HS03 - A Visible Darkness (25 page)

A man was waving his hand in time to the chanting, like a
kappelmeister
.

‘With your permission, Pastor Bartosik?’

One might have expected resentment at this interruption of their Bible studies, so I was surprised by the way in which the people, most of all, the children, smiled and nodded, as if they were overjoyed to see Gurten.

‘Would you care to join us?’ Herr Bartosik enquired.

‘Later, perhaps.’ Gurten smiled. ‘We are going to see Pastor Bylsma.’

‘He is preparing for the exposition,’ Bartosik replied.

‘Today is Spener’s memorial day,’ Gurten added for my benefit.

As we left by a door on the far side of the room, the hands of the people came up and waved to us, as if they, or we, were setting off to sea on a long voyage.

‘God bless!’ called Gurten.

‘I thought the place was empty,’ I whispered, as we crossed the threshold into a dark corridor.

Gurten looked at me, an expression of severity on his face. ‘The shops are closed in Nordcopp for the day. True Christians take comfort in the words of the Lord.’

He crossed the corridor and knocked on another door. Above it, there was another inscription. GOOD WORKS.

A voice called out, and we entered.

The room was almost bare, though larger than the last. Oddly, there were only two men in the room. One was stretched out on a sort of chaise longue. The other man stood over him, his legs straddling either side of the couch. The latter was wearing a long white shift that might have been freshly laundered and ironed, while the patched and ragged trousers of the reclining man gave the impression of having never been washed or cleaned in their existence. Neither man turned to look over at us. There was a strong smell of disinfectant in the air. As if to excuse himself, the man in white held up his hand.

He was gripping a very large pair of black pincers.

‘One moment,’ he said. ‘A few more tweaks, and it will come out.’

I stepped to the side, glanced at the reclining patient, saw a cheek and jaw so swollen that the man’s left eye had closed entirely. I had never seen such a frightful abscess. It must have been dreadfully painful, as must the operation, yet not a sound was heard.

‘Don’t disturb yourself, Pastor Praetorius,’ Gurten said. ‘We are passing through.’

‘Is it you, Herr Gurten?’

He did not turn around. The pincer had taken hold and he was pulling and twisting so hard that his voice came hissing out from between his teeth. Suddenly, his arm jerked upwards, the troublesome tooth trapped in the maw of his pincers. The sufferer hardly made a sound. A long, low groan, but nothing worse.

‘Spit,’ ordered Pastor Praetorius.

A gob of blood flew into a pewter dish that was resting on the floor.

‘Did you feel any pain?’ the dentist asked, letting the tooth—a huge, hooked mass of black roots—fall with a loud clatter into the same bloody bowl.

‘God bless you, no, sir. That vinegar of yours is a miracle.’ The man’s voice was as bright as that of a child who has just received an unexpected gift.

Gurten called back: ‘God guide your hand, sir.’

We walked together into another passage, stopping in the gloom outside a door over which was carved the inscription: ZEAL IN STUDIES, AND A DEVOUT LIFE.

‘The fifth rule of Jakob Spener,’ Gurten intoned in a low voice. ‘We have reached our destination.’

Whatever he was about to show me, I knew that I would see it in absolute silence, and that the lighting would be poor. Severity and parsimony were the essential elements of Pietist practice. In effect, this translated in the Convent of the Saviour into silence and darkness, a detached atmosphere in which mystic fervour could flourish.

As Gurten opened the door, my hands flew up to cover my eyes.

How many candles had been lit in there? At least a hundred. Perhaps more. There was not a shadowy corner in the large room.
The air was pleasantly warm from the heat of the flames, delicately scented with the perfume of the melting wax. It was so bright in there, it made the rest of the convent seem as dark as a cave.

‘Lord above, Pastor Bylsma!’ Gurten exclaimed. ‘Is this the waiting-room of Paradise?’

I glanced around, noting two large cabinets containing ancient leather-bound volumes and paper scrolls arranged like a honey-comb. A long table occupied the middle ground of the room. Open books were laid out on lecterns, as in a medieval scriptorium. But the main feature was a large portrait on the wall opposite the door. Painted over a rich Prussian-blue background, I recognised the hollow cheeks and long curly locks of the founder father of Pietism, Philipp Jakob Spener. Beneath the picture, a mosaic of amber fragments of different colours formed his name, together with the dates of his birth and death, 1635–1705.

