The organ grinder lowered his head and began dusting his barrel organ. Hans thought to himself: Where did this fellow spring from?
Light snow had begun to fall outside. The old man finished tuning his instrument. Excuse me, he said, I’ll be back. He went out into the snow and lowered his trousers, unembarrassed. A slow light shone through the leafless poplar trees bordering the river, entangling itself in their branches before filtering through the other side and onto the organ grinder’s scrawny buttocks. Hans stared at the old man’s urine melting a hole in the snow, his meagre excrement. Common or garden shit, plain old shit, shitty shit.
How beautiful you look this morning, daughter, said Herr Gottlieb, taking Sophie by the arm as they stepped into St Nicholas’s Church. Thank you, Father, Sophie smiled, there’s still hope I’ll return to normal by the afternoon.
The parishioners had formed a queue along Archway, opposite the entrance to the church. St Nicholas’s Church was set back from the market square, shielded by a small park with some wooden benches. The church was Wandernburg’s oldest and most peculiar building. Looked at from nearby, from where the parishioners were now gathered, the most striking thing about it was its brown brickwork, which looked like it had been baked by the sun. Besides its main portal, which fanned out into pointed arches within arches, it had numerous side doors shaped like keyholes. Stepping back a few yards and examining it as a whole, what most stood out were the church’s asymmetrical steeples. One ended in a sharp point like a gigantic pencil, the other, more rounded, housed a toneless bell in a tower with such narrow openings that the wind could barely pass through. And yet what most bewildered Hans was the facade slanting perceptibly towards him, as though it were about to topple forward.
Since his visit to Herr Gottlieb’s house, Hans had continued to be friendly towards him. What worried Hans was that, despite greeting him warmly and stopping to chat with him when they met in the street, Herr Gottlieb had not extended him another formal invitation to the house. For the moment he was content to drop vague comments such as “How nice it was to see you” or “Let’s hope we bump into one another again”, courtesies too casual to justify Hans’s turning up at the house unannounced. Hans therefore had been discreetly loitering in Stag Street for days, hoping to force a meeting with Sophie. He had succeeded on a couple of occasions, but she had seemed rather enigmatic. Although she answered him with unswerving abruptness, the way she looked at him made him tremble inside. She never drew out their conversations, nor laughed at his jokes, and yet when she stopped to talk to him she stood at a distance that would have aroused Hans’s suspicions had he not felt so unsure of himself. Determined to keep trying, and having learnt that Sophie accompanied her father to Sunday matins at St Nicholas’s Church, Hans had risen early that timidly bright Sunday, in order to go to Mass. When Frau Zeit had caught sight of him in the kitchen at eight o’clock, she had frozen, knife in mid-air, her mouth gaping wide like the cod she was about to fillet.
As he entered the church Hans had felt more like an outsider than ever. Firstly because it had been years since he attended Mass. And secondly because no sooner had he set foot in the dark interior than he felt himself the object of everyone’s scrutiny. The young girls peered at him curiously from their pews; the older men frowned as he walked by. Hat off, snapped one woman. Without realising it, Hans had walked into St Nicholas’s Church wearing his beret and looking as though he were a tourist. The church smelt of candle wax, oil and incense. Hans advanced along the central nave. A few faces looked familiar, although he was not sure where he had seen them before. He scoured the congregation, but could not see Sophie, despite having thought he recognised her from a distance. The far end of the nave was almost in darkness, the heavy stained-glass windows letting in only a trickle of light, a fine white dusting. As the liturgy had not yet begun, Hans kept walking towards the front pews. When he reached the end of the murmuring voices he had a clearer view of the high altar with its imposing crucifix, a pair of three-branched candelabra on either side, four altar candles and a grim altarpiece adorned with acanthus leaves. The altarpiece was decorated with two angels seemingly struggling to hold up an oval, perhaps because on top was a chubby third angel clinging on as though suffering an attack of vertigo. To the left of the oval was a snake coiled around a stick and to the right a thorny creeper entwined in a tree. It would only have been possible to see from quite high up, from over the plump little shoulder of the third angel, for example, how close in fact Hans was to Sophie, to predict the moment when he would catch sight of her, and even to appreciate how kind fate had been to provide a vacant seat in the opposite pew, on the men’s side.
