The Genius's New Apprentice

I'm not supposed to touch the shit buckets and piss buckets anymore, and I'm supposed to learn to read. Me! I'm also supposed to learn to eat with cutlery and go into service with the gentry. The very gentry: at the Royal Court. The maître d' immediately dressed me in new clothes after our conversation. The new clothes don't itch. I mustn't ruin them and I'm not supposed to go down to the cellar anymore. From now on, I'm supposed to stay away from Roman and the others.

I look around the room under the roof that the maître d' assigned me. It has a window. It's made of leaded glass, and you can even open it. From the street, I smell smoked fish, fried sausages, and pancakes. It's market day, and the market vendors have already set up their stalls; the food vendors are sizzling their delicacies.

I'm hungry. I slept in a real bed for the first night of my life. I'm even wearing a nightgown! I take it off, carefully fold it, and place it on top of the fine clothes that the maître d' had to try on last night, which I reverently and meticulously stacked on the chest next to the bed.

I can't say I slept well. I was too excited, and the cushions the maître had laid me on were too soft. I'm not used to sinking into my bed. I tossed and turned restlessly between the sheets and the blanket. I missed the snoring of my companions. I missed the occasional nightly cursing and swatting at fleas and mosquitoes.

Out of habit, I check my naked body for bedbug bites. Not a single one! Under the window is a small table with a bowl and a pitcher of water. Soap lies beside it. The maître d' taught us all about cleanliness. I wash myself carefully and use the pristine white towel that's also provided. I have it all to myself!

I'm undecided about what to do. The sun is already in the late morning. I slept through the day; no one woke me. Roman and the others have probably already completed their first round and are now dumping the excrement outside the city gates until it's usable as fertilizer, and have delivered the tubs of urine to the tanners by the river.

I remember what the people in town mockingly call us: "gold diggers." Yes, we make gold out of shit, and the maître d' is doing well for himself; one glance into this room is enough to confirm that. There's even a picture on the wall opposite the window. I step closer to look at it.

The painting isn't large, but it's painted in oil and therefore probably expensive, that much I can tell, even though I haven't seen many paintings, mostly only in churches. This one shows neither Christ nor a cross, just a woman. I move closer to the wall to be able to see the details.

She is not beautiful, this woman, but of high rank, that much is clear. I recognize this not only from her silk and brocade clothing, but above all from her haughty smile. She looks directly at me, with an unsettling familiarity. Her hair is as straw-blond as mine, her parting crowned with a tiara. She wears much jewelry: a pearl necklace around her neck, gold bracelets on both wrists. Each of her fingers is encircled by a ring set with precious stones.

These hands have never worked; that much is clear at first glance. Even holding a wine glass must have been difficult for their owner, given how close together all the diamonds, emeralds, and rubies are on her knuckles.

Her hands were folded in front of her waist. An ermine fur was draped around her shoulders. This was—is?—a princess, perhaps even a queen, that much is clear. Why does she seem so familiar? I never moved in such circles.

As I curiously approach the painting, thunder rumbles outside. Strange: the day had seemed clear, no storm in sight. I go to the window and look out over the market square.

A huge commotion has broken out there. A gaping crater yawns in the middle of the square. Several stalls are burning; a horse-drawn cart has driven into them and is also engulfed in flames. A man is writhing on the ground, screaming and trying to smother the burning clothes. Shards of shattered pottery lie scattered around him; a woman kneels beside him, crossing herself.

Men grabbed buckets and formed a long chain to the town fountain to extinguish the blaze, which was spreading greedily, jumping from the tarpaulin roof of one market stall to another, instantly consuming displayed linen cloths and balls of wool, charring sausages and sides of bacon, and setting fire to hay bales on which farmers were selling vegetables and eggs.

Everywhere there was shouting and wailing. People were running around in confusion, trying to salvage what remained of their goods, plunging into the flames to rescue children, untie donkeys and horses – or quickly stealing whatever could be plundered.

Where is the fire watch? What are the gendarmes doing? No intervention by the state authorities is apparent. Only the bells from the cathedral towers are now ringing an alarm to warn the rest of the city.

I throw on my new clothes and prepare to flee. What if the flames spread to the maître d's house? It's a brick building, yes, one of the few private buildings in the city. But city fires are nothing to joke about; they can spread incredibly fast.

