excerpt from beginning of Chapter 1 ©

 

Late autumn, rodent wind, seeking warmth to devour, squeezes through twisted passageways with cobbled inclines that separate shops, homes, and beer halls. It crawls down the Brenner Pass from Patscherkofel Mountain in the high Tyrol through Innsbruck, past a University gate, past the Gothic Hofkirche court church, past the Hofburg Imperial Palace, and unexpectedly chills those enjoying the amber evening in Innsbruck’s crowded alleys.

 

Shoulder to shoulder, students and residents clutch their collars in fists and, red-cheeked, jostle in the deluge of human traffic. Windows fogged on the inside, glow yellow and warm. Here and there, children finger draw smiling faces and sloppy drunks print clumsy letters backwards so that they can be read from the street on condensation formed on windowpanes, and laugh and laugh because they cannot remember, for the moment, what caused them to drink.

 

Expansive clamor in the narrow passageways demands greater clamor. Students sing Eisgekühlter Bommerlunder in inebriated, repetitive chorus. Passersby join in drinking songs passed down from the Middle Ages through generations of revelers, ruby-faced, momentarily as lusty as medieval Goliards. Neither Prague nor Vienna is as festive as Innsbruck on a feast day.

 

“You won’t find a bed in town, friends. Not a single bed. Strangers from as far away as Rome make Innsbruck their home for Martinmas. Our celebrations are famous, so our town is famous. Our town is famous, so now you are both famous. As you can see, we begin our celebrations early in Innsbruck. You won’t find a single room available in any inn in our riotous town. Students are drawn here for the festivities—drinking, singing,” a wiry, middle-aged man with a narrow face and white-marble pallor shouts over the carriageway commotion at two gentlemen, a dignified man in his early 50s accompanied by his young attendant, perhaps 20, who stand before him with satchels in hand.

 

“We had not thought of the calendar when I accepted the invitation from the University to give lectures,” the older man replies, slipping from accusatory plural to blameless singular in a breath, frowning at his attendant, who has neglected a responsibility. “My name, incidentally—”

 

“—is Professor Tillo Oulanem, I know. I remember your last visit—and the one before. Such a long time ago! You spoke so memorably on Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit. When was it? As far back as the Bavarian occupation? Twenty, twenty-five years ago? 1812? 1813?”

 

The speakers stand back as a wagon drawn by a single draft horse with side blinders, loaded with kegs of beer, slowly passes. The young man thinks of names and naming and his own name, Oulanem assumes that anyone he meets knows his name, and the man with a narrow face silently amuses himself by renaming for himself the two he would have as guests.

 

“You remember better than I. I don’t remember much of those visits—and Lucindo here wasn’t yet born. Sorry, but I do not remember you. Maybe—”

 

“Do not concern yourself, dear sir. I am forgettable! I am not a philosopher. I’m a Civil Judge, a provincial magistrate, nothing more. Rudolf Pertini. That’s my name. Most forgettable, I know, especially for a man such as you concerned with large matters of the intellect and soul. Besides, you could not remember me because we never met. I was in Vienna when you last visited and opened our provincial minds to the world. I remember, so to speak, your former visits to Innsbruck indirectly—by what I heard of them from others. In any case, I am now at your service.”

 

A church belfry begins a Ninth-Hour carillon. The mid-afternoon call-to-prayer carillon is loud and clear, amplified by narrow streets. The edged sound chases and amputates the chill wind into adjacent cobblestone streets and pathways. When the ringing is finished, the bell strikes three times. The speakers raise their voices to be heard over it.

 

“Italian, isn’t it? Your name, I mean,” Oulanem says, his question a statement.

 

“Yes. Swiss Italian.”

 

“Swiss. Swiss Italian. Italian.” There is insistence in the stranger’s voice, the insistence of someone who is never wrong or never accepts that his understanding is in error. Oulanem’s curt logic returns him to his original assumption and he is self-satisfied that he is gifted with insight. It is a confirmation he expects.

