Juan Gomez-Jurado - The Traitor's emblem

“What’s your degree, Herr Keller?”

The bookseller ignored his question.

“I want you to read the book and consider its contents closely.”

Paul did. The work recounted the origins of Masonry: the guilds of builders in the Middle Ages and, before them, the mythical builders of ancient Egypt: They all discovered a wisdom inherent in the symbols of construction and Geometry. You must always write this word with an upper-case G, because G is the symbol of the Great Architect of the Universe. How you choose to worship him is up to you. In the lodge, the only stone you will work will be your conscience and whatever you carry in it. Your brothers will give you the tools to do this after initiation… if you overcome the four trials.

“Will it be hard?”

“Are you afraid?”

“No. Well, a little.”

“It will be hard,” the bookseller admitted after a moment. “But you are brave, and you will be well prepared.”

Paul’s bravery had not been called upon so far, although the trials had not yet begun. He had been called to an alley in the Altstadt, the city’s old city, at nine o’clock on a Friday night. From the outside, the meeting place looked like an average house, although it was perhaps rather neglected. A rusty mailbox bearing an illegible name hung beside the doorbell, but the lock seemed new and well oiled. The man in the suit had come to the door alone and led Paul into a hallway containing various pieces of wooden furniture. It was there that Paul submitted to the first ritual interrogation.

Under the black hood, Paul wondered where Keller might be. He had assumed that the bookseller, the only connection he had with the lodge, would be the person who’d introduce him. Instead he had been met by a complete stranger, and he couldn’t help feeling slightly vulnerable as he walked blindly on the arm of a man he’d first met half an hour earlier.

After what seemed an enormous distance-he had gone up and down various flights of stairs and several long corridors-his guide finally came to a stop.

Paul heard three loud knocks, then an unknown voice asked: “Who calls at the door of the temple?”

“A brother bringing a Profane who desires to be initiated into our mysteries.”

“Has he been adequately prepared?”

“He has.”

“What is his name?”

“Paul, the son of Hans Reiner.”

They set off again. Paul noticed that the ground beneath his feet was harder and more slippery, possibly stone or marble. They walked for a long while, although inside the hood time seemed to have a different consistency. At certain points Paul felt-more out of intuition than any real certainty-that they were covering ground they’d covered before, as though they were walking in a circle, then being made to retrace their steps.

His guide stopped again and began to undo the straps of Paul’s hood.

Paul blinked when the black cloth was pulled back and he realized that he was standing in a small, cold, low-ceilinged room. The walls were completely covered in limestone, on which could be read disordered phrases written in different hands and at different heights. Paul recognized different versions of the Masonic commandments.

Meanwhile, the suited man stripped him of metallic objects, including his belt and the buckles of his shoes, which he tore off without a thought. Paul regretted not having remembered to bring different footwear.

“Are you wearing any gold? Entering the lodge with any precious metal is a grave insult.”

“No, sir,” replied Paul.

“Over there you’ll find a pen, paper, and ink,” said the man. Then, without another word, he disappeared through the door, shutting it behind him.

A little candle illuminated the table on which the writing implements sat. Beside them was a skull, and Paul realized with a shiver that it was real. There were also a number of flasks containing elements that signified change and initiation: bread and water, salt and sulfur, ashes.

He was in the Chamber of Reflections. The place where he was to write his testimony as a Profane. He took up the pen and began to write the ancient formula, which he had not completely understood.

All this is bad. All this symbolism, the repetition… I have the feeling that it’s nothing more than empty words; it has no spirit, he thought.

Suddenly he had a desperate longing to walk along Ludwigstrasse, by the light of the streetlamps, with the wind in his face. His fear of the dark, which hadn’t abated even in adulthood, had crept up on him inside the hood. In half an hour they would be back to fetch him, and he could simply ask them to let him go.

There was still time to turn back.

But in that case I would never know the truth about my father.

The man in the suit returned.

“I’m ready,” said Paul.

He knew nothing of the actual ceremony that was to follow. All he knew was the answers to the questions they asked him, no more than that. And the time had come for the trials.

His guide placed a rope around his neck, then covered his eyes once more. This time he didn’t use the black hood but a blindfold made of the same material, which he tied with three tight knots. Paul was grateful to be able to breathe more easily and his feelings of vulnerability decreased, but only for a moment. Suddenly the man tugged off Paul’s jacket and tore off the left sleeve of his shirt. He then opened the front of the shirt, leaving Paul’s torso exposed. Finally he rolled up the left leg of Paul’s trousers and took off the shoe and sock on that foot.

“Let’s go.”

They were walking again. Paul had a strange feeling as his naked sole touched the cold floor, which he was now sure was marble.

“Halt!”

He sensed a sharp object at his chest and felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Has the aspirant brought his testimony?”

“He has.”

“Let him place it on the end of the sword.”

Paul raised his left hand, in which he held the piece of paper he’d written on in the Chamber. He fixed it carefully on the sharp object.

“Paul Reiner, have you come here of your own free will?”

That voice… it’s Sebastian Keller! thought Paul.

“Yes.”

“Are you ready to face the trials?”

“I am,” said Paul, unable to suppress a shudder.

From that moment on, Paul began to drift in and out of consciousness. He understood the questions, and replied to them, but his fear and inability to see had heightened his other senses so much so that they had taken over. He began to breathe faster.

He was climbing a flight of stairs. He tried to control his anxiety by counting the steps, but he quickly lost count.

“This is where the trial of air begins. Breath is the first thing we receive when we are born!” thundered Keller’s voice.

The suited man whispered in his ear: “You’re on a narrow gangway. Stop. Then take one more step, but make it a decisive one or you’ll break your neck!”

Paul obeyed. Beneath him, the surface of the floor seemed to have changed from marble to rough wood. Before taking the final step, he wiggled the toes of his bare foot and felt that they were at the edge of the gangway. He wondered how high he might be, and in his mind the number of steps he’d climbed seemed to multiply. He imagined finding himself at the pinnacle of the towers of the Frauenkirche, hearing the pigeons cooing beside him, with the bustle of Marienplatz an eternity below.

Do it.

Do it now.

He took a step and lost his balance, falling headfirst, for what couldn’t have been more than a second. His face hit a thick net, and the impact made his teeth clatter. He bit the inside of his cheeks and his mouth filled with the taste of his own blood.