Q by Luther Blissett (poetry books to read txt) 📕

M�nster, 8th February 1534

Full many a nun crept o’er the walls that night

And from the cloister made her reckless flight;

With concupiscent lusts they were afire

And brazenly indulged their keen desire.

.

Redeker concentrates on the coin he’s turning over in his hands. He looks at the wall for a moment and then half-closes his eyes, and knocks back his fifth beer and schnapps chaser.

‘It’s the last one,’ he assures us immediately as we are heading back to our table.

There’s a great crowd gathered around the two arenas set up between the tables in the Mercury tavern. It’s the Carnival tournaments this evening: on one side they’re dancing to the sound of the lute, and the last one to stop dancing wins a barrel of beer; on the other there’s a pint of beer and schnaps for whoever throws a coin as close as possible to the wall without touching the wall itself. Redeker is the undisputed champion.

Knipperdolling has a tab with the landlord, and he’s plunging into it for all he’s worth. Four empty beakers are already lined up in front of his spongy nose. He gets up on his rather unsteady feet and stands on his chair, trying to call the attention of the room and starts improvising, to the lute-music, a song about what everyone’s talking about:

What drove them from the cloister must have been

A serpent bold, a spirit most unclean.

And then, when in their folly they had fled

They sought out impure company instead

Two tables away, someone picks up the guild-leader’s rhymes, and continues the description of the fugitives from �berwasser. He doesn’t get to the end before someone else has taken up the invitation and celebrates Rothmann’s actions beneath the walls of the convent. It goes like this: whoever started the song, in this case our Knipperdolling, buys a drink for the one who brings it to an end. It’s a competition to see who will leave the whole tavern without a verse to add.

‘The best bit was when he reminded the nuns of their procreative functions. I don’t know how he kept a straight face.’ Kibbenbrock recalls, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘Right, though, wasn’t he?’ someone else throws in. ‘What’s so funny? Even the Bible says we’ve got to multiply.’

‘Of course, and what made me laugh was the abbess facing the window, trying to call her sisters back to the love of their only true husband!’

‘That old whore von Merfeld! She’s an old bitch and the bishop’s spy! So long to all those lovely novices.’

A round of beer arrives, paid for by Redeker with the booty collected in Wolbeck. The little bandit dances on a table to the rhythm of the chants in his honour. He’s drunk. He lets his trousers down as he swings his hips, loudly repeating the invitation made to the nuns by Rothmann’s supporters a few hours ago: ‘Come on sisters, consolation for these poor men!’

An old man with a pair of big whiskers hugs me and Knipperdolling from behind: ‘The next round’s on me, boys,’ he exclaims contentedly. ‘Ever since I discovered my dick, I’ve been standing under the convent windows with my mates at Carnival time propositioning the nuns but, my God, I’d never managed to get them to escape like that. Fair play to you, well done!’

We raise our beakers to drink to the compliment. The only one who leaves his on the table is Jan of Leyden. Strangely, he still hasn’t said a word. He’s sitting stock still in his seat, looking apathetic. If I know him well he’s pissed off because he didn’t come with us to raise hell under the �berwasser tower. He tried to get a similar result with the prostitutes in one of the city brothels, inviting them to give a free fuck to anyone who would have himself rebaptised by Rothmann, but he got only insults for his pains.

He raises his eyes and sees that I’m staring at him. He starts irritably scratching his shoulder as though to act nonchalant, but it doesn’t work. He exploits a moment’s silence and butts in: ‘Hey, people, this is an easy one, look: Who am I, eh? Who am I?’ He scratches himself harder and harder, using a soup-covered spoon. Knipperdolling stiffens in his chair. Some people look elsewhere to avoid the direct question. I feel duty bound to save them: ‘You’re Job scratching his boils, Jan, it’s obvious.’ Then, turning back to the others, ‘How come you didn’t work that one out? He was brilliant, wasn’t he?’

A chorus: ‘Yes, yes, bravo Jan!’

The actor mocks himself: ‘Yes, fine, all right, that was an easy one. But pay attention now.’ He slips from his chair and under the table with a catlike movement, blowing hard between his teeth: ‘Who am I? Who am I?’

Knipperdolling stands up as quietly as possible, murmuring that he has to go for a piss.

From below the voice insists: ‘Don’t leave just because you don’t know! I’ll give you a hand: “Yet hast thou brought up my life from corruption, O Lord my God. When my soul fainted within me I remembered the Lord my God.”’

‘Who’s reciting the Book of Jonah from memory in the pub?’ The incredulous, rather amused voice belongs to Rothmann, who has just arrived at our table. The prophet barely has time to re-emerge from the belly of the whale before a roar of admiration explodes for the conqueror of �berwasser. A week ago he made all the women of M�nster give up their jewels and hand them over to the fund for the poor, now he’s persuaded a throng of nuns to embrace the renewed faith.

‘You used to need money to attract women,’ observes a weaver, ‘now you’ve got to have an interest in the Scriptures. What on earth are you doing to our ladies, Bernhard?’

‘I’m not going to say a word about your ladies, but all you had to say to the novices of �berwasser was that if they didn’t leave, God would bring their bell tower