The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,180

documents. “Do you know what that is?”

Wagner turned pale.

“I found this bundle among the things you had to leave behind at the inn this morning. I must say—touching love letters, even if they’re a tad too flowery for me. A memento of your romance in Leipzig, I take it?” When Karl didn’t reply, Johann went on. “You can choose whether I send the letters to your father first or to the Leipzig authorities.”

“That . . . that’s blackmail,” said Karl hoarsely.

“Call it what you want.” Johann gave him a wink. “In a few weeks’ time you’ll be glad you have accepted my offer. What could be more exciting than traveling the German lands alongside the most famous magician of the empire?”

He put the bundle of letters away and held out his hand to Wagner again. This time, the student accepted. Johann’s grip was so firm that Wagner winced with pain.

“Welcome to the realm of hocus-pocus,” said Johann with a grin. “And believe me, you will learn much from me.”

It took a long time for Karl Wagner to fall asleep, and even then Johann heard him moan and cry out from time to time. He guessed in the student’s dreams he was burning on the pyre next to his paramour. Johann was sorry he hadn’t been able to save Karl’s lover, but on the other hand, at least he had the young man to himself now. Who knew how Karl would have reacted to his offer otherwise.

Johann struggled to find rest. He was lying on his back, gazing up at the stars, which were the same ones as more than thirty years ago, on the day of his birth. The same stars that once foretold a great future for him.

Born a lucky child, his mother had said. Born a Faustus.

Johann gave a silent laugh. The stars, it would seem, played many a nasty trick.

In the thirteen years since his leap into the Neckar he had achieved much, but he hadn’t found happiness. He had pulled himself ashore more dead than alive. For two weeks he was held in the firm grip of a fever, and in his dreams Margarethe and Valentin pointed at him with their fingers.

You are the devil, they called out again and again. You are the devil!

And they were right. The one true love of his life and his best friend—he was responsible for their deaths. Margarethe had hanged herself because of him, and Valentin had most likely been burned at the stake in Worms. On top of everything else, he had murdered Jakob Kohlschreiber, Margarethe’s husband. Johann remembered how much he had enjoyed stabbing the drunken vintner. Who had he been in that moment? Himself? Or a devil in the shape of a man? Either way, he had no trouble understanding why people were afraid of him. He had laden himself with guilt, and it was a guilt that made him wake up screaming at night, a guilt that tortured him like a thousand glowing pairs of pincers, and he still didn’t know how he could ever atone for it.

A kindhearted old farmer’s wife had nursed him back to health back then. She had prayed for him, not knowing that any prayers for him were wasted. Once he’d recovered from the fever, all that was left of him was an empty shell, the shape of a man but without a goal, without joy, without any reason to carry on.

Then, in a ditch beside the road, he’d found a litter of puppies of which only one was still alive. The dog was as black as his soul, and Johann took it with him. Satan helped him come back to life. Johann doted on the animal so he would never have to dote on another human being again—so that he would never drag anyone down with him again. Man and dog wandered along the Neckar together, toward the Rhine and into the lands beyond. Satan grew, and with it grew Johann’s will to live.

Johann.

The name seemed as distant as the stars to him now, even though only thirteen summers had passed since then.

He started with the simple diversions he’d learned from Tonio. Card tricks, juggling balls, coin tricks, the shell game, and even the egg in the blanket returned to his repertoire. Soon he’d saved enough money for a wagon, a horse, and occasionally a night under a warm roof along the imperial road, which carried him through the country like a wide, lazy river. The theriac—cheap liquor infused