The Lightstep (27 page)

On a Sunday in the village of Knopsdorf, Father Septe
spoke as usual from his pulpit. Because of events in the
world, he said (referring to the Treaty, and the hope that the
Rhineland would be restored to the Empire) it was more than
ever necessary to be sure of the favour of the Almighty and his
Saints. Therefore the good people of Knopsdorf must make
their lives more pleasing in his sight and work for the restoration
of the Church to its rightful place . . .

And so forth.

Maria, sitting at the front of the church with the Jürichs and
Anna, thought no more of it than that it was a sermon such as
she had heard a thousand times before. She felt she did well to
listen to the end without yawning. She never dreamed that his
words would lead to his arrest.

The family were at lunch some days later when men came
running to the door. There were soldiers at Father Septe's house,
they said. Emilia cried out in horror. Ludwig rose from the table,
hurriedly brushing away crumbs, and called for his horse. Emilia
fetched his cloak herself and threw it round his shoulders,
begging him at the same time to be careful. Everyone fussed to
and fro until he was out of the door. And when he was gone, no
one felt like finishing their meal.

That afternoon, while they were all still waiting for news,
Anna caught Maria in the little drawing room.

'My dear,' she said in a low voice. 'I wonder if we should not
think when we mean to leave?'

'Leave, Anna? At a time like this? How could we?'

'Well, I cannot see how we can help them more than we have.
And I must think of your safety.'

'I am sure all will be well, Anna,' said Maria determinedly.
'Ludwig has gone to speak with the soldiers. And whether it is well
or not, we can help your cousins by being company to them in a
difficult time. You know they are pleased to have us. And it has been
a pleasure to be here. You cannot wish to say goodbye already.'

'My dear, of course it is a pleasure for me. And yet it is no
pleasure to think of what
could
happen here. Also I know it is hard
for dear Emilia. She is worrying about Christmas, so. She has so
little to offer us.'

'Oh, perhaps we will not impose on them for Christmas. It
will not be that long.'

'What will not be that long? You are surely not still waiting for
some silly package? If there had been anything, it would have
been given to us by now. Perhaps it has already gone, by another
way. Really, I hope that no one here has anything to do with such
things. It must be very dangerous.'

Dangerous indeed, thought Maria, when soldiers might march
up and seize people without warning! Was that why there had
been nothing – no messages, no signs, no urgent whispers in the
dark? Was that why no one had called her aside or slipped a sealed
packet into her hand? Because it was just too dangerous? Day had
followed day, with frugal meals and little to do. And every day
there was nothing.

Or was it that no message had ever existed, except in her
imagination and that of Wéry? Was she here on a fool's errand,
after all?

And how long could they remain safe?

Yet still she smiled in Anna's anxious face, and said Not Yet.

'I am sure you are right, Anna. Therefore let us enjoy our visit
with a clear conscience. And yes, of course we cannot stay for
ever. But in truth I think it would be wrong to think more of it
now.'

For whatever her regrets, she was here, and any day might
bring the answer to her riddle. She would tempt fate here a little
longer. She could always wait a little longer, if she could get what
she came for.

Ludwig returned some hours later, alone and dejected, to
anxious cries from his wife. 'Dearest, are you all right? What
happened? Did you find him? Is it well with him?'

'With Septe? I confess I do not know. The soldiers were gone
when I came to his house. I followed, thinking to overtake them
and speak with their officer. But as I was passing through Bringen
I learned that they had set upon a man there, and killed him.'

'What – not Septe!'

'No, my dear. It was an unfortunate gentleman from
Kaiserslautern whom they met on the road. He was possessed, it
seems, of a silver watch, and would not part with it when they
demanded it of him. Several of the Bringen folk saw it happen,
and I have their accounts.'

'Horrible! Why do they act so? They are monsters!'

