As Above, So Below Page 15

  Bruegel nudged his horse and rode off without answering her. “Yet another lie,” he snarled when Franckert’s horse fell into a walk at his side. “She’s my worst enemy.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Franckert. “She seemed pleasant enough.”

  “Anja won’t have supper waiting for me. She deceives me about every possible sort of thing. I don’t know why I continue living with her.” His unhappy voice sounded petulant and unworthy. Ashamed of himself, Bruegel let his horse drop behind Franckert’s and fell silent for a time.

  He knew perfectly well why he lived with Anja. She was a comfortable echo of the bygone village days. She was a creature of fire and air, an ideal counterpoint to his cold, saturnine humors. When Anja did actually cook him a meal, it was a good one. She often helped tidy up his rooms. And, above all, there was the pleasure they took in the intimacies of each other’s bodies. It was his own folly to expect her to be faithful when he himself refused to offer her security. Maybe he should stop dreaming of improving his lot, settle for Anja, and get on with the business of making a family? Not yet.

  They passed through St. George’s Gate in the city wall. The gate was manned by Spanish troops and Rode Rockx Walloon mercenaries. They were there to watch for political agitators and to make sure that Spain got every possible bit of tax. Bruegel’s fine clothes caught the attention of a little Spanish taxman, who requested a peek into their purses. After some back-and-forth, the taxman extracted a silver piece from Franckert.

  Immediately outside the gate was a spot of marshy land and a stream that ran towards the Scheldt. A ruined windmill that had belonged to the bankrupt brewer van Schoonbeke stood next to the stream, and the brewer’s abandoned land was overgrown with bushes and trees. They rode past van Schoonbeke’s windmill into the open countryside, leaving the smelly city streets behind.

  The village of Berchem was less than an hour’s ride through the flat, golden fields. Many of the fields were already harvested down to stubble, but in some of them the peasants were still at work: cutting the wheat with scythes, binding it into sheaves, and carrying the dried sheaves off to the barn. They also passed orchards laden with fruit; it seemed as if every apple tree had a peasant in it, wriggling about and gathering the bounty. The peasants in the trees brought back memories of boyhood apple gathering, as well as of perching in the high branches to spy upon women doing their business.

  Bruegel noticed that one of the peasant boys was hanging upside down, spiritedly waving his arms and swaying from the backs of his knees. It struck him, not for the first time, that from a distance a man looks nearly the same turned either way. Like a letter H. A man was an H with his plump stubs a-waggling.

  He’d thought a lot about the letter H recently. Last year, after much discussion with Anja, he’d dropped it from his name once and for all, so as to distance himself from that young, second-Bosch, Hell-painter Brueghel who’d drawn the famous Seven Deadly Sins. With his career fully in motion, he wanted to be very clearly his own man. How would it be to let Anja herself go the way of the H?

  Bruegel and Franckert kept overtaking early-bird farmers on their way home from the Antwerp market. Franckert had a hearty greeting for everyone. He was working himself into his role of merry peasant wedding guest. Near Berchem they drew even with a couple riding home upon a rough wooden cart scattered with a few leftover cabbage leaves. “Greetings to you two on this lovely fall day,” boomed Franckert. “I’m looking for the farm of Lucas Wagemaeker. My Lord de Hoorne and I have come to dance at their daughter’s wedding.”

  Instead of responding, the man glared at them suspiciously, his open mouth showing a few yellow teeth. But his wife was ready for conversation. “Little Tilde and her Hendrik Hooft!” she exclaimed. “Yes, yes, the wedding’s today. Geeraard and I would have been invited too, I’m sure, but the Rode Rockx say there can only be twenty of us villagers in one room at one time. Only twenty at a wedding feast, can you imagine? We must have had a hundred at our Susanna’s nuptials, eh, Geeraard? Those were happier times.”

  “Wagemaeker didn’t invite us because he hates us,” growled Geeraard. The wrinkles at the corners of his mouth were as deeply carved as grooves in a piece of wood. “Due to that business with our pig in his garden this summer. He’s a man who bears a grudge. And furthermore I wouldn’t want to go. Wagemaeker thinks he’s better than us.” The peasant shot a sharp look at Bruegel. “What are you staring at, cookie eater?” That was the slang expression for someone from Antwerp. It was reckless for a peasant to address a lord in this wise. The old man’s choler had addled his judgment.

