From the case where everything was in perfect alphabetical order, he looked a little farther on from Palladio, Pantheon, and Parthenon—a large book of reproductions of Piranesi's Carceri.
When he opened it, it gave Quinten a jolt. Almost! It was almost there, his dream!—the same rooms continuing endlessly in all directions, full of staircases, bridges, arches, galleries; the deep shadows without sources of light; everything filled with the same still air. But in these etched prison visions it seemed chilly and dank, while in the Citadel it was warm and sweet. Except for him, the Citadel was empty, but here there were figures to be seen everywhere; the pillars and the massive, decorated facade were also missing. Only in combination with the decors of Palladio and Bibiena would it have really resembled the scenario of his dream.
"Now I'm gradually getting a vague idea of what you're looking for," said Themaat. "But in that case we'll have to look at a completely different kind of book than we have up to now. You don't want existing buildings but architectural fantasies. By the way, do you know that Piranesi is also the man who made your favorite print over there?"
"My favorite print?"
Themaat pointed to the framed etching that stood on the floor against the bookcase.
Quinten looked at it in astonishment. For years the print had merged with the other things in the room, he had never noticed it: the obelisk next to the building with the Scala Santa, the Sacred Staircase.
43
Finds
In the early summer of 1980, the two new movable mirrors were inaugurated in Westerbork—not by Onno's successor, but by the minister himself. Onno and Helga drove with Max from The Hague and were welcomed by Diederic the governor, who was shortly to retire. Apart from that, everyone from Leiden was there—at the center the old director, now eighty, but still upright, as if he were the axis around which the globe of heaven turned. The whole of Dwingeloo had also naturally appeared, even Tsjallingtsje, but that was because she wanted to see Sophia and Quinten at last. Quinten had initially not wanted to go, but when he heard that his father would be there, Sophia and he had naturally come, too. When Max saw them all together in the control building, with a glass of champagne in their hands, he was reminded of a certain kind of thriller, in which all the suspects were finally gathered in the lounge of the hotel, where after an acute reconstruction the detective singled out the culprit, whom one would never have thought capable of doing it.
After the speeches and the ministerial finger on the button, a large part of the company, including Tsjallingtsje, walked to the thirteenth and fourteenth mirrors, which were a mile and a half away; some of them were still holding their glasses of champagne. Floris, who knew how far they had to walk, had put a bottle in his pocket. Sophia stayed behind with Helga in a circle of astronomers' wives, who had seen enough, while Max, Onno, and Quinten walked into the grounds. Onno, who was in Westerbork for the first time, had put a hand on Quinten's shoulder and was listening to Max. Only the villa belonging to the camp commandant was still standing; the huts had given way to a broad, innocent-looking expanse of grass with an occasional tree, surrounded on all four sides by woods. As they walked along the former Boulevard des Miseres, Max tried to give Onno a picture of the scenes that had taken place almost forty years before; looking at the boy he controlled himself, but Quinten suddenly asked:
"Are you a Jew?"
Max and Onno glanced at each other.
"My mother got on the train here and never came back," said Max.
"And what about your father?"
"Not him."
"Is he still alive, then?"
"Not for a long time."
Quinten was silent. Since he had talked to Mr. Spier about it, he hadn't thought any more about the Jews—it shocked him that Max, too, was connected with those things: his mother had even been murdered by Hitler! It did not concern him, but it gave him a vague feeling of guilt that he had never known about it. What did he really know about Max? Last year he had heard him say that he had to go to Bloemendaal, to his foster mother's funeral; he had not asked any more about it, but now he understood why Max—like he himself, in fact—had had foster parents.
At the buffers the rails and sleepers had been left, neatly framed by a kind of curb. Max showed them that the buffer was new; the old one was close behind it, almost completely forgotten. The end of the rails had been bent upward by an artist, as though in that spot the last train had gone to heaven.
"It's all gone for good," said Max, letting his eyes wander over the site.
In the distance the cheerful group of worthies and astronomers walked past the majestic row of parabolas, pointing at the blue sky like the rails; their laughter resounded faintly across the plain. While neither Max nor Onno knew what to say next, Quinten looked back and forth between the mirrors and the rails, which reminded him of the antennae of a grasshopper.
"If you ask me," he said, "one day you'll be able to see here very clearly what happened during the war."
Max and Onno looked at him in alarm.
"May one ask what you mean, Quinten?" asked Onno.
"Well, it's quite logical. Max once told me that we see the stars as they used to be. So on the stars they see the earth as it used to be. If the people on a star that is forty light-years away from here look at us with a very powerful telescope, then they must be seeing what happened here forty years ago, mustn't they?"
"Is that right?" Onno asked Max.
Max shivered. "Of course."
It amazed him that he had never had that idea: the image of Westerbork as a transit camp was now rushing at the speed of light through space between Arcturus and Capell A, like that of Auschwitz with its fire-belching chimneys. "In theory it ought to be always visible somewhere in the universe. Except that doesn't mean we can see it."
"But it will be reflected back, won't it?" said Quinten.
"Reflected back?"