‘Congratulations, sir,’ Gurten enthused. ‘The people of Nordcopp will remember this day for a long time to come.’

Pastor Bylsma was dressed in the same outmoded fashion as the man in the painting. He wore a large winged linen collar and a dark padded jacket with high shoulders, and his hair (or was it a elaborate wig?) had been set in a fair imitation of the founder’s curls. Even so, I thought, Herr Bylsma failed to capture the mysticism and severity of expression which dominated the portrait of the father of German Pietism. And Gurten’s compliments made no impression on his melancholy face.

‘Who is this?’ he asked, making no attempt to hide his animosity.

I was surprised. Pietism welcomes converts and the curious as a matter of faith.

‘Allow me to present Magistrate Stiffeniis,’ Gurten replied quickly. ‘He has been sent here to investigate the recent murders on the coast.’

I bowed.

‘The magistrate who is working for the French?’ said Bylsma, frowning. ‘What brings you to our convent, sir?’

I glanced questioningly at Gurten.

‘Pastor Bylsma is the custodian of the Jakob Spener library,’ Gurten explained. ‘This chapel contains relics which once belonged to the great Reformer. There are even locks of his hair in a box.’

‘True hair,’ Pastor Bylsma insisted. ‘From his own head, sir.’

‘Celestial!’ Gurten exclaimed. On his face I observed the same expression of ecstasy which had possessed him while he meditated naked on the cold tiles of his cell. ‘I was more violently moved when I examined those grey curls last night,’ he went on, ‘than when I stood beneath the painted ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Great art may inspire us for a moment, but sanctity is eternal. Professor Kant understood this concept.’

His piety seemed genuine enough, though I wondered whether this inclination towards the mystical might induce him to view material things with less cold realism than they merited. If I did decide to employ him, I thought, I would need to beware of his facile enthusiasm. A different aspect of the question occurred to me. Our Reformation was fired by a healthy disrespect for relics. And yet, they were venerating those grey curls from the head of Philipp Jakob Spener as if they were sacred. Nordcopp church seemed more pagan than a Catholic temple. And yet, that aspect did not disturb Johannes Gurten. Rather, it seemed to excite him all the more.

I wondered what Pastor Bylsma knew that might be useful to me. Why had Gurten led me there?

Johannes Gurten might have read my mind.

‘Pastor Bylsma,’ he entreated, ‘would you care to tell Herr Procurator Stiffeniis what Nordcopp is celebrating today, and explain the part that this particular room and you, of course, will play in the ceremony?’

Bylsma frowned again, and glanced reproachfully at Gurten. ‘Step up to the altar, sirs,’ he said.

A row of candles had been placed along the front edge of the altar-table, which was at the far end of the room. A plain wooden cross hung darkly symbolic on the wall behind. Bylsma bowed his head and whispered hoarsely in a voice not his own. I heard some words of prayer in Latin, ‘
Cum dederit dilectis suis summum
. . .’

He seemed to change before my eyes into a different man. Fervent
intensity blazed brightly in his eyes, his tiny figure seemed to swell and grow. Of a sudden, he twirled around and began to speak about himself, but not in the person of Pastor Anton Bylsma of Nordcopp. His speech was measured, formal, distinctly archaic. He had become the long-dead founder of the Pietist Order in Germany.

‘It all came about in 1691, you see. I happened to be dwelling in the palace of Dresden at that time. I was employed as private chaplain to the Grand Elector of Saxony. But then, the Elector of Brandenburg—he soon became King Frederick I of Prussia, as you know—well,
he
proposed that I should go to Halle to select the teachers for the new Faculty of Theology at the university. I accepted the task, as I was bound to do, and so I took the opportunity to extend my absence and visit a friend, who was living here in Nordcopp. I stayed with him for—oh, two months, it must have been. Slightly longer, I suppose. Indeed, it was
I
, Philipp Jakob Spener, who founded the chapel and convent of the Holy Saviour . . .’

That first-person ‘I’ was disquieting; I had never spoken to a dead man before.

‘In this very room, sir!’ he thundered, spreading his hands wide. ‘And why did I stay so long in Nordcopp? My works will tell you,’ he said, pointing to the manuscripts and the scrolls on the table and the shelves. ‘My unpublished works, I should add. Take a look at those two pages on the table. Look at them, I say!’

I glanced uncertainly at Gurten.

He smiled back at me, and raised his finger to touch the side of his nose.

Wait
, that gesture seemed to say.

