The Anatomist's Dream (19 page)

19

Von Ebner's Nucleus

Kwert and Philbert got into Ullendorf's carriage and went down the long winding road into town, surrounded on both sides by tall dark lines of cypress trees dripping and swaying with the light rain falling on their leaves. They were heading towards the patchwork of roofs Philbert had seen but not experienced, and soon were right amongst them, clopping past white-washed walls, hedged gardens and courtyards. The streets were remarkably busy, this being a warm, soft evening, people able to ignore the sporadic showers by sitting in open-doored porches or beneath awnings pulled out from bars and taverns. Ullendorf's carriage wound through narrow alleys and backways behind the main thoroughfare of the town into the dark, unpopulated streets that made up the less salubrious parts of Lengerrborn, where the houses were shabbier, the cats scrawnier, the gas-lamps dimmer – if they were there at all.

A short while later the carriage drew up, hooves clattering on the cobbles. Ullendorf flung open the door and threw himself out telling his driving-boy not to wait but to come back at midnight, wrapping his cloak tightly about his shoulders, making sure his hat was on fast and sure, beckoning Kwert and Philbert with him up a mean ginnel set between two rows of tall-stacked houses. It was dark, their footsteps echoing dully between the flanking walls, the recently fallen rain splashing against their legs when they stepped into unseen puddles. Ullendorf stopped at a break in the wall, tapping at a small narrow door with his knuckles – rat-a-tat-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat-tat. A small window opened in the wood, closed again, then the door opened, Ullendorf and Kwert having to bend in half to get through, Philbert nearly getting stuck trying to step over the high ledge at its base. And then they were in, a mangle of wet capes and hats, the door closed quietly behind them, two large bolts drawn over to keep them in.

Philbert could see very little, but was aware of murmurings and scraping noises and the strong smells of beer and tobacco. Ullendorf handed over his cloak, talking
sotto voce
to the man who'd opened the door to them and who was eying Kwert and Philbert with suspicion, looking them up and down and round and round before eventually nodding. He jangled a large set of keys as he took all three through an arched tunnel, like those found in beer cellars. At the very end of it, he unlocked another door.

The noise was immediate – the place chock-a-block with well-attired men, tankards and cups before them, candles burning at the centre of each table, chair legs catching at the stones set in the earthen floor as they were constantly pulled back and forth as people moved amongst themselves. Ullendorf stood tall, shading his eyes to concentrate his search, but before he found what he was looking for he was addressed by a man clothed entirely in black velvet who grabbed Ullendorf by the arm and pulled him on.

‘Doctor Ullendorf!' said the man. ‘What a pleasure! Come, sit. Von Ebner's not here yet, but your fellows are.' He barged his way through the small crowd, pushing people aside with ostentatious requests to make way for Von Ebner's special guests and, moments later, they were all three seated, Philbert launched onto a cushioned pew so that he was able reach the table, hands already reaching towards the platter of trotters and potatoes at its centre, which delicacy was soon matched by the arrival of a stack of napkins, two pitchers of ale, a large jug of wine and three men, after which the velvet man slipped away like steam from a kettle, like Harlekin from the stage. Ullendorf took his place and introduced Philbert and Kwert to his newly arrived companions, everyone shaking hands. The first, Herr Federkiel flipped back his coattails and sat next to Philbert, lifting a potato from the central platter to the light of the candle.

‘A prime example of a parabolic frustum section, I should say, shouldn't you, Philbert?'

It sounded good, so Philbert nodded, adding that the potato tasted fine. Federkiel laughed and picked up another, which he handed to Philbert with the words ‘rhomboidal tetragon', at which Philbert nodded gravely and wished him good health in return. Federkiel smiled and put a hand on the boy's head, informing the company that he'd studied under the great Cuvier in Paris and had a passion for all things geometrical and the names they bore.

‘I measure everything I see,' he elucidated. ‘I can
'
t help myself – the length of bones, and boiled vegetables, and boys' heads.' He held his hand to one side as if to frame it. ‘I
'
ve seen the crystal skulls of the Indians of the Andes, and the netsuke skulls of Japan with their ivory frogs for eyes. I
'
ve seen the bones of four thousand Capuchin monks resting in the subterranean vaults of Santa Maria in Rome and another, even older, that is purported to be of an ancient Adamic race, but never have I seen a head like the one that sits here before me in the humble confines of a Lengerrborn crypt. I can barely wait to get out my callipers and start sharpening my pencil.'

