Death and the Devil

A further grunt was the response. Impossible to say whether it expressed agreement or appreciation of the food. Clearly not a great conversationalist.

“Right,” said Jacob, crossing his legs, “your turn.”

“Rolof.”

“What?”

“’m called Rolof. Servant.”

“Aha. Jaspar’s servant.”

“Mmm.” Rolof took a deep breath and let out a colossal burp.

“And? Where is he? Jaspar, I mean.”

Rolof seemed to have understood that a conversation was unavoidable, even if the idea of continuing to gnaw the ham joint was more attractive.

He licked the fat from his lips. “St. Mary Magdalene’s. Sermon. Epistle to the Hebrews, yes? At least that’s what he said.”

“St. Mary Magdalene’s? The little church opposite St. Severin’s?”

“Mmm. ’s dean there. Little church? Yes, but lovely. Not a great big lump like St. Severin’s.”

“Er, Rolof,” said Jacob, shifting along the bench toward him, “that joint of ham you’ve got there, er, could you imagine, I mean, assuming you don’t think you really need the whole of that huge piece, you know it could give you a horrible stomachache, my uncle, for example, he ate an enormous piece like that, all by himself, it wasn’t so long ago, and it killed him, his body stank of ham for days on end, it made even the grave-diggers throw up into his grave, and it probably meant he didn’t go to heaven, either, all because of the ham, now you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Rolof froze. He sat there motionless for a long time. Then he looked at Jacob. “No,” he said slowly.

“I thought so.” Jacob gave a jovial laugh and put his arm around Rolof’s shoulder. “Now I would be willing to take some off you. Let’s say half.”

Rolof nodded, gave him a friendly grin, and continued to work at the smoked meat with his huge jaws. That was all.

Jacob started to grow uneasy. “Rolof?”

“Mmm.”

“You want to go to heaven, don’t you?”

“Mmm.”

“You understood what I said?”

“Yes. You said, when I die, I’ll stink of smoked ham. Great, yes? Everyone’ll know Rolof was rich man, lots of ham to eat, yes?”

“Unbelievable!” muttered Jacob and retreated into his corner.

After a while Rolof leaned toward him and bared his teeth. “You hungry?”

“What a question to ask! Of course I’m hungry.”

“There.” He was actually holding half the joint out to Jacob. His heart missed a beat, then he grabbed it and took such an enthusiastic bite the fat came spurting out. How long was it since he had eaten something like this? Not since Bram had died, if at all.

It tasted salty. Rancid. Delicious!

Rolof leaned back, a smug expression on his face, and began to lick his fingers. “Jaspar says Rolof has one big advantage,” he grunted. “Rolof looks thick as two short planks, yes?”

Jacob stopped chewing and gave him a cautious glance. He didn’t quite know what to say. Any comment could be the wrong thing.

“But,” Rolof went on with a sly look, “Rolof ’s not. You want ham, yes? Make up tall story. Not a fox, an ass, yes? In a fox’s skin. Could’ve asked.”

“I did ask,” Jacob protested.

Rolof laughed. “Did lie. Your story’s rubbish. Impossible.” He raised his index finger and beamed. “No uncle. Jaspar says you’ve not got anyone, never had. But no uncle, no ham story, yes?” He rubbed his belly, satisfied with his demonstration of intellectual superiority. Soon after, his snores were making the beams shake.

“I suspect you’re supposed to be keeping an eye on me.” Jacob giggled and returned to his piece of paradise.

At last Jaspar came, putting an end to the tranquility of the tiny, crooked room. He seemed irritated and gave the bench a sharp kick. Rolof awoke with a start. Then Jaspar’s eye fell on Jacob. He raised his brows, as if seeing him for the first time, scratched his bald head, and pulled at the end of his nose. “Oh, yes,” he said, cleared his throat, and disappeared.

“Oho,” said Rolof. “Better I go, yes? Every time Jaspar talks of Hebrews—oh! oh!”

“What’s all this about the Hebrews?” Jacob asked, getting up to see where Jaspar had gone. He heard the sound of the trapdoor in the backyard. Obviously Jaspar felt in need of a visit to his wine cellar.

Rolof looked all around, lumbered over to Jacob, and whispered confidentially, “Jaspar Rodenkirchen, people can’t understand him.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Too clever. Can talk till his teeth fall out, yes? Because—the Hebrews—I know nothing about it, only it says something about peace and brotherly love, entertaining strangers and good things like that. At least I think so, but he always gets furious, in a rage, like an animal, bleeeh, bleeeh.”

“Yes, because those are the only words you can understand,” growled Jaspar, coming in with a well-filled jug in his arm. “Bleeeh, bleeeh. For Rolof that’s a whole sentence with subject, object, and predicate. That’s why he can understand pigs. What do the pigs say, Rolof? What do they say? ‘Eat me, eat me,’ isn’t that what they say? Incredible the way he can understand pigs. Not even St. Francis could speak their language so perfectly.”

“Comes from all that ham,” Jacob whispered to Rolof.