Theoretically, the central aisle and the strip of light running along it separated the two sexes. In practice, this division only stimulated everyone’s interest, giving rise to a series of coded exchanges. As Hans searched for a seat, he glimpsed gestures, winks, handkerchiefs, messages, sighs, grimaces, frowns, nods, half-smiles, fans, fluttering eyelashes. The diversion was abruptly cut short by the booming first chord rising from the organ, whose grandiose prow towered above the main entrance. The congregation stood up as one. The boys’ choir began to chant a slow, high note. Various figures emerged from the shadows and circulated among the pews collecting alms for the parish. At that moment, an altar boy, a slightly cross-eyed censer-bearer, and a deacon who shuffled along knees bent, filed out, followed by Father Pigherzog, parish priest of St Nicholas’s and head of the Catholic Church in the principality of Wandernburg in the absence of the archbishop. Hans sat down on the first available seat in the nearest pew. The holy procession approached the altar, the four men kneeled before the tabernacle, and Hans squeezed himself in between two stout men. Father Pigherzog kissed the altar and made the sign of the cross. Hans cleared his throat, and one of the men looked askance at him. The boy swung his censer to and fro over the altar, and Father Pigherzog began intoning the Introit and the Kyrie. There! There she is! Hans realised with a start. And there indeed was Sophie, serene and graceful, as though sitting for a profile portrait, her eyes fixed somewhere above the altar.
Father Pigherzog sang the Gloria with great gusto, and the choir responded. Sophie maintained the slyly flirtatious attitude of a young woman pretending to have no idea someone was staring at her. Dominus vobiscum, Father Pigherzog chanted. Et cum spiritu tuo, the congregation responded as one. Hans could not tell whether Sophie was listening attentively or if her thoughts were entirely elsewhere.
While Herr Gottlieb exchanged pleasantries with a few acquaintances outside the church, Father Pigherzog, now in his cassock and cape, had gone over to talk to Sophie. He clasped the young woman’s hand in his—Sophie’s slender hands had always fascinated the priest, who considered them particularly apt for prayer. Do you remember when you used to come to confession, child? Father Pigherzog mused. And look at you now, it is one of God’s miracles how time passes through our souls, look at you, you’re a grown woman now, but why do you no longer come to confession, my child? For years I’ve been asking myself, why did you stop? Father, Sophie replied, trying out of the corner of her eye to determine how long Herr Gottlieb might be taken up with his acquaintances, you know how time flies, and a young woman in my situation has many duties to perform! It is precisely your situation, my child, the priest declared, which requires your constant communion with the word of Our Lord. As you yourself put it, Father, Sophie retorted, with the same acuity as your holiness always shows—time passes through our souls, and that is why they change. You always were a gifted child, said Father Pigherzog, with a good mind, but one which, how should I say, is apt to be unfocused, your curiosity is boundless, so that you end up filling your head with too many facts and becoming sidetracked from the most important fact of all. You explain things so admirably, Father, said Sophie, that you leave me with nothing to add. Child, child, the priest lamented, why don’t you at least come to pray from time to time? You see, venerable father, she said, if you’ll allow me to b
e sincere, and, given that in the sight of God’s house it is only right that I should be as sincere as you are in your own mission, at the moment I feel no need of prayer in order to commune with my conscience. Father Pigherzog took a deep breath as he tried to follow Sophie’s reply. When he thought he had fully understood its meaning, one which Sophie attempted to soften by gazing at the priest with exemplary innocence, he stammered: Listen to me, child, those ideas are making you lose your way, your soul is in peril, but I can help you, if only you’d allow me. I appreciate your concern, said Sophie, and beg you to forgive my ramblings, but it sometimes seems to me that a dogged insistence on faith conceals an exaggerated need to be right. And I doubt everything, Father, and am too weak to bear so much conviction. Hail Mary, full of grace! Father Pigherzog crossed himself. I know you don’t really believe that, you enjoy confrontation, but deep down you are penitent. Perhaps you are right, Father, said Sophie, preparing to walk over to Herr Gottlieb. Listen, my child, said the priest, moving closer to her, I know something is tormenting you, and when you come here on Sundays, even if it is only on Sundays, I see you sitting in the pews with that faraway look in your eyes, don’t think I haven’t noticed, and I see your confusion is looking for a way to repent. Must we be getting home, then? Sophie exclaimed, craning her neck towards Herr Gottlieb, who had not uttered a word. I suggest, said Father Pigherzog, taking her by the arm, that we continue this conversation, we can talk for as long as you wish, it will unburden you and help you see things more clearly. I don’t know how to thank you, Father, said Sophie, evasively. Will you come, child? the priest insisted. Will you? Will you who are so fond of reading refuse to study a few passages of the Scriptures with me? I am unworthy of your generosity, said Sophie, and, since you invite me to do so, I must confess that of late I have become interested in religious writings of which your holiness would disapprove. Such as? queried Father Pigherzog. Such as, she replied, The Catechism of Reason by Pastor Schleiermacher, who, with all due respect, Father, seems to be the only theologian to have noticed that we women, besides being sinners, also make up half the world’s population at the very least. At the very least? echoed Father Pigherzog, astonished. Sophie! Herr Gottlieb finally called out. Shall we go, Sophie? Father Pigherzog stepped back, and said, Have no fear, child, I know these ideas of yours are transient acts of rebellion. May God be with you, my child. I shall continue to pray for you.
