An Elegant Solution(6)

That Friday morning I saw no more of Daniel or any of Nicolaus. Little Johann was waiting alone for me in the kitchen, kneading a ball of dough. I didn’t think he talked to anyone else. He’d never liked work, though he did his share. Breadmaking was an odd hobby for him. “You should have seen us last night,” he said.

“I shouldn’t have. Who was glad for the homecoming? I know the Mistress was.”

“Poppa said he was, even despite Daniel’s ungrateful pernicious heart. Daniel said he was glad, too, to see every familiar stone in the city and even the one where Poppa’s heart should be, and Nicolaus told the two they weren’t father and son but plain squabbler children, and Gottlieb said he would like very much to know why Daniel had come back at all.”

“Did Daniel say why he had?”

“He said it was because he’d missed Gottlieb so dearly. Then I went to my room.”

“Does it vex the Mistress?”

“She frets and worries, and she doesn’t believe they mean what they say.”

“Do they, Johann?” I asked. In truth, he’d know better than they did.

“Not all.”

“And you?”

He was pounding and shoving his dough. “I’m angry that they’re all angry. I want Daniel to go back to Italy.”

“He said supper was tolerable.”

“No one talked but Mama. If the rest just stay quiet I don’t mind them.” I felt badly for him and for his ball of flour. Then the Mistress and her maid joined us and no other talk was possible. When I left her kitchen, the streets were silent as midnight in comparison.

My labor ended for the morning, it was time for solemn seriousness. I ran back home. For me, the path between my grandmother’s house and my Master’s was well worn. I ate my quick lunch of bread and cheese and went to my room for my stark transformation.

I removed myself from the rough brown garments I preferred and pulled on white shirt and black breeches, then white stockings and black waistcoat, then black and buckle shoes and black justacorps coat.

I had an extra head in my room. A white wood ball on a short stand, it considered life from the top of my dresser. It did this without sight or hearing, which surely improved its ruminations. It wore a white wig and black hat. Each day would I borrow these, transferring them between heads, from the one on my dresser to the one on my shoulders. If any of that wooden block’s thoughts transferred also, I was the better for them. The hat wasn’t tricorne, which was for men of gravity, but had a wide brim turned up on each side.

All in black and white I was a changed man. I stepped more steadily. I didn’t run, or not much. I seemed thoughtful. But despite my best effort, in essence, I would remain myself. Yet observers noticed only appearance, not essence, and so for the next few hours I appeared a peer to my peers.

Later in the afternoon I made my de-conversion. I moved my wig from one block of wood back to the other and hung and folded my blacks and whites. A world where everything was only one or the other would be preferable in many ways, but we lived in a world of browns.

Finally at dinner I told my grandmother that I would be at the tavern Saturday evening. “It’s Daniel. He wants my help.”

“Help to make trouble?”

“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t know what, so I’ll go to find out.”

“A wise man runs from strife. I have a worry, Leonhard, of what will happen with all that family back in the city.”

“Blessed are the peacemakers,” I said. “I have a hope, Grandmother, for what could happen.”

I’d refused Daniel for that Friday evening because I had work to do, work that had to be finished before Saturday afternoon. I planted myself in my room, rooted to my chair, and soon sprouted leaves all over my desk: large leaves of white paper, which the birds of the field roosted in. One particular bird, a goose feather in my hand, was making its nest of inky black scribbles.



Saturdays for me began very early. I’d be out for water and breakfasted by sunrise. I had kept this schedule even in the summer when the sun was also an early riser. I’d quickly finish all my other chores. Grandmother was as strict a taskmistress for me as she was for herself, and only when she was satisfied might I go on to the list of tasks from my other masters that must not be incomplete come Monday. Some weeks I was thorough enough with my time that the list was empty; but if not, I’d fly through it. If I’d been industrious and swift, it was still well before noon. I wouldn’t take time for lunch, and a full stomach would muddle me anyway. Instead, I’d settle at my desk and clear my brain to prepare. Saturday was my Sabbath of hardest labor, my rest from idle life.