Lanceheim Page 12

  Excuse me if I interject a brief reflection that I nonetheless consider to be in its place right here and now. I have been on this subject previously, and take the opportunity to remind the interested reader that I am simply a dutiful clerk.

  Did Armand Owl already understand at this meeting what this was about? The question is open, and—I believe—relevant.

  What Maximilian was occupied with, was to reveal the fears of stuffed animals and thereby free them from the clutches of terror. This was of course not all that he was doing—there were dimensions of his healing that I will never understand—but expelling terror was one of the main issues. He himself revealed this to me. And if you were to compare Maximilian’s faith with the church’s, and his undertakings with the gospel of the Proclamations, it was the same way. What Maximilian offered us stuffed animals was a faith without fears. I may happily expand on this point later on in the text, but to get right to the point: From the perspective of the government, this was extremely dangerous.

  Did Armand Owl understand this even then?

  Did Vincent Tortoise understand it?

  “Are they operating in the church? During the sabbath?” asked Tortoise that morning, as Armand Owl continued to tell what Maximilian and I were up to.

  “But, what the hell, aren’t you listening to what I’m saying?” said Armand.

  “Sure, sure…,” Tortoise replied absentmindedly. “I wonder if I shouldn’t make a call to Eagle Rothman anyway….”

  Do you, dear reader, recall where we were? Maximilian was standing up at the altar, and on her knees before him was Maria Mink. His hand was still on her head, and they had just stopped talking. Maria took a deep breath. The air in the church was still. The subsiding Afternoon Rain fell against the roof and was heard as a distant murmur. I experienced a light dizziness, as I sometimes do when I haven’t had enough to eat for lunch. Once again Maximilian had coaxed the truth out of a stuffed animal, once again he had—by understanding and expelling her innermost terror—transformed pain into a memory. I was the only living being who had seen it happen, and at the same time I had company. Mute, the angels on the ceiling witnessed what was going on. Farmers, fishermen, and city dwellers who appeared out of the glass mosaic in the high church windows behind Maximilian’s back had been there the whole time.

  “Maria Mink,” said Maximilian in his gentle voice, “you have—”

  Then it happened.

  The doors of the church were opened.

  A bang was heard, and I winced, turned around, and felt my heart stop and my pulse rush at one and the same time. Up at the altar Maria Mink reacted the same way. She had been sitting on her haunches, but the surprise caused her to wobble and fall sideways.

  Maximilian on the other hand turned calmly toward the gray daylight that suddenly ran along the middle aisle like an uninvited guest. The odor of rain and dampness filled the building. The noise from the stuffed animals that suddenly made their entry was earsplitting in contrast to the dense silence that the church had contained seconds before.

  First came Eagle Rothman, the prodeacon in Lanceheim. I had never seen him before and therefore did not recognize him. His high-handed posture and the rapid, long steps he took up to the altar demanded respect. There was no doubt of the fact that this was power approaching on foot.

  After Rothman, a small flock of stuffed animals came running. I recognized several of the all-deacons in Kerkeling, and there of course was Adam Chaffinch too. Following after them were mammals that I had never seen before, dressed in more official-looking clothing. All of them tried to keep pace with the prodeacon, which meant that a few were forced to jog. Adam kept to the side of the lot, but like all the others he was staring intently up toward Maximilian. There was no surprise in the deacon’s gaze, but there was deep disappointment.

  Shame besieged my heart and overpowered the terror. I still didn’t have a close relationship with Adam Chaffinch, but Maximilian and Adam met regularly, and it was thanks to Chaffinch that all of this had been possible. He was without a doubt Maximilian’s patron.

  “So it’s true!” shouted Eagle Rothman.

  He raised his massive wing dramatically and pointed with the tip toward Maximilian up at the altar.

  “Heretic!” Prodeacon Rothman spit out; the word was tensed like a bow in the eagle’s throat and shot away like an arrow.

  No one paid any attention to me, despite the fact that they all saw me. Maximilian was their prey; he was the one who was the danger. The procession stopped a few meters in front of the foremost row of pews, on the threshold to the podium where the altar stood.

