The Anatomist's Dream (12 page)

He'd looked at Philbert with his by-then old man's smile hiding behind his by-then old man's beard, and added his last three words.

‘Was I wrong?'

We all
make choices
, the grown-up Philbert thought then.
We all push at the boundaries of other
people's lives
,
sometimes breaking right through the bubble that
separates us
,
without us even knowing it
.

And he knew the Turk had been right, had taken the correct decision. Philbert still had Hermann's ring about his neck. He'd almost lost it once, the story of which far surpassed any of the supposed miracles of Kwert's making, and whose consequences had gone so much farther than any of them at the time would have thought possible.

14

The Outside In, the Inside Out

By God, but it was cold. Philbert huddled by the brazier in Maulwerf's tent. It had a flap in the roof to let out the smoke, but there was still a faint miasma of it hanging in the air. During the weeks following Philbert's bringing of Hermann's note to him, Kwert had stepped up his teaching of how to read for Philbert and Lita. Tomaso had quit the task entirely, his animosity towards Philbert unabated since the invasion of Hermann's tent that he'd taken for his own, spending all his spare time with Madame La Dentellière, the lace-maker, learning other kinds of words, studying bobbins, spools, skanes and chains and all the other intricacies involved in her trade, eager to absorb it quick as he could so he could leave the Fair. This desertion bothered Philbert and Lita not a whit, happy Tomaso was gone from their immediate circle. A bad boy, they both agreed, and a hard one, and one they could well do without.

On reading nights Kwert would take out his book, the
Philocalia
, a book, he explained, whose pages were filled with all that was beautiful in the world, the wise words of the Ancients lathered across its pages like honey. He told his two attentive pupils of Ephrem and Evagrius Ponticus, of Grigory of Palamas, Symeon and Cyrus, all gathered together by Nicodemus of the Holy Mountain, and latterly Macarius Notoras of Corinth who, by so doing, had squeezed out the primal truths from the old patriarchs' texts as a gizzard does with the seeds it swallows, absorbing the good, spitting out the bad.

Philbert and Lita tried to decipher the words that wandered the yellow pages of the
Philocalia
like hair spread out and ­tangled over an oft-used pillow. Every night before they started, Kwert took out his book and held it up to the light so the letters on its old brown cover stood out like a shower of golden worms. Carefully he turned the first page and read out the warning ­citation, lifted from the
Cloud
of Unknowing
:

‘Fleshly janglers, flatterers and blamers, ronkers and ­ronners,' Kwert would solemnly declare, ‘and all manner of pinchers; cared I never . . .' and here he would pause, looking searchingly at the two bright faces before him, assessing but never judging, and then went on, ‘cared I never, never, that they saw this book.'

After this ritual warning he would pass the volume over to his chosen pupil of the night who would open it where Kwert had placed a marker, and start to read.

This particular night, this cold, cold night in Finzeln, it was Philbert's turn, the book coming open at one of Symeon the New Theologian's Hymns.

‘
The monk has made of his cell a heaven
,' Philbert began slowly. ‘
His mind is fixed in the Light of God
,
as
an arrow in a wall
.
The thief cannot steal it
,
even if he should slit open the monk's belly
and rummage about his intestines as in a purse 
. . .'

Stirring stuff, and mostly short words, but not so easy to read as Philbert hoped. He went at it as a sandpiper moves towards a favourite stone – backwards and then sideways, jumping this way and that, cocking its head and jerking first upwards and then down again. When Philbert got stuck, Kwert would mime the answer so he had to think the harder of the word he'd ­stumbled over, make a mental image of it in his mind, fix it like the arrow to the wall, the star in the firmament. Or so went the theory. Philbert juddered along reasonably well until he hit
intestines
– a word as folded and complicated as its meaning. Kwert began to mime its action out, mimicking Maulwerf at a meal, Philbert saved by freckled Hannah popping her head into their tent, telling them it was time to go. Kwert tapped his finger at Philbert's head to remind him this was a word he was going to need to come back to, Philbert smiling, always eager, always keen, Lita nodding at the command to go. They strapped on their rabbit and squirrel skin boots, their cloaks and coats, scarves and gloves, before setting off into the cold, dark night, heading for the synagogue of self-imported Italian Jews and the
Chamishoh Osor bi-Sh'vot
Festival – the New Year Service of the Trees – to which everyone, no matter their creed or beliefs, were welcome, at least in Finzeln. It was a time of thanksgiving for the woods on which the town depended, for the oaks that provided the tannin and timber needed to make the leather-topped furniture for which they were famous.