 

“Enough of this, my friends. I see by your blue lips and red nostrils and cheeks that you are cold and tired. Allow me to offer my home. The inns are full. My home isn’t much, but what I have is yours for your entire stay. I understand you will be giving lectures at the University. Please accept my offer. A possible friendship with you, the most inspired philosopher in Germany—indeed, the most distinguished thinker of our time. This is no mere flattery, but common knowledge—is perhaps a fantasy on my part, a fantasy that does not detract from the honor I would feel to have you and—Lucindo, is it? Italian name, I believe?—I would feel privileged to have you stay with me,” Pertini, the man with the narrow face, says. He turns his head, but not his body, to glance at the ends of the carriageway, the smile on his face immobile, and motions Oulanem and Lucindo to return closer to him so that they can continue their conversation.

 

The draft horse continues further down the narrow road and the clip-clop of its heavy hooves on cobblestone echoes off decorated facades. A pile of dung is delivered and left near the threesome. The turds steam in the chill. An appropriate commentary on human affability, Pertini thinks.

 

“Thank you, stranger. I fear that you overestimate my worth,” Professor Tillo Oulanem replies with a distracted and insincere nod. “We appreciate your hospitality.” It is apparent that the graying professor does not speak out of appreciation. He nods again, accepting compliment as what he has come to consider his due. Images of wagons and coaches, horses and river boats, all impersonal vehicles that move him to where he wants to be, pass through his mind. Conveniences. He thinks of the man with the narrow face as a vehicle, a convenient vehicle.

 

The young man with Oulanem repeats, “Thank you,” and is about to continue when he sees a quieting expression in Oulanem’s eyes, which suppresses his appreciation and causes him, trailing off, to look at his feet, the proper comportment of an underling.

​

“Good! I will not flatter you further, Professor, except to repeat that I am honored by your acceptance of my invitation.” Pertini grovels, removing his hat, hunched in the posture of a supplicant.

 

The church carillonneur finishes his heavy creative labor, wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of a powdered hand as though he had manually heaved the bells of his grand instrument by hand, and concentrates on the carillon keyboard before him and its petals at his feet. After a brief pause, the church sexton chimes the hour by pulling ropes that hang from the tower to a place next to the carillon, ropes that to the carillonneur are musical nooses pulled by an arrhythmic hangman, and offers an ingratiating smile to the carillonneur.

 

“Our stay will be lengthy,” Oulanmen comments as a matter of fact. “I have accepted an invitation to give lectures on ethics at Leopold-Franzens-Universität until spring. I would not want to inconvenience you. I had not thought that our arrival would coincide with Martinmas. The University has set aside quarters for us. Unfortunately, we were unable to locate anyone there when we arrived.” Oulanem is indifferent to Pertini’s inconvenience. Pertini thinks of the sweet irony of how convenient the encounter is and his smile becomes a grin. Lucindo listens for hints in his master’s voice.

 

People in the street ignore the call to None. Mid-afternoon respect for Saint Martin is left to an aging deacon, Karl Diefenbaker, and Annemarie Traugott, equally aged to a point that a few years difference no longer matters, who was Diefenbaker’s secret lover a half-century before in Vienna, when Emperor Joseph II thrilled Austrian society by opening it to liberal ideas and dismissing antiquated moral prescriptions, the Deacon Diefenbaker thought, and reigned in Vienna as Holy Roman Emperor, before the Empire was dissolved by Napoleon in 1806 because Francis II was unable to defend it. Diefenbaker was and is bitter. The years have not erased his political anger nor lessened the memory of personal misdeeds that regret has magnified to unspoken anguish. Annemarie, kneeling next to Karl in a front pew, occasionally places a gloved hand on Karl’s arm, though he does not separate his hands pressed together in prayer. Saint Martin does not respond, he does not speak a gracious word of gratitude. His statute glares at the empty church.

 

“Every day you spend away from my humble home will be my loss, Professor. You and your travelling companion—Lucindo, is it? Yes, Lucindo, a fine Italian name—are welcome to stay with me as long as it pleases you. My home is large. No more than a minute from this very spot in the center of town, much better located than the University Guesthouse, I assure you. I am on the Governing Assembly of the University. I assure you that your comforts and needs will be better attended in my home than at the University Guesthouse—which is noisy and a good half-hour walk from the center here, an unbearable distance in the winter—if you will honor me. I will inform the University. You will not regret the change, I assure you.”

 

“Again, we thank you for your hospitality, Herr Pertini. We do not wish to bother your wife or family.” Oulanem strains to speak over ambient street noise, progressive, disjointed melodies, foot traffic that conveys conversation, innuendo, hidden passion, and hidden passion suddenly released. His anger is apparent, his words clipped, and his left hand impatiently slaps his thigh repeatedly.