Reluctantly, I did as I was told. I was expecting to find some obscure religious tract. Instead, the papers appeared to be rough notes of a scientific nature. There were diagrams and sketches of no artistic quality, yet what those drawings portrayed was clear enough. They depicted pieces of amber, some large, some small, but all containing insects.

‘It was here in Nordcopp’, the pastor continued, ‘that my reflections led me to propound the True Faith in the Germanic lands. It
was here that
I
, Philipp Jakob Spener, founded the spiritual roots of our national history.’

Bylsma paused.

Was he waiting for me to share his enthusiasm?

‘I am aware of the greatness of the man,’ I said, glancing uncertainly at Gurten. ‘You do not need to convince me, sir. At the same time, I do not wish to interrupt your preparations for the feast. Indeed, I have . . .’

‘Pastor Bylsma was referring to what Spener discovered while he was here, Herr Procurator,’ Gurten said quickly, holding my gaze longer than was necessary.
There is more that you should know
, he seemed to be saying.

He turned back to the priest. ‘I was hoping, sir, that you would speak particularly of the Venerable Spener’s interest in amber.’

‘He was alluding to that fact, to amber, I mean, when he mentioned that he had uncovered the roots of German history and culture here in Nordcopp,’ Pastor Bylsma added somewhat huffily.

The first person singular had been replaced by the third. I felt relieved.

‘I was fortunate to find his written notes on the subject,’ the priest added more meekly. ‘Spener passed a great deal of his time on the seashore, drawing what the people found there. It was Prussian territory then and Baltic gold fascinated his mind. He spoke of amber as the heart of Prussia in the text that I discovered.’

‘Spener collected amber,’ Gurten put in, as if afraid the detail might be lost.

‘He left a veritable treasure,’ agreed Pastor Bylsma, lowering his voice.

‘What kind of treasure?’ I asked with less enthusiasm.

Is there a village in the continent of Europe that does not have its tale of hidden treasure of inestimable worth? Was this what my would-be pupil, Johannes Gurten, wanted me to hear? A half-wit priest recalling the short visit of a notable theologian to the area, his passing interest in natural amber, the fact that he had collected a piece or two while visiting his friend in the town two centuries earlier?

My mind flew back to the corpse of Ilse Bruen. The triangle carved in her gullet. The fact that Adam Ansbach and his mother were already locked up in the darkest dungeon of Königsberg castle. I had allowed myself to be distracted by an over-excited youth who wished to practise law under my tutelage.

‘I am sure it says a great deal for the honour of Spener and Nordcopp,’ I said, preparing to make my excuses and leave them to it.

‘Great mysteries surround the greatest names in our national history . . .’

‘Pastor Bylsma,’ Gurten interrupted him brusquely, ‘please show Herr Stiffeniis what you showed to me last night.’

The pastor’s mouth fell open. ‘You are a devout Pietist . . .’

‘So is Procurator Stiffeniis,’ Gurten fired back. ‘He is a Prussian, and he is trying to help our countrymen. Help
him
, sir!’

There was a fever of passion and anxiety in this exchange.

‘I thought . . . that is . . .’ Pastor Bylsma burbled. ‘I believed it was the
French
who were to benefit in this case from the magistrate’s assistance.’

I heard the note of sarcasm in his voice.

‘Herr Bylsma, whatever you intend to show me,’ I paused for a moment, afraid to add my own rhetoric to theirs, ‘show me quickly. Herr Gurten is right. I have seen two corpses in three days. Prussian lives are at stake. My only aim is to save them.’

Bylsma fixed me with a watery stare. Then, he nodded. Turning to the altar, he bowed to the cross and stretched out his arms, resting his hands on either edge of the table. Was he praying to the founder again? A loud mechanical click broke the silence, and a narrow drawer slid out from beneath the altar-table.

‘Come up,’ he said.

I stood on one side, Gurten took his place on the other.

A vivid scarlet cloth hid from view whatever the drawer might contain.

Bylsma turned his face to mine. His eyes were bright, his cheeks seemed to swell, as if he wanted to speak, but feared to do so.

What was he afraid of?

‘What you are about to see,’ he warned me, his voice a tremor,
‘has survived the greed of Russians, Lithuanians and Poles. Unscrupulous Prussians have tried to lay their hands upon it, too. With the arrival of the French, the time-honoured rules of prudence have been doubly reinforced. They would certainly remove it from this holy place. I am hesitant to . . .’