'They are men, which may be much the same thing. But I
recalled that I, too, was carrying my watch, and that even if I did
overtake them I could do little good to Septe and maybe some
harm to myself, given the mood they were in.' He sighed. 'I shall
write to the General on both counts, all the same. I suppose they
have taken Septe because of what he said last Sunday. It was
unwise of him to talk of the Empire and the restoration of the
Church. Any ragged informer might have twisted such words to
earn himself a coin.'

'They will deport him,' said Emilia sadly. 'They have done it
before.'

'There is still hope, my dear, if I am quick. Lady Maria, I must
beg your pardon most humbly. But I think it will not be possible
for us all to ride out this afternoon. In fact, I believe that for the
time being it would be wise if we all remained as close as possible
to the house.'

'Of course, sir,' said Maria. 'We will do as you think best.'

'I am obliged to you,' he said.

She looked at him, and saw there the same polite calm that he
had worn like a mask from the first day.

They could not ride out. They could walk only short distances
from the house, for fear of falling in with ill-disciplined soldiers.
And there was no town to go to, with Mainz in imperial hands
and the French soldiers ringing it outside. There was very little to
do. Maria took to the library in the mornings, to spare her hostess
from entertaining her. Most of the shelves were empty – Ludwig
Jürich had sold many of his books, to pay for some levy from the
occupying forces – but there was still pen, ink and a little paper, and
she could compose closely-written letters to her father, who of all
the people at home was now the one she missed most. She included
covering notes to Dietrich, asking him to be sure that the letters
were read out to Father, and demanding reports on Father's health.

One bright December day, the shortage of paper forced her to
finish her latest letter about an hour before noon. She rose to her
feet, thinking that she might walk in the garden, which was
pleasant enough, if she averted her eyes from the beds that were
gone to ruin because the gardeners had vanished. She left the
library and stepped into the corridor.

It was at that moment that a servant came out of a door to her
left. He was a tall, sad-eyed man, in a livery doublet with a wig
that did not fit him very well. She had seen him often about the
house, and waiting on the family at table.

He stopped when he saw her, his hand in the act of closing the
door. There were rooms beyond. She had not been in there.

She had not been in there because these were the doors to
Maximilian's quarters.

Maria had grown accustomed to the idea that one of the
Jürichs lived apart from the rest of the household, and was not
seen. She took her cue from her hosts, for whom the thing was a
part of their lives. She had heard them speak of him, two or three
times, when he was demanding things that were not to be had,
or that would have to be sought in the towns further down the
Rhine. She was curious, but she had not asked about him directly
because she felt that it might be indelicate. In a way, she supposed,
it was not very different from how things were at home, with
Father. Father could be unnerving for strangers, until you came
to know him.

Only at night, when the fetters of reason loosened, might she
turn in the darkness and think that a madman paced in the house
in which she lay.

The servant was carrying a bowl of water, and had a towel
over his shoulder. In the bowl were a razor and traces of lather.
He had been shaving the man in the room, and now had finished.
So presumably the man would now be made presentable, as
Father was made presentable every morning at home.

Normally, it was possible to see him, Cousin Ludwig had said.

Perhaps she should ask Cousin Ludwig first. He had said that
there would be arrangements to be made.

But she had understood that those arrangements were simply
to ensure that someone else was present. A footman would do.
And here was a footman, arrested in the doorway, looking at her
as though expecting her to say something. There was yet an hour
to go before noon. And if she turned and walked away down the
corridor, even to seek out Cousin Ludwig, it would be because
she was afraid.

She took a step towards the footman.

'Is he . . . Is it possible to call on him?' she asked.

Wordlessly, as if this were exactly what he had been expecting,
the man stepped back through the door. She followed.

She stood in a little room, almost a corridor. At the further end
there was another door. The man knocked softly at it and went
in, motioning her to stay where she was. She heard the soft
murmur of voices from beyond. There was a faint smell in the air:
tantalizingly familiar, and yet she could not identify it.

She waited. In the room there was a chair, a small chest, and
little else. On one wall was a painting.

