HS03 - A Visible Darkness (45 page)

But what if the danger was real? What if the Kantstudiensaal was the place where the rebels congregated? And more to the point, what if Vulpius was one of them?

I was shaken from my reverie by the voice of Rickert.

‘May I ask, sir, why you are looking for him?’

I hesitated for some moments, then I started to tell him precisely who I was, and exactly why I was looking for Vulpius. That is, I told Dr Rickert what I wanted him to know.

The boot was on the other foot.

Dr Rickert leant back in his seat when I had finished.

‘I heard about those bodies that were found beneath the Grünen Brücke bridge,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘It’s only a three-minute walk away from here. It was the talk of the town ‘til the French hanged a gang of saboteurs who were trying to mine the docks. Five of those men were living right across the street from here. Can you imagine that, sir? By the time the commotion blew over, those poor women had been forgotten. What was it, a couple of months ago? And now you say they think that Vulpius was involved in the murder? A Kantian scholar?’

I did not give him time to collect his thoughts. ‘The French suspect him. It is in their interests to blame everything on a Prussian. They’ve set their sights on Vulpius. But you and I, sir, why,
we
are Prussians. We know where our duty lies. I have always been a fond admirer of Immanuel Kant.’

On that count, at least, I was only telling half a lie.

‘Me, too, sir,’ Rickert pitched in enthusiastically.

‘Just like Vulpius, a Kantian through and through,’ I insisted. ‘I must find him and warn him of the danger. And I must do so before the French manage to get their hands on him. That’s why, Herr Doctor, it is imperative that you help me to locate him.’

I gave him time to think on my proposal by finishing off his soup. But evidently, Rickert needed more time, placing his own survival in the form of cash earned on one side of the balance, and the life of Vulpius, Prussian nationalist, on the other.

‘I may be able to help you find him,’ he said at last.

Thinking back on that evening in Rickert’s house, I often puzzle over what actually happened. Along with the other things that he offered me—bed, soup, water, conversation—had Rickert set out from the start to feed me privileged information that I would never have unearthed without his help? Was his performance chicanery? An attempt to squeeze more money out of me? Or was it, instead, a form of fear, a sublimation, a means of indirectly providing me with information that he would rather not have told me, and which he would never admit having personally given away?

Then again, was it something of an entirely
different
nature?

‘Do you know Salthenius?’ he enquired, his voice low, his head bent close to mine. ‘Daniel Lorenz Salthenius.’

The name was familiar.

‘I studied at the University of Halle,’ I replied. ‘Salthenius was once the Professor of Philosophy there. It was long before my own time, of course.’

Doctor Rickert clapped his hands like an excited child. ‘Correct! But he was more than a philosopher. Born in Sweden, Salthenius was forced to flee for . . . Well, sir, let’s just say that serious allegations were made against him. He found refuge in Halle, where he was converted to Pietism by Philipp Jakob Spener himself. Later on, Salthenius moved to Königsberg. He taught for many years here at the Albertina University and his lectures were packed, sir. Just imagine those days. All those students looking for bed and board at any price . . .’

His eyes flickered, lost in a dream of endless beds and cauldrons of onion soup.

‘I do not see what this has to do with Vulpius,’ I reminded him.

Rickert raised his finger. ‘One moment, sir, I’ll get to it. In 1740, his world was turned upside down. Malicious voices were raised against Salthenius once again. In Sweden, he had been condemned to death. In Königsberg, they satisfied themselves by removing him from the Albertina. But in the meantime, he had met a young scholar who was just beginning to make his own reputation.’ He stopped short, and stared at me. His eyes were two bright, interrogative lamps. ‘You know who I’m talking of, do you not? I discovered a note from Immanuel Kant in the university archive, asking whether he might visit Salthenius.’

I did not see where his reminiscences were leading.

‘A letter that is not in the Kantstudiensaal,’ he clarified, tapping his closed fist against his chest. ‘I
alone
know what Kant asked Salthenius . . .’

‘A philosophical problem, I imagine.’

He vigorously shook his head. ‘Kant asked Salthenius how to contact Satan!’

