The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,137
out tonight,” jeered Altmayer, looking around at his friends. “Better keep an eye on your purses now—those paupers like to pickpocket.”
His fellow students hooted with laughter, but Johann ignored them, his eyes following Valentin, who sat down at a table with some farmers. Johann leaned against a wall, where a smiling young maid soon brought him a mug of frothing beer. Hans Altmayer and the other Swabian students put their heads together and shot poisonous glances in his direction, but they didn’t dare attack him openly inside the tavern.
Johann had taken only a few sips when Valentin returned to his side. His friend seemed very excited.
“I think I found something,” Valentin said quietly. “Those farmers know of a winemaker who married less than two years ago. It’s his second wife. The first one died of the spotted fever and didn’t bear him any children—”
“And the second?”
“Comes from Knittlingen, is flaxen haired, and has freckles.”
“That’s Margarethe!” exclaimed Johann so loudly that the people standing nearby turned to look at them.
“Shh! Shut up and listen. Something appears to be wrong with the girl. They didn’t really want to say anything else on the matter and muttered something about dark forces and witchcraft—”
“What’s happened to Margarethe?”
“I don’t know! You’d have to ask her husband. His name is Jakob Kohlschreiber, he’s quite the boozer, and—”
“And where do I find him?” asked Johann excitedly.
“I’m trying to tell you.” Valentin’s mouth was close to his ear now. “He’s sitting on his own in the corner over there—see him?”
Johann turned his head slowly. In a corner, a little apart from the other tables, was a man with a large jug of wine. His thinning brown hair stuck out at the sides in tufts. His face was bloated from alcohol and his lips fleshy. He might have been a strapping and muscular young man once, but now a potbelly bulged underneath his vest, and his whole body was soft like a wet sponge. His clothes were stained but also showed that he was wealthy enough.
Johann brusquely handed his mug to Valentin.
“What are you doing?” asked his friend.
“I’m going to talk to the fellow,” replied Johann. “I didn’t travel hundreds of miles just to chicken out now. I want to know how Margarethe is doing.”
“Be careful. The man looks dangerous. And drunk.”
“So am I.” Johann turned away and walked toward the table in the corner.
The man stared into his mug without noticing him. But when Johann sat down opposite him, he looked up with surprise. Then his expression turned sour.
“And who said you could sit with me?” he grumbled. “Go back to your pals. Lazy student riffraff. There’s nothing for you here.”
“Trust me, I’m just as sick of those good-for-nothings as you are,” replied Johann, trying to sound as sober as possible. “My father is a vintner and sent me to college here. But I’d rather learn a proper trade instead of all that useless nonsense. I wouldn’t be much good as a merchant, either—something hands-on would suit me, like a smith or carpenter or growing wine.”
“Mmh, yes, winemaking is an honest profession,” said Jakob Kohlschreiber, looking a little less surly now.
Johann casually dropped a coin onto the table. It was one of the last he’d kept from Venice. It was made of pure silver, and Kohlschreiber eyed it greedily. Johann snapped his fingers at the young maid.
“Is it possible to get something better than this sour swill in here?” he asked haughtily.
When the girl saw the coin, she turned on her heel and returned shortly thereafter with a jug of wine and two fresh mugs. Johann filled them and pushed one mug over to Kohlschreiber.
“Be so kind and share a jug with a young guy who’s trying to forget his misery,” he said.
He didn’t have to ask Kohlschreiber twice. He emptied the mug and filled it again.
“Not bad,” the vintner said. “Almost as good as my own wine.”
“But what use is the best wine when the wench is no good?” said Johann, taking a long sip and watching Kohlschreiber from the corner of his eye. “My girl ran away with another fellow just the other day—and I haven’t stopped drinking since.”
Jakob Kohlschreiber gave a bitter laugh. “My woman ran away, too, but not with another man. Her cold body would still lie in my bed, but her mind was somewhere else. Probably on Blocksberg Mountain, where the witches dance. Damned sorcery!”
Johann leaned forward. “How do you mean?”
“Well, the woman is possessed by the devil. I should have known.