The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,106
was a good-for-nothing.”
Archibaldus laughed. “I still don’t know who you really are, Johann, but you’re certainly no good-for-nothing. If you wish, I could teach you a few bits and pieces on our journey to Venice and throughout the winter. About the artes liberales, at least.”
“The artes liberales?” Johann frowned. Evidently, he still had much to learn. “What’s that?”
“The liberal arts are the prerequisite for any higher education. The three lower ones, also known as the trivium, are grammar, rhetoric, and dialectic. Then follow the four upper arts, called the quadrivium. They include arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy.” Archibaldus looked at him sharply. “Although I think you’ve learned enough of the latter from your former teacher. Those arts are very old. Long taught by the Greeks and Romans, they are the foundation of all sciences.”
“And you . . . you’d really instruct me in all those arts?” Johann stared at him with an open mouth. He suddenly realized how desperately he longed for knowledge; he craved it like one craves water after wandering the desert for weeks. He craved it even more than Salome’s breasts and the warmth between her legs. “But how could I possibly pay you back?”
“By telling me who you really are, Johann.” He raised one hand. “Don’t worry—not right away. Perhaps I’ll learn more about you in the course of our lessons.” He took a long sip before continuing. “And perhaps I’ll even find out more about your former mentor.”
During the following months, they moved through the heat of upper Italy and performed in many towns and cities. For Johann, it was a time of both pain and fulfillment. Archibaldus remained true to his word and instructed him in the liberal arts. Johann’s anger abated, replaced by his thirst for knowledge. Perhaps his inner rage had something to do with a frustration at the lack of mental stimuli. He felt at peace while he discussed grammar, arithmetic, and dialectic with Archibaldus. At the same time it pained him to watch Peter crumble, even though the redhead put on a brave face and continued to play his fiddle and make the announcements between their individual acts. Emilio especially tried to raise the subject of his illness with Peter every now and then, but the man cut him off every time.
“I’m going to keep playing the fiddle for as long as the dear Lord—or whoever else—lets me play,” Peter would reply gruffly. “Each one of us is only given a certain amount of time on this earth. It’s pointless to grieve before my time’s up. Now go practice your act, you lazybones. You dropped two balls during the last show!”
In Genoa, Archibaldus bought expensive poppy juice from a pharmacy for Peter, who took it mixed with brandy. At least it helped him to bear the pain. During the evenings, Peter would often sit by the campfire, staring into the flames and muttering to himself.
“Now he’s finally come to fetch me,” he said quietly. “Damn, was it really worth it? If I could only turn back time—I would gladly have paid the price for her! For her, not for this cursed fiddle.”
No one knew what Peter meant by those strange words. Johann didn’t have much time to ponder them, because Salome didn’t give him a break. They made love so passionately under the starry skies that Johann wished the sun would never rise again. Sleeping with Salome was like a drug that helped him forget everything else—his mother, his years in Knittlingen, little Martin, Tonio, the black potion, and even Margarethe.
But as hard as they loved each other at night, Salome was no companion to him during the day. Just the opposite: she was cold and unapproachable. One day, when she and Johann followed the wagon at a little distance and Salome—as usual—said nothing and focused on picking rosemary and sage by the wayside, he grabbed her by the arm and forced her to look at him.
“Damn it, Salome, what are you playing at?” he said angrily. “Don’t toy with me—I’m not a puppet. If you don’t love me, just tell me to my face. But then let’s stop with those games at night!”
“Games?” Salome gave a thin smile. “Is that what you really want, my little wolf? To stop doing that?”
Johann didn’t answer, because he knew she was right. He needed Salome as badly as Peter needed his poppy juice. He’d never be able to leave her, no matter how poorly she treated him during the day.