Even today, people still talk about the conflagration that once accompanied our king's accession to the throne. To illuminate the historic event, he had one of his beloved fireworks displays set off, reducing half the city to rubble. It is said that he stood on the battlements of his castle and waved gratefully down to the city, tears of emotion in his eyes, because his subjects were celebrating his burgeoning reign with bonfires.

I open the door and rush up the stairs, where I meet the maid. "Quickly!" she cries frantically, "out to the courtyard! The maître d' is already waiting in the carriage!"

I hurriedly climbed in next to the maître d', for the first time. The carriage had upholstered seats. Despite my excitement, I didn't forget to greet my master with a humble bow. He nodded at me. "Did you sleep well? We're leaving earlier than I thought. We won't have much time to prepare you. Chancellor Marchand has sent for us."

The noble Marchand, I knew, had been the King's Chancellor for 16 years. Some said his time was up, that after so many years he had to make way for new ideas. Others claimed that without the Chancellor, the King wouldn't have been able to cling to power for so long. I have no opinion on that. I wasn't taught to have an opinion. For me, what matters is what the maître d' says. Nothing else.

Le Maitre says: “Have you washed? Have you brushed your teeth? Many at court have bad breath, but not the Chancellor. He will want to examine you closely. Speak only when spoken to. Then answer briefly. And always begin your answer with ‘Your Grace’ or ‘Sire.’ Do not sit down anywhere uninvited. Keep your hands clasped behind your back and stand straight, but not erect. Always keep your head bowed and do not look the Chancellor in the eye.”

The maître d' gives me a scrutinizing look. "And above all: always remember to whom you owe all this." He looks ahead again, into the distance, and strokes the ivory knob of his walking stick, which he has planted between his knees.

I nod eagerly. But then I have to say something. "Maitre," I begin shyly. "Yes?" "What about the others? Roman and the whole crew? Are they safe? Won't the fire consume your house?"

Le Maitre turns to me as the coachman urges the black horses on and we are pressed into the back of the carriage. Then he strokes my hair. Truly, the maître is touching me! "It is right of you to think of your companions. They are safe. Look out!"

He points out the window. As we take the winding path up to the castle, the fire brigade's pump truck passes us. "They'll make sure the rich people's houses aren't in danger, starting with ours," says the maître d'. "But in the market, and perhaps in the wooden shacks of the slums, there probably won't be much to save. Now don't worry so much, trust me. A new life awaits you."

A new life. I didn't think my old one was so bad. It offered shelter, bread, and security. What comes next, I don't know.

We drive through the gate of the castle courtyard. The maître d' merely holds the handle of his walking stick out of the window to greet the soldiers in the guardhouses on either side of the drawbridge. We are allowed to pass without stopping or being checked. The carriage stops in the courtyard, and we stand before a pile of excrement. Pigeon excrement. It encrustles the ground and is heaped on a foundation from which rises the half-finished body of a colossal horse statue.

We get out of the car. It stinks. I notice for the first time that Roman, the others, and I only empty the cesspools in town, never at the castle. Where do they all pee and poop around here? Aren't there any "gold diggers" like us here to dispose of the aristocratic remnants? The pervasive stench suggests that this is not the case.

The staircase leading to the castle's main gate, however, is clean, made of marble, steep, and awe-inspiring. After every ten steps—I'm counting precisely, I can't read, but I can calculate, at least up to a hundred or so—there are landings with stone benches. Are the king and his entourage not good walkers? Do they need to catch their breath after just ten steps? Why, then, do they build such steep staircases?

Behind each bench is a balustrade with busts on it (I don't know the word for them yet, but the maître d' teaches it to me later as we're leaving). They're heads, with just a bit of shoulder underneath. They all look the same, always the same face. The king's, I assume. He has a kind of rag on his head that hangs down long on both sides and at the back, curling inwards. I could be wrong, though; it's all just stone ("plaster," the maître d' corrects me later).

Then the door. The gate. The portal. Soldiers stand on both sides again, but these poor fellows don't have a guardhouse like the guards at the drawbridge. They stand in the sun, sweating; you can see it clearly: beads of sweat run from their foreheads into their eyes, they have to blink, but they're apparently not allowed to wipe them away. They stand there like statues, not looking at us, holding two halberds crossed before the gate, but raise their weapons immediately as soon as the maître d' stands before them.

