The Anatomist's Dream

by Clio Gray

  Then Rabbi Ridente was up and speaking and everyone bowed their head, even Harlekin.

  ‘O God, great and mighty, I come before You to render thanks; in our distress we called on You and You did answer; for Your anger is but for a moment and Your favour will last our whole lives through. To Our Lord, our Rock, and our Redeemer, we give thanks. Amen.’ It was a short prayer and soon he clapped his hands and broke the bell-jar of silence. ‘My friends, let us eat, let us drink, let us thank the Good God that Kwert is among us still, and let us laugh at our misfortunes when they come, in the full knowledge that God will see us right in the end. Corti, let the music begin!’

  Corti raised his short arms high as they would go and let crash a cymbal as they fell; his foot started tapping and everyone drew in their breath as the show began. There was an almighty wheeze and creak as a trio of bagpipers began to blow and the Polish Goats – as those strange instruments were called – began to dance, dudelsacks swelling, elbows bellowing, fingers ­chittering up and down the screeching pipes; a man plucked his zither with a plectrum, making weird high notes screech across the room; the drums were rolled and the paukes were ­trommelled, and the gongs were rung, and the tambourines sang; the rebeck riribled and danced between its owner’s knees, bouncing against the bow as the player leapt now and then from the floor. Corti had attached bells to his hands and feet, and more to his hat and knees, and he clattered around the room like a scarecrow trying to run from his shadow; another man, with a curved board studded with nails and string grabbed a bow and played it like a fiddle, the iron nails vibrating and humming and dashing their strident way amidst the cacophony of sound. The Fair’s folk laughed and sang and danced, pulling Kwert up with them even though he didn’t look too keen, and Maulwerf flung Frau Volstrecken around the room like a top until she fell, pink-cheeked, hair a-whirl, onto a bowl of Kalbsvörgel that her husband had rested on his lap while he clapped and shouted at her progress. The Bowman lay down his fiddle and picked Lita up in his arms and stood her two feet in the crooks of his elbows, launching her around and around as she clung wildly to his ears, laughing and screaming to be put down.

  It was a night as stuffed full of good things as Frau Volstrecken’s strudels were with apple, and later on Philbert and Lita sat outside in the cool air of midnight looking at the stars, listening to the feast going on inside, and the Bowman sang, and his iron nails rang, and they danced a slow dance outside under the light of the moon. Happiness. No other word for it. Happiness for all there, pure and simple, and especially for Philbert, dancing with Lita, her head on his shoulder, his arms about her waist, Kroonk bumping against his legs as he turned her beneath the turning stars.

  Inside, Ullendorf was taking the opportunity to discuss ­certain matters with Kwert, rather bending the conversation to his advantage, having not long been the saviour – no matter the Rabbi’s praising of his God – of Kwert’s life.

  ‘Your boy is a most interesting case,’ Ullendorf was saying. ‘And I must admit I was delighted when he turned back up at my door, and even more so to act upon his summons.’

  ‘I’m very blessed that you did,’ Kwert replied, somewhat formally, his neck-bones clicking as he made a short bow of thanks in Ullendorf’s direction.

  ‘My pleasure, Mr Kwert,’ Ullendorf was hearty, ‘my pleasure.’

  ‘And you suspect Kwert’s illness was . . . what was it?’ Maulwerf broke in. ‘I’m not much up on doctoring, but it will be useful to know how to act if we ever come across such a thing again.’

  Ullendorf spread his long surgeon’s fingers across the red and white cloth as if it were an unopened skull and he was trying to guess what lay beneath.

  ‘Groom’s Glanders, without a doubt,’ he said. ‘The equine disease tears through the lymph system like mucky water through a pipe. It’s rarely fatal in horses, or donkeys come to that, but it can be so in the men who catch the disease as they tend them. The contagion is caused, so I’ve been led to believe, by small animalcules leaping from beast to beast, or beast to man.’ He coughed, relit his pipe. ‘Once inside the blood the body detects these unknown animalcules and sets out to eject them, hence the eruption of boils: throwing out the rats with the rubbish, as it were.’

