know . . .”
“Who sent the letter?”
“Her husband, Jakob Kohlschreiber.”
The old nun’s face lit up. “Oh! Why didn’t you say so right away? And I thought the old miser had forgotten all about his former wife. He’s behind with his payments.” She held out her hand. “Give it here! I’ll take it to Sister Agatha in person.”
“Sister Agatha?”
The nun sighed. “That’s what Kohlschreiber’s wife is called now. Saint Agatha defended her virginity despite being put in a whorehouse and having her breasts cut off by her enemies. And the girl who used to be called Margarethe also pledged her virginity to God, just like all of us here.”
I bet it wasn’t a difficult decision in your case, thought Johann.
He handed the letter to the old crone. She turned her back to him, but he could tell by the sound that she broke the seal and read the letter. He was glad he’d chosen to use the secret code he and Margarethe had used as children. The nun didn’t seem to find anything suspicious. She turned back to him after a while with a look of impatience. “What else do you want?”
“Well, Master Kohlschreiber reckoned you’d give me a kreuzer for my troubles,” said Johann.
“Bah, the old penny-pincher can give you a kreuzer himself. Tell him we’re waiting for the money he promised. He should count himself lucky we accepted his wife as a novice at all—considering what’s happened. And now go with God. Go!”
She slammed the hatch shut in his face, and Johann heard her hurried footsteps moving away. Now all he could do was hope the old woman would deliver his letter.
With quick steps he walked back to the rowboat.
In his excitement, he didn’t notice he was being followed.
“You did what?”
Valentin gaped at his friend. Johann hadn’t lasted through the evening—he was bursting with excitement and needed to share his joy with someone. And so he told Valentin that Margarethe was at the convent with the Benedictine nuns and that he was trying to get in touch with her.
“I wrote her a letter,” said Johann. “At first glance, it’s just a letter from a husband inquiring about his wife’s well-being. But there’s a hidden message, and if Margarethe still has some of her wits about her, she’ll remember our secret code. I put a few things in the text that only the two of us know about—she’ll realize the letter’s from me.”
Valentin shook his head. “You’re insane! If this gets out, you’ll be thrown out of the university. A student arranging a liaison with a nun!”
“It’s not a liaison,” retorted Johann. “And she’s not a nun yet—she’s a novice, so she hasn’t taken her vows. I just need to know how she’s doing.”
“You said that before. And once you know—then what?” Valentin pointed a finger at him. “Don’t fool yourself, Faustus! You won’t leave her alone. Do you want to free her from the nunnery by force? Her husband will do anything to keep her there—first and foremost to protect his own reputation.”
“Who knows?” Johann pressed his lips together. “Either way—two Sundays from now I’ll be standing below that window like I promised in the letter. Then we’ll see.”
Valentin laughed. “It’s madness. But I can tell you’ve made your decision. Love is blind. But perhaps I can offer some distraction.”
“What do you mean?”
Valentin grinned and pulled out some papers full of notes. “Take a look at this. I found it in a book at the library of the college of arts. The notes are by a certain Leonardo da Vinci. Apparently, he’s a court painter and scholar in Milan. Have you heard of him?”
“I . . . I might have.” Johann’s curiosity was immediately kindled. He leafed through the pages with trembling fingers. He saw drawings of a box with a tube coming out of one of its walls and rays of light shining out of the tube. A roaring lion was displayed on a wall—the wall of a room, it would appear. Other drawings showed a lit candle and something that seemed to be a mirror. “What in God’s name is that supposed to be?” asked Johann after a while.
“Well, it’s something that Leonardo da Vinci calls a ‘laterna magica,’ a magic lantern. It’s an apparatus that’s supposed to make it possible to transfer small images from the inside of the box onto a wall.”
“That does indeed sound like magic,” whispered Johann.
“And yet it isn’t. I read the notes. Da Vinci bases his work on the ideas of