  “What was it I said?” asked Rothman triumphantly.

  The words were aimed at Adam Chaffinch. It was Chaffinch who would bear the responsibility for this: It was in his parish, in his church, that witches’ arts were being carried out during the sabbath. The all-deacons and animal officials lined up at the prodeacon’s side and formed a kind of semicircle, a wall through which Maximilian would not be able to flee. Adam Chaffinch stepped up on the podium a few meters from Maximilian.

  Poor Maria Mink did not know where she should go. She stood on all fours, staring terror-stricken at the stuffed animals, all of whom looked past her. Carefully, she began to creep across the podium, and when she realized that no one was paying any attention to her, she increased her pace. She disappeared out of sight, and it would be many years before I saw her again.

  “We know what’s going on,” Rothman cried out in his powerful preaching voice. “You play the part of a healer, but you are a charlatan! Do you dare deny it?”

  The whole time he had the tip of his wing aimed at Maximilian’s chest.

  “Animals are in pain,” Maximilian replied simply. “I help them.”

  I observed Adam Chaffinch, and his facial expression caused the hair on my neck to rise. Chaffinch was a strong, unyielding leader, uninfluenced by his surroundings, it seemed to me. But all of his being signaled danger when Rothman was speaking, and it would take a lot to make Chaffinch nervous.

  “You don’t deny it?” Rothman asked again.

  Maximilian did not reply, but his gaze was steady.

  “You confess?” said Rothman.

  I saw how Adam Chaffinch indicated a negative twisting of his neck; it was probably unconscious, but it was a signal that Maximilian should have paid attention to. He did not. He met the eagle’s gaze, unafraid, perhaps even surprised.

  “This is a confession!” Rothman called out contemptuously, and one of the suit-clad stuffed animals took notes.

  “Perhaps I can explain…,” I began, but no one heard me.

  Both Chaffinch and Maximilian have forgiven me many times since then, but I still carry something of the stigma of a traitor after that afternoon; my attempts to stand behind my master were lame.

  “During the sabbath,” continued Rothman, “this animal has violated the peace of the church, and—”

  “I don’t believe that Magnus is offended,” said Maximilian calmly.

  Rothman lost his train of thought. This was the first time in many years that anyone had interrupted him. He tried to hold back his anger, but with little success. Without actually thinking about it, the all-deacons who had been standing next to Rothman up until then took a few steps to the side, as if they feared that the prodeacon might explode at any moment.

  “You believe?” said Prodeacon Rothman at last. “You believe?”

  Maximilian nodded. The calm, or more correctly stated, the assuredness that he radiated influenced all of us, and Rothman lost his composure.

  “Your pitiful belief,” hissed the prodeacon contemptuously, “is like a seed that has not come out of the ground.”

  “Excuse me, but I…,” said Adam Chaffinch unexpectedly, and everyone turned toward him, “I am certain that Maximilian’s intention never could have been to…I have never met anyone whose goodness is so genuine, someone whose faith is…”

  Adam lost the thread. Rothman’s fiery gaze w
as now directed at him, and I could see that the stern, straight-backed Adam Chaffinch who stood beside Maximilian was only a splinter of the deacon I had come to know. Rothman was not only Chaffinch’s superior, I found out later; he had also been Chaffinch’s adviser through his entire theological education. What Rothman didn’t know about Chaffinch’s weaknesses wasn’t worth knowing.

  “Shall you talk about faith?” exclaimed Rothman contemptuously; he almost spit out the words. “You?”

  I do not know what was worse, his tone of voice or Adam’s facial expression.

  “So your own faith is strong?” asked Maximilian.

  Rothman twirled around and stared with a blazing look up toward the strange animal at the altar.

  “My faith, young stuffed animal, can set a stone on fire.”

  “And Adam’s faith…wobbles?” asked Maximilian.

  “I do as well as I can,” mumbled Chaffinch from his direction.

  “Let me say this: Only when the bark boat sails do the cubs laugh happily,” said Maximilian and turned toward Adam Chaffinch.

