As Above, So Below Page 13

  “The Charles is much more to my taste,” said Ortelius primly. “Do you have any other unique editions?”

  “We have the Trinity medal as well,” said Williblad, gliding across the room to open a small drawer. He produced a large silver medallion with a relief even higher than the Charles. This one showed the Crucifixion, with a dove lighting on the top of the cross, and with a haggard, bearded God the Father looming up as the background. It was so deeply carved that Jesus’s bent knees stood free. “It’s also called the Moritz penny,” said Williblad. “It was a gift to Moritz von Sachsen in 1542. His holdings came to us last year.”

  “How much for the Charles?” asked Ortelius, his mind still focused on that first medal Williblad had shown him.

  Williblad looked nonplussed. “What do you mean?”

  “The medal of Emperor Charles. I’d like to buy it.”

  “We seem to be at a misunderstanding,” said Williblad. “It’s the whole collection that we’d want to sell. Seven hundred and forty-three pieces. Possibly with the Gonzaga cameo trays as well. Mijnheer Fugger’s family owns silver mines, Abraham. They’re hardly interested in selling individual coins.”

  “Oh,” said Ortelius, feeling himself go pink with embarrassment. “Well, I—I brought you a map.”

  “Let’s see it,” said Williblad, walking around the table to sit at his side.

  “The original was by the Portuguese cartographer Diego Ribero,” said Ortelius, sliding the food and the medals out of the way and spreading the map on the table. His hands were shaking a bit. It was almost too much to have Williblad so close to him. “I copied it for engraving, and gave it Italic labels and a proper border,” he continued, his voice seeming to speak quite on its own. “I hand colored this print.”

  “I was born on the west coast of Florida,” said Williblad, leaning over the map. “It would be about—yes, here it is! The mouth of the Myakka River below the Punta Gordo. Home of my tribe, the Tequesta.” He sighed and ran his finger across the spot. “I miss it. It was my home, and they expelled me.”

  “What was it like to come from the New to the Old World?” asked Ortelius, regarding Williblad’s profile with fascination. The half-American smelled wonderful.

  “I was seven years old. Your buildings surprised me the most. All the parallel lines and right angles. My tribe’s huts and longhouses were more like seashells or swallows’ nests. Right angles tire me as much as your Church. The works of man count for so little in America. The greatest monument built by the Tequesta was a mound of clamshells. I used to play on it.”

  “Hello, Mijnheeren.” It was Bruegel, his expression exalted. He was carrying his two sheets of paper, completely covered with quickly inked sketches. “I need more paper. And a rest. Master Bosch’s triptych is a treasure mine with shafts down into the deepest bowels of the earth.”

  “Williblad was just talking about America,” said Ortelius. “It’s fascinating.”

  “Did you have birds like this where you lived?” asked Bruegel, flopping down in a chair and laying his papers beside the map. With an inky finger he indicated a little sketch of an archer with a bird’s head. The bird’s beak was shaped like a long spoon.

  “A spoonbill,” said Williblad. “Oh yes, indeed. They’re pink. I’ve seen so many of them in flight that the sky was as rosy as the inside of a woman’s mouth.”

  “Tell me more,” said Bruegel, who seemed to have set aside his antipathy towards Williblad. He took a bit of bread and cheese. “Help me imagine your landscape.”

  “I remember one day,” said Williblad, leaning back in his chair. “I was standing on some dry land at the edge of a swamp. The water was green with duckweed and dotted with cypress trees—they’re a bit like pines, but very bulbous at the bottom, with roots that came up high to make knees.” He gestured with his long-fingered hand. “On every branch of every tree there was a nest as big as a wagon wheel. And in the nests were birds in incalculable profusion: spoonbills, white and gray herons, egrets, and ibises with down-curving beaks. The gaps in the branches happened to line up so that I could see a distant island in the swamp, it was like a peek at paradise. On the island were two egrets as large as a man and a woman, flapping their wings in a dance, first one wing and then the other, twisting their bodies and twining their necks. It was scene like you paint on the insides of your cathedral domes, a view of heaven. And down below lurked the dark bumpy form of an alligator like a priest in a side chapel—black and slimy as a turd.”