It was a painting of the head and shoulders of Christ, in his last
agony upon the cross. Set upon a background of pastoral scenes,
the dying face occupied almost half the canvas. It was painted
crudely, with the flesh glowing yellow, as if someone close by was
holding a lamp. The wounds of the thorns were a dirty brown-red;
they looked foul and messy. The whites of the eyes showed
huge. The mouth was open in a soundless cry of pain. Maria
thought it a small obscenity that the Saviour should be shown
with so many teeth missing.

The more she stared at the horrid thing, the more she hated
it. It seemed to her that the man in the picture was not merely
dying but
had died.
The face was as insensible to the agony
stamped upon it as was a coin to its king's head.

She stared at it, and looked away. But she could not keep her
eyes off it. Again they were drawn back to it: to that horrible
portrait of pain.

What joy could there have been in making such a thing?

The servant reappeared in the doorway, beckoning. She
followed him into a large, sunlit room. Instantly the smell was
stronger. The air reeked with it, and she knew it. It was oil paint.

It was a big room, the twin of the dining room at the other
end of the house. A range of long windows to her right and in
the wall opposite let in the day.

Between the windows, and all around the walls, above and
below one another, were paintings. And they were all the same.
Each one showed the face of Christ, in agony on the cross. Fifty
– a hundred – faces of the tortured man rolled their eyes on those
walls: over and over again, in relentless, shadowy oils, the same
howl of pain.

The artist himself was working at an easel in a corner of the
room, where two windows gave him light. He had not looked up.
He did not seem to have noticed her.

He was in his shirtsleeves, and his dark hair was tousled. Heavy
brows frowned from his face at the painting in front of him. He
resembled his uncle very little. After waiting a moment she
walked over towards him. There had been a carpet in the room,
but it was gone. Her feet sounded loudly on the wooden floor.
Still he did not look up.

She stopped.

'I hope, sir, that I find you well,' she said.

The man paused. He looked not at her, but at the space in
front of him. After a moment he went back to painting.

It was so rude that it was not rude.

Yes, she thought. Clearly it was better that this man did not
take meals with the rest of the house.

'I'm well,' he said. His eyes followed the minute movements of
the tip of his brush. After waiting for more, Maria stepped around
to look over his shoulder.

There was the face of Christ again, starker than ever as it lolled
on the plain canvas where no background had yet been coloured
in. The brush was making tiny, pale strokes in the white of the left
eye. The man leaned into his work. His body and hand and eye
all were intent on the easel before him. She waited to see if he
would explain what he was doing. But he did not. He ignored
her and carried on.

'I am a visitor,' she said, speaking slowly and clearly, as though
she was addressing her father. 'I came with your cousin Anna
Poppenstahl.'

'Yes,' said the man. 'I know.'

A few strokes later he said, 'Hartmann.'

'Sir,' said the servant, still standing by the door with the bowl
in his hand.

'I need more fine brushes.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You must get me some.'

'Yes, sir.'

There were many, many brushes on the table beside the
painter. There were others littered around the room. Why did he
want more? A paintbrush – even such a thing as a paintbrush –
must be terribly expensive in the war-ravaged Rhineland. Surely
Ludwig Jürich had better things on which to spend his money
than more paintbrushes!

The servant, Hartmann, had remained by the door. He could
not leave until she did. The painter had not noticed. But in a
moment he would. And then what? Would he fly into a rage? The
servant was in a difficult position. Perhaps she should leave.
The man was not going to speak. She had seen him now. She
understood the distress of the house. Why stay longer than
she needed to?

The man went on painting. She stepped away from the easel
and looked at some of the paintings on the wall.

They were not all exactly the same. She could pick out
occasional slight differences between one face and another – in
the light, in the fall of the hair, in a shadow applied too clumsily.
There were different backgrounds too. They were mostly views
of countryside, with hills and towns in the distance, with kings
and legionaries and angels grouped in allegories in the mid distance
and tiny figures scurrying like ants across the landscapes
behind them. But all interest in such details failed before the face.
The face, and the agony of Christ.