shoulders. Alphonso briefly kisses it, then collects himself.

  ‘Thank you for your kindness, Herr von Tennen. I apologise. I have had no will to live since my good prince’s slaughter. But perhaps your plight will give me back my purpose. What is your plot?’

  Ruth looks at Detlef, then answers for him. ‘My husband would storm the house and steal back our child, but I fear they plan to arrest him.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt.’ Alphonso turns to Detlef. ‘Does anyone know of your presence in Cologne?’

  ‘No one, as far as we know. Although naturally my brother will be expecting me to appear at any minute.’

  ‘Then we shall not disappoint him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I am not without my resources. I know the count’s townhouse as well as the count himself from accompanying Ferdinand on his visits to Cologne. I also have my troupe with me, my fellow actors are posted around this fair city at various taverns. We are recently returned from an unfortunate season at the spring market at Aachen where we performed a wonderful rendering of Euripides’ Medea. The artistic sensibility of which, I’m afraid, was lost on the ignorant mob and resulted in an abrupt halt to the performance as well as several of my players being assaulted with a variety of vegetables, most of which were, unfortunately, inedible. However we still have our costumes and paint. I might be able to provide some powerful distraction which will afford you an opportunity to free your son and flee.’

  ‘A disguise and an entertainment? My brother is a devious man and knows your face well. This has to be an ingenious plan indeed.’

  ‘It is remarkable how men, given the choice, will only see what they want to see. Trust me, in my time I have deceived my own mother.’

  ‘I can truly believe it.’

  ‘You tell me your brother is recently bereaved?’

  ‘Alas yes, his hunting master was killed in an accident two years ago.’

  ‘Herr Wolf?’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘From the prince’s excursion to Das Grüntal. This tragedy could augur well for our cause. A grieving man is a vulnerable man. The first part of the prologue shall be my acquaintance with the nursemaid…’ the actor begins thoughtfully, the pulse of inspiration already beating through his veins.

  A goblet of fine Venetian crystal containing red wine stands on a table beside the four-poster bed. Draped in a canopy of mauve silk, the roof of the bed is painted with a cavalcade of muscular male angels led by Mars himself. Count Gerhard von Tennen reclines on the feather bed, dressed in a Turkish gown that was a gift from some distant ambassador. This time of night, between the town-horn of midnight and two in the morning, is always the loneliest. There is much of the day he would have shared with his companion: humorous observations, ambitions, discourse, the architecture of intimacy that can only be constructed through years of living together. Something one simply cannot buy or replace, the count observes wryly as the now-familiar ache of desire seeps through his body. Two years have passed but Hermann’s absence has evolved into a longing which seems to increase not decrease with time.

  The world-weary aristocrat reaches for the large key hidden under his pillow. It is the key to the lock on the bedroom door behind which his nephew is secured. The shape of it under his fingers reassures him that Jacob is secure and that Detlef’s appearance is inevitable.

  He glances across the bed. On the other side neatly hangs Hermann’s nightgown and nightcap, like faithful hounds awaiting their master. The count cannot bring himself to burn them. He likes to bury his nose deep into the fine cotton and find hidden between the woven fibres the lingering scent of his dead lover.

  He groans out loud, then reaches for his customary glass of Madeira. Hoping to be transported to some Valhalla where he will no longer be conscious of the loneliness and guilt which infuses his whole being, he drinks the wine swiftly. The culinary pleasures that once delighted him are now rendered bland and tasteless by sorrow.

  While his back is turned, a hand reaches up from under the bed and pulls down the dead gamekeeper’s clothes, swiftly tugging them out of sight.

  Oblivious, the count lies back and stares at the flickering candle that sits on a carved chest beside the French doors which open onto a wooden balcony. Below lies a walled courtyard lined with orange trees imported from Spain; he used to sit there with Hermann each day, breaking the morning bread. Smiling, he remembers his lover’s laughter, the way it would burst from a shy placidity, a silence the count used to find truculent until he realised Hermann was a man who spoke with his body and hands but would always struggle with words, as if he found the complexity of language itself an unnecessary hindrance. It was enough for the count when the gamekeeper used to reach out suddenly in the middle of a half-formed sentence or a smile and take his lover’s finer hand in his own huge bearlike paw. Language is for scholars and effeminate courtiers who have little else, the count thinks, turning onto his side as a mysterious drowsiness seeps through his blood. He stares at the candle flame. It splutters then becomes a red glow which begins to throb with a strange intensity.

  Transfixed, he surrenders to a detachment that makes him feel as if his body is lifting up from the bed. It is as if Mars himself is reaching down with his strong muscular arms and gathering the count to his manly bosom, he could almost stick out his tongue and lick the salt off the bronzed shining skin of the war god.

  ‘Gerhard…’

  His lover’s voice emerges from the velvet darkness, its seductive timbre tickling the back of his mind.

