In the last few weeks it had seemed to her more like a curse.
Those large black wings . . .
Greta shook off the gloomy thoughts and stepped out from behind the canvas. A glance up at the heavy clouds in the autumn sky told her that it would rain soon. They’d be lucky if they finished the show without getting wet. The doctor was reading the palm of a colorfully clad and visibly intimidated patrician.
“Your Fate line shows a turning point in your business this very year,” Faust said in his trademark croaky voice, and the bystanders watched in reverent silence. “And the stars agree. It’s too soon to tell whether this turning point will bring good fortune or ill luck. I see”—he closed his eyes—“a city with golden roofs.”
“Venice,” breathed the patrician. “Dear God, my precious cloth delivery that’s on its way to Venice! I wonder if the prices have dropped?” He rushed off after giving Faust a few silver coins.
Greta held her head high as she mingled with the crowd in front of the stage. She loved this atmosphere—it was where she felt at home. As soon as she stepped outside the curtain, she was no longer the introverted, occasionally melancholy girl but Greta the cheeky juggler, the young companion of the famous Doctor Faustus.
The spectators regarded her with a mix of respect and repulsion. Greta knew the look that upstanding citizens always held in store for people like her—musicians, jugglers, dancers, relic traders, bear tamers, and other traveling folk: shunned and yet admired. They were dishonorable and untouchable; here today, gone tomorrow; neither past nor future—and that was just what Greta loved about this life.
She smiled as she approached a farmer’s boy in the front row and hinted at a bow. “In the mood for a game of dice, young sir?” Greta had noticed the boy before the show, and she’d liked the looks he’d given her. She felt herself strangely drawn to his mischievous, shrewd-looking face, his full brown hair, and the well-proportioned muscles showing under his clothes.
Greta showed him her empty hands before reaching behind her right ear and producing a die carved of cow bone. Then she picked a coin out of her left ear. The young man gave a startled laugh.
“How can I play the dice with you if you can make them vanish at any moment?”
“Don’t worry, my friend, you’re the master of your own fortune.” Greta’s voice had the praising, almost bewitching pitch so typical for jugglers. She winked. “You roll the die, and I guess your number. If I get it right, you pay me a heller—and if I’m wrong, you get a kiss from me. Shall we?” She held out the die.
The boy rocked his head from side to side, his eyes traveling down to her small breasts, which were pushed up by the tightly laced bodice. Greta knew she had most men eating out of the palm of her hand in this outfit, and she used the knowledge to her advantage.
“A fair offer, meseems,” said the young man with a grin. Then he raised one finger and gave Greta a serious look. “But first I want to roll the die a few times to make sure it isn’t rigged.”
Greta nodded. Some jugglers used dice that contained small pieces of iron so they always landed on the same side. The boy rolled the die a few times, and then he covered it with his hand.
“Now guess,” he said to her.
“Hmm, it isn’t one, is it?” began Greta, scratching her head. “Two, perhaps? No. Three?” Suddenly her face brightened. “Well, I believe it’s a six.”
The young man lifted his upper hand. It was indeed a six.
“Just a lucky guess!” He handed her a coin. “I want to try again.”
Greta started in on her game once more, and again she guessed correctly. When she guessed right the third time, the boy eyed her suspiciously.
“That’s witchcraft,” he grumbled. “You dishonorable jugglers are all the same—spawn of the devil. Give me back my money, you cheat!”
Greta’s smile vanished. She had been looking forward to this harmless encounter, but now things were developing in a way she didn’t like at all.
“No, I think I’d better donate it at church tomorrow and say thirty Lord’s Prayers for the salvation of your soul. God bless you.” She slipped the coins into a pocket, gave him a nod, and walked off.
There were many people who believed jugglers to be the spawn of the devil. Some church scholars claimed they were descendants of fallen angels who now wreaked havoc on earth. How could Greta explain to a dumb farmer’s boy that what she was doing had to do not with witchcraft but with intuition and practice. Greta observed her victims carefully, studying every small change in their facial expressions and gestures. That was how she guessed the numbers right almost every time. She and Karl often used this technique during their shows. Greta would guess what people carried in their pockets while Karl would give her secret clues.
Sometimes, however, there was also something else. Something she hadn’t wanted to admit to herself for a long time: sometimes she actually saw the numbers before her.
Greta walked behind
