It was a week steeped in torment, my mind swinging between flashes of clarity and fever-born visions. The same nightmare returned again and again: a poker table, cards trembling between my fingers, and on the other side Churchill, wearing that smug grin, his fat fingers laying down a royal flush. He laughed at my misery while I lost my soul. I woke drenched in sweat, the bandages soaked through with blood, and each time the room felt smaller, more suffocating.
Becker, my peculiar host, left me alone with my pain most of the time. He appeared only to bring food: bland vegetable soups or watery spätzle, which I nonetheless swallowed with gratitude. For all his arrogance, without him I would already be rotting in some infernal alley. Strange man, that Becker: haughty, vain, certainly not generous, yet not entirely devoid of a shred of humanity, buried somewhere between the faint wrinkles and the greying hair. Every morning he asked how I was, handed me a bowl of sweetened milk, then retreated in silence, leaving me to my meal.
And yet, I still couldn't tell how he spent his days. He hardly ever went out, and from the next room came obsessive noises: sharp hammer strikes, scraping chisels, the constant scratch of what sounded like a burin on metal. Sometimes, amid the racket, muffled German curses exploded like sparks. After days of speculation, I concluded Becker must be some sort of mad sculptor punching holes into a steel teapot. Madness was commonplace down here, after all.
After a week, I finally found the strength to stand. Ifikrates, the Greek doctor who had stitched me up, had come by the previous afternoon, surprised by how quickly I was recovering. The wounds were closed, the pain fading; only a dull soreness remained, like my body refused to believe it was healing. I removed the last bandages and pushed myself upright, but my vision narrowed abruptly. I clung to the bedframe, shut my eyes, and let the dizziness pass.
Seen while standing, the room appeared smaller than I remembered. The fireplace devoured half the opposite wall, and the carved wooden panels had a baroque flavor that felt staged rather than accidental. Beside the door, a small writing desk still bore signs of Becker's care: parchment, Caran d'Ache pencils, and a glass of water. I was contemplating these details when three sharp knocks struck the door.
"Come in," I murmured.
Becker entered, his eyes glittering with surprise. "Herr Cremaschi! On thy feet already on the seventh day. Art thou sure thou need no more rest? I would not have thy stubbornness turn against thee."
"I'm fine," I replied. "Even Ifikrates said so yesterday."
"Ifikrates," he grumbled, "that charlatan has never enjoyed my esteem."
I frowned. "Then why did you choose him?"
He made a face. "Obvious. He charges little, and if thou died, he would have refunded the tallers."
I said nothing.
"In any case," he continued, rubbing his hands, "if thou truly feel fit, there will be work tomorrow. And I need an assistant."
"You can count on me, Master Becker."
He clapped his hands together, delighted. "Wunderbar! But let me warn thee: thou will need endurance. Much walking awaits. And we rise at dead of night."
"At dead of night?" I echoed, suspicious.
" 'At dead of night?' " he repeated, mimicking my tone with mocking precision. "Dost thou not know the finest things happen at night?"
"Even in Hell?"
"Especially in Hell." He pointed his finger at me, suddenly serious. "Do not keep me waiting. Punctuality is everything."
"Wilde said punctuality is the thief of time," I countered.
"Thy Wilde was a talented idler. As my own dear friend used to say: there is always enough time, if one uses it well. The secret is simply never arriving unprepared to the appointed hour."
I lost the thread halfway through, hypnotized by the kiss-curl dangling like a pendulum on his forehead.
"So?" I asked absently.
"So, Herr Cremaschi: tomorrow, dead of night. Wake and move. Schnell!"
The next morning, the same adverb, the same tone: the German shout made me jolt upright like a bucket of ice water. He had yelled "schnell!" just to wake me. I looked around, dazed, slid out of bed with difficulty, and realized it was a monstrous hour—well before dawn, assuming "dawn" meant anything in Hell.
I rubbed my eyes, poured the water from the basin over my face, and tried to revive myself. My hair was combed at best by hope. My beard—trimmed under Master Becker's stern aesthetic supervision—was at least presentable enough to avoid another lecture. I dressed in the clothes he had chosen: trousers far too large and a white cotton shirt clearly not his. I saw myself in the mirror: a disaster. I was grateful we were going out at night, when no one could see me.
"Ready?" Becker asked as soon as I stepped out.
"Absolutely, Master Becker."
"Then take these sacks and prepare for a long march."
He tossed me two burlap sacks large enough to hold a corpse each. I prayed that wasn't the plan. Something metallic clinked inside: a hammer and a chisel, one per sack.
"Master Becker…" My voice trembled. "What we're about to do… it's legal, right?"
He stared at me; in the candlelight, I caught a youthful glint in his eyes that only worsened my anxiety. "As a dear friend of mine used to say, Herr Cremaschi: 'Law exists only so exceptions may be made.'"
Translation: a clear no. Nothing legal, and probably nothing safe. A thorny question rose in my throat, one I wasn't sure I wanted answered.
"And… the person before me? How did he die?"
Becker raised a hand, annoyed. "This is no time for foolish chatter. The sooner we depart, the sooner we shall follow our own steps back."He opened the front door and stepped into the dark streets first, a small lantern his only beacon.