The second man at the table held back Federkiel's arm, the hand of which was already delving into the bag by his side. ‘Let's wait a moment, Federkiel, before you begin your metrological analysis. We have all night, after all, and tomorrow to measure as much as we wish.' The man turned to Philbert and propped a pair of pince-nez on his noise. ‘You must forgive us, Philbert. We're all as old and crusty as the hills, only impatient lest we drop dead before we can see all the marvels of this world, of which you are surely one.'

Philbert smiled, wiping trotter grease from his chin, surprised at the interest these friends of Ullendorf were giving him. The man with the pince-nez handed him a napkin, presumably liking his marvels clean, before speaking again.

‘I am Professor Schnurrhenker, a physiologist, come all the way from Berlin to see for myself this great head of yours, young Philbert. I gather my colleague Ullendorf has studied you under his microscope – a pleasure I surely hope to replicate, and so I
'
m delighted to meet you, Philbert,' Schnurrhenker made a small formal bow over the table and grasped Philbert's two hands in his own. ‘I
'
m sure we
'
re going to be the greatest of friends.'

Kwert seemed amused by these proceedings in which he was being so obviously ignored, and Ullendorf was rocking back on his chair, arms lifted behind his head, chest thrust out, a great smile spread over his face like a folded pancake. Abruptly Ullendorf brought his chair back down to the ground and laid his large hands on the table, turning towards the third man.

‘And what of you, Zwingerhahn, what
'
s your interest in the boy? For you are no doctor, of that I'm sure.'

Zwingerhahn sipped from his cup and took his time ­swallowing, licking his thin purple lips in a rather unnerving way.

‘You know me, Ullendorf,' he said slowly. ‘I like to know who is coming and going, and why they're doing what they're doing. Times are coming when we'll need to get organised, so it's always necessary to know who is who and what is what.'

Schnurrhenker and Federkiel coughed, sipping noisily at their drinks, tensing themselves in their seats for the diatribe they knew would come
.
Zwingerhahn ignored them and shifted his gaze from Ullendorf to Kwert.

‘You're a stranger here and, I gather, a traveller. You must have seen things up and down the country the rest of us have not had the privilege to encounter.'

Kwert nodded uneasily, shooting a quick glance at Philbert who wasn't listening but instead sinking his chops into another pig's trotter. Zwingerhahn went on regardless.

‘In Silesia the workers are overthrowing factories and burning down their workshops. The weavers in particular seem ill-used. I personally spoke to several being held on charges of treason and sedition, if you can believe it. And they were honest men,' he growled, ‘forced out of their trades, or to work for a pittance and a crust of stale bread. They
'
re craftsmen, men used to ­supporting their families without breaking either their backs or their spirits. Not that they were against the new machinery, not at all. They keep their harsh words for the princes and overlords who are tithing them out of their own businesses, shackling them into bonded labour to pay invented debts. It seems to them, as it does to many, that the time has come to throw down the
Landsadel
who presume nobility and possession, not only of the land but of the men who live on it.'

‘Property is theft,' quoted Federkiel, before adding, rather sheepishly, as Zwingerhahn swivelled his head and nailed him with a glance, ‘so said Proudhon, or so I believe.'

‘Ah yes,' Zwingerhahn nodded, maybe with approval, maybe not. ‘Proudhon. And Lafayette. Let us not forget Lafayette, yet another great man who cast off the shackles of his birth and proclaimed liberty to be the due of his people. I remember toasting all of them at the Festival of Hambach in '32, when thirty thousand of us stood before the gates of the castle to demand a free and united Germany; the Red, Black and Gold wrapped about us as our standard.' Zwingerhahn took a large swig of wine, keeping his gaze on the table around which the others kept a stiff uncomfortable silence as he went on. ‘Proudhon, Lafayette . . . the martyred Marat . . . all heroes of the Revolution. And of course, Saint-Just, whose words no one can ignore:
With whatever illusions monarchy may guise itself,
it remains an eternal crime against which every man has
the right to rise up
. . . Strong words,' he said, ‘strong words and so very true.'

