An Elegant Solution(24)

So the bridge divided as much as it connected. But it still realized its first purpose. That afternoon, on my way to the North German Road where Willi and his coach would soon be returning, I did what could only be done in Basel and not for all the hundreds of miles to the sea: I crossed the Rhine by foot. I came to Small Basel, and to my eyes the streets on that side of the river, though fewer, looked just like the streets on the other. I ran through them, not because I was hurrying, but because I hadn’t had enough running. I even ran some extra streets because the direct path wasn’t long enough.

There were two gates in the Small Basel Walls. The Riehen Gate pointed northeast to my home village. Sadly, that wasn’t my destination. I ran to the Saint Blaise Gate.

Blaise faced north toward Baden and all of Germany. The road from it led up the Rhine’s right bank to Freiburg, a day’s ride north. I went through the gate and walked a short distance beyond. I wanted to climb onto the coach as it passed and ride in with Willi, and have a minute with him before he reached the inn. The road bent out of sight some ways ahead; above the bend, in the air, after a wait, was dust. Of dust men were made, and by carriage did they arrive.

The horses and their burden came into view and I saw that I would not ride with Willi. The seat beside him in the driver’s box was already filled. The place was taken by a uniformed gendarme. An extra passenger might ride with the driver on his box seat if the coach is very full, but a gendarme would be the last one to suffer this discomfort. Then I saw that it wasn’t Willi anyway, but a yellow-haired slovenly equal from some northern stable.

I stood and watched instead of waving or running beside, yet the driver pulled his reins and slowed the horses and stopped. The man leaned down. “Where’s there an inn, the Boot and Thorn?”

“I’ll take you,” I said.

“Boy,” the gendarme said to me. “Not that inn. We’re for the Town Hall.”

“The inn, and that’s all I’m for,” the driver said petulantly. From the look of them, it wasn’t the first disagreement the two had had.

“The Hall’s on the way to the inn,” I said. “Come on.” I didn’t want to squeeze into the box and be a part of their dispute. Instead I set out on a good pace running ahead and the driver whipped the horses after me. The animals could have taken the coach to the inn themselves. I was some winded as we finally reached the bridge and River Gate. But just up the hill was the end.

As the Munster commanded its Square, and the Barefoot Church attended its Square, Basel’s Town Hall ruled its Square, the Market Square. The Town Hall of Basel was red with towers, windows, gold and clocks, pillared balconies and paintings and statues, and sharp-peaked roofs.

“But where to the inn?” the driver said when he was stopped beside me. “I’m not stopping and waiting. I didn’t want this ride and I’ll be done with it.”

“It’s just up there by that church,” I said. The tower of the Bare Feet was easily seen over the houses. But before they could argue more, the argument was ended. The door of the coach had opened from inside. A leg was planted on the step, not stockinged but black leather booted. A polished ebony black walking stick was planted beside it. Then followed a glossy black tricorne and a very long and tightly curled wig and a glistening and very black silk frock coat.

Then, a face, black with anger. The man was out, and stood, and blasted Basel with his stare.

The gendarme stiffened into silence and the driver slouched into subservience.

“This is Basel?” the man questioned, as if it was so much less than he’d thought it would be that it might not really be at all, in a German that was slippery and French-bent. Onlookers had begun to collect, but distantly. I was the only native close at hand.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know where your town hall is?”

It was difficult to not notice it. “Yes, sir. It’s this building here.”

“Oh, really.” He peered at it. “Find a magistrate and bring him to me. And be quick.” He looked up to the partners in the box. “Sergeant, bring it down.”

I looked to the gendarme, who seemed more likely to answer a question. “Where are you from, sir?”

“Strasbourg.” That was the far end of the coach’s route, beyond Freiburg.

“Where’s Willi? The driver from here?”

“He is arrested in prison. Bring the magistrate, boy.”

Magistrates would not be fetched, not easily; and Willi imprisoned was worth staying to ask more questions. But I’d become ambassador of Basel to this Strasbourg invasion, and I tried to think what to do. A magistrate was the greatest of a city’s citizens. A magistrate was a judge; the Chief Magistrate advised the town council. In most cities no one was his equal, and in Basel even a Professor of the University or a Dean of the Cathedral was only the peer of a standard magistrate; the University Provost alone stood on the same peak as Chief Magistrate Faulkner. “I don’t know if there’s a magistrate to be brought,” I said.