To remember is to have a memory, or to set off in search of a memory.

—Ricouer, Memory, History, Forgetting

Mannheim: The Rental Car

+49° 28' 31.45", +8° 30' 56.10"

If I remember correctly—and I gotta rely on my memory right now because the plane just took off from Hamburg, so I'm offline—we'll be coming into Terminal One of the Mannheim City Airport, and to get to the rental car place you go down the hall to the east, which will be on my right. I think.

Anyway, I've got an Opel Zafira reserved for me, a minivan. I've never seen one in the U.S.—I don't think they sell them back home—but I've checked it out on YouTube. Pretty nice. I'll make sure to add the links to this post when I can find some connectivity.

I won't visit Mannheim at all, because I'll be heading straight to the nearby medieval town of Speyer. Actually Speyer is older than medieval, it goes way back—it's an old border town between the Romans and the barbarians. The main attraction now, just as it was in December 1076, is the Romanesque cathedral, Dom zu Speyer. The cathedral is old now, almost a thousand years old, but back in the winter of 1076-77 it was less than 50, still unfinished, a baby as cathedrals go, a sprawling, soaring raw new symbol of the holiness, the Romanness, and the imperium of the Holy Roman Emperor.

There, in the town of Speyer, my passengers will be waiting.

Western Avenue

The document that came to be known, in internal network memos, as "the Western Avenue Treatment," was discovered on the upper level of a Los Angeles strip mall, its pages scattered across the carpet of an abandoned office suite, apparently spit out by a nearby fax machine.

At least that's the story Renee Alcala eventually told the network.

Between acting jobs—and the gaps had been growing longer—Renee Alcala worked as a rental agent for several commercial real estate companies. On December 3, 2002, her work brought her to the office suite in question for the first time. It was just a preliminary visit to assess the space before she could begin showing it to prospective lessees. Now of course it wasn't Renee's job to do the cleaning, but her ability to close a deal depended on the property looking sharp, so she kept a small plastic crate of cleaning supplies in the trunk of her car. On the morning of December 3, Renee was hopeful that the space might almost be ready to show—she had a lead on a massage therapist who was looking to relocate—so she took the crate of supplies from her trunk and climbed, in her high heels, the outdoor stairs to the upper level.

The office space, 750 square feet, was located on the second story of a strip mall at the intersection of Lemon Grove and N. Western Avenues, above a lavanderia, and next door to a nail salon. As she climbed the stairs, a car pulled into the parking lot below, a pop song blaring from its windows. The song seemed familiar to Renee, but in a second-hand way, as if it reminded her of another song, a song she hadn't heard yet, a song still to be written, the inescapable pop song from some season in the future, the song that would always cause Renee to remember this moment, these stairs, this crate of cleaning supplies. The music stopped as she reached the top step, and a car door slammed.

Outside the office, Renee set down her crate and looked around. The outdoor walkway was clean and well-swept, with only a few cracks in the concrete. The office itself had floor-to-ceiling front windows, obscured by closed curtains—ecru, woven fabric, decent shape. Renee could smell the moist soapy air from the laundromat below, with only the faintest tang of nail remover mixed in. All in all, the front-door-impression wasn't too bad. As she took out the keys, she noticed a business card taped on the inside of the glass door: "Terrapin Pictures, Hollywood, California."

Technically true, thought Renee—this side of Western was in the 90038 zip code.

Speyer Nord-West: First Passengers

+49° 28' 31.45", +8° 30' 56.10"

I ease the Opel Zafira out of the Mannheim City Airport, and onto a few frontage roads—at least that's what I think "Landstraße" means. My directions tell me that very soon I'll be on A656 and then on A6, and I know that if it begins with an "A", it's an autobahn. And the smaller the number, the bigger the autobahn.

There's something very odd about this minivan—it has a manual transmission. For an American, a stick shift in a fully equipped minivan seems like a detail from a crazy dream—it doesn't fit with the cognitive structure of the world as I know it—it's like a violation of some unarticulated but intuitively obvious Law of Automotive Categories. But hey, I guess that law doesn't apply in in Europe. Still, I can't help thinking of all the responsible authority figures of Germany, parents and coaches and bureaucrats and safety engineers, winding out those RPMs from third to fourth, from fourth to fifth, just like I'm doing, right now, as I hit cruising speed.

