Death and the Devil

Her relationship with Jacob suffered accordingly. At first she had been delighted by his every gesture, every little present he brought, indeed, just to see him. Often, when there were no more clients for the night, he had slept in the same bed with her. He brought her any food he could lay his hands on and didn’t have to pay, nor to leave afterward. Clemens, whom Jacob never forgot when he was sharing out his spoils, had given his approval, as he had for the husbands of the other two girls. But business came first. If a man in need knocked on the door late at night, Clemens threw the husband out, however much the girl was married.

By now the passion was almost spent. Maria wanted to better herself and there was constant bickering between them, especially since, for some inexplicable reason, Jacob felt responsible for Tilman and was always bringing him along. Sometimes the three of them spent the night together in the tiny bedroom. Tilman did not get a turn with Maria. He couldn’t afford her, and Maria would not have shared her bed with him for anything, at least not for anything less than one silver mark. By now the mere mention of Tilman’s name made her angry. Jacob knew the relationship was nearing its end.

Perhaps that was why he had insisted on dragging Tilman along with him. If he and Maria were going to argue anyway, it might as well be for a good cause. The way Tilman looked, and with the blood he was coughing up, it would take a miracle to cure him, but at least Jacob didn’t want to find him dead at the Duck Ponds one morning, surrounded by crows tearing at his cold, emaciated body.

It was murky in the taproom. Clemens was warming his hands by the fire, over which something indefinable was sizzling. There was a bitter draft coming in through the cracks in the shutters. The brothel keeper was getting more hunched by the day, Jacob thought. Soon he would be a perfect circle and you’d be able to roll him down the street. Margarethe was sitting on the bench by the door and gave them her cross-eyed look. She was always on the lookout for two clients at once, they said, and never saw any at all. Otherwise the room was empty.

“Hi, Jacob,” growled Clemens.

Jacob gave Margarethe a quick smile and flopped down on one of the crudely made stools. The bruises from his fall had just started to ache, and they seemed to cover the whole of his body. “Maria in?”

Clemens gave a grim nod. “Can you afford her?”

“There.” Jacob took out three apples and put them on the table. Clemens stared, got up from his seat by the fire, and shuffled over. He stroked the smooth skin almost tenderly with his clumsy fingers.

“Where did you get them? You don’t get apples like this at the market.”

“The Lord has provided, you might say. Can we go up now, Clemens?”

“Well—”

Jacob sighed and took out another apple.

“Of course you can, Jacob.” The apples disappeared into a basket. “The client’s just gone. You must have seen him.”

“Rich?”

“Not poor. But mean. Pays the lowest tariff, so I give him the Ludwig to drink. And he seems to like it, goddammit!”

“And Wilhilde?”

“Customer.”

“Good. That smells tasty, too.”

“Wouldn’t you just like a bit?” snapped Clemens. “It’s not for you. Just be glad I don’t stuff your lousy apples up your arse.”

Jacob was already halfway up the stairs, Tilman in tow.

“I wouldn’t say that again,” he said, “the archbishop might not like it.”

Clemens raised his eyebrows and looked at the contents of the basket.

“Don’t you put her in the family way!” he shouted at the retreating Jacob.

Tilman shook his head and followed Jacob. His whole body was quivering with suppressed coughs.

“Could you try not to cough for a while?” Jacob asked.

“Very funny!”

“All right.” He opened the door to Maria’s room.

She was standing by the window with a grubby sheet around her shoulders, lighting a new candle. Clemens was quite generous with candles. As Jacob and Tilman entered she put the candlestick by her bed, then slammed the shutter.

There was hardly any furniture. A low table, two stools, a crudely made bed full of straw with a matted blanket over it in which, as Jacob well knew, there were at least as many lice as people in Cologne. Under the window was a chest where she kept her belongings. There was a dress in it that a man she liked very much had given her a few months ago. When he came to see her, he mostly just talked. One day he brought the dress, then left and never came back. Maria did not even know his name. But when she wore the dress to church she seemed to Jacob to be just like a respectable woman, and he didn’t dare be seen with her. At times like that he felt she would manage to cheat destiny and find a devout and respected husband.

Now the dress was in the chest and the chest was locked. If the great preacher, Berthold of Regensburg, had his way, she would never have worn it again. In a tub-thumping sermon against the evil of fornication, he had demanded that whores should be compelled to wear yellow and ostracized by all good Christians.