Lanceheim (7 page)

It was not until his third glass of cognac that the pianist from dinner sat down in the armchair beside him, and conspiratorially leaned forward to address him in a low voice.

“Do you know about Maximilian?” she asked, getting right to the point. “Maximilian that Afghan mentioned?”

Reuben smiled in collusion. The alcohol had lightened his heart a little.

“Afghan won on fatigue,” he replied. “And dinner was a pleasure. But you cannot forgive her ecumenicism. And this…Maximilian…is no one that I—”

“She was right,” interrupted the pianist.

Reuben looked at her with surprise. Even if he did not remember her name, he knew that she was a talent, a serious musician with a solid reputation.

“What do you know about Maximilian?” she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing, really,” he answered truthfully. “It's clear that I know about the phenomenon, but I've never believed that—”

“I've heard a story,” the pianist began, but corrected herself. “I have heard many stories, but I'm thinking about the story about the giraffe in particular. He is still living. I think his name is Heine and he lives down in Yok. The giraffe was sick. Fatally sick. If I've understood the matter right, it was cancer of the throat, and metastases down in the stomach. It was a matter of weeks, perhaps days, before the Chauffeurs would come and fetch him. When he was walking around in the neighborhood where he lived, he seemed to often see a red pickup driving by. Because he was in so much pain, it would in a way also be a release.

“One day, wandering aimlessly on the street—he wasn't eating anymore, could only drink because the cancer had almost entirely corked up his throat—the Miracle happened. Down from the sky came an animal who did not look like any stuffed animal. I know that you think it sounds ridiculous, Mr. Walrus—I thought so too when I heard it the first time. But since I have heard the same type of story from so many places, with such similar variations, at last I was forced to believe in it. If it was down from the sky or up out of the ground I don't know; the important thing is that this animal, Maximilian, came out of nowhere.”

“What do you mean, he doesn't look like a stuffed animal?” asked Reuben.

“Exactly that. I don't know how to explain it, because I haven't really understood it myself. He lacks a category, he is simply…Maximilian,” the pianist answered, shaking her head lightly.

“Back to the giraffe,” prodded Reuben, who was curious to know how the story would continue.

“The giraffe was out on the street, and suddenly Maxi
milian was standing in front of him,” said the pianist. “He knew it was Maximilian, because Maximilian introduced himself. What the exact words were, I don't know. Some say one thing, some say another. It seems as though the giraffe began some kind of conversation, where he complained about no longer being able to eat corn on the cob. Or corn. Before the giraffe had clarified that it was due to cancer of the throat, Maximilian said: ‘Go and buy corn. As of now you can eat as usual again.'”

The pianist fell silent with an urgent look.

“And so?” said Reuben.

“And so it was,” said the pianist. “There and then, at the same moment as Maximilian said the words, the cancer disappeared from the giraffe's throat. It was a miracle.”

The walrus sipped his cognac. The pianist's story made him ill at ease.

“There are hundreds of stories about Maximilian,” she said. “But I happened to think of this one.”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Walrus,” said the pianist, looking him straight in the eyes, “Maximilian can perform marvels. I have heard stories…he can fly…he has performed miracles…he can heal the sick, Mr. Walrus.
He can heal the sick
.”

Reuben nodded but looked as if he were thinking about something else.

“The Afghan is right,” said the pianist, getting up. “You have to go see Maximilian. It is your only hope.”

She stood a moment, staring at him, with melancholy in her gaze. Then she left, and Walrus remained sitting with his cognac glass in his fin, and his thoughts in disarray.

T
he outing to Sagrada Bastante was mandatory, and not just for us Forest Cubs but for all sixth-graders in the city. The magnificent cathedral with its thirteen towers was located at the Star. The archdeacon of the city, Penguin Odenrick, was responsible for Sagrada Bastante. He was also the superior of the four prodeacons, from Amberville, Lanceheim, Tourquai, and Yok. In each part of the city there was a series of parishes led by humble, industrious deacons who did their best, most often with limited resources. The church was prosperous, and it intended to remain so. That explained the extreme thriftiness.