Speyer's about 20 km to the south. Before I visit the cathedral, I need to swing past the train station (the efficient suburban station of Speyer Nord-West, bicycle parking: Ja, WC: Nein) where I've arranged to meet two medieval German writers, Lambert of Hersfeld and Bruno of Merseburg (also known as Bruno the Saxon).

For most of the last millennium, Bruno and Lambert were trusted sources on Deutches Mittlealter (the Middle Ages in Germany), although their reputations took quite a beating during the 19th century, the heyday of German scientific historiography. As for me, given the choice of hanging out with a good story-teller or an impeccable philologist, I'll take the story-teller any day, even if I have to make occasional allowances for a partisan point of view.

Although Bruno and Lambert are both, technically, "monks," they've warned me not to expect not to expect any hair shirts or hoods or traditional habits on this journey. In fact, when I hold up my "Bruno" sign, after the regional trolley drops off a dozen passengers, I'm approached by a typical German hiker-type: jeans, t-shirt, Adidas, topped off by immense, high quality, internal frame backpack. Bruno's about thirty, with a scruffy beard, and looks like he's been hosteling his way around Europe for a decade.

Lambert arrives about a half-hour later, the lone passenger to disembark from the inter-city train. He's an older man, with a more formal style—umbrella, overcoat, a single leather suitcase. After I introduce them to each other—surprisingly, they've never met before, although they both claim, a little too warmly, to be great fans of each other's work—I load their luggage into the back of the Zafira, and we drive through city streets toward the spires of Dom zu Speyer.

The Meek Shall Inherit

As soon as she opened the door of the empty office suite on Western Avenue, Renee Alcala knew that the place needed a professional cleaning. She left her own box of supplies at the front door, and gave herself a quick tour. There was a front reception area, a tiny half-bath, and three small rooms in the back, one of which had apparently been used as a combination kitchen and conference area. It wasn't horrible—the empty pizza boxes had been stacked neatly near the back door, other trash had been bound up in black plastic bags, and most of the remaining mess was just piles of paper. There were no roaches, but it was a long way from showable.

And all that ratty furniture—it would have to go.

Renee got out her cell phone. First she called the massage therapist, to hint at another possible location for his practice, but really just to reschedule, and then the building manager, to demand a moving crew and a thorough cleaning. When the building manager started complaining about how much it would cost and how those college kids from out east had run out on their lease, Renee let him have it. Pretty soon he was promising her whatever she needed, and apologizing for wasting her time with an unshowable space. She smiled as she closed her phone. Actually, of course, Renee preferred to get into a space early, just like this, and take charge.

As she walked back out to the reception area, she noticed the pile of papers under the fax machine. She touched a button—there was still a dial tone. The college kids who thought they were indie producers had never canceled the line.

Renee stooped down and picked up a page. According to the footer, the fax came from some number in the 812 area code, which Renee was pretty sure wasn't anywhere in California. Page 17 of 50. She looked around and found the title page. The Meek Shall Inherit, a Proposal for an Historical Telenovela in the American Language, by Damien di Savoia Underwood. She gathered up all the sheets, and sorted them back into the original order. The moving crew was due in an hour. Renee decided to wait for them. She found the cleanest chair in the office, and sat down to read.

It was the first time she saw the name "Bertha of Savoy"—the part she would play for 112 episodes on cable TV.

Spira and Domgarten

+49° 18' 50.46", +8° 26' 40.57"

In the minivan, I'm driving through the streets of Speyer with two medieval chroniclers, Lambert of Hersfeld and Bruno the Saxon, whom I've just met at the Speyer Nord-West train station. As host and driver, it's my job to start the conversation, and the silence is getting kind of awkward, so I ask Bruno and Lambert if in fact the town's name refers to the spires of the cathedral (the English name of the town used to be "Spires"). It's actually one of the questions I wrote in my notebook as I prepped for this trip.

I'm pretty proud of the result—my research is paying off!—Bruno and Lambert immediately fall into scholarly disputation: Bruno being of the opinion that the name, from the Latin spira, or breath, could not possibly refer to the spires of the cathedral as said structure was not built until the 11th century and the name was in use as early as 500 A.D., while Lambert points out that spire, like aspire, comes from that very root word, and that the town's Teutonic name was Nementum, home of the Nemeter, and that undoubtedly there was some sort of church, with some sort of spires, by time Nementum (also known as Noviomagus) became Speyer.

