The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,109

pale light through the clouds. He walked over to the fire and threw the fiddle into the flames, which crackled hungrily as they ate their way through the wood with blue tongues. None of the others woke up.

Johann wanted to pray for Peter, but he realized that he didn’t really know how. The last time he’d prayed was such a long time ago—by his mother’s grave. The words fell from his mouth like dry crumbs of dirt.

“Our father in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .”

Johann hastily made the sign of the cross before going to wake the others to tell them that Peter Nachtigall, the red-haired devil of a fiddler, leader of their small troupe of jugglers, had passed away.

And he wondered how Peter had known his nickname—the name his mother used to call him.

Faustus, the lucky one.

But it was too late to ask him.

11

THEY BURIED PETER Nachtigall next to the cemetery of the small Treviso church. As a dishonorable juggler, he couldn’t be buried within the cemetery walls, but at least the priest said a quick prayer for his soul and there was a wooden cross with his name on it. As Johann studied the crudely carved inscription on the cross, he thought about how far from Peter’s home the fiddler had been put to rest, as a stranger. Johann wondered if he’d share this same fate one day.

Once the priest had left, the troupe stood around the grave in silence for a while. There was a light drizzle in the air and the hollow sound of a death knell. Eventually, Emilio spoke.

“What do we do now?” he asked the others.

“What do you think?” replied Johann. “We go to Venice. That’s what Peter would have wanted.”

“But we need a new leader,” said Emilio.

“Indeed we do.” Johann gave them a challenging look. “And that’s going to be me. It was Peter’s dying wish. He asked me to burn his fiddle and lead his troupe from now on.”

The latter was a blatant lie, but Johann had long felt a desire to change the face of the troupe. Some of their acts were outdated, and for the last few months, Peter had treated him as a full-fledged member of the troupe and promised him a great future as a showman. Something inside Johann told him that it was time to step up.

“You?” Emilio gave a thin smile. “How old are you? Seventeen?”

“Which makes me not much younger than you,” replied Johann. “You may be a good acrobat, but your speeches are dry and boring. The leader should be articulate. And you have no idea about business. I know arithmetic and how to negotiate.”

“I may not be the best at delivering speeches.” Emilio crossed his arms on his chest and returned Johann’s defiant stare. “But you don’t stand a chance in Venice, because you don’t speak the language. Unlike me.”

“Then you can translate for him,” Archibaldus said. “I also think Johann would make a good leader. He is clever and won’t let anyone pull one over on him—or us. And he certainly knows how to talk.”

In the past few weeks, the sicker Peter had gotten, the more often Johann had taken over the announcements during their shows. He was good at catching people’s attention with his loud voice and witty speeches, and he knew how to use just the right amount of persuasion—the mark of a good juggler. Their audience numbers had grown steadily since Johann had begun helming the shows; even Archibaldus’s tattered relics had been making money again, with numerous believers paying to touch them.

“What do you think?” Emilio asked Salome, who had been watching in silence with her brother. “Do you also think our young Johann is the best for the job?” He pulled a mocking face. “You know him best of all of us.”

Salome gave a little smile. “Let’s give him a chance,” she said. “He’s pretty to look at and he’s funny—the women will love him. And your speeches, Emilio, are truly as uplifting as a eulogy.”

When Mustafa nodded in agreement, Emilio sighed and gave up. “All right, then. I don’t feel like grappling with city officials about show permits, anyway. As long as we share fairly. I will continue to juggle, but I’ll also play the wheel-fiddle like I used to—and I get a pay raise.” He gave a shrug. “We need music, at least until we find someone else.” He cast a dark glance at Johann. “Pity you burned the fiddle. We could’ve gotten