The Willow King Read online

  MEELIS FRIEDENTHAL

  THE WILLOW KING

  The Birds of the Muses

  TRANSLATED BY MATTHEW HYDE

  PUSHKIN PRESS

  LONDON

  Contents

  Title Page

  Monday

  Monday Evening

  Night

  Tuesday

  Tuesday Noon

  Tuesday Evening

  Night

  Wednesday

  Wednesday Noon

  Wednesday Afternoon

  Wednesday Evening

  Night

  Thursday

  Thursday Afternoon

  Thursday Evening

  Thursday, Late Evening

  Night

  Friday

  Friday Lunchtime

  Friday Afternoon

  Friday Evening

  Night

  Saturday

  Saturday Morning

  Saturday Noon

  Saturday Afternoon

  Saturday Evening

  Night

  Author’s Note

  Translator’s Note

  About the Publisher

  Copyright

  IT HAD BEEN RAINING WITHOUT END. The rain had rotted the crops in the fields; it had caused mildew on the wooden walls of the houses, and made the ships’ decks as wet as seaweed. Laurentius had been eating rotten bread for several months now, and living in mildewed houses; during the last week he had been slipping on the wet decks too. Black bile had accumulated in him like the sludge which collects on a stick thrust into the river. Finally, he stepped from the rocking boat onto the harbour quay, onto the slippery boards knocked onto poles rammed deep into the silt, and he looked unsurely at his surroundings. As gusts of wind from the low sky blew drops of water into his face, he tried to comprehend what kind of country this could be, where he had come of his own free will. The bare strip of shore, with its white sand and lone bulrushes, and the uniform grey clouds closely resembled the harbour which he had set out from. Set against the backdrop of grey sky the postal ship’s masts looked just as before, and the sailcloth stretched across them was as grey and impassive as when he had started his journey. Alongside the wharf, which stretched far out into the sea, a breakwater could be seen, half-submerged under the muddy water, and at the end of it an old watch house was stooping low into the water. Clearly no one had used it for some time.

  Ruined buildings of this kind could be found at any harbour, and despite the wretchedness of the scene it had a reassuring effect on him. Here too the harbours had been rebuilt; here too they had been extended to accommodate new ships, and the old watch houses had been left neglected.

  He sighed and fiddled uneasily with the cover of his cage, which was dripping wet.

  He had managed to bring all his trappings with him without too much trouble. One chest knocked together from oak boards had fully accommodated all the things which he had thought necessary to take on his studies. Now it was at the tollhouse together with the other goods transported in the ship’s hold, and he probably wouldn’t be able to get hold of it until evening. The ship’s cargo and the passengers’ personal baggage had been carefully checked and anything which could be liable for tax had been noted down. He had not had any bother on that front, since he had nothing of any value with him. His few personal books were all officially authorized, and he had only brought the bare minimum of medicaments. The difficulties were caused by his rose-ringed parakeet in its cage. He had already been warned back home that transporting the bird wasn’t likely to be the easiest of undertakings, and that the conditions on his journey could prove too much for it. But he had no wish to leave his companion behind, and so he had decided to take the risk. Now that he had arrived, his main concern was to get the bird out of the cold rain and into the warmth as soon as possible.

  Despite his wide-brimmed hat the rainwater was trickling down Laurentius’ face, and he had to wipe it out of his eyes. He glanced under his coat flap at his pocket watch and began to look for someone who could direct him to a tavern, and perhaps later bring his chest from the tollhouse. He didn’t dare entrust his cage to anyone. He had to act quickly now since the roads were already in a poor state, and he could not delay the onward journey any longer. The autumn rainfalls were becoming more violent and had already started to erode the soft roads, so it was getting more difficult to traverse them with every day. The air was also starting to turn icy cold, and he feared his parakeet might fall ill. He had to find a carriage or cart and start travelling towards Dorpat as soon as possible.

  “Hey!” Laurentius called out.

  The harbour quay was glistening-wet from rain, and only a few curious onlookers had braved the vile weather to come and wait for the boats to arrive. They had probably already decided that there was little chance of finding work, so they didn’t at first think to react to Laurentius’ call. The seamen had unloaded the ship’s cargo near the tollhouse, and the haulers who worked for the merchants were thronging over there. Some of them had started heaving the slippery boxes and damp bags onto the carts with looks of bored indifference on their faces, while the harbour officials marked up the goods.

  Laurentius called out again.

  “Hey, you there!”

  A bystander in a flimsy, worn-out coat looked up blankly and Laurentius gestured to beckon him over, just in case he had not understood. The man looked like a character from one of the paintings by the gloomy artists of the Middle Ages which he had seen back in Holland. Tangles of hair of an indeterminate colour protruded from under a lopsided felt hat; his nose was red and swollen, and a pockmarked chin could be made out underneath his sparse stubble. It occurred to Laurentius that a sign hanging under the man’s neck reading “Villainy” would have suited him very well. Those sorts could be found loitering about every harbour, and one’s gut feeling about them based on their appearance was usually right. But they were always the most in the know about the town’s inns and hostels, so some use could be had from them. They would be sure to swindle you, of course; the only question was by how much.