In Das Vorschutz we had all been brought up religiously. It was part of who we were; the forest was the creation of Magnus, and we were his humble servants. For that reason it was a solemn experience to enter the massive cathedral for the first time together with your schoolmates, and see with your own eyes the fateful ceiling and wall paintings, which depicted portions of the Proclamations in a manner that must be called dramatic. I recall it as if it were yesterday. I walked slowly so as not to stumble. Despite the
massiveness of the church and its windows tall as flagpoles, an ominous darkness rested over the floor of the cathedral. Shadows of carved ornaments and decorations stuck out from walls and pillars, and the intention was surely to instill proper respect in the poor Magnus-fearing visitor. I thought it impossible that the church had been built by the paws, claws, hands, and tails of stuffed animals; this was a work by Magnus himself.

The church in Mollisan Town saw its mission as being to remind the stuffed animals in all situations about their pitifulness, smallness, and mortality. The thirteen towers of Sagrada Bastante rose high above the surrounding neighborhoods and functioned as a part of this constant reminder.

 

I was sitting at
the kitchen table having breakfast the morning my mother, Carolyn Nightingale, led her sixth-grade class to Sagrada Bastante. She had only two pupils who were twelve years old, Maximilian and Weasel Tukovsky's little brother, Musk Ox Pivot, and therefore she had arranged the showing with one of the schools in Lanceheim. Her good friend Theophile Falcon worked there, and in his school there were five parallel sixth-grade classes.

“Good morning,” I greeted.

Maximilian and Musk Ox looked suspiciously at me. Even if I often visited Mother and Father at home, I was no longer one of the residents of Das Vorschutz, and so the Forest Cubs viewed me with skepticism. I recognized the behavior; I had acted the same.

That morning it was almost exactly five years since Maximilian and I had met the wounded badger in the forest. For me the experience had led to existential brooding of the most painful sort, and many times I wished nothing better than to be able to tell someone what I had been involved in. Still, I said nothing. Something held me back.

Sometimes there was talk about Maximilian. He was an odd character; his gifts were beyond the ordinary, and he radiated a sort of integrity that could feel annoying, especially considering his age. No one yet identified this radiation as “goodness” that came later. I refrained from taking part in these discussions, but no one asked why. I had a reputation for being a taciturn wolf.

“Are you spending the night?” Mother asked.

“Probably,” I replied.

Weasel and I had each moved into our own studio apartment in south Lanceheim, while Buzzard was living at home with his parents again for the time being. Naturally we teased him about this, but often we too—with bags of dirty laundry and growling stomachs—sought out our compassionate mothers.

“We're having lasagna,” said Mother to further convince me, and after that she shooed her two schoolchildren out to the taxi that would drive all three of them to the cathedral.

I watched Maximilian as he was leaving. He had continued to grow, and was on his way to being the tallest stuffed animal ever. His appearance seemed to be in constant change, but it was still impossible to see what he resembled. Mother had been nervous about the reactions he would arouse in the other children, but with baggy clothes on his thin body and a cap pulled down over the strange ears, he looked less striking.

“'Bye now,” I called after them.

 

I spent the day
in the living room with my abstracts and legal cases. After high school, I had applied to and been accepted in the law program at the university in Tourquai, and I can't say that I felt at home there, but neither could I complain of discomfort. I had been doing schoolwork for so many
years that it seemed obvious to keep going, and I liked the idea of constantly trying to separate right from wrong, evil from good.

Mother came home right before the Afternoon Rain, but she slipped right into the kitchen. Soon the aroma of garlic-sprinkled broccoli and full-bodied cheese sauce spread through the house. I found it more and more difficult to concentrate, and was relieved when there was a knock at the front door.

Outside stood Eva Whippoorwill.

“Is your mother at home?” she asked.

I nodded and asked her to step in. She looked angry and afraid. She was wearing a dark blue dress with pleated skirt and polo collar, and even if the memory of youthful infatuation had faded, I still thought she was beautiful.

I followed her into the kitchen.

“Where's Maximilian?” Eva asked as soon as she caught sight of Mother.

“Maximilian?”

“Where is he? You should have come back before the Breeze. Musk Ox is already home; I just spoke with Bluebird. Where is Maximilian?”

With rapid, definite movements Mother set aside the grater and cheese on the counter, untied her apron, and quickly stepped past Eva Whippoorwill out into the hall where the telephone was. Eva followed nervously.

“Carolyn, what has happened?” she asked.

