Now they could see the heart in the stable boy’s opened torso. It was a muscle the size of a man’s fist and didn’t look much different from the heart of a pig. As Karl took a rag and wiped off the clotted blood, he could feel Leonardo’s eyes on him. It wasn’t the first time that Karl suspected that he and Leonardo had something very special in common. The colorful garments, the feminine gestures, Leonardo’s preference for young painters. They were brothers in spirit, without a doubt, but neither of them would say it out loud. Karl wondered if and when he would ever find the courage to confess his love to the doctor.
Probably never.
“There are two chambers here,” said Leonardo, pointing his knife to the inside of the heart, which was now exposed. Karl was grateful that the dissection distracted him from the feelings that washed over him like a flood. The old man’s fine voice soothed him.
“The great Avicenna wrote that the blood runs first into one chamber and then into the other.”
“What a shame we can’t observe the heart while it pumps blood,” said Johann. “It would be interesting to see how it works.” With his gloved right hand he pointed at the opened corpse. “The Greek physician Herophilos experimented on live humans—prisoners, mostly. That would be the only way to gain insight.”
“I think there could be other ways,” replied Leonardo. “If it were possible to build a model made of glass, we could see inside. I prepared sketches to that effect a while ago.” He stretched his back, aching from being hunched over. “But you’re right. We’ll probably never find out what exactly drives the heart.”
“Or man in general,” said Johann with a glum expression. “I have yet to discover a soul inside a heap of bloody meat.” He looked at Leonardo. “As much as it pleases me to conduct a dissection with you—I’d quite like to know the reason for our clandestine meeting.” He gave the old man a pleading look. “We haven’t got much time left—either of us.”
Leonardo continued to gaze at the corpse.
“When I was young, I, too, thought man was a machine,” he said eventually. “I searched for the general principle that ruled the universe, and also for the seat of the soul.”
“I believe the soul doesn’t remain in the body after death,” said Johann. “It seeps out like air.”
“Yes, but where does it fly to? To heaven or to hell? What about your soul, Doctor? And mine? Where do they go after death?” With the tip of his knife, Leonardo lifted a white band that had been concealed in the flesh. “Just look at the sinews! They always remind me of strings, like the ones puppets are suspended from. But who moves the strings—who is the puppet master wriggling us about?”
“I . . . I think it is God,” remarked Karl hesitantly.
“If we believe in the principle of God, then we must also believe in the devil, grappling with God for this world, right?” replied Leonardo with a bitter smile. He caressed his pendant on its thin silver chain with bloodstained fingers. Karl realized only now that it was a tiny globe. A strange thought struck him.
The whole world hangs around Leonardo’s neck.
“So you also believe that the . . . the devil sent us this disease?” asked Johann in a defeated voice.
“Concerning yourself, you are the best person to answer that question. One thing is for certain: he who dances with the devil needs good shoes.” With three well-placed cuts Leonardo lifted the edge of the skin on the man’s face and pulled it off, turning the head into a red grimace that stared at them from eyes like milky marbles.
“The devil is a good businessman,” he murmured and gazed at the grotesque face. “He always returns for his share. But by God, you can cheat him good.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Johann.
“What you don’t feel, you’ll never catch by hunting.” Leonardo turned away without another word and washed his hands in a tub, the blood mixing with the water like small, deadly clouds.
In the following days, Greta hurried to a long island in the Loire early every morning, closely followed by Little Satan.
The Île d’Or, as the locals called it—the island of gold—lay between the two parts of the bridge connecting the banks of the Loire. Few houses had been built upon it, and one of the buildings was a hospice for lepers who were banished here to protect the other citizens of Amboise—and to spare the king the sight of them on his occasional visits. Behind the hospice lay nothing but swampy pasture; a few dirt paths wound their way through weeds, bushes, and islands of cattails.
Greta left the bridge and was instantly surrounded by the monotonous buzzing of thousands of mosquitoes. She and the big black dog leaped across swampy puddles and made their way to the outermost tip of the island. There stood a small, solid, forgotten church. It was an old building that seemed as impregnable as a fortress. Greta’s heart beat wildly with anticipation and her knees grew weak. This was where they could be together undisturbed.
This was their love nest.
To Greta, the last few days had been the most wonderful in years. Her encounter with John outside the church of Saint Denis had changed everything, and they had been meeting here every day since. Something had developed between them, something Greta had thought impossible: true love.
Greta’s love for John had hit her like a landslide. When she was with him, a thousand butterflies fluttered in her stomach, and when she was apart from him, she felt terribly empty and lonely. He was the air