 

The glass clarity of the cold air and focus of the rodent, mountain wind ignite cheeks and noses in burning red. Foot traffic hastens to preordained destinations. Pertini momentarily loses his pleasant smile, looks inward at an enormous world of grudges, insecurities, and shadowy intentions, then rejoins his companions in the small world of the street and speaks in a considered tone.

 

“My wife is recovering from a melancholic disposition in a sanatorium outside of town. My house, with the exception of servants and my own comings and goings, is empty. It is a delight to have company on occasion, though I assure you that I will not pester you with unwanted conversation. Come, let us go. We are just around the corner.”

 

Removing the satchel slung over Oulanem’s shoulder and taking his suitcase in hand, Pertini motions his two guests to accompany him through the crowded street. They weave their way around the corner and stop at a large, substantial door and Petini opens it for his guests. A muscular, young servant appears as soon as Pertini calls for him. “Boy! Take these gentlemen up to their rooms. They just concluded an arduous trip from Germany. They need to relax and time to change their travelling cloths for more comfortable wear. Assist them in whatever they need.”

 

The houseboy, Hackett Spengler, lifts the guests’ bags and ascends the staircase, labor in his breath. A quiet farm boy, Spengler is indentured to Pertini for unpaid debts his father owes the Innsbruck administrative district, debts Pertini has transferred to himself as a Civil Judge.

​

Before following the houseboy, Professor Oulanem formulaically remarks with brittle words, “You are most hospitable, Herr Pertini.”

​

“It is my infinite pleasure, Professor, I assure you.”

 

Oulanem and Lucindo follow Spengler up the stairs. Spengler is grateful for his position with Pertini and remembers his father and mother, impoverished peasants who embarrass him, and imagines escaping his upbringing and becoming a gentleman, but his rustic imagination is limited to rough-hewn farm tools, not silver dip pens and pewter inkwells, mushy porridge flavored with lard, not Wiener Schnitzel served with a slice of lemon, and wool, not Viennese silk embroidery. He lacks the vocabulary to carry his desire beyond imitating those above his social class, is incapable of becoming one of them, and his imitations are laughable. He does not understand that he is nothing more than comic relief and a pair of arms to carry the belongings to those he serves, at times a plaything, at times a nuisance. He is giddy with perceived acceptance by those he considers his superiors. He is Pertini’s pawn.   

    

“Dinner is at seven, my friends. Relax until then. The boy will draw hot water for baths. Get to it, boy!” Pertini calls after them. “Oh, and just one more thing, Professor, if I may?”

 

At the top of the stairs, Oulanem turns. “Yes?”

 

“Pardon me for asking. Your name has always puzzled me. It is strange to my ears. Is it German? What does it mean?”

 

“You are not the first to ask. Unfortunately, it is one of those questions that I cannot answer adequately. My family has lived in Germany for generations—always, as far as our family genealogy reveals. As to the meaning of the name, we have no idea. It is German. That much we know.”

 

“Words are such peculiar things, don’t you think? One day, they mean this and the next they don’t. Sometimes, I think—at least in the law—they assume their opposite meaning. And names? They are just words. I have heard that your name is an anagram,” Pertini continues in a louder voice, as though Oulanem had become more distant than the top of the stairs. He grins and shrugs.

 

“Oh? And what is that?”

 

“Nothing, really. Someone said that Oulanem is an anagram for Manuelo. Just rearrange the letters. A puzzle of sorts, you know?”

​

“I have heard that.”

 

“Manuelo meaning God is with us. From the Hebrew, I am told. Emmanuel. What an appropriate name for so distinguished a scholar.”

​

“Clever. A rather tortured reading, don’t you think?”

 

“Very foolish of me to mention it. Just the sort of thing a philistine would bring up. I apologize.”

 

“Good evening, Herr Pertini.”

 

“And Lucindo. That’s an Italian name, isn’t it? A fine name. An Italian name,” Pertini calls louder to the backs of his guests.

 

Oulanem and Lucindo disappear on the second-story landing, following the houseboy into an unlit hallway. They have either not heard Pertini or ignore him. Pertini knows they have heard him.