  Williblad stuck out his two long arms, one atop the other, and slowly moved one arm up and down, miming the biting of great jaws. Ortelius tittered, but Williblad’s face remained serious. The story seemed to hold some profound meaning for him. “The beast barely showed through the surface, his nostrils and eyes were as knots on a sunken log, and he was covered over and over in vestments of duckweed. Alligators lie utterly immobile all day long, you know, waiting for that one unfortunate egret or heron or ibis or spoonbill to wander too close. And now, in their excitement, the mating egrets stepped off the island into the shallows and there was a huge, wallowing splash—it was the alligator, unbelievably fast. He caught the female bird; she screamed and died, her feathers red with blood. The other egret flew away.”

  “What a vision!” exclaimed Ortelius. As well as being as handsome as a god, Williblad was an enthralling storyteller.

  “My Spanish father was that alligator,” said Williblad evenly. “In the fullness of time, my mother’s widower killed him. I saw it. He smashed his head in with a club.”

  “A cold-blooded way to tell such a thing!” exclaimed Bruegel with a frown. “I too was fathered upon an unwilling woman by a powerful man. But it never crossed my mind to kill him.”

  “You’re not a Tequesta,” said Williblad shortly. “You’re an artist. We act, you scrawl. Did you say you needed paper? You’ll find some in the drawer of that desk over there.”

  “Very well,” said Bruegel, taking some. “You’re quite rude for a clerk.” There seemed to be no hope of him and Williblad becoming friends. “Send Abraham to fetch me when it’s time for us to leave. Meanwhile I’ll be mining Master Bosch’s triptych.” With a final glare at Williblad he marched out.

  Williblad gazed after him for a moment, his eyes hard. And then he turned his attention back to the map of Florida. “I’ll tell you what, Abraham,” he said presently, his voice friendly again. “I’ll trade you the Charles medal for this map—and to justify this to Fugger, I’d like copies of all your other maps. It makes good business sense to have a uniform map collection. Fugger will approve.”

  “That’s—that’s an interesting offer,” said Ortelius, doing quick calculations in his head. “You’d be talking about quite a few maps, you know. Maybe a hundred.”

  “You want more than one medal?” said Williblad expansively. “Fine, you can have the Moritz penny, too. Fugger doesn’t really care about the medals. He only likes paintings, and he’s too fatheaded to notice what I give away. But, to be fair, in addition to copies of all the maps you have in stock, we’ll want copies of all the new ones you produce. I like maps.”

  “Let’s just say all the new ones for the next two years,” said Ortelius.

  “Agreed.” Williblad pulled the two silver medallions closer and wrapped them up in a scrap of velvet. “They’re yours.”

  “Oh my,” said Ortelius, at a loss for words. His heart beat faster as he took the two precious medals in his hands. How heavy they were. “You’re sure Fugger won’t mind?”

  “I myself would rather hold a medal than look at a painting,” said Williblad. “But Mijnheer Fugger has the European infatuation with perspective. He thinks medals unworthy of his attention. He likes a painting with a fine lot of buildings and fields in it, an image that says, ‘See how much I own!’ Myself, I’d rather hold a clamshell.”

  How openly Williblad was speaking to him! As if they were old friends. Ortelius cast about for a topic to deepen the conversation. “What you sai
d earlier about priests and alligators,” he essayed, lowering his voice. “You’re for the reform of the Church?”

  “I despise the Church,” said Williblad quietly. “I’d like to see it wiped off the face of the earth. There is no God, Abraham.” Williblad stopped and smiled oddly, his lively eyes gauging Ortelius’s reaction. “I speak these thoughts to keep from bursting. In so doing, I place my life into your hands. But I sense your readiness to be more than a passing friend.”

  “I’ll not betray you,” breathed Ortelius. “I have secrets of my own.” Did he dare to lay his hand upon Williblad’s? There was a chance that Williblad’s frankness was but a ruse to draw him in. The Inquisition had agents everywhere.

  “I saw you at the Carnival last night,” said Williblad, as if to put him at his ease. “You were watching the dancers. You looked quite alone. Perhaps you have trouble finding the kind of company you seek?”

  “I travel a great deal,” said Ortelius evasively. Williblad’s reckless candor was frightening.