  “You have an interesting face,” said Bruegel. “I’d like to remember it.” To Bruegel’s eyes, the peasant’s face was already almost a sketch; he was mentally simplifying and universalizing it so as to make it fully ready for use.

  “We’re loyal Habsburg subjects, Mijnheer,” said the man’s wife, alarmed to have attracted a gentleman’s attention. These days no good came from that. “All power be to King Philip and his sister, our good Regent Margaret,” she said, her chatty voice changing to an abject whine. “I didn’t mean to sound unhappy with the Rode Rockx. It’s good they protect us from those mad Anabaptist heretics. You’ll find Wagemaeker’s barn at the end of a little track to the left, just before the village. Good day, my Lord.”

  “God’s blessings and a bountiful harvesttime,” said Franckert as Bruegel and he rode on past the cart. The village drew closer—a spire, a watchtower, a market building, a granary, a mansion, a cluster of houses with stair-step gables, an inn, and on the left a gallows with three dark, ragged shapes suspended beneath it. Crows circled the gibbets, cawing and feeding. And on the other side of the road, red-shirted soldiers sat drinking before the inn. Seeing them filled Bruegel with a visceral fear. Thanks to the Blood Edicts of the foreign tyrant King Philip, the crime of heresy was to be punished only by death, with no lesser penalties to be contemplated. Out here in the country there were no limits upon what the occupying soldiers might do.

  “I heard about these hangings earlier this week,” said Franckert. “Two women and a man. Anabaptists. They preached that all property should be held in common, but in the end, these three rebels couldn’t share things any better than the rest of us. It seems the two women came to a falling-out over the man, and one of them set the Inquisitors upon the other two. I suppose the Rode Rockx are staying on in Berchem to make sure there’s no further trouble. Well, that’s none of our concern. This must be our turnoff here.”

  Bruegel and Franckert followed a grassy track to a solid little house, stable, and barn. The buildings were built of low mud walls topped by great, slanting thatched roofs that rose up four times as high as the walls. A cluster of gay blue and yellow ribbons hung above the barn door, and the sound of bagpipes floated from within. It was a nostalgic sound for Bruegel, who remembered going to some country weddings as a boy. When would he have a wedding of his own?

  The party had started. People were milling around in the barnyard, drinking, laughing, and talking. A pimply youth ran across towards the two riders, rolling a hoop with one hand and holding a wedge of brown bread in the other. He was dressed up for the feast, wearing white stockings darned at the knees, a feather and a spoon on his green velvet hat, plum-colored breeches, and a white shirt with gray stripes. Seeing him, it occurred to Bruegel that he hadn’t yet put a hoop roller into his Children’s Games.

  “Shall I take your horses, Mijnheeren?” asked the youth.

  “Thank you kindly,” said Franckert, and handed him a copper coin. “Fresh water and some nice hay for them, if you please. Are you related to Tilde or to Hendrik?”

  “Tilde’s my big sis,” said the youth, letting the hoop fall to the ground as he admired his coin. “I’ll use this to buy sweets in Antwerp the next time we go to market. We’ve been going twice a week.” His voice had the cracking quality of early adolescence, deep one moment and high the next. He reached out to touch the velvet trim of Bruegel’s luxur
ious coat. “Are you one of the Hooft relatives, sir? I didn’t know Hendrik was kin to gentlemen.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but it’s me that’s the relative,” said fat Franckert before Bruegel could say anything. Franckert dismounted and did his full peasant bow: he let his dog-fur hat fall into the mud, cleaned the hat by beating it against his backside, and then put the hat back on crooked. “Hans Hoiberg from the village of Grote Brueghel. I’m your cousin Max Wagemaeker’s half brother. And this fine gentleman with me, why, he’s my landlord. He likes to keep an uncommonly close eye on his tenants, he does. I present to you the Lord Peter de Hoorne. And your name, young man?”

  “Joop Wagemaeker. Pleased to meet you, cousin Hoiberg. But why has Mijnheer de Hoorne come, really?”