  “Please direct me to a decent inn,” Laurentius instructed curtly, and then watched as the man turned round and set off without uttering a word. Hopefully he had understood what Laurentius said, although it was possible that he had just guessed at the meaning.

  Laurentius lifted up his parakeet cage, and, cradling it in his arms, followed the man in the direction of town. The bird started squawking agitatedly.

  “Shh, Clodia, be quiet.”

  They walked on into the thickening dusk, and Laurentius tried to rock the cage as little as possible. Against the backdrop of the evening sky he could see the threatening silhouettes of the sheer city walls, formed from stacks of sturdy boulders, rotund medieval fortress towers and four tall church spires. The lower town buildings were swallowed up in the sodden mist which was seeping from the heavy clouds. The man walking ahead of him was unexpectedly fleet of foot, and looked like he knew very well where he wanted to end up. But by now Laurentius could feel his old illness flaring up with increasing severity. The constant damp permeated everywhere, making everything waterlogged, and he now felt more vulnerable to it than in earlier years. The surfeit of black bile which was seething inside him would not normally have caused such listlessness until late autumn, but this year the rains had started on Midsummer Day, and the endless spatter had swathed his internal organs, his heart and his brain in a sticky mist. Even when he had stepped off the ship onto dry land, and walked on the flat paving stones, rubbed to a smooth shine, the memory of the swaying sea made him feel as if he were forcing his way through a bog. Every step was a strain.

  “Uh,” he muttered under his breath. “Just a bit further.”

  He looked
at the hunched back of the ragamuffin walking ahead of him, and decided that he should definitely send someone else to go and fetch his chest. There was often trouble to be had from this kind of chance character picked up at the harbour. The innkeeper should be able to help him. He tried to remember the currency which was used in Reval; several passengers on the ship had offered their views, from which he concluded that he couldn’t hope for full clarity on the matter. Ars apodemica, the books about the art of travelling, made almost no reference to the situation in Estonia and Livonia—there was just some general guidance on what was worth seeing, and the best way of taking in the surroundings. These lands and their cities were completely uncharted from an apodemic perspective—after all, anyone who travelled for personal pleasure would go elsewhere, to the south. To the places of culture and history. Laurentius’ head had started throbbing, and he could remember nothing relevant at all.

  “Very well,” he eventually decided. “One sixth of an öre should be sufficient.”

  It was nearly pitch black by the time they came to a stop under a yellow lantern which illuminated an unexpectedly decent-looking inn, situated just a short way from the city gates. The ragamuffin turned towards Laurentius with his hand outstretched. Laurentius had already fished out a small coin from his pocket in advance, and now he dropped it into the man’s palm, making sure to look towards the ground as he did so. The man quickly checked the money and then smiled broadly.

  “Damn,” thought Laurentius. “I gave him too much after all.”

  He turned and started to enter the inn, pushing his cage through the door ahead of him.

  “Would he desire anything else?” enquired the ragamuffin in unexpectedly good German.

  Laurentius faltered. He knew that the ones who latch on to you were usually the worst kind of scoundrel, and he would normally have been happy to see the man make a swift departure.

  “I need to start moving in the direction of Dorpat,” he found himself saying. “And as quickly as possible.”

  He could send someone else for his chest, but there was probably no harm in asking the way. The stagecoaches were supposed to pass through at some point; on the ship they had told him that a group of travellers departed for Dorpat almost every week. He had been shown two possible routes on the map—both of them took several days, longer depending on the road conditions.

  The man cast another glance at the parakeet cage, bowed somehow insincerely and left.

  Laurentius shrugged his shoulders and entered the inn. He placed his cage on the table closest to the fireplace, lifted the damp, dark cloth from it, and stood watching his parakeet preen itself on the perch.

  “So, Clodia, ready for another journey?” Laurentius asked.

  The heat radiating from the hearth had a restorative effect, warming the parakeet’s freezing body and lifting Laurentius’ mood. He took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and scattered some seeds from it onto the bottom of the cage. He had not been sure if he would find sunflower seeds anywhere in these parts, so he had brought some with him. As usual, the other guests who had been idly standing around quickly thronged round the cage, hoping to get a closer look at the strange, coloured bird.

  “So where does one of them kind hail from?”

  “What does it eat?”

  “Can it sing?”

  Laurentius started explaining. On the one hand, dragging his parakeet around with him was troublesome and inconvenient—and not just for Laurentius: clearly the bird suffered even more—but it was also a wonderful way of getting to know people. Clodia had already been a great help to him in this respect on the ship.

  “So you’re a university student, are you?” someone asked, getting up from behind one of the tables.

  “Yes,” Laurentius replied. It seemed that the man had already had an eye on him for some time—he could always sense that acutely, and he had learnt to keep his own gaze fixed on the ground, so as not to look straight into some curious bystander’s eyes accidentally. He had realized as a young man that this always led to trouble. At first people grew suspicious of him; then they would hold their fingers crossed behind their backs as they talked to him, or even turn street corners to avoid him. The safest thing was to keep his gaze fixed on the ground.