  ‘And am I to assume you collect such specimens?’ inquired Kwert politely, having already been informed that some of his pus and excretions had ended up in bottles in Ullendorf’s ­capacious pockets.

  ‘Oh yes indeed,’ Ullendorf had no compunction about removing parts of other people’s illnesses. ‘Every living thing is but a myriad of cells, each one capable of reproducing itself, just as you or I can reproduce ourselves in our children.’ He hesitated a second before continuing. ‘But on the introduction of the foreign animalcule into the body it’s my belief that this reproduction goes somewhat awry, and in that belief I fall somewhat between the rival camps of Schwann and Virchow.’

  Neither Kwert nor Maulwerf knew who these people were and Ullendorf didn’t stop to explain. He was getting to the nub of his thesis, and the reason for his interest in Philbert.

  ‘Diseases are strange creatures, and can move from person to person, from beast to beast. But they can also be engendered by the body itself, not merely from the influence of outside agents. And this is one of my primary fields of study. It is my Collection Principle that the Knollenförmig, the tumours, and the Ungeheuerlich, those bulbous knobs that can form both within and without a person, are both in and of that individual, and may stand as representatives of the whole. And of course boils and ulcers are not to be sniffed at, for they are all part and parcel of my research, and as such it was a pleasure, as I said before, to become reacquainted with you, Kwert – not that I want in any way to make light of your recent discomfort. But it also brings me back to the boy . . .’

  A moment’s silence then, as both Kwert and Maulwerf glanced at each other.

  ‘You mean Philbert,’ Kwert said, looking a little uncomfortable. ‘I am, of course, more grateful than I can say for your intervention in making me well. But can I ask, sir, what more can you possibly want with Philbert?’

  Ullendorf rocked back in his chair, the smile on his face so broad it could have swallowed a side of beef.

  ‘I am no sinister butcher, Kwert, no resurrectionist hacking unfortunates to death in back alleys, chopping off a bit here and there in order to further my studies. But you must share my interest, for are you not . . . how shall I say it? A forquidder . . . a Teller of Signs . . . that you read bumps and the like?’

  Kwert cleared his throat. He was used to being laughed at, and usually enjoyed it, for it was all part of the show when it came down to it. But this was different. This was a learned man he admired and owed his life to, and he felt the need to hold his own.

  ‘I believe a great many things, Doctor Ullendorf, about the signs the Good Lord gives us. I believe the body is the casement of the soul, and that the soul can express itself through the body. It’s like spying out the lie of the land. You look, and you see hills and fields, terraces and forests. And you know that if a man has built his house it is not likely to be built on a marsh. You know that if you see birch and gorse and heather all growing together then the likelihood is that the land beneath them is primarily peat or moorland, whereas if you see beech and ash growing together then the ground will be altogether different, softer, that it will harbour different kinds of plants, different fungi, ­different flowers. And so it is with a person: the skin can be the outward sign of that which is rooted deep in the substance of the soul within.’

  ‘So what do you think is within the boy, Kwert?’ Ullendorf leaned forward, elbows on the table, juggling his empty glass between his fingers. ‘Is he a monster or a saint?’

  It was Kwert’s turn to smile. ‘Oh Doctor Ullendorf, it is nowhere near that simple, as I’m sure you must know. There are a great many ways a body can be put together, but the main point is this: the body is but a curtai
n – a vestment – that conceals the state of the soul beneath. A man’s skin hides his humanity like a nut within its shell. It’s a seed that may grow or rot, but has at its outset the potential to do either. And it’s that potential I seek to find and interpret.’

  Ullendorf moved back against his chair as Kwert raised his eyes to meet his. They stared back and forth for a few moments, two dogs, one bone.