I gotta admit that some of the finer points of their colloquy escape me as I search for a parking place. Finally I find one, on the outer edge of the Domgarten, with a great view of the Dom's backside. It's a very impressive structure, impressive enough to render Bruno and Lambert momentarily speechless as they emerge from the Opel's sliding side door.

I ask Bruno and Lambert to show me around the cathedral. They hesitate for a moment.

"Excuse me," says Lambert. "But is... is the King, Emperor, whatever he calls himself these days—is he expecting us?"

"Henry?" I say. "No, we'll be meeting the family in town. About an hour. C'mon! We don't have much time."

Koularakia

By mid-morning on Tuesday, February 4, 2003, Nina Pagonis was running about 20 minutes late, which didn't concern her much because the people sitting in her office were the kind of people who would wait. Nina's assistant always showed her visitors into the public part of her office at precisely the moment of their appointments, whether or not Nina herself was present. It was simply good manners. If it proved a bit disorienting to some of her guests, well that could be useful, too.

When Nina finally did arrive that morning, her assistant told her that a couple was waiting for her inside.

"A man and a woman. Regarding the treatment you took home last night."

"Which one?" said Nina.

"The Meek Shall Inherit," said her assistant.

"Oh, good," said Nina. "The one about Bertha of Savoy. Have you read it?

"Of course," said her assistant. "Very juicy. Strange, but juicy. Much stranger than these two."

"What are they like?"

"Used car salesmen," said her assistant.

"Hmm," said Nina. "Could you put these on a nice plate?"

A few moments later, Nina walked into her office, full of energy, apologies, and solicitude, carrying a plate of Greek cookies.

"It's Renee, right? And you must be Bradley! Do you have enough water? Coffee? You must try one of these--we call them koulourakia--kind of a Greek biscotti--I've found a little bakery that makes them just the way--"

But just then, Nina's cell phone buzzed. She looked at it.

Her mother's doctor. Nina took the call.

The doctor told her the time had come for a tracheostomy. Just to make her mother more comfortable. Nina asked the doctor to slow down. She demanded more details. As she talked, pacing behind her desk, her two guests chewed their koulourakia, pretending not to listen. The doctor explained the difference between a tracheotomy and a tracheostomy. It all sounded horrible to Nina. She knew how much her mother would hate this procedure, how vigorously she would protest, if she didn't have tubes down her throat. But that was the point: her mother was intubated, she couldn't talk. Nina asked the doctor if this was a desperate measure, just something to needlessly prolong...

She trailed off. The doctor said No, not at all, it's very routine, we'll get through this episode, your mother will be be fine. After a few more questions, Nina gave her approval.

She closed her phone and apologized to her waiting guests. "Sorry, I had to take that. My mother's in the ICU. I have power of attorney."

It occurred to Nina, as she gathered herself together, sat down and started the meeting, that even though the phone call was very real, it also worked as a kind of performance. It wouldn't be a bad idea to enter every meeting talking about surgery. Making tough decisions about life and death.

Dom zu Speyer: Tour of the Cathedral

+49° 19' 2.33", +8° 26' 32.77"

Ever since the French Revolution, when the Abbey at Cluny got sacked, Dom zu Speyer has been the largest Romanesque church standing—a fact that somehow does not seem to inspire much verbal energy from Bruno and Lambert. I had been hoping that they might be lively tour guides, seeing as how they personally know many of the people involved in the construction and early history of this magnificent building. But their mood turns positively monastic once we enter the cathedral.

"Now is that a groin vault or a barrel vault?" I ask, pointing to the ceiling.

Lambert bows his head and closes his eyes. He looks like he's praying—like maybe he's begging God to forgive me. Oh please, I think. What's wrong with a little architectural curiosity? I turn to Bruno and repeat my question.

"How the fuck should I know," he says, shrugging. Something must show on my face, because he steps closer and explains himself. "Look," he says, "this place pisses me off. Do you know much silver from Saxony was sent down here to cover the budget shortfalls? And then we're supposed to come down here on pilgrimages! Where do those emperors get off with the fucking arrogance?"

"Okay," I say. "I guess... I guess I should expect there would be issues..."

"And I can tell you," says Bruno, "the pope isn't too happy about the emperor having a bigger fucking cathedral than he does!"