Mother did not reply. She dialed a telephone number and waited with the receiver pressed against her ear. She looked resolute. When Theophile Falcon answered, she got right to the point.

“Theophile, this is Carolyn. I'm calling about Maximilian. Was there anything that…?”

Mother fell silent, listened, nodded to herself, and replied
with a brief yes or no at regular intervals, all while Eva Whippoorwill and I anxiously watched her.

“Good,” she said at last on the phone. “We'll come there.”

She hung up, turned around, and said to me, “Eva and I will borrow Sven's car. Tell Father that we'll be back later. Maximilian is apparently still in Sagrada Bastante, and we have to bring him home.”

And with no further delay or explanation, Mother and Eva Whippoorwill left.

They did not return until long after the Evening Storm, and Father and I were extremely curious by that time. We had prepared tea and sandwiches—Mother had not eaten anything since lunch—and while she stilled her hunger at the kitchen table, she told us about what had happened.

 

A quarter of an
hour after the guided tour had begun that morning, Musk Ox Pivot got sick to his stomach. Mother was compelled, not without a certain irritation, to sit with the patient on one of the benches in the inner courtyard, while Maximilian followed along with the other sixth-grade classes under Theophile Falcon's supervision.

Carolyn thought the nausea would pass, but on the contrary it got worse. After sitting on the bench a while, Musk Ox became seriously ill, and threw up in one of the cathedral's many exquisite rose beds. The fact that some of it got on his clothes did not make things any better. Carolyn asked poor Pivot to wait where he was sitting, and then ran to catch up with Falcon and the other cubs. She had to return to Das Vorschutz with the sick musk ox; could Falcon take charge of Maximilian and see to it that he got home later?

Falcon nodded; it was no big deal.

It was only during the afternoon sabbath that School
master Falcon discovered that Maximilian had disappeared. Few stuffed animals observe the sabbath nowadays, but it is only necessary to go back a hundred years to find that all activity in Mollisan Town more or less halted during the hour in the morning and the half hour in the afternoon that the rain fell. In the church the sabbath was still holy, and so only then did Falcon get a chance to count all the cubs.

Maximilian was gone.

Falcon went off on a hunt through Sagrada Bastante, following his own tracks through the church, and it was not long before they found him. In a room inside one of the lecture halls in the oldest part of the building sat two all-deacons and a deacon at a round table, listening seriously to the twelve-year-old Maximilian. The room was dark except for a kerosene lamp, and Theophile Falcon got the feeling that he was interrupting something important.

Maximilian fell silent when the door opened, and the all-deacons turned around.

“Excuse me,” said Falcon, “but Maximilian…is part of my school class?”

The all-deacons and deacon looked startled and doubtful. They exchanged quick glances of mutual understanding, and then asked amiably for leave to keep Maximilian a while longer.

“I don't know…,” Falcon replied. “I promised to take Maximilian home to Das Vorschutz this afternoon, and…pardon me for asking, but…what are you talking about?”

“About evil and good,” said one of the young all-deacons.

“About right and wrong,” replied the other.

“We promise that young Maximilian will come home in a safe manner,” said the deacon. “No later than dinnertime.”

Falcon nodded, perplexed. He did not understand what young Maximilian could tell the stuffed animals of the church about good and evil.

“Are you sure?” he said. “Because I promised that—”

Adam Chaffinch, the deacon who was the leader of the small circle, interrupted him and promised once again that Maximilian would be delivered home to Das Vorschutz, and Falcon was content with that.

 

When Carolyn Nightingale and
Eva Whippoorwill parked Sven Beaver's old Volga Kombi in front of Sagrada Bastante, the sky was already dark. They ran into the church, asked for Adam Chaffinch, and soon found the room where Theophile Falcon had received his assurance many hours earlier.

“Mother?” Maximilian exclaimed in surprise when he saw Eva in the doorway.

Deacon Adam Chaffinch asked what the weather was, and then begged pardon of both females over and over again. They had completely forgotten the time. Would it be possible to keep Maximilian another hour? They were in the midst of an especially important train of thought.

Eva Whippoorwill became furious.

Deacon or not, you didn't behave like that.

Four minutes later Eva and Carolyn were again sitting in Sven's car, this time with Maximilian in the backseat, en route home.

“He's a strange one, that Maximilian,” my mother asserted, eating up the last bite of her sandwich.