“Karl and I were worried about you,” Greta said reproachfully as she walked to his table. “Where have you been? What was it that you needed to do so urgently before we leave for Bamberg?”
“An . . . an old story,” he replied. “Something from before your time. Nothing important.”
How could he explain to her that he had paid a visit to his past in Knittlingen?
A past that includes your mother, my darling.
Johann was Greta’s father. Her mother was Margarethe, his first and only love, who had been strangled and burned at the stake as a witch because of him. His guilt ran so deeply that he couldn’t bring himself to tell Greta the truth about her origins. He’d been waiting for the right moment for more than six years now, but it never seemed to arrive. Several times he had come very close to telling her, but something always happened. By now he believed that he’d never be able to tell her—perhaps it was simply too late.
Everything was fine the way it was.
Greta watched him closely. For a brief moment, Johann thought he saw fear flashing in her eyes—a fear he couldn’t explain. Greta was hardly ever afraid of anything. Sometimes he wished she were a little more cautious. The incident that afternoon was typical for the forward demeanor she displayed during her performances. Men truly believed in the act she put on—while Johann still saw the small, timid girl he’d rescued from the Nuremberg catacombs when she was still playing with dolls, even if he knew that she had grown up.
“Something is wrong, isn’t it?” asked Greta. “You’re as pale as a corpse.” She paused for a moment. “Karl is worried, too. You’ve been getting gloomier for months, and a few times you didn’t even turn up for a show. You’re always hiding in the wagon with your books.” She gestured at the open tomes in front of him. “What are you doing with them? It’s like those books have put you—the great magician—under a spell.”
“I have my reasons.”
“Is that so? Reasons?” Greta folded her arms on her chest and glared at him. “You might be a powerful magician to the people, but I think we ought to drop the secrecy behind closed doors. You never told us about the letter from Bamberg! I am twenty years old—sometimes I feel like you forget that.”
“I don’t forget it, because I can see what’s happening. Earlier, in the tent—”
“I was handling it,” said Greta, cutting him off. “I know how to defend myself.” She smiled grimly. “That fellow is going to remember me for the rest of his life whenever he sees his reflection.”
“That may be, but I still don’t like the way you flirt with the boys.” Johann sighed. “What about that dandyish fop you met at the fair in Frankfurt? You were gone for two nights. Anything could have happened to you.”
“And what if! It’s none of your business. Just because you live like a monk doesn’t mean I must live as a nun.”
“Insolent brat!” Johann rose angrily. “Watch your fresh mouth. You forget who pulled you out of the gutter!”
He raised his hand but lowered it again immediately. Greta was right. She was old enough to make her own decisions. She was a grown woman who would probably soon go her own way. A woman who turned men’s heads. Whenever she got talking with good-looking minstrels or jugglers, Johann would glower and snarl. No one had been good enough for him so far, and he was glad Greta hadn’t found the one for her yet. But he expected that sometime soon Greta would leave him and Karl, that she would meet a man who measured up to her and she’d join a different troupe.
That day will be the saddest of my life.
He himself hadn’t loved another woman since his decisions had cost Margarethe her life back in Heidelberg. He had visited whores a few times, but even that he’d gradually given up. He loved his daughter and his books—he didn’t need anything else.
And I’m probably going to lose one of those two things soon.
“Let’s not argue,” he said. “You’re right. I should have told you as soon as I received the letter from Bamberg. It’s time we found winter quarters. The rain earlier on was the first messenger—from now on it is only going to get colder.” He tapped on a map of the German Empire that lay rolled up between the books. It was one of the best that had ever been drawn, part of the map of Europe by the well-known cartographer Martin Waldseemüller and worth as much as three destriers. The map went from the North and Baltic Seas down to Italy, and from the lands east of the Elbe River all the way to Burgundy and Brabant. They had traveled many of those regions together in recent years. They had been at home everywhere and nowhere at once.
“I am looking for a safe route to Bamberg,” Johann explained. “Just like I’ve always done. You know how dangerous the roads are at the moment.” He attempted a smile. “Even for the famous Doctor Faustus.”
Greta suddenly stepped up to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I love you, Uncle,” she said softly. “Whatever happens. I just wanted you to know that.”
“I . . . I love you, too,” he replied, surprised by Greta’s sudden show of affection. He liked it when she called him Uncle, but this time the word had sounded anxious.
“I love you more than anything, Greta. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”
The last words had just slipped out, but they came from the bottom of