The synagogue itself was long and thin, the huge oak doors that fronted it now thrown wide, steps already filled with people pushing back hoods, stuffing gloves into pockets, chattering all the while. The place was only as wide as the over-large doors and filled with loose wooden chairs. Chaos seemed to be the prevailing seating arrangement, the only stricture being that anyone who was actually Jewish was allowed to sit at the front, women – if they were veiled – to the left, men to the right, the rest piling in as they came, sitting wherever they could. The Fair's folk often came here in winter, but this year they had an extra member of the congregation to introduce, namely Frau Fettleheim, who would not be denied, cheeks flushed the same colour as the flowers upon her dress so enthusiastic was she to attend, her cart heaved up the steps and into the synagogue, everyone having to wait until the turmoil of her bulk subsided and she and her cart were straddled across the central aisle. By the time Lita and Philbert got in behind her there wasn't much room, so they squeezed in behind her cart, leaning against its strong wheels.

Hush then, as the huge wooden doors were closed, a ragged silence ensuing, broken only by whispers, sneezes and phlegm
-
bound coughs. Everyone held their breath while the candles of the trendled chandelier – big as a cart wheel – were lit, watching reverently as it was hoisted inch by inch, foot by foot, creaking and smoking, into the vault of the synagogue's ceiling, making the gold stars dotted amongst the blue paint shine and twinkle like the real thing. And then, at the front, the Rabbi appeared like a magician: tall hat, beard spilling from his chin like unruly black wool. He raised his hands high and began to chant, his voice deep and magnificent, bouncing around the walls and ceiling arches, reaching his audience like the echo from an underwater cave.

‘Behold and Bless the Lord, all you servants of Jehovah who stand in His house in these night seasons. Lift your hands to the sanctuary and bless the Lord and He will bless you accordingly out of Zion, even as He made the heaven and the earth . . .'

Philbert had never been in such a place before, nor attuned to religion of any kind, his eyes wandering about the cavernous space; but the more the Rabbi spoke the more Philbert saw this tall thin room as its symbolic reality, the candles setting off the stars a treat, the smell of damp soil rising from between the chairs, the tapers on the great round hoop of the trendle ­flickering and winking in the hidden currents of air that wrapped themselves about the beams, folding and stretching in and out of the shadows: Heaven and Earth, indeed. The praying continued, the Kiddush soon done, the Rabbi beginning a variation on his usual Day of the Trees speech.

‘Welcome to you all here in our place of worship. We are happy to have so many join us to partake in the glories of
Chamishoh Osor
, to thank God and the very trees around us for being our salvation . . .'

The Rabbi was emotional, had to wipe the tears from his cheeks as the choir began to sing the
Hashkediyah
. Amidst the sniffles and muffled coughs a few sought out the rhythm and soon everyone was clapping to the words and some were stamping their feet, and by the end of the
Atsey Zeytim Omdim
, the crowd was on the brink of full-blown song and dance. Rabbi Ridente took his chance then to move amongst his con­gregation, hugging and shaking hands with friends and strangers, winking at Maulwerf as he passed, nodding at Frau Fettleheim and Lita, and then was back at the front, hands held high as he began to hum low and loud, on and on, until all other noises ceased, his head raised, eyes closed, beard quivering, one note ­reverberating around the hall until it seemed to fill the air entirely. Behind him, way at the back, half-hidden by a long, gold-coloured curtain, a small man could be glimpsed sitting in front of a huge box to which all sorts of bells were attached by a complex cats-cradle of strings and cords. By pressing pedals and pushing large keys with both feet and leather-clad hands, he could ring out a note inside each bell. And as the Rabbi hummed, so the bells rung, just two notes, on and on, the bells not pealing but expanding their single sounds like ripples of soft satin lifting in the wind. Slowly the Rabbi's hum became a chant as he began the words of the psalm, all on a note, an even rhythm, the bells keeping tone all around him:

‘
The Lord reigns
;
He has robed Himself in majesty
;

Yea
,
He has girded Himself with strength
,

And the world is set firm and cannot be moved 
. . .'