  “I noticed an attractive woman dancing with your Bruegel,” continued Williblad, caroming from one subject to the next. “She’s new to town. Did you say that her name is Anja?”

  “She’s from the country,” said Ortelius, speaking carefully lest he say something about the incest, yet wanting to promote intimacy by sharing gossip. “Yes, Anja. She lives with Peter as of last night.”

  “Fast work,” said Williblad. “No sooner does this little pheasant whir past, then your friend has her in his talons.” He paused. “I’d like to taste her juices too. I wonder how I might meet her? Perhaps she’ll tire of her artist and choose to seek out a—clerk.” It seemed the word from Bruegel had rankled.

  “I—that’s not my affair,” protested Ortelius, feeling quite over his head.

  “You have a servant girl, no?” said Williblad in a silky tone. “Surely she’ll be acquainted with the consort of your close friend Peter Bruegel. Your maid can mediate. Send her to me with the maps, and don’t think of it again. I’ll do the talking.” Ortelius could all too well imagine Helena as a go-between. He opened his mouth to protest, but Williblad cut him off” with a gentle, lingering pat on the cheek.

  Just then a servant appeared with a message that Mijnheer Fugger needed to speak with Williblad. Their moment was over. “I’m glad to have met you, Abraham,” said Williblad, getting to his feet. “I’ll explain our arrangement to Mijnheer Fugger. Don’t forget to send your girl with the maps. Your cantankerous friend Bruegel is down the hall in the second room to the left. You two can find your own way out?”

  “Certainly, dear Williblad. I’m very grateful. I’ll send the maps in a few days.”

  “A pleasure to know you. Antwerp holds so few civilized men.”

  “I’m thoroughly enchanted,” said Ortelius, speaking from the bottom of his heart. Williblad gave a wicked smile, and then he was gone. A deep man.

  Ortelius found Bruegel alone in a dim sitting room with the Bosch triptych. It was five feet tall, with the main panel four feet across, and each of the side panels two feet across. It sat upon a massive table, placed so that the waning light of a window fell upon it. On the left panel was a scene of Eden, in the center was a Last Judgment above a scene of Hell, and on the right was more Hell. The overall effect of the picture was of rumpled brown velvet strewn with jewels, worms, and beetles.

  Ortelius barely knew where to begin looking. “Too much to see,” he murmured. On closer examination, the jewel-colored things were fantastic buildings of rose red, pale green, and light blue; the worms were writhing pink humans; the shiny black beetles were Bosch’s demons.

  “You see it one bit at a time,” said Bruegel, who was standing before the picture with pen and paper in hand. “Just like you’d paint it. Here’s a spoonbill and a gryllos.”

  “Gryllos?”

  “At the bottom edge. A head with no body. He—or she—walks on two feet. I think perhaps she’s a nun, a vengeful Mother Superior. How did things go with Williblad? Did you get what you wanted?”

  “Well—yes, I suppose so. Look.” Ortelius held out his hand with the cloth-wrapped medals and uncovered them. “He gave me these for copies of all my maps. They’re very rare and beautiful.” And, thought Ortelius, Williblad had given much more. His confidence. Who knew what it might lead to? The one painful thought was Williblad’s talk of starting something with Anja. Should Ortelius feel guilty over his possible part in this? But surely if Williblad didn’t use Helena as his messenger, he’d only use someone else.

  “Shiny,” said Bruegel, taking a quick look at the medals and then turning his attention back to the Bosch. “Isn’t that fat blue beast a wonder? His nose is a horn—no, a bagpipe’s chanter—and he’s playing it with his hands. Look at the shading across his belly, and the lively way his legs are dancing. Oh, yes, the good Master Bosch is incomparable.” Bruegel was busily sketching on his piece of paper. “I’ll make up for the drawings of his I erased at s’Hertogenbosch. I’ll spread more of his inventions into the world.”

  “That’s good,” said Ortelius, increasingly uneasy that they were overstaying their welcome. “I think Williblad wants us to leave now. I don’t want you to start a fight with him again. Why did you have to call him a clerk?”

  “I don’t like him. You heard how shabbily he tried to deal with me at the Schilderspand. And then he brags about his father’s murder? I’ve met his type before. All talk and no action. He’s jealous of me for being an artist.”