It had been a long, frustrating day. I did not have the strength to argue with a madman and I had no intention of resurrecting Kant, or the Devil. I would not go down that road. It is always a problem in Prussia: relax your guard and the Devil leaps out at you as if he is something real and tangible. There, I thought, that’s one thing the French will
never
rob us of: our fascination with the diabolical.

‘Why would Kant ask Salthenius about the Devil?’ I forced myself to say.

‘He fled from Sweden, bringing that terrible knowledge along with him.’

‘But Salthenius became a devout Pietist,’ I objected. ‘I have never heard of a Pietist who worships the Devil.’

‘Salthenius was never his familiar,’ he protested. ‘He never bowed to Satan. He tried to use the power of the Devil for the good of Prussia. For the good of all of us!’

He shook his finger in my face.

‘If only we had found the spiritual strength to learn from his teachings! Kant tried, believe me, sir.’ Were those tears of passion glistening in Rickert’s eyes? ‘When you came by today, asking about Kant,’ he said, ‘I took it as a sign. A potent sign, though I did not fully understand it.’

‘A sign of what?’ I felt unable to withdraw from the delirium of his attack.

‘You are looking for Vulpius to save him from an unjust French accusation. Vulpius is a follower of Kant. Kant ignored the false accusations against Salthenius. And you have come to
me
.’

‘But you have told me nothing about Vulpius,’ I replied, attempting to shatter the brittle chain of his strange logic.

‘Not yet, Herr Procurator Stiffeniis. Not yet.’

He rose suddenly, and went over to a small wooden chest positioned near the fireplace. Dropping down on one knee with a grunt, he raised the lid. The chest was full of papers. There were hundreds of sheets crammed in haphazardly. Some were crushed and bent; others were twisted, folded, ripped. When he closed the lid, and returned to his seat, he was holding a small pewter saucer in one hand, and a bundle of papers in the other. The sheets were
shaking as if they had a heart that was tremulously beating of its own accord.

‘Here we are, sir,’ he muttered, beginning to lay the sheets on the surface of the table one at a time, folding out the pages that were bent, smoothing this one, removing creases, aligning them edge to edge, spreading a second layer over that one, until he had covered the entire surface, like Lotte when she made a sandwich-cake.

Then, he set the pewter plate exactly in the centre of the table.

‘Just there,’ he murmured to himself. ‘That’s right.’

I tried to see what was written on the sheets, but it was impossible. The contents seemed to be a jumble of words and symbols scrawled and scribbled by a childlike hand in what might have been red ink. It had turned a dull dark brown. Many of the words and letters had run, or smudged, where ink appeared to have bled into the paper.

‘What are these messages?’ I asked.

‘The words of Satan.’ He stared at me hard. ‘Salthenius transcribed these messages in his own blood. As the Evil One required him to do.’

Was Rickert totally mad?

He was staring at me from deep within himself. He might have been peering out of some dark cavern. I felt a sudden repugnance for Prussia, and all things Prussian. Wasn’t it better—simpler—to deal with someone like les Halles? The Frenchman was driven by a blunt materialism that was uncompromising. His hands were dirty. His concerns were finite. His gantries and pulleys were too large, or too small. They worked, or they did not work. His
coq du mer
would penetrate the sea-bed, or the sea-bed would repel it, send it back, obliging him to make more trials, more calculations. And when his engineering science had found the answer, the solution was there for all to see.

For an instant, I prayed that France would impose its practicality on Prussia. That Bonaparte’s men would cancel out the multitude of devils that continue to haunt us.

‘It all began with this,’ said Rickert, waving a flimsy piece of
paper in the air. ‘It was folded up inside the syllabus that he wrote in 1737. You know the Pietist principle?
Bußkampf
. A man must win his individual struggle with the Devil if he hopes to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Salthenius had a greater plan: he challenged the Evil One to tell him everything that he wanted to know.’

‘And what did Salthenius ask?’ I said at last.

Herr Rickert held a different note out to me. I took the paper from his trembling hand, and read the single sentence.

Anti-Christ will come from Paris . . .

‘He told Salthenius that Bonaparte would come before the Corsican was even born!’ he murmured darkly. ‘
He
can tell you what you want to know, sir.’