 

Alone, Pertini surveys the room carefully. He is aware of details already known to him, but is pleased to see them again and recognize them by their names. The patterns carved into the balustrades, the slant of pale light piercing the small, round window beside the staircase, the stale odor of damp rooms, the demilune console table next to the staircase, the empty French opaline vase on the table, the memory of spring flowers that his wife had arranged in the vase, the hatching gnats that had accompanied the transalpine blossoms into his home. Details become things when he gives them names. They exist. Unlike other men, Pertini does not allow the world of details to fade into semi-conscious background when he does not observe them. A lawyer, he lives in a world of details. Those who have tried to know him search in a world of details, but lose themselves instead of finding him. Where others die, Pertini lives and thrives in details.

 

Pertini strides to the front door and hurriedly re-enters the congested passageway in front of his home. Dodging revelers, he turns up his collar and gathers in the lapels. The wind snaps at his back. He mutters inaudibly into the frosty air.

 

“Dear God, it’s the very man! It is he! Good fortune and happenstance look on me with favor. He is the very man I have never met, never seen, the man who has occupied my mind and destroyed my peace all these years! The clock spins, the day has come. The invisible enemy I can never forget, who deprives me of sleep, that my conscience will not allow me to forget and rest even in dreaming. How excellent! How fortuitous! Now, I’ll rid myself of my conscience. Oulanem’s destruction alone will be my moral compass from this moment, his perfidy my North Star. Oulanem, the very man I waited to have returned to me—now delivered to my doorstep! Farewell, conscience, and good riddance to you. Go, haunt others. You have no home in my mind and you will not disrupt it and govern my actions. Every night since this messiah last condescended to come to Innsbruck two decades ago, I have seen him stand at the foot of my bed, his face obscure without light. Now the shadow has a face. You joined me in bed and slept when I slept. You rose with me in the morning and ate apfelstrudel and drank coffee with me at my breakfast table, and, in the middle of a troubled dream, woke beside me while I was in a night sweat. We know each other, man! We have lived together for two decades, whether you know it or not. You invaded and conquered my dreams. You found me there, vulnerable and angry. Now, my eyes see it! Now, it is your turn to come to know the face of your Swiss-Italian host, hear and remember his name, and taste the bitter vendetta we prepare for foreign occupiers in my world.”

 

A full voice sounds in Petini’s ear. “You are distracted, Rudolf! Talking to yourself? Well, at least you keep good company.”

 

Pertini turns to be greeted by hearty laughter.

 

He turns to see a heavy man standing beside him, bulbous nose and red cheeks, a face pitted with pockmarks left when, as a child, small-pox pustules erupted on his face.

 

“Urs! I did not notice you, my friend. I was thinking of some legal matters I am involved in at the moment. I assure you I was not ignoring you.”

 

“You appear to be lost in thought, even troubled, Rudolf. Come with me for a mug of doppelbock at the Augustiner Hofbräuhaus. We can have a little to eat as well. My treat.”

 

“It is much too cold for lager, Urs!”

 

“We will be warm inside, my friend. Perhaps a jagdwurst, sausage chowder to fight off the cold. We can have a good conversation, like old times, without interruptions, sentences without puncturations. Just talk. Remember old times or today’s events or, since you are a good prophet, pathetic talk of the future. Come, come, if you don’t mind conversation with an old friend with little education but great affection.”

 

“Prophetic, Urs, not pathetic, though pathetic is better suited to my current state of mind that is late in arranging some important details in a matter I have just come to oversee. It’s too cold, Urs, and I really must attend to my business. Another time, my friend. Be well. Give my regards to your daughter. I hope she is well.” Pertini wishes neither Urs nor his daughter well. He is indifferent to Urs’ well-being. Urs’ beautiful daughter is hideous in Pertini’s eyes and he regrets that she exists.

 

“Auf wiedersehen, my friend, or should I say arriba dartsee? You Italians never make sense to me! How confusing you are!”

 

“Arrivederci.” Pertini continues on his way.

 

“Yes, another time. I will give Beatrice your kind rewards, Rudolf.”

 

Urs Alwander stands alone watching Pertini descend the narrow street. For a moment, is undecided, then resolutely enters the Augustiner Hofbräuhaus behind him, each step adding to his cheer. When he enters, the sounds of merriment contained in the tavern pour into the street and mingle with the hubbub of passersby.

 

Pertini continues his downward pace, sinking deeper into the details of a plan of action, a plan in which he is invisible.