Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

“Let’s have a drink,” Goddert shouted, the formula that brought their disputations to a conclusion.

Richmodis jumped up, before her uncle had the chance to give his standard response. “No! No more drinks. We’re going home, if you know where that is.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

Goddert accepted his lot, though with bad grace, muttering incomprehensibly to himself. He’d probably soon be sleeping off the drink. The way he waddled down the street reminded Jacob of the dancing bears you sometimes saw in Old Market Square. Beside him Richmodis looked like his trainer. The wind was toying with her brown hair.

“A pretty child, isn’t she?” Jaspar’s voice came from behind him.

“She has a pretty nose,” Jacob replied. He turned away from the window, went over to the tiled stove and slumped onto the bench. Maria had been pretty, too. She could have been beautiful. Could have become beautiful if she hadn’t—Jacob shook his head. He must put these thoughts out of his mind.

Jaspar observed him in silence.

“You don’t believe me,” Jacob said.

“Well, now.” Jaspar massaged his nose. “There are whole worlds between believing and disbelieving. I believe you when you say you saw something. But was it really there?”

“It was there.”

“Perhaps you got hold of the wrong end of the stick.”

“Then the wrong end of the stick killed Gerhard Morart. Killed Maria and Tilman. Almost killed me. What more do you want?”

Jaspar frowned. “The truth.”

“That is the truth.”

“Is it? I would say it’s what you saw. Nowadays the truth tends to be trumpeted abroad all too quickly, especially when it concerns the Devil. Was it the Devil?”

Jacob looked him up and down. “If you don’t believe me,” he said calmly, “why don’t you throw me out?”

Jaspar seemed both irritated and amused at the same time. “I don’t know.”

“Good.” Jacob stood up. “Or not good. Whatever. Thank you for your time.”

“You’re going?”

“Yes.”

“I think that would be unwise.”

“Why?”

Jaspar came over and stood so close to Jacob the tips of their noses were almost touching. There was a glint in his eyes. “Because you have a soused herring in your head where you should have a brain. Because if you leave now it will prove God created a fool who deserves all he gets. Are you so simple-minded you can’t understand anything besides yes or no, black or white, day or night? Don’t be ridiculous. Why do you think I’ve spent so long listening to you, instead of handing you over to the archbishop’s justices, as was probably my duty, given the numerous petty crimes you’ve doubtless committed? You have the brazen cheek to come into my house, go moaning on at me, then stand on your measly little pride. If I were the kind of man who swallows every so-called truth whole I’d be no use to you whatsoever. Quite the contrary. A fool trying to protect a fool. Saints preserve us! Just because I don’t say I believe you doesn’t mean I think you’re lying. Oh, dear, is that too complicated? Are all those ‘nots’ too much for the poor fish inside your skull? Go and find someone else who’d invite a beggar and a thief in to listen to his life story.”

Jaspar came even closer and bared his teeth. “But if you go, don’t even think of coming back. Do you understand, you self-pitying apology for a clown?”

Jacob felt the fury rise up inside him. He looked for a devastating reply. “Yes,” he heard himself say like a good little boy.

Jaspar nodded with a grim smile. “That’s right. Now sit back down on that bench.”

Jacob looked around, as if he might find his bravado somewhere in the room. Then he gave up. His anger was replaced by a feeling that was not unlike having his head plunged into a bucket of ice-cold water. He went back to the bench by the stove and sat down.

“So you don’t believe me?” he asked warily.

“Not necessarily.”

“Do you think I’m lying, then?”

“Ah!” Jaspar made a bizarre-looking jump. “Our friend is learning the art of dialectics. May even be trying to engage me in a Socratic dialogue. No, I do not think you’re lying.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” moaned Jacob, completely at a loss.

Jaspar sighed. “No Socrates after all.” He sat down beside Jacob and clasped his hands behind his bald head. “Right. There are two men who have never done each other any harm. One night the archangel appears to one of them and announces that the other will hit him over the head with a rock and kill him. Terrified, the man picks up a rock and hurls it at the other so as to beat him to it. But his aim is poor and the other, seeing himself attacked, picks up the stone and strikes the first man dead in self-defense, of course, thus fulfilling the archangel’s prophecy. Did the archangel speak the truth?”

Jacob thought for a while. “Who would doubt the words of an archangel?” he said. “But I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“The truth. The archangel told the man the other would kill him. He didn’t say the other intended to kill him. But the first man took what he thought was the truth as the truth. Looked at in this light, it was his misinterpretation of the archangel’s prophecy, that is something that was not the truth, that led to it being fulfilled, that is the truth. If, on the other hand, he had ignored the warning, then nothing would have happened. But in that case the archangel would have lied, which, as you quite rightly point out, is de facto impossible. Leaving us with a dilemma. Do you follow me so far?”

“I—I’m trying. Yes, I think so.”

“Good,” said Jaspar. “So where is the truth in the story?”

Jacob thought. Hard. It was like a fairground inside his head. Stalls being opened, music blaring, peasants dancing across the floor with thunderous steps, bawling and shouting.

“So?” asked Jaspar.

“The archangel alone is in possession of the truth,” Jacob declared.

“Is he? Did he tell the truth, then?”

“Of course. What he said came true.”

“Only because the man didn’t understand the truth. But if he didn’t understand it, then the archangel may well have intended the truth, but he didn’t tell the truth.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Exactly. Every divine prophecy is clear, or are we to assume an archangel lacks the intellectual capacity to communicate with an ordinary mortal?”

“Perhaps the archangel intended the man to misunderstand?” Jacob proposed hesitantly.

“Possible. But then he would have told a deliberate lie to provoke the misunderstanding. Where does that leave the truth?”

“Just a minute,” Jacob exclaimed. The fairground inside his head was threatening to degenerate into complete pandemonium. “The truth is that the archangel told the truth. The man was hit over the head and killed.”

“But you’ve just said yourself he was killed because the archangel told a deliberate lie.”

Jacob slumped back down. “Oh, yes,” he admitted sheepishly.

“But an archangel always tells the truth, yes?”

“I—”

“So where is it, this truth?”

“Couldn’t we talk about something else?”

“No.”

“The truth is nowhere in your story, dammit.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know. Why are you telling me all this?”

Jaspar smiled. “Because you are like the man the archangel appeared to. You judge by appearances as well. You don’t think. It’s possible you might have told the truth, and everything happened as you said. But can you be sure?”

Jacob was silent for a long time. “Tell me where the truth is,” he begged.