  “I’m here to get the stink off me,” said Bruegel putting on an affected, lordly tone for the benefit of Franckert. “I’ve been suffering from melancholy, do you know the word, boy? An excess of black bile. You might say I’m in search of myself. My good man Hans promises me that a peasant wedding will set right my humors. I’ve brought a gift for the bride.” He tapped his purse meaningfully, then glared at Franckert, who’d let out a snort of laughter. “Decorum, Hoiberg! You’re giddy before you’ve even begun to drink.”

  “We’ll see if we can make a place for you,” said young Joop. “It’s awfully crowded. We’re only supposed to let twenty inside at a time, you know. That’s why so many people are out here in the yard. Just give me a minute to stable your horses.”

  The peasants in the barnyard were in a cheerful party humor. Full jugs of beer and plates of porridge kept being handed out from inside the barn, with a stream of empties being passed back in. The bagpipe music was loud and lively; several couples had started dancing.

  Every time someone would come out of the barn, a fresh peasant would push in. It happened that a couple were exiting just as young Joop finished with the horses, and the youth made sure that Bruegel and Franckert were the next pair allowed to enter.

  The barn smelled of beer and animals. The dust of the hay put a tickle into Bruegel’s nose and reminded him more strongly than ever of his youth. He and Anja had often played in the haylofts, peering down at the broad backs of the cows. For a moment he felt weak with homesickness: for his village, for his past, for his younger, happier self. Black bile indeed.

  A beam of sunlight angled in through a high window. The shaft of light was alive with specks that seemed to jiggle with the rhythms of the bagpipes. The twenty people around the long cloth-bedecked table were seated on benches made from split logs. A few children sat on the floor. Two bagpipers stood playing at the near side of the table. Behind the table, a tidy pile of wheat straw rose almost to the ceiling, making a wall of summer gold.

  The bride was a round-faced, red-cheeked woman seated before a green cloth draped from the wall of straw. A red-and-white striped paper lantern hung suspended above her like the canopy of a queen’s throne. She wore her hair long and loose, with a red flower-bedecked wreath atop her head. As was the custom at a peasant wedding, she neither ate nor spoke, but sat there with her eyes demurely downcast—just like the little girl in Bruegel’s Children’s Games. It was easy to see that she was happy.

  Next to the bride were her parents. The mother was a kind-faced, noisy woman with some teeth missing and a white cloth on her head; the father was a quiet, bright-eyed man with a short white beard and a black cap that came down over his ears. Franckert told them his cock-and-bull story about who they were, Bruegel handed the bride the gold coin, and then they were seated with the others at the long table, Bruegel at one end next to a monk, Franckert at the other end near the barnyard. The signs of respect that the guests gave Bruegel were a soothing balm to his sense of himself.

  Two young men with spoons tucked into their caps were just carrying in a big board, or no, it was a door, laden with fresh bowls of porridge, some white and some yellow. The man on Bruegel’s left, a handsome, fresh-faced fellow in a red cap and a light brown jacket, hopped to his feet and began passing plates to the guests.

  “Plain or saffron?” he asked Bruegel.

  “Saffron,” said Bruegel. “Thank you.” What with his worries about Anja and this constant overwork, his stomach hadn’t been feeling well of late. The fire element of the saffron could be just the thing to balance his humors. The red-capped man handing him the plate had a dazed smile on his lips and an odd light in his eyes. Bruegel realized this must be the groom. “And congratulations on your marriage, young Hendrik! You’re a lucky man.”

  “Thank you, my Lord. Hey, Joris, give Lord de Hoorne your spoon.” One of the food bearers pulled the spoon from his hat and handed it to Bruegel. Bruegel dug into his porridge. The saffron gave it a delicate aroma as well as a pleasant yellow color. It was the first food he’d had today.

  “You can call me Father Michel,” said the monk on Bruegel’s right. From the cleric’s garb, Bruegel could see that he was a Franciscan friar who’d taken priestly orders. “It was I who helped Tilde and Hendrik celebrate the marriage sacrament today,” he said. “It’s an honor to have you here, my Lord. I hope you weren’t expecting meat; we’ve no fowl, nor calf, nor pig, nor rabbits. You’ll find only beer, bread, and porridge. When the Wagemaekers asked me to perform the wedding, we discussed the feast, and I advised that too rich a fare might draw unwanted hornets—the red-shirted kind. I myself am quite content with this simple provender. My cardinal sin is something other than gluttony.”