"With those telescopes over there you can look at a star that is twenty light-years away from here, can't you?—so you can see your mother getting into the train forty years ago, can't you?"
And getting off somewhere else, thought Max.
"You're right again. Perhaps you should think more of distant planets or moons, at least if such things exist outside our solar system, but then we first have to discover a completely new principle."
"But when that's been discovered in a hundred years' time, it will be possible to see it from a planet or a moon, which is fifty plus twenty light-years away from us."
"I can't argue with you."
"I don't feel well," said Onno. "Quinten! What's gotten into you? What kind of person are you?"
Quinten shrugged his shoulders. If you asked him, it was all pretty obvious.
While Sophia and Helga were busy in the kitchen, as in Onno's view befitted women, the gentlemen went on talking about the subject of "historical astronomy" founded by Quinten. Proctor was also there. He had dropped by to borrow some eggs. Clara and Arend were spending the night with his mother-in-law. Sophia had invited him to join them for a meal.
That everything that had ever happened on earth was still to be seen somewhere in the universe was obviously a very seductive idea of Quinten's; but according to Onno, it could never be realized. It was true that satellite photos of the earth could be enlarged down to the smallest details, at least if it was cloudless when the photo was taken—at the Defense Ministry they knew all about it—but what would be left of such an image after a journey of scores, hundreds or thousands, of years through the universe? Moreover, how was it to be reflected back? After all, planets and moons were not made of mirror glass. They were strewn with stones and dust and, besides that, convex instead of concave: the last remnants of the image would be immediately dispersed.
"And that's as it should be," he concluded. "The past is sealed for eternity, and whoever tries to break those seals—would that he had never been born. Only the Lord of Hosts sees everything."
"Of course," said Max, "you
r optical knowledge is astonishing, but that's what people have always said. Just imagine a boy of twelve saying to his father a hundred years ago that within a hundred years not only would man set foot on the moon, but that everyone on earth would have been able to witness it at the same moment—"
"Yes, yes, we know all about that," Onno interrupted him. "I vaguely remember your saying that eleven years ago." He gestured toward Helga, who was setting the table. "Thanks again."
Helga glanced around, and Max made a polite bow to both of them, and then continued:
"If you go on thinking of an optical image, of course it would never be possible—that's obvious. But in radio astronomy we don't work with optical images, do we? Do you have any idea how weak the signals are that we receive in Westerbork? What makes things so misleading there is that when you've got large instruments and machines, you automatically think of large forces: a large dam produces enormous quantities of energy; a huge cannon has an enormous range. But with the synthesizing radio telescope it's precisely the other way around: there, the large is intended for the small. Shall I tell you something? A bicycle lamp uses more energy in one second than all those fourteen dishes receive in a hundred years."
"Really?" asked Quinten.
"Really. And as far as that's concerned, we're getting quite a long way. In other words, in a practical sense it may not be totally impossible, but some Einstein or other would first have to find an entirely new principle, just as was necessary for television."
"If he says it," said Onno, "it's probably right. Okay, so there's a nice branch of science for you—as long as you know that Quinten has a right to share the Nobel Prize."
Quinten did not like Max contradicting his father; on the other hand he was flattered by his support, and he thought it was nice of his father to allow himself to be convinced. He also thought that it was nice that they talked for a long time about the idea that had occurred to him.
"If there's a possibility," said Max, "I think it will be even more difficult than the key to your disc. After all, you also assumed that messages from the distant past could be read on it, didn't you?"
"Dr. Quist's unforgettable Narration from A to Z," said Helga, glancing at Onno as she left the room.
Onno sighed deeply.
"Do you know what that woman is? My scribe, like Eckermann was to Goethe. She never forgets anything you've ever said. God knows, perhaps the principle may be on that wretched Cretan thing, who knows? If one day I'm ousted from power because of an excessive intelligence that forms a danger to the state and am driven shamefully over the frontier by the royal military constabulary, I may give it one last try—but I fear that I shall need precisely that historioscope in order to decode the principle on which it's based. Probably by that time I would have been murdered by some secret service or other, or by agents of the pope, because imagine what it would unleash: photographs of everything that's ever happened or what precisely didn't happen . . ."
"Or film," said Quinten.
"Or film, of course! First silent films, then talkies, and then in color as well! We focus on the Star of Bethlehem and we zoom in on the Mount of Olives. Is someone ascending into heaven there? No. Is someone receiving the Ten Commandments on Mount Horeb? Alas. No, I would be quite rightly eliminated; the world would descend into chaos."
"A great spring cleaning," said Max, "that's what it would be. All nonsense and fraud would be brought to light; mankind would be liberated and would finally possess the whole truth!"
But as he spoke, to his dismay he suddenly saw another astronomical documentary before him: the bay at Varadero—himself bobbing up and down in the waves, cheek to cheek with Ada, her legs spread wide around his hips in the blood-red light of the rising moon. ... So hadn't it disappeared—not even in himself?
Onno was going to ask him what event he would photograph first, but he could tell from his look that it would probably be something dreadful, perhaps his father's execution—so he turned to Proctor:
"What about you? What would you focus this historical camera on?"
