Becker snorted. "Still clinging to these habits of the living? For Heaven's sake! Come along, and spare me the fuss. Once fatigue slips from thy mind, thy body will cease its whining."
He left the room with a firm stride, forcing me to trail behind.
"And besides," he added, without turning, "had I wished to grant us rest from such noble physical labour, I would have required thee to wash before luncheon. 'Tis proper for any good Christian."
We descended the stairs and halted before a heavy door beside my room. Becker reached into his coat, drew out a hefty iron key, and fitted it into the lock.
"Herr Cremaschi, fetch the sacks of skulls. Then join me here."
I obeyed, hauling both burlap sacks onto my shoulders. When I returned, I found him motionless, his gaze of stone.
"Thou must promise me," he intoned gravely, "that whatever happens, thou shalt never speak of what thou art about to see."
"Of course…"
"Swear it!"
"I swear."
"Upon thy God. Upon what thou holdest dearest!"
I met his stare: a hardness I had never seen in him.
"Upon my wife," I said.
The sound of gears filled the silence as he turned the key.
"Thou hast given thy word. Though the word of a man in Hell be worth less than nothing… do not make me regret showing thee this secret."
He flung open the door. A reddish light seeped through the crack and brushed the bones in the sacks. He smiled, pleased.
"Welcome to my workshop."
The room was at least six times the size of mine: a vast forge smelling of metal and coal. The floor quivered with the steady breath of a furnace. The tables were strewn with burins, dies, bronze molds—not a simple workshop… a mint.
I picked up a die: Nero's profile engraved in reverse, backward letters staring at me. Beside it, a Neapolitan didrachm; the nymph carved with a grace only a master's hand could achieve.
"This… this is a clandestine foundry! A workshop of counterfeit coins!"
"It is."
"You are a forger!"
"Aye."
A thick silence. The air seemed to stop.
"Were you one in life as well?"
"Aye."
"Did you ever sell one of your works as authentic?"
"Only to Turks and Englishmen—the most gullible. But even Germans and French fell for them."
I lifted a golden florin: the lily glittered in the furnace light.
"You must have been a master, Master Becker."
"I was. The best, alongside Caprara. Until Domenico Sestini, a numismatist with an eagle's eye, denounced us. Exposed our pieces. Ended my career."
"And he did well!" I protested, waving the coin. "A fake is always a fake!"
His gaze darkened, icy.
"How darest thou preach morality to me? Thou holdest a work of art and callest it charlatanry? A thing deemed true by all becomes true. Why not a coin? Dost thou truly believe in Truth with a capital 'T'?"
"Mistaken ideas must be exposed. Only truth should remain."
He laughed, full and booming.
"Truth? Never existed. Merely a lie more convenient than others. And thou art scandalised by a doubloon forged with the selfsame metals as the original? Who art thou to judge me? One must BE something to DO something. And thou—what hast thou done in life to look down upon me? Dost know the blood it costs to master the burin? Hast thou ever starved? Ever chased a dream?"
"I…"
"I thought as much." He pronounced it like a sentence. "I loved my craft. My dream was to create coins with new images, not mere copies. The Romans themselves forged in their day. Wouldst thou discard a two-thousand-year-old coin simply because it was counterfeit?"
"That's different."
"In what? Because it was never discovered? Then the difference is merely fortune."
I lowered my gaze, disarmed.
"For the record," he sneered, "the florin thou holdest is authentic. A mule piece."
"Truly?"
"Doth it matter? Wouldst thou trust the word of a forger?"
No—and I lacked even the skills to tell.
"You're right, Master Becker. Down here, truth seems not to exist."
He placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Then thou shalt help me, Herr Cremaschi. To the best of thy ability."
"Yes…" I whispered. He was the only one who had shown me a shred of respect since I had fallen down here.
He clapped three times.
"Wunderbar! Don thy apron and start extracting the teeth from the skulls. Then break the molars and separate gold and silver into these two crucibles."He set two blackened vessels on the bench. "Do not confuse them. I've no desire to produce electrum through thy clumsiness."
Then he turned away and began working, leaving me with the piled heads. Their dark sockets seemed to stare, pleading for mercy. It was hard not to think my own skull might one day lie there.
I ran my tongue over my golden fillings and shuddered.
"Everything well?" Becker's voice jolted me. He had just smashed the clown's skull with a hammer: dried blood and shriveled flesh stained his apron. He seemed almost entertained.
"I was only thinking… if I died, would my head end up on this table?"
He touched his chin, wiping away a red streak.
"Dost thou have gold fillings?"
"Of course."
He applauded. "Wunderbar!"
"What do you mean Wunderbar?! After all we've been through, you'd crack open my skull like that clown's?!"
"Still these whims of the living, Herr Cremaschi? Thou art no longer a man, and when thou fallest, thou shalt not be even that. When wilt thou grasp it?"
"Probably when you stop circling around this morning's topic rather than changing subject every five minutes…"
He laughed heartily.
"Magnificent! We shall speak of it at supper. Now, roll up thy sleeves. If thou needst a chisel: first drawer on the right."
I found myself holding a skull. I set it down and struck carefully between jaw and mandible. The dry snap reminded me of childhood games with my grandmother: the wishbone, the whispered desire, the pull. The same sound had just escaped that dead mouth.
Once I removed the jaw, I took the small chisel and freed the gold molars one by one. Then a hammer blow reduced them to shards and yielded a few grams of metal.
"And the bones?"
He didn't even look up. "Into the furnace, if thou pleasest. Wear gloves."
The structure looked like an enormous wine flask taking up an entire corner: two levels, the lower with a heavy grate, the upper reachable by a small ladder. I opened the lower grate. The heat stabbed my skin despite the gloves. I tossed the bones inside: devoured in an instant.
"How was it?" Becker appeared beside me, arms full of skulls. "Many speak of catharsis."He poured his relics into the furnace, and the flame claimed them.
"How do you keep such a fire alive?"
"My secret. If thou livest long enough to earn my trust, thou shalt know."
"Have you ever trusted anyone?"
"Devil forbid! First rule of Hell: trust no one."
"I wonder if I'll ever earn it."
He smiled.
"Take it as motivation." He gave me two pats on the shoulder and returned to his bench.
We spent the rest of the afternoon emptying skulls.The crucibles full of gold and silver were placed on the furnace's upper grate. Soon the molten metal flowed into two sealed clay molds.
"That shall suffice for today." Becker wiped his brow with his sleeve—a gesture I had never seen from him. I was soaked like a rag.
He locked the door with two turns of the key.
"The bath lies at the end of the corridor. Supper shall be served in an hour."Then he climbed the stairs.
I collapsed onto the bed. Hunger was nothing compared to sleep. I tried to rise to wash myself, but my strength betrayed me. The last thought I had was that it would be no trouble to rest my eyes for just a moment.
I awoke when Becker strode into the room.
"Awake, Herr Cremaschi!" he thundered in my ear.
I opened one eye: Becker's face was already polished like armour.
"Is it already time for supper?" I muttered.
He flung his arms wide.
"Didst thou dine in the morning in thy future? What a grotesque custom! Rise: I have prepared breakfast."
I pushed myself halfway up.
"And what are we eating?"
"Yesterday's supper."
"But you just said—"
"I do not cook twice if the first goes to waste." His tone was carved in stone. Then he clapped his hands. "Schnell! On thy feet. We are going out today. Best attire and a bath."
"I don't own any 'best attire'," I protested.
His eyes gleamed with mischief.
"Look before thee."Then, with a smile that allowed no reply: "Half an hour."
And he left, trailing in the air the sharp scent of pipe tobacco.