The double doors swing inwards. We step inside. It's cool. That's pleasant. But it stinks again. Honestly, like a pigsty, worse than our basement bedroom. The maître d' dabs his smelling cloth to his nose. A guy in uniform has turned up in front of us, but he's probably not a soldier. At least he's not carrying any weapons, and I'm pretty sure I could take him down at any moment.

“My dear maître d’, the Chancellor, as always, extends a warm welcome to you at court and requests that, unless it is inconvenient for you, you and your” – indignant sidelong glance at me – “uh, entourage” immediately follow me to the chambers of the Secret Cabinet,” says the footman.

We trudge through endless marble corridors. They are gloomy, poorly lit, and badly ventilated. It still stinks. Behind a column with a small angel on the capital, I hear a splashing sound. Shortly after, a liveried man emerges from behind his makeshift toilet and adjusts his waistband.

I'm used to a lot; I'm constantly hauling piss and shit. But here, in the finest circles of society, I would have expected something different. On the other hand, who am I to expect anything from the royal palace? The fact that I'm even here is a miracle.

The Chancellor has little time for us. He's a fine man, perfumed and clean. But he seems flustered, probably with other interests besides our visit. He even treats the maître d' rather condescendingly; I would never have thought that possible. Something threatening has happened; the Chancellor has urgent state business to attend to. Le maître d' is understanding.

The audience was brief. I don't know how we ultimately arrived at Manacardi's laboratory afterwards. Too many stairs, too many corners, too many rooms and corridors, too many lackeys to guide us, each seemingly responsible for only one floor or wing.

Now the maître d' and I stand before the living legend, the grand master of white magic, the universal genius and scholar; master painter, inventor, designer, visionary, builder: Artobaldo Manacardi. He looks pathetic.

Manacardi, a thoroughly unkempt figure, brusquely waves us in after we have politely lingered in the doorway. We approach. The court alchemist sits in an armchair behind a large oak table. The entire table is covered with sketches and models. Their creator has spread his matted beard, probably a meter long, somewhere among them.

Manacardi is an important man, that much is known. But he, too, stinks, like this entire castle. He smells sour, of wine and age. I estimate the scholar to be at least 70 years old. Nevertheless, he looks at us with bright, alert eyes, around which a fine network of wrinkles has spread, as if a spider had spun its web.

“Ah, the maître d'. Greetings,” said Manacardi. “You are accompanied, I see. May I ask…?”

The maître d' cuts him off: “What brings us to you? Affairs of state, esteemed maestro. As you surely know, they are approaching the kingdom with great urgency—with cavalry and cannons.” The maître d' unfolds a document he has pulled from his overcoat. I notice an impressive seal on the document.

"As you, esteemed master, can easily see from this order from His Majesty's Chancellor, I bring you your new assistant. He is a bright mind, quick to learn, eager to serve, obedient, and discreet. In short: perfectly suited to your purposes. I hear there is a vacancy?"

“Indeed,” Manacardi replied, fixing his sharp gaze on me. “Not every one of my previous assistants proved up to my flight experiments.”

“Not a single one, as far as I know,” replied the maître d', and added: “My young protégé here…” He pushed me closer to Manacardi’s desk so that I had to look the scholar directly in the eye, while naturally lowering my own, “This promising young man here is not intended for the conquest of the skies. Such experiments are even expressly forbidden, as the Chancellor deigned to order; second paragraph of the order, if you will take the trouble.”

The maître d' taps on the paper he has placed on the table, partly spread over the court alchemist's beard. Small creatures, startled by Manacardi's manly splendor, crawl across the closely written lines.

The scholar casts a suspicious glance at me and studies the document. "Hm"... "Hmm"... "Hmmm." As the scientist's eyes scan the text, he utters this sound in an increasingly higher and longer tone. "I see," he says then, "this young man called the Handsome—" he glances up briefly and studies me, "well. It's a matter of opinion—he's supposed to help me with my alchemical experiments. May I ask if he knows anything about alchemy at all?"

“Not yet,” the maître replied, “but we have complete faith in your teaching skills.”

Manacardi fumes: "I'm supposed to waste my precious time training a clown who has no clue about the subject matter, constantly gets in my way, and probably bombards me with stupid questions?"

“Quite right,” said the maître d' with a dangerous smile. “First, however, dear master, you should teach him to read – if your time allows, which I assume you will henceforth devote primarily to securing the country's borders.”