  “I wouldn’t advise you to go to Dorpat at this time,” said the man.

  Notwithstanding his outward politeness, there was a sarcastic ring to the man’s words, and his use of the polite form of address seemed somehow mocking.

  “Why is that?” Laurentius remonstrated. He knew, of course, what kind of arguments might be made against going to Dorpat.

  “They’re going through bad times down there. Even the professors have become most slack in performing their duties. And summer was wet, so famine is inevitable, and all the prices will go up,” the man said.

  “But it’s like that everywhere now,” Laurentius responded.

  Laurentius let his gaze slide momentarily across the man’s proud, scornful countenance, and concluded from the short sword hanging from his belt that he must be a nobleman. Laurentius had already heard that they had a particular antipathy towards Dorpat.

  “But my stipend is for Dorpat,” Laurentius explained.

  “Ha!” said the man with a dismissive shake of his hand.

  Laurentius carefully opened the door of his cage, and lifted his parakeet out on one finger. The bird knew him well and could sense his moods, and Laurentius found its familiar presence reassuring, just like a good friend whom he could rely on for support and advice.

  The bird rocked comically as it tried to steady itself on the parchment-like skin of his hand, which was covered in stains from the tinctures and medicaments which he took. It gave him an affectionate peck on the fingernail. The curious onlookers stepped back to a safe distance, as if they were afraid the bird could attack them at any moment, as if Laurentius had produced a little demon from his cage. He gave the bird a tender pat, and he felt the warmth of its body, the blood concealed under the feathers and skin, the life flowing within. His parakeet had been with him for as long as he could remember. He had suffered from a surfeit of black bile ever since he was born, and that was why his godfather Pastor Theodus had originally given him Clodia as a present. Theodus had got the idea from Plutarch, who had referred to birds in his Table Talks as an effective treatment for the kind of ailments which afflicted Laurentius. His parakeet’s sanguine tweeting and jolly behaviour had indeed kept Laurentius’ temperament balanced and helped him cope better with his illness. It was thanks to his parakeet that he had managed to deal with the summer rains so well.

  “That bird of yours won’t survive the journey to Dorpat, you can be sure of that,” said the nobleman, clearly not wanting to let Laurentius off the hook.

  “It certainly looks as if I will need to find a closed carriage, and then depart for Dorpat as soon as possible. I wasn’t anyway planning to go by foot,” Laurentius explained.

  He knew very well that the majority of university students walked the journey, and that only a small number of them could allow themselves the luxury of paying for a carriage, but in his current situation it seemed like the only option.

  The nobleman looked straight at him and grinned.

  Laurentius turned his head quickly aside, smiled, and gave Clodia a tender pat. “I have had her for nearly ten years now, I know what she can cope with. She stands the cold very well.”

  “Don’t you go with just anyone. These are troubled times; you might well be robbed,” the nobleman said.

  “I know. But there is not a great deal one could take from me,” Laurentius replied.

  He thought it best not to mention the ornate pocket watch hidden under his clothes. This exquisite and valuable timepiece was the work of an English master craftsman, and was another gift from his godfather Theodus.

  “I would take your coat for starters. And that hat of yours looks pretty decent. Your life could always be taken from you too,” said the nobleman.

 
Laurentius could not detect any threat in the man’s voice; it sounded more like he was making a matter-of-fact statement. Maybe he had once had his own hat stolen, and been left slumped by the roadside, half-dead. Human life is fragile, after all. It endures within the body’s confines like a thing of wonder, like birds held aloft in the sky, like the stars suspended in the superlunary ethereal sphere.

  Laurentius tried to impart a learned tone to his voice. “If it was never mine from the beginning, then no one can take it from me.”

  “Have you previously studied anywhere?”

  Laurentius nodded.

  “You’re getting yourself tangled up with dodgy company down there in Dorpat—they are the worst bunch of boozers and carousers in the whole of the Swedish state. And the Swedes are known for their drunkenness,” said the man disdainfully.

  Laurentius frowned and looked around the room uneasily. The conversation had already started to irk him. He needed to find the tavern keeper, so that he could rent a room and enquire about getting to Dorpat. He had no wish to begin discussing the finer details of his life with complete strangers.

  But he couldn’t resist responding to the man’s critical comments with a dig of his own. “Do you speak from personal experience?” he asked.

  The man smiled broadly and sat down next to Laurentius. “In one sense you’re right, of course. What business is it of mine what your plans are? But it is plain to see that you are not a Swede yourself. What parts do you hail from anyway?”

  Laurentius was a bit taken aback at the question, and he pulled away instinctively. Of course he had been right. Now he felt embarrassed for having mocked the man like that. This was exactly the kind of situation that the travel guides advised one to avoid. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t for one moment intend to be rude,” he said.

  “Your apology is accepted,” said the nobleman.

  “In any case, I do want to get to Dorpat as soon as possible. The road conditions are getting worse with every day, and I’m aware that it takes almost a week to get there.” Laurentius reached into the small cage and the bird amenably hopped off his hand back onto its perch.