As befits someone who has just come to dinner, the translator had not taken part in the conversation, but now he leaned forward and said: "At a deathbed in a certain house in Stuttgart in the old center, which was devastated in the Second World War. In the year 1647."
"Of course. For that purpose of course we screw the X-ray lens on the camera, which can penetrate through all walls. And whom do you want to see dying there?"
"Francis Bacon," said Proctor, and looked significantly from one to the other.
"Francis Bacon?" repeated Max. "In Stuttgart? In 1647? Are you sure you're not wrong?"
Proctor gave a short laugh with a bitter undertone. Of course, official scholarship had thought for centuries that he had died in London in 1626, but new facts had taught them otherwise—that is, people with an open mind who were able to let go of old ideas. Of course, he knew all about the nonsense that the Baconians were wont to spout, for example that Shakespeare's work was actually by Bacon, but he did not take any notice of that nonsense—even though it had respectable adherents, like old Freud. But it had always intrigued him why such rubbish was attributed precisely to Bacon. And then years ago he himself had discovered something unprecedented. He looked back and forth between Max and Onno. Could they keep a secret?
"Our lips are sealed," said Onno, folding his arms.
Bacon had been present at the birth of Vondel's Lucifer. That tragedy had its first performance in Amsterdam on February 2, 1654. Vondel had worked on it for six years—that is, he had begun it in the year of Bacon's actual death. Proctor had collected hundreds of textual proofs for his thesis, that the idea of writing a play about the downfall of Lucifer derived from Bacon. The eighty-six-year-old Bacon had whispered it to the sixty-year-old Vondel on his deathbed.
"Do you also have proof," asked Onno, having exchanged a short glance with Max, "that our national prince of poets was in Stuttgart in 1647?"
"He must have been. That is implicitly proved by my other evidence."
"Of course."
"I keep finding new proofs."
"Name one."
The usual code from the seventeenth century, Proctor told them, numbered the letters of the alphabet from one to twenty-four, with the I and the J having the same number, 9, and the V and W the figure 21. The sum of BACON came to 33 and that of FRANCIS to 67, totaling 100. Now, if you took Lucifer's first speech in Vondel and looked for the thirty-third word, then you found: this. Meaning, "This is Bacon." Or, "This should really be attributed to Bacon." If you went on counting to the hundredth word, then you found extinguished. That is, "This man is extinguished. Francis Bacon dies."
There was a moment's silence, after which Max said to Onno: "If you ask me, there's no answer to this."
"We have absolutely no answer to this. But," inquired Onno cautiously, "if you want to focus that deathbed there in Stuttgart with Quinten's telescope, does that not mean that you're not a hundred percent certain of your case, which to me personally seems so completely plausible?"
"What makes you think that?" said Proctor, almost indignantly. "All I want to do is hear why Bacon wanted to see a play about the downfall of Lucifer written. I imagine he told Vondel. What had he, as an Anglican, to do with a figure like Lucifer? Perhaps that may be connected with all those absurd legends attaching to his person; but I shall get to the bottom of that."
"Of course." Onno nodded. "That's necessary. And why did Bacon choose Vondel, of all people?"
"That's obvious! As a Catholic, Vondel had a relationship with devils and angels—there was no point in Bacon tackling a Protestant like Gryphius about it. Vondel was at that moment the only great dramatist who came into consideration for his project—except for Corneille, perhaps, but one couldn't permit oneself such fantastic extravagances in the Paris theater as one could in Amsterdam."
"Why fantastic?" asked Quinten.
"Listen," said Proctor. "It had never been shown in literatu
re before: a play set from beginning to end in heaven. If that isn't fantastic, then I don't know what is."
"What a beautiful ring you have on," said Quinten suddenly.
A little disconcerted, Proctor looked at it. "It's a sapphire. Also a symbol of heaven."
"I expect it's very expensive."
"I should say so. A five-carat stone costs a good five thousand guilders. This is one gram."
Max too leaned forward. "Can you see that stone is exactly the color of your eyes, Quinten?"
"Are you coming to eat?" asked Sophia. "We've got hot pot with rib of beef."
Even though he only understood half of them, Quinten never forgot conversations like that. But what he heard at his high school in Assen, where he had to go on the bus every day from the end of the summer onward, he could only retain with the greatest effort. Moreover, the fact that Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres he was prepared to believe; but the fact that in his book it was printed in lower case, and sometimes even in italics, he found idiotic: the Romans hadn't known those letters at all! They should be capitals, preferably the Quadrata. According to Mr. Spier, that typeface had originated in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance—like the Greek minuscule: the ancient Greeks, too, had written only in capitals. When Onno once called up from Parliament to say that he was terribly sorry that he was tied up again, Quinten had complained to him too:
"Can they just change it just like that? It's the same as if you were to depict Caesar in a denim suit instead of a toga."
Whereupon Onno had exclaimed: "Well done, Quinten. You're a son after my own heart! Fortunately modern theater doesn't appeal to you at all. Until the Heaven and the Earth shall pass away, not a jot or tittle of the Law shall pass you by, until everything shall be accomplished!"
The Discovery of Heaven Page 51