"Alright," I say. We wander through the vast nave for a while—or to be accurate, I do the wandering, while Bruno and Lambert trail behind me. It's like they're each attached to me by an invisible rope, and repelled from each other by an invisible force. I get the eerie sensation that our movements could be modeled by a simple computer program—Point A (that would be me, or your mouse pointer) leads the way, while Points B and Point C (that would be Bruno and Lampert, or two dots on your screen) maintain a fixed distance from Point A and maximal distance from each other. It would be moderately amusing, on a computer screen, especially when Point A whipsaws around a cathedral column, which is what I've just done.

Bruno and Lambert bump shoulders as they pursue me around the column.

"Okay," I say. "Let's go down to the crypt."

Lambert and Bruno look at each other for a moment. Then Lambert takes me aside.

"You're going to be meeting Henry in less than an hour, right?" he says.

"Sure," I say. "That's the plan."

"The thing is... I don't think Henry likes that place. The crypt, you know... the tombs. He's kind of superstitious."

"So?" I say.

"Just don't mention it, alright? To Henry. Or his wife. Or his kid."

After I promise to be discreet, Bruno and Lambert negotiate briefly among themselves. It turns out Bruno is the one who takes me down into the semi-subterranean chamber.

It's surprisingly well-lit, and all in all it turns out to be just about the least spooky medieval burial vault you can imagine.

Interesting? Absolutely. Solemn? Without a doubt. But scary? No way.

"Here they are," says Bruno. He's standing next to one of the wrought-iron grates in the ante-crypt that prevent tourists from treading upon the bones of kings. I join him, and look down at the row of serene sandstone blocks. "There's your man," he says, "Henry IV. The one who's going to Canossa. Next to him is father, Henry III, pious bugger that one, he thought the king was kind of priest, rex sacerdota, what a line of shit. Then we've got grandpa Conrad, the one who built this cathedral, Conrad's wife Gisela, and...."

Bruno pauses, staring down at one of the tombs.

"Who's that?" I say.

"Bertha," says Bruno. "Bertha of Savoy. Henry's first wife. She's way too good for him."

The Pitch Meeting

Nina began the meeting by telling Bradley and Renee a bit about what she was looking for. Since she took over as vice-president of prime-time programming, her goal had been to position her network as the place for strong narrative, interesting characters, and moral complexity.

"That's us--that's our story!" said Bradley.

Nina smiled. She confessed to being a big fan of the Spanish language telenovelas--she loved the long narrative arcs, the stories that went somewhere and eventually came to a resolution—to an end. And as a business person she particularly liked the ability of some telenovelas to draw a substantial male audience.

"Absolutely" said Bradley. "On Spanish TV, the men have cojones!"

Nina paused for a moment and looked at Bradley and Renee.

"So," said Nina. "You two work together... in real estate?"

"Well," said Bradley, "my business started as a production company. In the mid-90s we made a couple of, uh, genre pictures. But yes, our main focus now is commercial real estate."

"And I do some freelance sales, commercial leases..." said Renee, "when I'm not acting."

"Renee Alcala," said Nina, ruminating on the name and face. "You were very good in that series--the one set in New Orleans..."

"True Bayou," said Renee, beaming.

"Too bad it didn't last," said Nina. "Well, you both must be fascinated by the eleventh century. It's an unusual era."

"Definitely," said Bradley. "We really love the eleven-hundreds. Of course Renee did all the research. I just did the wordsmithing."

"Right," said Nina. She went on to tell them how some people at the network just wanted to translate and repackage a Spanish-language telenovela, but Nina had told them, C'mon, this is America, this is Hollywood, can't we generate something original?

"And then this treatment appeared." Nina picked up the copy her assistant had placed on her desk before the meeting.

Ever so slightly off-axis, it has been the only object on the gleaming surface for the entire time Renee and Bradley have been waiting. For more than twenty minutes it has been exerting a strange power over Bradley's attention, like a forbidden sexual urge or a beckoning animal in a dream, tempting him to pick it up and just hold it in his hands, or peak inside and learn its secrets, or better yet take out a spy camera and photograph every page, which Bradley knows would be completely absurd--he retyped it all himself, every word, because he didn't trust the security on Renee's laptop--but still, he's had to force himself to resist its pull; at one point, Renee actually had to slap his hand.

Nina paged thoughtfully through the document.

"What amazes me about this story," she said, "is your choice of the central character. Completely unexpected, and yet--it works! How did you settle on Bertha--Bertha of Savoy, of all people, as your heroine?"

"Oh, we just had a feeling... " said Renee.

