The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,179

the white woman disappeared. “And that’s where you come in. I saw you in Leipzig—or rather, I saw your paintings.”

Wagner looked at him with growing amazement. “You . . . you went to the university in Leipzig?”

“I’ve visited many universities in the last ten years, sometimes as a guest lecturer—if the rector believed my documents—but more frequently as a keen student. There is so much left to learn.” Johann wiped his mouth with his hands. “I saw your anatomical sketches in Leipzig, the ones you prepared for the medical lectures of Doctor Joventis. I liked them very much. They . . .” He hesitated. “They reminded me of someone from years ago who also drew well. A good friend. The best and only one I ever had.”

“Thank you.” Karl stared into the darkness, the logs in the fire crackling quietly. “My father is a well-known surgeon in Leipzig,” said the young man after a while. “He wanted me to go to college and study medicine like him. But I really want to become a painter, like Albrecht Dürer or Leonardo da Vinci. Have you heard of them?”

“It’s a sin to compare oneself with Leonardo da Vinci,” replied Johann gruffly. “A man like him only comes along once every thousand years. And unlike you lazy paint-slinger, he was a genius in all areas. He would easily have gained a doctor’s title in medicine or law. You, however, quit your studies.”

Wagner’s eyes widened once more. “You know? But—”

“I was going to speak with you in Leipzig. But then you up and left. Very annoying.”

“I had . . . um . . . trouble at the university that compelled me to leave.”

“I think I know what sort of trouble. The same kind of trouble that got you tied to a pyre at Warnheim. It’s the kind of trouble with two legs and a proud package in between.”

Wagner turned red and looked down. “I . . . don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a sodomite, Karl Wagner. Personally, I couldn’t care less, but the law prescribes death by fire. In Leipzig, you got away by the skin of your teeth. But in Warnheim, you found yourself another young lover—”

“It was purely platonic!”

“A term that that uneducated peasant pack doesn’t understand.” Johann dug a piece of meat from between his teeth. “What a stupid thing to do, letting oneself get caught in the hay with another man in the rebellious Hegau region, of all places. You can count yourself lucky that I followed you. I couldn’t save your friend, though.”

Wagner hung his head and tears rolled down his cheek. “We’d only known each other for a few hours. Our eyes met at a tavern, and I was overcome by fiery passion. I didn’t even know his name. I . . . I know it’s against nature, and I tried to fight it for so long. But the devil keeps returning to my body.”

“Leave the devil out of it. He’s got better things to do than possessing little sodomites. You can forget about your studies, anyhow—for good. Don’t think I don’t know what that means.”

For the first time Johann’s eyes were almost sympathetic, but the look vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

“At least I know what you can do instead. Join me on the road and paint glass plates for me. The demand is surprisingly large. Every town has its own patron saint, and in the country there are plenty of natural spirits, gnomes, and other mischievous creatures that can easily be invoked. A few animals wouldn’t hurt, either—people like animals, cats in particular. Cats are always good.”

Karl Wagner stared at Johann as if he were an apparition of the laterna magica. “You . . . you want me to travel with you and paint pictures on glass?”

“Well, not only that.” Johann gave a shrug. “Other things also need to be done. We need to brew theriac, write flyers, announce our shows.” He paused to think. “I don’t suppose you play an instrument? The bagpipe, for example?”

Wagner shook his head.

“Never mind. I can’t stand that instrument anyhow. I pay you one guilder per image, and free food and lodging.” Johann held out his hand. “Go on—shake on it.”

“I don’t know,” said Wagner eventually. “When I said I wanted to become a painter, I meant something a little different. I thank you for your offer, but—”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.” Johann reached into a bag next to him and pulled out a pile of