Maximillianstraße: The Imperial Family
27 April 2009, 12:14 p.m.
49° 19' 2.38" N, 8° 26' 23.76" E
So I’m feeling kinda tense, like I’m going to a job interview or something, as Bruno, Lambert and I emerge from the big front doors of Dom zu Speyer. I’ve picked up a vibe from the two monks—it would be hard to miss—that they aren’t exactly eager to meet the Imperial family. Or at least they don’t want to meet Henry, which shouldn’t be too surprising, because they’ve both trashed him in their annales. As for me, well, I’ve never written anything about these people, except for that one paper back in undergrad. And, I suppose, this blog. Neither of which needs to come up in conversation.
We walk down Maximillianstraße, which is sort of like the town square or main plaza of Speyer. The plan was to get together with Henry, Bertha and Conrad in a sidewalk café, not too far from the Cathedral, which sounded plenty specific in the email, but now that I’m out here, looking at the solid row of sidewalk cafés on either side of the straße, I realize that I’ve set myself up for a major faux-pas: what if I walk right past them? Yeah, they said they’d be in modern clothes, but I also got the impression that they expected to be recognized. Not hounded like celebrities, maybe, but, well, noticed, or at least whispered about.
Luckily, it’s kind of cool today, so there aren’t too many people out in the cafés—basically just the smokers.
“There! That’s him!” says Bruno, out of the corner of his mouth. Then he does this little maneuver where he points in one direction, while quickly stepping around to the opposite side of me. When I figure out which way he’s trying to point, I see a guy sitting alone outside this funky café. He’s a tallish, bearded guy, maybe late twenties, in a black leather motorcycle jacket, scruffy designer jeans and black army boots.
“That’s Henry?” I say. “Where’s Bertha? Where’s Conrad?”
“They’re shopping,” says Bruno.
“Shopping?” says Lambert.
“How do you know?” I say.
“Look at him. His posture. That’s a husband having a smoke while his wife and kid are shopping.”
Lambert shakes his head. “Casuistry,” he mutters. “Utter casuistry.”
Henry pulls another cigarette out of his jacket and lights it. As I watch Henry take a drag, I realize that I recognize him—he looks exactly like the Henry on the cover of The Song of Henry—that fake medieval saga from the nineties—it’s on my bookshelf back home. Except that this Henry isn’t anywhere near as buffed up as that Henry—this one looks kinda lanky, even scrawny, the way athletic guys get when they smoke too much. But still, it’s the same face. I wonder how the artist did it.
The monks and I watch him quietly from across the street. It’s like we’re birdwatchers or something.
“What’s that T-shirt he’s wearing?” I say.
“Unheilig,” says Lambert, “Unholy.” He makes the sign of the cross.
“Cut the sanctimony, it’s just a band,” says Bruno. “Wait a minute.” He turns and looks down the street. “Here they come.”
“Ahh,” says Lambert. “The consort and heir approach...”
Bertha turns out to be a slim woman, about the same age as Henry, but with a much more sophisticated style. She wears chic jeans, a double-breasted yellow leather jacket over a cashmere sweater, and her hair pulled smartly back. In one hand she holds several shopping bags; with the other she pulls a little boy, maybe three years old—he’s wearing a black and white soccer jersey—Juventus FC, I think—that hangs down to his knees, and he seems to be making a case for going back to the store.
“See! See!” says Bruno. “They were shopping!”
Despite the boy, the bags, and the challenges of wearing high heels on a cobblestone street, Bertha still manages to convey an air of elegant composure. As she gets closer, I see a tiny jeweled cross dancing lightly on her otherwise bare throat.
By this time, Bruno has stepped forward and offered to carry the shopping bags for her. Bertha lets him do so, way too blandly for my taste. Would it be too much for her to smile at the guy? Sure he looks like a hippie but he’s being kinda gallant. Anyway, the three of them sit down at a table—not the same table with Henry—in fact, Bertha’s table belongs to the café next door—a more upscale place than the kind of punk joint where Henry sits, his long legs sprawled out across a rough wooden bench.
Lambert, meanwhile, has found a table for one at a café across the street.
After standing alone in the middle of Maximillianstraße for a long awkward moment, I take a deep breath and walk over to Henry. I introduce myself and remind him of all the emails we’ve exchanged. His attitude is just as bland as Bertha’s was with Bruno. I offer to bring the minivan around.
“I can load in everybody over there,” I say, pointing to a place on a side street.
“No,” says Henry. “Go to our hotel first. Get the directions from that one.”
Without looking, he nods his head toward the table where his wife and son are sitting. “Load the luggage at the hotel, then come back here and pick up those two.”
“Okay... ” I say, “but... what about... you? The minivan—it has plenty of room for five adults and one child—and all our luggage. It’s an Opel Zafira.” As I say it, I realize how lame it sounds.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I’ll meet you in Canossa.”
What’s wrong? Why won’t he ride with us? Is it the Opel Zafira? Did I rent the wrong vehicle? Is Henry the sort of guy who refuses to ride in a minivan? Shit, there was some sort of Mercedes SUV at the airport—I could have rented that—but it didn’t have as much interior room….
“Give me two hundred euros,” says Henry.
“What?” I say.
“Two hundred euros.” His tone is calm, matter-of-fact, not like he’s asking for a loan, but as if it were the natural order of things that he should need some cash and I should give it to him.
How should I react to this demand? Should I tell him that I am not his vassal, that I am a 21st-century American, a Democrat, an empiricist, a blogger? That we had a deal?
Then I think: without Henry, what would I have to blog about? My breakfast? My moods? The bailout of the auto industry? Obama’s health care bill? Let’s face it—I’m not that kind of blogger. And just how many excommunicated Holy Roman Emperors do I know? So I end up breaking down and giving him the cash. Luckily, I’ve got enough in my wallet—I stopped at an ATM in the Mannheim City Airport, to make sure I had some euros with me, even though I plan to use plastic for nearly everything on this trip—you know, to get the best exchange rates.
Henry counts the 200 euros, and then gives me back twenty, and tells me to take Conrad to the Technik Museum—we’ll pass it on the way to the autobahn. He tells me to make sure the kid knows it’s a present from his father.
I look over to Bertha’s table in the café next door. She’s sitting quietly, reading a fashion magazine. Conrad is climbing around the neighboring tables, and Bruno is watching the kid, kind of protectively....
“So... ” I say to Henry. “How... how are you... going to get to Canossa?”
Henry shrugs his shoulders and glances down the side street. His eyes settle on a motorcycle—I recognize the BMW logo—but this one is smaller and sportier than the BMW bikes we see in the U.S.
“Nice,” I say. “Is that yours?”
“It will be,” he says, “very soon.”
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