Francesco Melzi took all this as a welcome sign that Johann had fallen out of favor with the master. One day at lunch he took the doctor aside.
“I think you can see for yourself that the time for your departure has come,” Melzi whispered to Johann as Leonardo ate his soup with a trembling hand.
The face of the great painter was gray and sunken, and his beard was dirty with the remains of the barley porridge from breakfast. The great Leonardo da Vinci had aged by years in the last few weeks. His pale blue eyes flickered tiredly, the light in them slowly dying out like embers in a stove. Little Satan lay under the table, looking like the black devil waiting for the soul that was promised to him.
“The master needs rest now,” continued Melzi with a self-important expression. “He told me himself that he can’t bear your continuous badgering any longer.”
Johann thought that was probably a lie but said nothing. It pained him to watch as Leonardo withered like a flower in fall. And he suspected that it was indeed time to say farewell.
What are you trying to tell me, old man? Is it fear that prevents you from speaking? Who or what are you afraid of?
“Pack your things,” ordered Melzi abruptly. “Battista will help you. I don’t want to see you here tomorrow.”
“I want to speak with him one last time,” said Johann, glancing at Leonardo, but the artist just gazed listlessly into space. “You can’t deny me this one request.”
“Very well. If you promise that you’re gone by the morning.” Melzi sighed. “You may visit him at his bedside later. But refrain from asking all those nosy questions—they agitate him. I will ask Battista to keep an eye on you.”
That evening, Johann climbed the stairs to the bedroom of the great painter and inventor one last time. Breathing hard, he pulled himself up on the banister. The paralysis that had slowed down during the last few weeks had spread to Johann’s left leg. Climbing stairs was becoming difficult for him, and he moved like a very old man. Leonardo was his last chance. If this great man couldn’t help him, he saw no way out.
What are you trying to tell me?
Like the other rooms in the mansion, Leonardo’s bedroom was modestly furnished. There was a fireplace with a large desk in front of it, and on the other side of the room a four-poster bed adorned with carvings. In the bed, buried amid cushions, blankets, and furs, lay the great Leonardo. He seemed tiny in the huge bed, reminding Johann of a mummified chick. His eyes were closed; the rising and falling of his scrawny chest was accompanied by an ugly rattling sound.
There will never be another like him, thought Johann. Not in a thousand years.
The old footman Battista, with his bloodshot eyes, sat on a stool in the corner, leaning on his cane. Johann merely glanced at him. Why did the fellow always have to hang around the sick old man? And the cook, too?
Johann cautiously approached the bed. Just as he reached its side, Leonardo opened his eyes as if he’d been expecting him.
“Ah, Doctor Faustus,” he said with a tired smile. “It looks as though I will soon find out whether religion is preferable to philosophy after all. What a pity we can’t write letters from the other side. Or can we?” His voice sounded as brittle as a cracked bell.
“We must leave first thing in the morning,” said Johann without responding to Leonardo’s strange question. “I just came to tell you that it has been a huge honor—”
Leonardo shook his head impatiently. “Spare yourself the praises, I don’t have time for those. I heard the king himself will arrive soon to say goodbye, and I must finish my will.” He laughed and coughed at the same time. “I never knew that dying was this exhausting.”
“Your enormous store of knowledge should belong to everyone.” Johann bowed. “To the whole world. And your paintings and notes, too.”
“Francesco Melzi inherits my writs,” replied Leonardo. “I know you don’t like him very much. The feeling is mutual, by the way, but you’ll have noticed that by now.” He gave a dry laugh. “Don’t let it get you down. Francesco is a good man, just terribly jealous. He will ensure that my writings fall into the right hands. And don’t worry about me—I want a simple funeral, no spectacle fit for a king.”
Johann cleared his throat. The moment had come—the very last opportunity to learn something after all.
“You . . . you said a while ago that you were able to answer my question,” he began. “But you still haven’t. My disease is a curse, isn’t it?”
“Indeed, a curse. And we both know what’s behind it.” Leonardo closed his eyes and nodded. His fingers were cramped around the tiny silver globe hanging from the chain around his neck. “You can’t cut out a curse like a wart. It stays. Trust me, I tried—I tried everything!” He coughed again, then suddenly broke out in a smile. “Ha! But I played a trick on him. Not even the devil is all-powerful. He can be outwitted. He doesn’t get everything he wants.”
Leonardo signaled for Johann to come closer.
“Do you remember our conversation in the garden?” whispered Leonardo. “When we spoke about war machines?”
Johann thought. “You said some thoughts oughtn’t be written down or even spoken out loud. Is that what you mean?”
Leonardo nodded. “Such thoughts must be taken into the grave. That is where they are safe. In the grave.” He coughed again. “Sometimes danger lurks on the side where we least expect it. The devil likes to play.”
Suddenly the old man pulled Johann so close that his lips tickled Johann’s ear. “The night we were in the shed with the dead body. We gazed into the innermost—that was what I wanted to
