The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,113
station in his colorful life. And he didn’t know how to handle Salome. He felt jealousy creeping up in him whenever men gaped at her as she swayed her hips to Emilio’s music.
“I don’t think you have to dance quite so salaciously,” he told Salome one evening, following their show at the Fondaco. “One day some drunk will drag you behind the cloth bales.”
“Maybe I want to be dragged behind the bales,” Salome replied coldly. “Always remember: you don’t own me, little wolf.”
To take his mind off Salome, Johann continued his lessons with Archibaldus. He worked hard, getting up before sunrise to practice arithmetic or check the grammar in his writings. When Archibaldus quizzed him at lunchtime, the old man would sometimes pause and gaze at him thoughtfully.
“You’re quick, Johann,” he’d say, stroking his louse-ridden beard. “Almost frightfully quick. The devil knows how you do it.”
Johann grinned. “I’m only at the start. Do you happen to know Greek?”
Archibaldus groaned. “A little. But I need a fresh jug of wine for that. Be so kind and fetch one, will you?”
The Fondaco grew quiet in December. The alpine passes were blocked by snow and ice, and no more German traders arrived in Venice. Instead, Rieverschmitt frequently received Venetian guests who were interested in German linen, salt, beeswax, silver, and amber. Often they’d feast together late into the night on wine, dried fish, and roast meat. The Venetians ate their food with three-pronged forks—an item that was still considered a tool of the devil north of the Alps. Johann thought it was quite practical for keeping one’s hands clean.
One particularly cold afternoon, when fires were lit in iron baskets throughout the Fondaco, Rieverschmitt pulled Johann aside.
“We’re expecting very important visitors this evening,” he said. “Several gentlemen from the signoria are coming tonight. I want you to put on your best show. It is crucial the councilors are well entertained.”
“The signoria?” Johann frowned. “What’s that supposed to be?”
Rieverschmitt laughed. “You might as well ask who is the king of the Germans! The signoria is the elite council, the most powerful panel in Venice. The doge is elected from their ranks, and they decide the city’s politics. Those councilors are more powerful than many dukes and monarchs. And they are shrewd businessmen.” He grinned. “This evening could mean a lot of money for the Fondaco.”
Johann nodded. “You can count on us. Johann Faustus’s renowned fabulous troupe of jugglers will put on a spectacular show for the mighty gentlemen.”
Shortly after dusk, Emilio and Johann juggled burning torches on the quay as the Venetians arrived in their gondolas. Afterward, Salome danced her veil dance and let Mustafa toss her high into the air. Together they balanced on thin ropes suspended above the courtyard and performed cartwheels, and Mustafa swallowed three burning torches thrown to him by Emilio—a feat they’d learned only since their arrival in Venice. Johann had left Archibaldus at the inn with a jug of wine. He didn’t want to risk the old man spoiling their show in a drunken stupor.
Like so many times before, one of the highlights was Johann’s trick with the egg. He’d selected one of the Venetian councilors for the purpose, a pale older gentleman in a black coat. The man wore dark eye glasses that stayed on his nose with the aid of wires that hooked around the ears, giving him the appearance of a large insect or a snake. Johann had heard of such vision aids but never seen any before, which was probably why his attention had fallen on the tall signore.
The egg appeared in an inside pocket of the old man’s coat, and the audience clapped as the man extracted it with the tips of his index finger and thumb. The pale patrician seemed surprised for a moment, but then he gave a mocking smile. He pulled out a sharp dagger, pierced a hole in the egg, and sucked it empty. Johann was reminded of a hissing black snake.
After the show, while Johann sat a little off to the side, enjoying a hot cup of mulled wine, the man approached him. Johann quickly put the cup aside and bowed low. He hoped the patrician wouldn’t punish Johann for making a fool of him in front of all the others. But the man was smiling. He sported a pointed beard and bushy black eyebrows, and his face looked as white as if he’d painted it with chalk.
“Not a bad trick, young man,” said the Venetian. He spoke quietly;