  There was a pause, and when no more information came, Bruegel said, “So now I wonder what is your besetting sin.” He wagged his finger, deciding to make a game of it. “I’ll warrant I can guess it after a few minutes’ talk. Meanwhile can you cut me a piece of that bread?”

  “Gladly,” said Father Michel. He was young and beardless, with a cowl worn over his shaved head. His fingers were white and delicate as he handed Bruegel the bread. “I take it that you’re an expert on human folly?”

  “I know physiognomy passing well, and I happen to have thought deeply about the Seven Sins of late,” said Bruegel, continuing to eat. “Avarice, Pride, Envy, Anger, Gluttony, Sloth, and Lechery.” Without seeming to, he closely watched the monk’s reaction to each of the names. Now he mopped up the last of his porridge with the piece of bread, and a foaming pot of beer arrived. “It’s good,” said Bruegel, tasting the strong gueuze lager. “My tenant who brought me—Hans Hoiberg, that’s him down there at the other end between the two laughing women—he’ll drink enough for three men. It’ll be up to me to guide us home.” The festive company had made Bruegel begin to feel merry.

  Something poked Bruegel’s thigh, high up between his legs. He leaned over to see what it was, and found the long white head of an animal.

  “Don’t mind him,” cawed a sour-faced middle-aged man who sat to the left of Hendrik. “It’s my dog Waf. A once-noble hound, he’s become a beggar. My son gave him to me.” Waf, pronounced “vahf,” was the onomatopoeic Flemish word for “bark.”

  “I’ve heard the other dogs talking about him,” joked Bruegel, giving Waf’s head a pat. The beast was a long-legged, thin-waisted wolfhound with curly white hair.

  “Ho ho,” chortled the sour-faced man. “The dogs should be talking about my son getting married today!” He slapped the groom on the shoulder. “I’ll be a grandfather yet, Hendrik. Not so, Tilde?” From across the table, Tilde smiled vacantly at her new father-in-law, perhaps not understanding his words across the many conversations and the raging of the bagpipes. “I’m Gilbert Hooft,” continued the man, leaning past his son to clasp Bruegel’s hand. He was wearing a white shirt and a black coat; there were ink stains on his hands. The sourness of his face and the dissonance of his voice were misleading. He was actually very cheerful and excited. “My son’s a huntsman with his own cottage. And I’m a clerk from Antwerp.”

  “I’m Peter de Hoorne from Grote Brueghel,” said Bruegel. Keeping up his cover story was starting to feel uncomfortable. Here he was a
mid these happy, innocent people—and he was lying to them. But it was too late now to change. “Congratulations on a fine match, Mijnheer Hooft. And don’t worry about Waf; I’m happy to have his head in my lap.” Bruegel slipped Waf a crust of bread, which the dog ate with great, exaggerated chewing motions. His long jaws and thin waist gave him a comically famished air. It was a delight to see him chew; Bruegel gave him a second crust.

  “Have you read Erasmus?” asked Father Michel suddenly.

  “Why, yes, I have,” said Bruegel. “I enjoy his raillery. Your abbot permits you to read him?”

  “Erasmus was a sound Brother of the Augustinian order,” said the monk. “He even spoke out against Luther, once the sausage was fully upon the table. Erasmus was a humanist, not a heretic. My abbot knew him personally.” Father Michel suddenly tittered. “Do you remember Erasmus’s jape about the gourd? Where he’s making sport of the academic theologians?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Bruegel.

  “ ‘Could God have taken on the form of a gourd?’ ” quoted the monk. “ ‘If so, how could a gourd have preached sermons, performed miracles, and been nailed to the cross?’ ” The monk’s giggles grew into peals of laughter, reckless as a child’s. Evidently the beer had mounted to his head.

  “You think gourds are of a comical shape,” said Bruegel. The party atmosphere had loosened his tongue. For once he felt free to openly speak his intricate thoughts. “Perhaps they resemble a woman’s body, a form that no doubt makes you ill at ease. And discomfort is the wellspring of humor. Yet, looked at in another way, a gourd can be menacing. A rotten, pulpy gourd with one side eaten away and a long-pincered beetle or a plague-ridden rat within, it’s no laughing matter. The gourd is an image, and it’s a noble thing to be an image maker. Like God Himself, a painter of sufficient skill can make a gourd indifferently into the Christ or into the king of Hell.”