‘For a Frenchman, at least,' added Ullendorf lightly, drawing Zwingerhahn's eyes back from their vision of the past.

Zwingerhahn looked curiously back at Ullendorf as if not quite understanding what he'd said and gulped once into the hovering silence.

‘Quite right,' he repeated, in a tone that was about as humorous as he ever got, ‘for a Frenchman, quite right.'

It was the sign for general conversation to break out, much to the relief of everyone, especially as Zwingerhahn chose that moment to stand up and take his leave, regretted by none.

‘Sorry about that, Kwert,' Ullendorf said. ‘Old Zwingerhahn does get rather carried away. The right of what he says is not disputed, for maybe it is time for a free and united Germany. All of us think so gathered here. But the likes of Zwingerhahn would pick up arms at any moment and do the dirty princes to death with his bare hands if he could. He still sees the Treaty of Tilsit as the divider of the country, the dissolution of the Empire and all that, but most of us just meet up here to talk out ideas, keep up with what's going on, discuss our business un­interrupted in a congenial atmosphere.'

Ullendorf filled Kwert's glass, and those of his companions. ‘And you really do have to go where the great minds gather,' he went on. ‘Myself, Federkiel and Schnurrhenker, are only here because Von Ebner is one of the great minds of Europe. We ourselves are hardly activists but Von Ebner is a die-hard – like Zwingerhahn – and this is one of the few places he will agree to meet.'

Ullendorf sighed, Federkiel and Schnurrhenker nodding in agreement, as did Kwert, though he'd not the faintest idea what any of them had been talking about. It was true he tramped the country up and down, as did most of the people who attached themselves to the Fairs, and it was true too that many of the Fairs' people were well up on the politics of the land – Maulwerf's own troupe of actors were proof of that – but in truth, most of them just got their heads down and did what they did, hoping to make a small living out of it. And what Ullendorf said next went right over his head.

‘Von Ebner used to know Karl Follen and be in with the Burschenschaften in his youth. Claims he's still dogged by Metternich's spies, though God knows they must be ancient by now if they're still following him around after all these years. But, but,' Ullendorf went on, interrupting himself, trying to get his point across to Kwert, ‘his expertise is invaluable. As a ­physiologist Von Ebner is first rate. He is way ahead of anyone else in terms of brain research and function. One glass of beer with him will give you as much knowledge as a week's worth of lectures by anyone else in the field.'

Nods and more nods from Federkiel and Schnurrhenker, who now took over where Ullendorf had left off.

‘He has this theory about the growth of cells in tumours,' Schnurrhenker said excitedly, ‘on which all of us have been ­corresponding.' He produced a letter from his inside pocket and flourished it with pride. ‘We've been wondering if such cells might be harnessed to heal other parts of the body otherwise damaged, serve as energetic storehouses for the higher ­functions of other organs.'

‘Hence our interest in Philbert,' Ullendorf took over the gist of the conversation, jiggling ever so slightly in his seat as he took the letter from Schnurrhenker's hand and pushed it towards Kwert. ‘And when I told him of Philbert, Von Ebner was most excited, most excited indeed. People with a condition such as Philbert's are rare indeed – and only ever present to the medical profession as adults, when their teratology has become a burden interfering in their normal lives. But Philbert . . . Philbert is still a child, still growing . . . an opportunity none of us have come across before.'

Kwert frowned, would have spoken, but Federkiel suddenly stood up, waving his arm.

‘There he is!' he said. ‘By God, Ullendorf, it's really him. It's Von Ebner!'

A flurry at the end of the room confirmed Federkiel's analysis as a tall man – made taller by his stovepipe hat – threaded a graceful way towards their table, the black-velveted Zwingerhahn practically pushing people out of his path. Ullendorf stood up.

‘Von Ebner, dear fellow!' he shouted, smiling and waving his hat, Schnurrhenker and Federkiel hastily rearranging chairs so the great man could take the centre place. Kwert didn't stand but leant over the table and bade Philbert drop the trotter, dabbed at him with napkins and straightened his coat and shirt.