  And he’s after your woman, thought Ortelius to himself. And my Helena’s to be the mediator. And I love Williblad too much to stop it. Poor Peter.

  “I have to net a few more of these beasts,” said Bruegel. “Look at the fish with legs. Look at the man playing the trumpet with his ass. See the lines of white light on the backs of those serpents.”

  All across the middle of the central picture were burning buildings. The tormented sinners made Ortelius uncomfortably aware of the propensity of flesh to be wounded and pierced. He walked around and peered at the grisaille images on the backs of the side panels. One of them showed St. Bavo beside a begging leper who had his detached foot sitting on his begging blanket. It occurred to Ortelius that perhaps Bosch was mad.

  “Come, Peter, let’s get out of here.”

  “Do you see Bosch’s punishment for Gluttony?” said Bruegel, furiously sketching. “A man’s ass is squirting into a funnel that goes into a barrel that pours into the glutton’s mouth. And here’s a lustful sinner in a barrel of toads, guarded by a fire-breathing newt with a knife through his neck. The punishment for Luxuria.”

  “Is lust really such a blameworthy thing?” wondered Ortelius. His gaze drifted uneasily to the Lord of Hell in the right panel. The Lord of Hell was a cage of fire, like a stove. The Lord of Hell’s stomach, mouth, and eyes were windows of flame, and sparks shot out of the top of his head. His mouth had fangs like a cat mouth. Ortelius hated and feared cats. “It’s too heartless, Peter. Too cruel.”

  “It’s cruel, but it’s wonderful,” said Bruegel, unperturbed. “Look at his color effects: see the verdigris on the bronze cupola of the warriors and the moss on the toad-barrel. How does he do that?”

  “Williblad expects us to leave now, Peter. And it’s getting too dark to see.”

  “All right,” said Bruegel and made some final scratches with his pen. He folded up his papers and let out a long sigh. As they left the Bosch room, Bruegel walked half-backwards, staring at the triptych till the last minute. Finally they were outside in the dusk, Ortelius with his coins and Bruegel with his new images. Snow was softly falling.

  “Good-bye, then, Peter,” said Ortelius. “I’m going home.”

  “Me too,” said Bruegel. “Home to Anja and my paints. I’m ready.”

  Six

  The Peasant Wedding

  Antwerp, September 1560

  “Up with the cock, Peter! We’ve beer to drink and maids to dance with.”

  Bruegel opened his eyes t
o see Hans Franckert bulking over his bed. It was quite early of a September morn.

  “I’d expected to find Anja in your arms,” continued Franckert. “Indeed, I was looking forward to seeing her. Where is the good woman?”

  “Fugger’s,” said Bruegel softly. “She often sleeps over there with Williblad Cheroo.”

  Anja had taken to betraying him more and more often, with Williblad Cheroo and with other men. It was Cheroo who’d been the first to corrupt her. Williblad had lured Anja away, using Ortelius’s gossipy maid Helena as go-between. A sad side effect was that, in his anger over the betrayal, Bruegel had damaged his friendship with Ortelius as well. Franckert was presently his only close friend.

  Bruegel sat up in bed, taking in Franckert’s garb. Instead of his usual city clothes, Franckert was wearing enormously baggy green trousers tucked into high, muddy boots that had their tops turned down. He wore a brown jacket with a pleated skirt, and upon his head was a high-crowned shaggy hat, evidently made from the fur of a dog. Bruegel laughed despite himself.

  “You look the perfect peasant,” he said. “I remember now. The country wedding. But I never got my costume ready. Maybe you should go alone. God knows I don’t feel like eating or drinking. I’m all choler and bile.”

  “And leave you here to brood?” cried Franckert. “Never. You’re losing your sense of fun. No need for peasant clothes. Put on your finest garb and we’ll say you’re the owner of my farm. Poor Bruegel. Anja’s brought you low. You took her in—it’s been four years now, no? You’ve lodged her, gotten her one job after another, and now she covers you with the blue cloak.”

  “The blue cloak,” agreed Bruegel. “The emblem of cuckoldry. It’s at the center of my Low Lands Proverbs. I don’t think you ever saw it. Look, it’s right behind you.”