  ‘Hermann?’

  The count struggles to sit but finds that a great weight seems to be pinning him down. He turns his head: a man stands in the doorway of the balcony, his great broad shoulders and flowing hair silhouetted against the night sky of Cologne.

  ‘Hermann…could that possibly be you?’

  The ghost says nothing. A cool breeze drifts through the open doors bringing with it the unmistakeable aroma of worn leather, sweat and the faint scent of hounds, the smell of the pack the hunting master took with him always.

  ‘It is you, Hermann. Could this be a miracle?’

  ‘No miracle, my knight, but a manifestation to please you, to comfort you in your grief. But to keep me here you must shut your eyes and silence your doubts for fear of driving my spirit away. Lie back and
allow me to pleasure you.’

  How articulate and softly spoken Hermann has become now that he is an angel, the count notes dreamily as he falls back against the pillow. His heart races as his gown is untied. His lover’s hands, the calloused palms achingly familiar, run up his naked legs. The long strong fingers massage his thighs, the soft skin of his groin, touching him everywhere except his cock, which, now standing, quivers under the warm breath of his lover.

  ‘Hermann, Hermann,’ he murmurs, ‘you were my life, my reason for being.’

  As his lover’s burning mouth finally closes over him, taking him as he always did with unbearably slow strokes, the count, arching in ecstasy, fastens his fingers in Hermann’s hair. Overcome by pleasure he does not notice that the texture is not even remotely similar to the hair of his dead hunting master.

  ‘Slowly, slowly,’ the count moans, sitting up, eyes still squeezed tightly shut. Unnoticed, a tiny stunted hand creeps under the pillow and swiftly removes the large key.

  The actor, a dwarf affectionately known as La Grande, carefully places the key between his teeth then crawls along the floor to the door. He glances back at the bed where Alphonso, wearing a horsehair wig and Hermann’s gown with its padded shoulders, crouchs over the count performing fellatio. Winking at his colleague, La Grande reaches for the doorknob.

  Outside, Ruth and Detlef stand on the landing, immobile like ice sculptures, too afraid to move. Holding their breath they wait at the door of Gerhard’s chamber. Ruth’s amulet hangs around her husband’s neck, hidden under his shirt. Suddenly the door swings open. Detlef, clutching his dagger, lifts it ready to strike. Just before he is about to plunge down, La Grande, his large misshapen face shiny with excitement, pops out like the Punch from a puppet show. The performer gestures lewdly then, grinning, drops the gleaming key into Detlef’s free hand.

  The three of them creep silently to a door at the far end of the corridor. Detlef slips the key into the lock and turns it. The door pushes open with a sudden creak. They freeze.

  Nothing. The household slumbers still.

  Jacob lies on a small straw pallet in the corner of the room, clutching his toy rabbit. A china washing bowl and jug stand beside the bed, a bowl of half-eaten whey thrust to one side.

  Ruth runs over and wraps her arms around the sleeping child. ‘Jacob? Jacob!’

  She cradles him, resting his tousled head against her bosom, while Detlef kneels beside them, running his hands over the child to search for any injury.

  ‘Mama?’ Jacob opens his eyes sticky with sleep. ‘You took a long time to come. I have seen four mornings since and yesterday uncle told me he had sent a carrier pigeon. Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘No, child, we’re here to take you back home to Amsterdam. But you must be a good boy and keep quiet all the while, until we are inside the coach.’

  ‘I have been brave. You will be proud of me. But where’s Uncle?’

  ‘Uncle is sleeping and we have to be very quiet so as not to wake him, mein Ayzer,’ Ruth whispers, aching with love as the warm smell of Jacob’s sleepy body encompasses her.

  Detlef wraps his son in the blanket and picks him up. As he does, the leather thread around his neck breaks and Ruth’s amulet slips off unnoticed, its fall broken by the soft pallet. The boy curls up against his father’s shoulder, his hot arms winding around Detlef’s cool neck. Led by La Grande, the three make their way along the wooden landing and down the servants’ stairs to the back door.

  Alphonso, stripped of his costume but still in the horsehair wig, stands waiting for them.

  ‘The count sleeps but the hemlock will soon wear off. You must hurry, there is a cart beyond the city gates.’

  The skinny performer arches his body then executes a few sharp dance steps in the vain attempt to warm himself. The straw hat slips rakishly over his head as the empty street echoes with his tapping feet. Suddenly he stops, remembering that he is not meant to be drawing attention to himself and the ramshackle cart beside him. Those were Alphonso’s instructions: wait for them at the gates, look like a dumb farmer from south of the Rhine, be prepared to drive as far as the Dutch border and there’d be an extra twenty Reichstaler in it and a better role in the next production. Cheered by the thought of a major part, perhaps even that of a heroine, the ungainly performer—far better suited to comedy—slouches into instant anonymity.