Was this what it had come to? A devil-worshipper was going to tell me where to find Vulpius, having consulted his friendly house hold demon? I was prompted to take up my bag again, pay for what I owed, make my excuses, and leave him to it. What was to stop me? In retrospect, I realise that there was only one reason: I am a Prussian. The Dev il fascinates us all. Without exception.

‘Daniel Salthenius speaks to
me
,’ he continued. ‘He placed that paper where I would find it. I was chosen . . . Chosen! Look here, sir,’ he added sharply, pointing his finger like a magician’s wand at the mass of papers on the table-top. ‘This is our correspondence. From beyond the grave.’

He planted his elbow on the table, opened wide his left hand. His right hand came up holding a fruit knife. With one swift, deft stroke, he cut a nick in the pad of skin between his thumb and fore-finger.

Draw blood out from the large vein. This will give the sacred Entity more energy on which to feed . . .

He dropped the knife on the table, and tilted his hand over the pewter saucer.

Blood ran like a gleaming rivulet down the length of his forefinger, and into the receptacle. With a rapid mechanical gesture—as if he had done it many times before—he pulled his finger away,
pointed it to the ceiling, and wedged my table napkin over the knife-cut.

‘There,’ he said, ‘that is more than sufficient.’

He closed his eyes, and a beatific smile appeared on his face.

I heard the buzzing of a fly, then realised that he was making the noise with his lips.

Then, he began to write, dipping his fingernail into the blood.

Write?

Do we form our letters, or do they form themselves? Do our eyes contribute to the act of writing? His eyes played no part in it, and the results were adequate proof of the omission. With hesitation and uncertainty, laying fresh blood over stains that were old, dry, faded, he traced three circles and a triangle. With the same mechanical impetus as before, his finger suddenly pointed upwards. He removed his hand, using the napkin to wipe away the blood again. He had, it seemed, finished.

Dr Rickert glanced down like a man possessed. Two small circles like eyes. A larger circle beneath it, like a gaping mouth. A medium-sized triangle, which might have been a rough approximation of a nose, except for the fact that it was where the right ear would have been. There was not much more to see on that paper.

But Rickert seemed pleased with himself. ‘Not far,’ he said, tracing out the patterns in the air. ‘Not so far away at all.’ He made a loud tutting noise. ‘I don’t suppose you see it, sir. You don’t know Königsberg as well as I do.’

‘Königsberg?’

He nodded. ‘It should not be difficult to find the man. Can you see the pattern, sir?’ he asked. He edged forward on his chair, pointing out the salient features of his drawing. ‘These circles are the bastions of Königsberg Castle,’ he announced. ‘The large one is the main tower. So, this direction here is south. This triangle lies east of the castle, then, but it is close to the castle wall. Have you ever been down that way, sir? It is something of a maze. Still, this shape is distinct and I can tell you the names of these three streets. They form the Haymarket triangle. Vulpius is right here, on the corner. All the signs point to it . . .’

I stared at the bloody stains on the paper. Mystic signs. Magical ciphers. Maps written in human blood. ‘I hope you will not judge me rude, sir,’ I was just able to say, ‘but it has been a very long day, and I really
do
need to catch up on some sleep.’

I winced as I said it. Even so, I thought, better to rest my head on a pillow where someone else had laid his head for three nights only than to spend another half-hour in my demented landlord’s company.

‘Quite right, Herr Magistrate. I’ll make your bill up right away,’ he said, and beamed a honeyed smile at me.

He did not dip his finger in the blood to make the bill. He did the sum in his head, instead, then explained it to me point by point. Five thalers for my bed, two more for dinner, one for the letters I had asked him to despatch in Lotingen.

I had already done the sum; our tallies did not match.

‘Those ten thalers more,’ he patiently explained, ‘are for services of an
extraordinary
nature.’

I paid without argument.

Later, I lay down on my narrow bed without undressing.

Alone in the dark, the odours of that house were almost tangible. The musky, sweaty smell left behind by the tenant who had filled that space before me. The heavy, ingrained filth of ages in the mats and curtains. The acidic tang of the chamber-pot which I had removed to the furthest corner. The lingering greasy sourness of the yellow sheep-fat candles with which Dr Rickert lit his abode. The persistent sweetness of the boiled and basted onions. Plus, other traces of the sharp and the bitter which I did not care to identify.