Not so for Philbert, for whom the world had already begun to tilt and shift, an odd sensation growing inside him as if he were ringing with the bells, as if his head was being slowly stuffed with new-spun wool.

‘
The streams have lifted up
,
Oh my Lord
,

The streams have lifted up their voice 
. . .'

Philbert's knees began to tremble, his head buzzing as if filled with flies in a summer sycamore; his taupe felt filled with thin jelly that was sloshing slowly around and around, as in a whirlpool . . .

‘
The streams lift up their roaring
;

More mighty than the voices of many waters
,
mighty waves
,

Breakers of the Sea 
. . .'

Philbert's legs gave way completely and he sank almost noiselessly to the ground, his eyes fixed on the stars above, the flickering of the candles, the sound of the bells surrounding him as if he was that bell and the rest of the world the clapper with which he was being continuously struck. He didn't know it, but on his downward slide he knocked the brake from Frau Fettleheim's cart and now his weight was against the wheel, pushing it forward, tipping it over a plank-edge, giving it leave to pick up a pace, sending it jerking down the tilted wooden walkway between the flanking rows of spectators and chairs, Frau Fettleheim letting out a short shriek and waving her arms as she gained momentum, her movements causing the cart to tilt and twist the more, sending the seats flanking her skittering out from beneath the knees of their occupants who were by now scrambling to get out of the way, knocking over their neighbours in all directions, the cart crumping off the wooden gangway a few seconds later, tipping Frau Fettleheim un­ceremoniously into a heaving lap of splintering chairs and cursing congregation. The bells stuttered to a stop as everyone started shouting and standing, pushing and looking, people trying to hoist Frau Fettleheim free from those squashed beneath her. There were gasps and yells, wind-milling arms, running feet, and the candelabra above began to sway dangerously as people tripped over the ropes that held it steady, and in amongst the mayhem could be heard the loud booming laughter of Rabbi Ridente as he stood on the topmost step, seeing all going on before him but completely unable to stop it, quaffing mightily from the large gilt cup of wine whose metal glinted in the swirling light; laughing and laughing, until the ceremonial breastplate split from his chest and clattered to the ground.

‘Well, Kapellmeister Corti, what do you think?'

‘I think, Rabbi, that perhaps the boy needs a sip of your wine.'

‘He's a bit young, don't you think?' queried Ridente, keeping a firm hold of the cup, ‘and his head looks like a yeast pudding. I'm not sure wine would be good for him in such a state. And where have all those Fair people got to?'

Philbert could hear them talking but they sounded far away, as if he was trapped inside a bottle, unable to move. The man called Corti looked anxiously around the emptying synagogue for help, but everyone had flooded away to the doors, following Frau Fettleheim and her cart as they were hauled back down the steps, this being apparently far more interesting than the small boy with his weird head who'd been discovered collapsed in amongst a tangled load of chairs.

‘He must have got an awful knock for it to come to such a size in so short a time,' said Corti, the bell ringer, with concern.

‘Where's that Maulwerf?' Ridente replied, sitting atop the step beside Corti, who was cradling Philbert's head in his lap. ‘Can they still be heaving the Human Mountain back onto her plinth?'

‘Rabbi, please,' Corti admonished. ‘Such cruelty! You should have more care. You know people cannot help their stature, myself included.'

This was certainly true in Corti's case, whose arms were half the length they should have been, stumped off at his elbows from which his hands exuded without need of lower arm or wrist.