“He’s changed, hasn’t he?” said the master as the birds searched for worms and maggots on a fresh, steaming grave mound. “To me he’s still the same impertinent brat, even if everyone craps their pants nowadays when they talk about the great, oh-so-famous Doctor Faustus. Shuddering is man’s best quality.” He chuckled. “My little Faustus! When will you finally learn that the die has long been cast? The stars don’t lie.”
He put the flute in his pocket, took off the floppy hat that had been keeping his face in the dark, removed the eye patch, and started to wipe away the makeup. He had played so many roles by now—magician, juggler, mercenary, quack, count, baron, and beggar. And now grave digger. It was a role that suited him.
He who takes my hand will be dragged belowground. Sooner or later. And someday I will knock on your door, Johann.
The master licked his pale lips.
The devil is always that which you fear the most.
“Azazel, Baphomet, Belial,” called the master to his three servants. “Quit picking for worms—let’s go find something better.”
That night, Johann stayed up for a long time, bent over his books by the light of a candle. He, Greta, and Karl were renting three spacious rooms at the Bretten Crown Inn at the market square. It was the best house in town; even the emperor had stayed there. The walls in Johann’s chamber were hung with soft rugs and furs, and the room had its own fireplace and a four-poster bed strewn with fragrant lavender. The landlord had been happy to give his best room to the widely known astrologer, who had shown his appreciation with an especially favorable horoscope. But no amount of luxury could restore Johann’s inner peace. He couldn’t stop thinking about the strange grave digger.
The way the man had spoken, the softness in his voice, had sounded as if he came from west of the Rhine. The haggard stature, the wolfish teeth that looked like they’d been sharpened. And he had called Johann by his name, even though he hadn’t introduced himself.
Are you finally ready to pay your price, Doctor Faustus?
It could have been coincidence. Word of Johann’s shows in Bretten must have gotten around, and he was no longer a complete stranger around here. The fellow might have been a little odd, but he was a grave digger, after all—a dishonorable person who lived on the outskirts of society. People like that sometimes were odd.
And yet Johann felt almost certain, even though everything inside him tried to fight the thought: the man at the cemetery had been Tonio del Moravia, his former master.
More than twenty years ago, Tonio had picked up Johann on the road after his stepfather had thrown him out. He had traveled the empire at Tonio’s side and learned much from him. But then the man had revealed his true face.
To this day Johann didn’t know the real identity of his former master. Tonio was an expert in deception, a Satanist, and possibly something worse—yes, maybe he was the devil himself. He never seemed to age, unlike Johann, who felt every single one of his years in his bones.
Another bout of shaking overcame him; it shot into his hand and from there spread through the entire left side of his body. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he tried to gain control over his body. It had been going like this for six months now. At first, it had been nothing but a slight twitching of his fingers. Johann had suspected it was a late aftereffect of the amputation back in Nuremberg, when Tonio had cut off Johann’s little finger of his right hand and then taken out his eye. But the trembling had become worse, spreading inside Johann like a fever or paralysis. Sometimes, at night, his body became as hard as a shell and he struggled to breathe.
This must be what it feels like to be buried alive.
He dug his fingers into the tabletop and the shaking subsided, slunk back into its hiding hole like an old reptile waiting to pounce on him again another day.
“Damned disease! What . . . what are you?” gasped Johann.
The grave digger had spoken about a price that every man had to pay. Could this disease be the price he meant?
During the last few months, Johann had reached the conclusion that it wasn’t so much an illness as a curse—yet another part of the pact he had entered with Tonio all those years ago, a handshake on the highway between Maulbronn and Ulm. He had succeeded at much in life since then, had gained glory and wealth, but everything had its price. And now Tonio—or whoever the master was—was reaching out for him and demanding his share.
How much time had he left?
At that moment there was a knock on the door, and Johann started. Had the devil arrived to fetch him already? But then he heard Greta’s voice and breathed a sigh of relief.
“I can see light under your door, Uncle. May I come in?”
Johann closed his eyes for a moment, trying to calm down. Then, attempting to sound preoccupied and impatient at once, as if she had disturbed him in deep thought, he called out, “Well, if it’s important. I’m still at work.”
The door opened and Greta came in. As always upon seeing her, Johann felt as though someone had lit a light in the darkness. Greta’s merry face brightened his darkest hours, and when she laughed, all was well. But he knew that even she could be melancholy at times, that even for her the world was framed in black.
Just like it was for her mother, may she rest in peace. A peace that I’m not granted.
Sometimes
