Roger Zelazny - If at Faust You Don't Succeed

"I'm Dr. Faust," Mack said. "What seems to be the trouble?"

"I," said Medici, in a voice that, even as a shadow of its former timbre, was enough to excite the dust particles on the top of the chandelier, "am the richest man in the world."

It was one hell of an opening line, but Mack was not to be thus put down.

"And I," he said, "am the world's most expensive doctor. How fortuitous that we have met!"

"How do you propose to heal me?" Medici growled, with such dominance that the very maggots in his flesh stopped their gnawing for a moment out of respect.

Mack knew that the cure was simple enough. Just take out the vial that Mephistopheles had given him and pour its contents down Medici's throat. But he wasn't going to let Lorenzo know that. Who'd pay a fortune for something as simple as a slug of elixir? No, the contents of the vial might be the final step, but procedure, as Galen and others had pointed out, was the irreducible framework. And the procedure had to be impressive.

"First we'll need a gold basin," Mack said. "Only twenty-four karat will do."

It had crossed his mind that a gold basin would be a good thing to have on hand in case anything went wrong. Funny, the things you think about in a crisis.

"See that it is done," Medici said to the servants.

The servants scurried around. There was a brief delay while they searched for the key to the bin where the gold pots and pans were kept.

The servants brought the gold basin, and also the alchemical equipment Mack asked for. That was not difficult to come by, since Lorenzo was a collector of all sorts of things, and he had a whole room full of alchemical equipment of the latest models. His alembic alone, all gleaming glass and polished bronze, was a sight to behold. And his furnace could perform such miracles of calibration that it was a wonder Medici hadn't cured himself with all his fancy junk on the basis of his pillaged knowledge.

Tall and ghastly pale was this monk who was the talk of all Italy. He fixed his burning eyes on Medici and said, "They said you wanted to see me about something."

"Yes, Brother," Medici said. "I know we've had some differences, but I think we can both say we stand for a strong Italy, a balanced lire, and no more Church corruption. I'd like to make my confession and receive absolution."

"Delighted to arrange it," Savonarola said, taking a parchment out of his cloak, "if you will sign over all your goods and monies to a nonprofit organization I have founded, which will see that they are distributed to the poor."

He slid the parchment beneath Medici's rheumy eyes with an alacrity that belied his slender frame and fever-swept body; for the friar was suffering toothache and so far hadn't been able to pray it away.

Medici's rheumy old eyes swept the manuscript, then narrowed in suspicion. "You drive a tough bargain, Brother. I'm prepared to make a good bequest to the Church. But I've got relatives who have to be taken care of."

"God will provide," Savonarola said.

"No insult intended, but I don't think so," said Medici.

"I think we're about ready with the medicine," Mack said, seeing that he was losing out to the newcomer.

"Sign the parchment!" shouted Savonarola. "Confess yourself a sinner!"

"I'll talk to God in my own heart, Girolamo! But I'll not say it to you!"

"I am a monk," Savonarola said.

"You are vain, and proud," Medici said. "To hell with you. Faust! The medicine!"

Mack hurriedly took out the vial and struggled to uncork it. It had one of those thin little wires wrapped around it that are so hard to cut if you don't have pliers.

And back then, before even the circle was standardized, hardly anyone had pliers. Medici and Savonarola were screaming at each other. The servants were cowering. Outside, church bells were ringing. Mack finally got the bottle cap off. He turned to Medici.

The Magnificent had fallen suddenly silent. He lay in bed motionless, jaw agape. Blind eyes, still rheumy, but over which a milky film was beginning to form, stared up at nothing.

Medici dead? "Don't do this to me," Mack muttered, and forcing the vial into Medici's mouth, poured.

The liquid came bubbling out of Medici's mouth, untasted. The great man was finally and definitively dead.

He stood for a moment on the street, wondering if he had forgotten something. Damn it, he had forgotten the gold basin! He turned to go back in. But it was too late now. He was swept up into the crowd and carried along by the laughing, screaming, singing, praying multitude. It was the time of the burning of vanities, and all was madness.

People were running, their footsteps echoing on the cobblestones. There was an air of holiday glee.

Many drunks had gotten an early start and were sleeping it off in doorways. Children were everywhere, darting here and there in an ecstasy of pleasure. The shops were all closed, with boards nailed up over their doorways. A clatter of hooves was heard as mounted lancers rode by, brilliant in uniforms of scarlet and black, and Mack ducked back into a doorway to avoid getting trampled on. As he did so, he ran into a man's solid body. "Watch where you're going!"

"Sorry!" said Mack. "It was the soldiers."

"What did soldiers have to do with you stepping on my foot?"

The man whose foot Mack had stepped on in the doorway was tall and finely shaped, with a head that could have modeled for a Grecian Apollo. He was fashionably dressed in a cloak of dark fur, and from his hat floated an ostrich feather, proof that he either had contacts abroad or knew someone in the Florence Zoo. He peered intently at Mack with large and brilliant eyes.

"Excuse me, stranger," the man said, "but haven't we met?"

"I doubt it," Mack said. "I'm not from around here."

"That's interesting. I'm looking for a man who doesn't come from around here. My name is Pico della Mirandola. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

Indeed Mack had, from Mephistopheles, as one of the great alchemists of the Renaissance. But Mack, foreseeing trouble, was not going to admit having heard of him.

"I don't think so," Mack said. "Anyhow, it's just a coincidence us meeting this way. It's very unlikely that I'd be the man you seek."

"So it might seem in the ordinary course of things," Pico said. "But when you put magic to work, coincidences suddenly become much more probable. I was supposed to meet someone here. Might it not be you?"

"What is the name of this person you're supposed to meet?"

"Johann Faust, the great magician from Wittenberg."

"You're sure you're not Faust?" Pico said.

"Oh, yes, quite sure. I suppose I know my own name, ha, ha! Excuse me, I must be off, I don't want to miss this Bonfire of Vanities." He hurried off. Pico gazed after him, then began to follow.

Mack hurried on and saw a great open plaza. In the middle of it, there was a tall pile of wooden furniture, paintings, cosmetics, and ornaments of various sons.

"What's going on?" Mack asked a man near him in the crowd.

"Savonarola and his monks are burning the vanities," the man told him.

Mack moved closer. He saw that there were many pretty things carelessly thrown on the great pile.

There were babies' embroidered gowns, and crocheted tablecloths, there were well-wrought candlesticks, there were oil paintings by artists of no great reputation, and a lot of other stuff.

As Mack came closer, he saw, on the edge of the fire, a large painting in an ornate frame. Since Mephistopheles had gifted him with a knowledge of art, he saw at once that it was a Botticelli, one of the middle period of the master's paintings. It was worth a lot of money, and was rather pretty, too.

Surely, Mack thought, in all this great mass of paintings, it wouldn't matter if I took one?