"Well, it's brilliant," said Nina. "The obvious thing, of course would have been to make Matilda the lead--but I love how this story uses Bertha, I really do. The mousy wife, the child bride, who discovers her warrior princess within--that will have much broader appeal, I think, over the run of the show, than Matilda would have. And Matilda has such baggage--sleeping with the Pope, murdering her husband. Definitely better to make her the female antagonist."

"Absolutely," said Bradley. "Matilda--what a bitch! I mean, that was my reaction."

Nina seemed not to hear him. She continued to flip through the pages, apparently with pleasure, even admiration. Renee and Bradley looked at each other--were they about to get the green light?

"On the downside," said Nina, "there are the challenges of producing a costume drama on a basic cable budget. But the eleventh century, it's not like Louis Quatorze at Versailles, now is it?"

Bradley realized that Nina was looking at him. Had she just made a joke?

"I mean the quality and detail of the costumes," explained Nina.

Bradley chuckled and shook his head. "No, no, not at all."

"And the setting," Nina continue, "Southern Germany, Northern Italy, the Alps--well, we could probably get away with locations in British Columbia. Keep the costs under control."

She turned a page, and frowned a little."Oh there are still a few--what should I call them?--undigested nuggets of scholarship in here, Renee. The word 'allodial,' for example. We need to find ways to make feudal concepts like that clear to our viewers--we want our viewers to feel smart, not dumb."

"Yes, yes, certainly..." said Renee.

"Just cut that line," said Bradley. "It's gone!"

Nina smiled at Bradley. Then she closed the treatment and put it down upon her gleaming desk.

"Renee, Bradley," she said. "Let me be honest. I love this project, and I'm so grateful that you brought it to our attention. If you don't mind me saying so, you two are representative of our target audience--upwardly mobile Americans--and the fact that you relate to the struggles of these people in the eleventh century, that you perceived value in this"--she picks up the manuscript again--"well it excites me. It intrigues me.

"But the thing is--I don't believe for a moment that you two wrote this story."

Nina studied her guests, who suddenly were very busy avoiding each other's eyes.

"So here's the deal," said Nina. "Renee, I can guarantee you an audition for the part of Bertha--and Bradley, I won't press charges--if you tell me who really wrote this treatment."

Maximillianstraße: The Imperial Family

+49° 19' 2.38", +8° 26' 23.76"

So I gotta admit I feel a little bit tense as Bruno, Lambert and I emerge from the big front doors of Dom zu Speyer and walk down Maximillianstraße, which is sort of like the town square or main plaza of 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.

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? I mean, 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 not too many people are 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 actually pointing, I see a guy sitting alone outside this funky café. He's a tallish, bearded guy, maybe late twenties, 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," says Bruno. "Look at 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. The monks and I watch him from across the street. It's like we're bird-watchers 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. Here they come." He turns and looks down the street.

"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 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, a little 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 kind of 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 wood bench.

Lambert, meanwhile, has found a table for one at a café across the street.

I wonder what's going on with Bertha and Henry. Are they speaking to each other? And if not, why is she making this journey with him? Why does she stay with him at all? Why is she bringing Conrad?

Anyway, I introduce myself to Henry, and offer to bring the minivan around. There's place on a side street where I can load everybody in.

"No, no," says Henry. "Go to our hotel first. Get the directions from that one."

Without actually looking at her, he indicates his wife with a little nod. "Load the luggage there, 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." Boy do I sound lame.

"Don't worry," 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 twenty-first century American, a Democrat, an empiricist, a blogger? But without Henry, what would I have to blog about? My breakfast? My moods? The latest comment from Rush Limbaugh?

Let's face it—just how many excommunicated Holy Roman Emperors do I know?

So eventually, I break down and give him the cash. Luckily, I've got just enough in my wallet—I stopped at an ATM in the Mannheim City Airport, just to be sure, 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 at the next café. Bertha is sitting quietly, reading a fashion magazine. Or is that some kind of Catholic woman's magazine? Conrad is climbing around the neighboring tables, and Bruno is watching the kid, kind of protectively—actually, more like he's hoping that Bertha notices.

"So..." I say to Henry. "How... how are you going to get to Canossa?"

He shrugs his shoulders and glances down a side street. His eyes settle on a motorcycle—I recognize the BMW logo—but it's smaller and sportier than the BMW bikes we see in the U.S.

"Nice," I say. "Is it yours?"

"It will be," he says, "very soon."