  No one, not even Rothman, dared to disturb the mute concentration that had formed between them. In a gentle voice Maximilian asked Adam, “The almighty Magnus, do you see him in me?”

  The words were no more than a whisper, and Adam was staring at him.

  “Do you see Magnus in my soul?” he repeated.

  “I…I believe so,” said Adam.

  “And you?” said Maximilian, turning toward Prodeacon Rothman. “Do you also see Magnus in me?”

  “Magnus dwells in all of us. I see him even in you, my son,” replied Rothman with all the superior condescension of which he was capable.

  “Adam,” continued Maximilian, turning back again, “do you see the image there, of Malitte? Do you see Magnus in Malitte?”

  On the last pillar next to the altar the lord of evil Malitte was depicted. It was typical for the church that the pious stuffed animals’ worst nightmare observed them sideways during the entire service. Malitte was painted right on the stone pillar, with his narrow black body full of knots and tassels, the long tail coiled around a stone, and one of his fangs bared in a malicious smile.

  Adam did not reply. He was pale, and he shook his head slightly.

  “And you?” asked Maximilian, turning again toward Prodeacon Rothman. “Can you see anything of Magnus in Malitte?”

  “Obviously,” said Rothman. “Malitte is a part of Magnus, just as we all are a part of him.”

  Then something happened that even today I hardly dare think about. The whole thing lasted no more than a few seconds, yet I know that we all saw it. The painted image of Malitte came to life. The bestial stuffed animal curled his upper lip and showed more of his razor-sharp teeth, and in the distance laughter was heard.

  Prodeacon Rothman winced. His beak was open, but he could not get out a word.

  “Without doubt, faith is worth nothing,” said Maximilian.

  The silence around the prodeacon was dense. He stared at Maximilian, and then looked again at the painting of Malitte. Suddenly what had happened was unbelievable.

  “Get out!” hissed Rothman.

  The silence remained undisturbed.

  “Get out!” screamed the prodeacon, turning to the official animals and the all-deacons. “Throw out the sorcerer, throw out the heretic! Never again may this animal set his paw in any of the churches in Mollisan Town!”

  It continued as if time stood still; no one moved.

  “Now!” screamed Rothman. “Now! Now!”

  And finally they came to life, all of Rothman’s entourage. But Maximilian had already started walking toward the exit, and it was then that the first drops fell. Reality, as we knew it, was already out of commission; we had not managed to recover from the previous shock. At the same moment as the church door shut behind Maximilian, the rain began to quietly fall over us.

  We felt it all together, and we reacted similarly. We twisted our necks and looked upward.

  It was the angels in the ceiling who were weeping.

  REUBEN WALRUS 5

  He listened from outside the control room, trying to concentrate on the cello, because the cello was the key to the piece. To start with it was concealed behind the violins, then changing into an open struggle with the viola for attention. Its dominance in the last half of the work was thus heralded from the very first measure, and here the interpreters of Walrus’s String Quartet in E Minor often made a mistake. More often than not they emphasized the struggle between the introductory viola and the concluding cello.

  The idea with this series of recordings had been to let Reuben himself interpret and produce some of his most classic works. Not, perhaps, to correct so much as to comment on the sort of thing he, startled and paralyzed, had seen happen to his intentions over the years.

  He knew the musicians well; he had chosen them from among many applicants, and the feeling of being chosen elevated their abilities this morning. Reuben listened and tried to be constructive. But just as during the rehearsals with the philharmonic string section yesterday afternoon, he realized that the illness was reducing his capability.

  “It sounds fantastic, Daddy,” said Josephine.

  “Do you think so?” said Reuben without feeling, concentrating on the cello.

  Like that, he thought. Not too carefully. He mustn’t be too careful, not even in the beginning.

  “Fantastic,” repeated Josephine.

  “Honey, be quiet now, please?” asked Walrus.

