The Man of Sorrows — Preface

— Cornelis de Bondt

Ich sage euch: man muss noch Chaos in sich haben, um einen tanzenden Stern gebären zu können.
— Nietzsche, Also sprach Zarathustra

On April 21, 1997, I received an unexpected phone call from Taunis Haas. He spoke in a hurried tone, sounding excited and not allowing me any space to say or react. He didn’t ask me, he commanded me to receive a certain Dr. Leo Goethe and listen to the remarkable story he had to tell. ‘He arrived in Rome at 12 o’clock and will travel straight to your address. He will be at your doorstep tomorrow. You’ll regret it if you ignore my request.’ Request, yeah right. He hung up immediately afterward, not even telling me when this Goethe — what’s in a name? — would ring my doorbell; figure it out yourself, De Vries, ‘my name is Haas’ [Dutch expression meaning: I know nothing about it — ‘Haas’ = ‘hare’].

I decided to wait and see how it all unfolded. Perhaps the man would never get in touch with me, which was fine by me — I would just wait and see.

The next morning, indeed, someone rang the doorbell. A man in a dark blue suit with a waistcoat and bowtie introduced himself as Dr. Leo Goethe, including his doctorate title. He had a thin, brown leather briefcase under his arm, a substantial pair of glasses with horn-rimmed frames, and smelled of cheap aftershave applied with a bit too much enthusiasm. I let him in, led him to the living room, and asked him to have a seat on the loveseat, while I took the armchair opposite him at a sufficient distance. When I asked if he would like something to drink, coffee or tea, he replied that a glass of tap water would be fine.

“What can I do for you?” I asked after serving him a glass of water.

Goethe held German nationality, resided in the small municipality of Geisa in the state of Thuringia, and was associated with the nearby monastery of Fulda. We conversed in English. I fancied that his German accent was heavier than my Dutch one, but there’s nothing wrong with my imagination. Goethe explained that he was a theologian and researcher who had been conducting research on the life and work of the 17th-century priest, inventor, and scholar Athanasius Kircher for years. Yes, of course, I was aware of Kircher’s work, and yes, I found it very interesting indeed, I politely affirmed. I didn’t mention my reservations about the hype that had been surrounding the man lately. Goethe spoke continuously, and it took a while for my initial skepticism toward the man to turn into… first astonishment, then bewilderment, and ultimately a combination of feverish excitement and desperate disbelief. The peculiar story Goethe recounted to me began with a peculiar character who ran a hospitality-free hotel in his hometown, Sumvall Göthe (no relation!). This Göthe led him to an unknown, secret text by Kircher, supposedly housed in the Vatican Library. Göthe knew a couple of individuals with dubious backgrounds, essentially a pair of Betrüger — he couldn’t recall the English word for ‘fraudsters’ — but on the other hand, their story was so intriguing and provided so much factual context that he, to a certain extent and with the necessary caution, had gotten involved with them. Without any financial risk, by the way.

The two individuals, Herbert Kastl and Dr. Hein Beck, ‘Let’s take the doctorate title for what it is,’ had established a society with the aim of publishing the complete collected works of Kircher in a special, highly expensive edition. They managed to infiltrate themselves into the circles of a high-ranking Spanish cardinal closely associated with the Vatican. They convinced this cardinal to join their society, thus gaining access to the Vatican Library.

This part of Goethe’s story sounded familiar to me. I had read a novel a few years ago by the Dutch writer Thoama Kanaän, in which this fantastic history was elaborated upon. After reading the book, I came across an older documentary by the same writer that had been broadcast on Dutch television, sometime in the 1970s. That added an equally ambiguous layer to the characterization of ‘novel’ as well as its subject matter. Multiple layers. The figure of Kircher himself is ambiguous, both a scholar and a fantasist; the two individuals who wanted to publish his collected works, and also the novel about them. I wondered if this Goethe would turn out to be the fourth ambiguous layer.

Goethe extensively recounted how he came into contact with one of the illustrious ‘commendatori,’ as they called themselves, namely the ‘doctor,’ who used a different name when they met, Olaf Hein. This person arranged a meeting for him with the Spanish cardinal, Monsignor Carlos del Paenna. Through this Paenna, he ultimately obtained one-time access to the Vatican Library.

He was given eight hours to read the specific document. He was not allowed to make a copy, take photos, or even make notes. Strict supervision was maintained. ‘The document was written in German,’ Goethe said, ‘and I needed the full eight hours to absorb the text, which was not legible in all parts.’ A small smile appeared on his face, the only moment in our conversation where I managed to catch a hint of humor, as he said, ‘But what the officials did not suspect was that I am blessed with a photographic memory.’ He had stored the entire text in his memory and worked it into a story, which he had brought along to let me read. ‘I don’t have a photographic memory, you know…’ I tried to make a joke. He didn’t see the humor and earnestly stated that he had a copy with him that I could keep. He took out the copy from his bag and handed it to me with a gesture as if it were a Chinese porcelain figurine. I opened the text and saw the title: Der Schmerzensmann. When I asked where the title came from, he simply said, ‘That is the title Kircher gave to the document.’

Shortly after, Dr. Goethe departed, stating that he would contact me exactly one year from then. ‘God willing,’ he added when he saw my bewildered expression.

I now present his text to the reader without any prior commentary. In due course, I will attempt to provide some explanation in an afterword.

— Den Haag, 21 April 1997