Death and the Devil

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.

“The truth? It’s simple. There was no archangel. The man imagined it. That solves our dilemma.”

Jacob stared at him, openmouthed. “A bloody clever conjuring trick.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Does that mean I dreamed it all, too?”

Jaspar shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows. You see how difficult it is to get at the truth. To see the truth, you must first doubt it. Put another way, in a desperate situation you have two alternatives. Headlong flight, as so far—”

“Or?”

“Or you use your head.” Jaspar stood up. “But do not forget,” he said, a severe expression on his face, “that I still have no proof that you’re really telling the truth.” Then a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “But I like you. At least I’m willing to try to find out. In the meantime you can stay here. Just think of yourself as my servant. And now you’d better get a few hours’ sleep. You look a little pale about the gills.”

Jacob let out a slow breath. “How did you mean that?”

“What?”

“That about using my head. What do you think I should do instead of running away?”

Jaspar spread his hands out. “Isn’t it obvious? Go on the attack.”

MEMENTO MORI

Matthias stood by the bier with Gerhard’s body, immersed in his memories.

He had gotten on well with the architect. Not that they had been quite what you would call friends. Matthias would not have sacrificed a friend. That would have been impossible anyway since, basically, he had no friends. But there was a characteristic he had shared with Gerhard, an exceptional clarity of mind combined with the ability to plan months and years ahead. Too few people saw time as something to be planned. The mystics even denied its very existence because an ever-rolling stream of time made possible what they condemned as heresy: progress, poison to the minds of the logicians with their Roscelin of Compiegne, Peter Abelard, Roger Bacon, Anselm, and the like. Most people saw time as a gift from God, to be consumed rather than exploited, parceled up into lauds and vespers, prime, terce, sext and none, matins and compline, rising, eating, working, eating, sleeping.

Time seen as the stage for human activity prompted the question of what a man could achieve in the course of his allotted span, if anything. The mystic’s concept of stasis was countered by the ideas of beginning and