  ‘I don’t want to harm him, Kwert,’ Ullendorf said. ‘All I want is to study him a little, get a living sample if I can. The core I took at the trepanning I took no measures to preserve, and therefore it is dead. But what I want is to look at the living cells of his taupe, observe them at their daily work. It will be like watching ants busy in their formicaries. Like you, Kwert, I have my beliefs, and I believe that every body is composed of ­millions of cells, but in that head of his I think those cells might be quite different, that they must at the very least work and divide at a greater rate than is the norm. His taupe is like a bulbil, a new bud forming on the side of an old plant, ready to detach itself from the stem and become an independent being entire of itself.’ He laughed briefly as Volstrecken reappeared and refilled their glasses, and smiled his wide smile. ‘Naturally I’m not suggesting that half Philbert’s head is about to jump down and walk off out the door never to be seen again. That would be preposterous! What I am suggesting, however, is that a part of his body is working to a different plan than the rest of ours are . . . has a different time-scale, different aims and different goals, and that perhaps he really is the speciality you so desire, Kwert, after all.’

  He pulled a small glass tube from his inside pocket and held it up to the light, shaking it as he did so.

  ‘Is this all that is inside his head, do you think?’ Ullendorf said, looking not at the little tube but at Kwert, his body tensed like a string when it is twisted against a hook in the wall. Kwert stared at the tube, at the small cylinder of dark skin held within it, uncomfortably aware that the tiny circle of Philbert’s skull Ullendorf had dug out at the same time was sitting in his pocket, wrapped in silk, and that day after day Kwert had concentrated on it and what it meant, if it meant anything at all.

  ‘Can you really believe,’ Ullendorf went on, ‘that Philbert’s taupe is just an extra handful of earth, serving only to bury his soul a little deeper within him?’

  Kwert shook his head. ‘What is it you want?’ he asked, and Ullendorf smiled again, replacing the tube of Philbert’s taupe into his pocket and knew he had won.

  ‘Not much,’ he replied. ‘I merely want to borrow him for a few weeks, take a closer look at that head of his – maybe see if I can’t extract something living from his taupe, see if I can study it properly in the right environs. And you would be very ­welcome to accompany him, Kwert. The boy need not be alone.’

  Kwert looked at Maulwerf, and Maulwerf looked back, inclining his head just a little, for he could see no objection to Ullendorf’s plan. Philbert was useful, and had been with the Fair of Wonders long enough to be considered a part of the family Maulwerf created for every waif and stray who ­happened into it, but he knew too that Kwert had seen something special in the lad and, with Hermann gone, was the closest to a father the boy would ever have.

  Kwert closed his eyes. Ullendorf had been right to call him a forquidder, a Teller of Signs, but Kwert was much more than a mere entertainer. He too had long followed the scholastic ­pursuit of bulbils and bumps, phrenology and craniometry and, as he’d already stated, was a firm admirer of Ullendorf who was foremost in this very field. Even so, Kwert wasn’t particularly happy about the plans Ullendorf had for Philbert, but as long as he was willing for Kwert to accompany Philbert every step of the way Kwert couldn’t see how he could reasonably object.

  ‘All right then,’ Kwert said, opening his eyes again. ‘All right. Myself and Philbert will do as you ask, but only on the proviso that we will, at summer’s end, be allowed to return to the Fair.’

  ‘My dear Kwert,’ Ullendorf laughed. ‘You won’t be prisoners, but free to leave whenever you choose.’ He laughed again, ­slapping Kwert on the back. ‘And so it’s agreed.’

  And so it was, and had Ullendorf lived long enough he would have bitten those last few words right back into his head.

  16

  Coming into Anchorage

  It was a grey sulk of a morning when Kwert and Philbert left Finzeln and the Fair, all wrapped up in mist, the jolts and pot-holes of the road throwing them into the crushed velvet of Ullendorf’s carriage sides. Philbert had never felt so grand nor so sad and excited all at the same time. They left with Doctor Ullendorf to go with him across country back to his home, leaving everything; but for a small time only, Kwert had assured Philbert.