  ‘Hugo!’

  He swings around at the sound of his name, a pencil-thin fool spinning like a maypole in the dawn mist.

  Alphonso, followed by La Grande then a woman and a man carrying a child, emerges from the shadows. ‘Anyone see you?’ the actor asks anxiously, peering down the Roman wall that leads out of the city towards the west.

  ‘Nothing but the owls and a few drunks who thought I was the rat catcher,’ Hugo replies, pulling idiot faces at the sleepy child who finally laughs much to the clown’s delight.

  Detlef examines the simple cart, a mere frame covered by sackcloth. Stinking of pig shit, it resembles the roughest of animal transport. ‘They are to travel in this?’

  Alphonso lifts the sackcloth. Inside is a comfortable pallet; blankets and a basket of fruit and cheese sit in the corner.

  ‘The pig shit is a decoy, to deter the curious. Trust me, you shall be in Holland by nightfall.’

  ‘Not I—my wife and child.’

  Behind Detlef, Ruth moans involuntarily, her deepest fear realised. Horrified, she steps forward. ‘Husband, you must come with us.’

  Detlef hands the sleepy child to her. ‘Take Jacob, I will join you later.’

  She looks at him blankly, not fully understanding. ‘That was not the plan.’ A terrible sensation of déjà vu reverberates through her, the way Detlef is looking at her now, his eyes full of love yet determined.

  ‘Ruth, I have to stay. There is much I must resolve with my brother.’

  ‘Have you lost your reason? He took our child! Do not let him take you as well. You must leave with us now, you must.’

  ‘If I leave now I will be betraying everything I have fought for, I will be denying the possibility of redemption. He is my brother. I cannot leave without an explanation. It will not take a moment and it will be comfort for a lifetime. I shall be safe, my love. I will join you in less than half a day. Wait for me at the border.’

  ‘Detlef, no! I fear…’

  ‘Please.’

  He searches her face for understanding. She has to allow him this, he thinks, for without forgiveness he cannot maintain his faith and that would be a living death. He is at the mercy of her decision and yet there is only one way for her to decide if their union is to survive.

  The moment stretches until at last Ruth, reading all in his face, takes his hand and kisses it, then closes his fingers over the kiss.

  ‘We shall wait for you then, just over the border.’

  Loving her more than he has ever done, he presses his lips to hers.

  ‘Take care of our child. I will join you within the week.’

  He walks with her towards the cart.

  ‘May love protect you, my husband.’

  Without glancing back, Ruth climbs up, helped by Alphonso and La Grande.

  The spy, Georges, huddles in the doorway of a bakery three doors down and across from the count’s townhouse. Fuck this weather, the winter will be bad if it is this cold in October, he thinks. Shivering, he wonders whether he should send his manservant out for more burning peat in the morning. Deciding that he will, the informant pulls his wide-brimmed hat further over his freezing ears. As an owl hoots in the distance he glances back at the aristocrat’s dwelling.

  Several shadows move across a pool of moonlight. Georges leans forward, squinting as he tries to penetrate the darkness, muscles tense with expectation. The silhouettes shorten as a pack of stray mongrels emerge silently from the gloom and trot swiftly around a corner.

  Disappointed, the spy swings his gaze back to the house. Just then the dull glow of a candle flares in an upstairs bedroom
, illuminating the shape of a tall man wearing a hat passing the window. By Georges’ calculations he has a quarter of an hour left. Pulling his cap low, he sprints towards the cathedral.

  The knife glints as a sliver of moonlight catches its blade. The tip presses into the soft sagging neck of the drugged man, pushing as far as it will go without breaking the skin. The white pores stretch and flood pink at the point where steel meets skin.

  Detlef has been crouching over his brother for what seems like hours. His stilled body, motionless like that of the hunter, is deceptive for within him a momentous struggle is taking place.

  He could kill him so easily with one swift cut to the throat; it would be almost painless. He wants to, there is an instinct within him screaming with rage, a silent diatribe that roars from his thudding heart to his pounding brain. His brother stole his child from him; he has almost destroyed all that Detlef has fought for. But to murder is a sin, it would reduce his soul to less than an animal. Regardless, anger, revenge and blind fury surge through him like a torrent.

  Finally Detlef lifts the knife away and stands, trembling violently. Lifting a jug of water he throws it across his brother’s face. Gerhard groans, opens his eyes, then rolls to one side to vomit onto the woven rug next to the bed.

  Somewhere in the room the count can hear a voice. His brother’s. For a moment he struggles to remember the sequence of events: a memory of Hermann…the sense of him, his touch, mouth, face come drifting back. How is that possible? The man is dead, you sentimental idiot, long gone, the count chastises himself. Finding that his thoughts still spin, making it difficult to form a cohesive image, he realises he has been administered an opiate.