  Walrus had not been able to sleep that morning. He had woken up long before dawn, felt the anxiety sitting like a damp blanket between his body and the sheets, and been forced to get up. He splashed water on his face and then sat in the drying cabinet a while. The sound of the fan drowned out the buzzing in his ears, which meant that he could fantasize that everything was as usual. But self-deception could not be maintained for any length of time. He got out, dressed, and left the house. The sun was on its way up over the horizon, and slowly he walked through a Lanceheim that was still resting in the approaching morning. The families that occupied the heavy, well-renovated buildings in his neighborhood would soon awaken; the apartments would be filled with stress and shouting, bathrooms occupied by teenagers and kitchen tables stained by the younger ones. Fathers and mothers would dress for the day’s work and at the same time fill schoolbags with books and schoolchildren with admonitions.

  He himself had been a lousy father. He regretted this, without doing anything about it. Josephine’s birthday had been a few months ago, and he had not even made it by with a present. That was unusually lousy. And as always, when he thought about his daughter, he was seized by feelings of guilt that cut into his heart. The helpless cub who twenty-one years ago was delivered to pepper red Mooshütter Weg had not chosen her family. On the contrary, it was Reuben who had applied for a cub, only to initiate a long series of betrayals and shortcomings.

  But it’s not too late, thought Reuben Walrus, hurrying home through the deserted streets to call and wake his daughter and ask if she would like to go along to the recording studio that same morning. As soon as she, drowsy but happy, asked on the phone if she could bring her tuba and play for him, he regretted it. Her audition to get into the Music Academy was on Monday, and she needed all the advice she could get. He said yes, of course, and now they were here.

  She was a sweet lamb with woolly ears and a pink cloth nose, but to be completely honest, he did not know her.

  “She wants your acknowledgment,” Fox had explained to the languid Walrus. “She wants to be seen and loved by you, and she thinks that the best way is by playing.”

  “But have I ever—”

  “It is rather logical, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes, but I—”

  “You were perhaps going to say that you don’t see anyone other than yourself, and that it’s yourself you love the most?” asked Fox sarcastically. “Oldster, that is something I and all your friends have understood and a
ccepted. But for Josephine’s sake, you must exert yourself a little more.”

  He did that. It did not work.

  “Your string quartets are what I like the very best,” said Josephine from her corner in the studio control room, and Reuben sighed again.

  The cello, he reminded himself. The touch of the bow. Quiet, not hesitant. The tone bides its time, it doesn’t hesitate, it waits.

  But Reuben Walrus was not feeling well, and to reveal this type of subtlety demanded acuity of which he was not capable. The recording studio was a claustrophobic place, cramped with a low ceiling and no windows. All the technology, the mixing board and cables and speakers and computers, smelled of plastic and oil. As usual the oxygen was about to run out after a few hours of work, and in the control room the thoughtful Sripen Dragon, the recording technician, turned down the lights. Still the headache crept in. Anxiety did not leave his body. Reuben was sweating, and restlessness made the slow middle section of the piece unendurably boring. Judging by how it sounded, the composer of this piece must have felt immortal when he wrote it, with oceans of time to swim around in. How naive could an artist be? Reuben asked himself, sitting heavily in the chair beside Sripen Dragon. He had worked with Sripen off and on for over thirty years, and he was ashamed. Never had he shown her this decrepit side before; never before had he felt so dejected. He leaned back in the rocking chair. Josephine sat on the leather couch that was on the short wall.

  “Daddy, can we take a little break soon?” she asked. “I’ve been practicing what you asked me to, and I’d like to show you.”

  He did not remember what he had asked her to practice, and he realized that the risk of repeating himself was thereby imminent.

  “Honey, can’t we…,” he began, but reconsidered.

  Why not exploit the opportunity for a break? He whispered to Sripen to take fifteen minutes, and then disappeared out into the corridor with Josephine. There were several empty studios on the same level, and they went into the nearest one.

  While Josephine took out her instrument and got ready, Reuben thought about his unfinished symphony and the final stanzas that remained, just as unapproachable as they had ever been. On one level it was easy to emotionally imagine what ought to follow the introduction, but he could not possibly transform that feeling into notes and arrangements. He sat at home at his grand piano and plunked—that was the word, plunked—all through the night. But…nothing.