  They departed before daybreak having said their goodbyes the night before: Lita still clutching at the Bowman’s arm – they were practising a new act together, she announced, him playing his fiddle, she dancing up him like a squirrel up a tree until he threw her wide and somersaulted her back down to her feet. Philbert promised himself that when he returned he would bring a present for her and had already decided what it would be: a pair of shiny little shoes to house those toes that had dangled with him in the water way back in Staßburg. The hardest thing for Philbert was that he’d have to leave Kroonk behind, Ullendorf convincing him that two days travelling confined in a carriage would be tantamount to torture for the poor animal. That he had no place for a pig in his household he didn’t ­mention, nor did he quite appreciate that pig and boy had never spent a day apart in almost five years, which was the most part of both their lives. Philbert hugged her rough red neck and kissed her soft warm snout that smelled, as always, of mud and must. She kroonk-kroonked gently and waggled her tail, ­putting her head on Philbert’s knee, not understanding how long it would be until she saw him again. Unexpectedly it was Lita’s Bowman who said he would take especial care of Kroonk in Philbert’s absence. His name was Lorenzini Archetto, born in Finzeln, and itching for adventure ever since. He knew all about little porcellinos, he said, having been pigman for half the town’s population since he’d been knee high to a grasshopper. He knew how to tickle her ears and rub her snout just right. And Philbert could ask for no more.

  Dawn found Ullendorf’s carriage and its occupants far from Finzeln, rolling through stands of creaking oaks, their old leaves crackling beneath their wheels, new buds barely breaking from their stems. Philbert heard the wind whispering through their branches as they passed, wondering what they said, remembering something the Turk had told him and how his mother’s people believed the breeze-blown leaves told tales of things past and things yet to come, if only a person knew how to listen. It was just the sort of nonsense Fair Folk came up with all the time but in this instance, as they passed through that dark corridor of oaks, Philbert craned his neck towards the partly shuttered window and wished it were true.

  Opposite him slumped Ullendorf, his hat on the seat beside him, his dark curls leaping up and down with every bump. It wasn’t often a child saw the top of an adult’s head, especially one as large and tall as Ullendorf, but Philbert could see it now, and realised why Ullendorf was so fond of his blasted hat for there, right on the top of his head, now denuded of bouncing curls, was a large bald patch, round and pink and smooth as the underbelly of the piglet Kroonk had once been. Philbert smiled and turned his attention away, began staring from the window, watching the world slip and change as they moved from dawn into something brighter. They’d reached the end of the vast ­forests that surrounded Finzeln, the trees having thinned and then shrunk into stubby grey shrubs, listing to orange as the light grew and warmed. Mist rose from the river, drawing fish to the surface to suck at the gnats that clouded the banks, kingfishers flashing streaks of iridescent green and blue right through them like shiny spears, and soon the blackbirds and robins began to sing and the chill fell away from the edge of the day.

  Philbert wriggled from his blanket, kn
ocking Kwert from his gentle snores.

  ‘Aaaghlgh!’ Kwert yawned above Philbert’s head, knees and elbows clicking as he stretched. ‘Morning at last,’ he murmured, to no one in particular, and leant forward to release the rest of the window blind. It shot up with a crack, the finger-ring ­tapping at the glass, the quick bright light rousing Ullendorf from his slumbers. Kwert tapped him on the knee with his canteen.

  ‘Something to moisten the morning muggle, Doctor?’ Kwert said, handing him a flask of watered wine. ‘And for you, Little Maus, how about some reading?’

  He was delving into his knapsack for the Philocalia but the lifted blind had revealed far too much and already Philbert was pulling at Kwert’s sleeve, pointing out of the window, seeing things he’d never seen before, the carriage taking them far from the normal drove-roads and tracks the Fair usually took.

  ‘Look at that tree!’ he exclaimed. ‘And what kind is that with all those yellow berries on it? And what’s that white bird over there? I’ve never seen one before. And look at that house! Someone has painted it blue! And oh look, look over there! There’s a castle up on top of that hill!’

  When Philbert had finally prattled himself dry and finished annoying his fellow passengers with his questions and amazements, it was his turn to tumble into sleep. When he woke again an hour or so later he was given black bread and cheese, and was appalled to learn they were less than halfway through that first day’s travelling, for the carriage ride that had begun in comfort had lost its glamour, boards become hard as stones, cushioned seats turned into a bed of conkers. Ullendorf began telling his companions about Lengerrborn, where he lived: a small town snuggled between Osnabruck and Bielefeld.