On their way home, Herr Gottlieb and his daughter crossed the market square. All of a sudden, Sophie stopped in her tracks, let go of her father’s arm and walked down one side of the square, drawn by the gentle, weary strains of the old instrument she had noticed more than once when out strolling. The organ grinder was rolling out a mazurka, raising a grizzled eyebrow at every third beat. Hans, who was opposite the organ grinder and beaming with contentment as he stood flanked by two melodies, observed Sophie observing. In fact, he had been watching her since they had left church, but her conversation with Father Pigherzog had gone on too long for him to find an excuse or a posture that would enable him to linger in the background for the chance to greet her. And so he had given up and gone to the square to see the organ grinder. The moment he had stopped trying to find Sophie, here she was walking towards him, nodding her head gaily. Hans nodded back in silence, and, following the slow rhythm of the mazurka, gazed with impunity at her pale neck, her fingers clasped behind her back.
Yes, yes, Hans told him, she stopped just opposite you. (I remember a young woman approaching, said the organ grinder, and I noticed you were very interested, but I can’t remember her face, what did she look like?) Ah, so you suffer from the same problem? (What problem is that?) You can’t visualise Sophie’s face either? You might think this odd, and it’s hard to explain, but when I try to imagine her, all I see are her hands. I see her hands and I hear her voice. That’s all, no features. I can’t remember her. Yet it’s impossible for me to forget her. (I see, that’s too bad.) It’s strange what happens to me when I think of her, I’m alone, out walking, and all of a sudden I see a blurred image of Sophie, and I have to stop, you see, to stare into the distance, as if in my memory tiny brushstrokes, flashes of Sophie’s face, were becoming jumbled up, and I had to untangle them in order not to lose them. But just as I’m about to make the pieces fit into a whole, to glimpse her face, something slips away, eludes me, and then I feel the urgent need to see her again so that I can store her up in my memory once more. What do you think that means? (I think it means you’re going to have to stay a little longer in Wandernburg, said the organ grinder, grinning.)
Before long Reichardt arrived, followed shortly afterwards by Lamberg. Each of them was carrying a bottle wrapped in newspaper. It was close to sunset, and a sudden wave of cold had descended on the afternoon. Reichardt slumped to the ground and said: Shit, old man, are you a fakir or what? Come on, get that fire going! Good afternoon all, said Lamberg, his bloodshot eyes kindling the flames. He paused, then said to Hans: I saw you in church this morning. You, in church? Reichardt spluttered. Hey, old man, your friend here’s gone all pious on us! Hans went there to meet a young woman, the organ grinder remarked calmly. I thought as much, said Reichardt, you scoundrel! He forgot to take his beret off, Lamberg told them. Oh, so you noticed, smiled Hans. Yes, replied Lamberg, the girls were pointing at you. And did they laugh at him? asked Reichardt. I don’t know, replied Lamberg, I think they liked him. Let’s drink to your beret! cried Reichardt. Hear, hear, agreed the organ grinder.
An hour later, the cold was so severe that the fire no longer warmed them, and rubbing their hands and legs did not help. Every time they opened their mouths, vapour came out. The wind entered the mouth of the cave and seeped into the cracks, through the gaps in their clothing, and under their nails. Hans’s fingers felt hollow. Lamberg clenched his jaw. Franz swished his tail like a child attempting to shake frost off its rattle. The organ grinder had curled up under his blankets and was smiling peacefully. Shivering from cold, Reichardt suddenly burst into fits of laughter. His whole body shook, he laughed as only those about to freeze can laugh, he let out a puff of steam and began yelling: Butler, the stove, light the damned stove, will you? The organ grinder fell back laughing and cracked his head on a rock. Seeing this, Reichardt jabbed a finger at him before dissolving in a fit of vapoury coughing. Hans pointed at them both and doubled up with laughter. When he saw the other three unable to stop laughing, Lamberg could not help but join in. Say something, Franz! say something! Reichardt roared, his gums stained with red wine.
The fire was dying down. The bottles were empty. Do you hear? whispered the organ grinder. Do you hear it? (All I can hear are my guts, said Reichardt, haven’t you got anything else?) Hush, there, in among the branches. (What is it, organ grinder? asked Hans.) They’re talking to each other! (I can hear noises, said Lamberg.) They aren’t noises, they are the voices of the wind. (What are you on about? said Reichardt.) It’s the wind, the wind talking. Franz and the organ grinder listened closely, narrowing their eyes. All I hear is silence, old man, Reichardt insisted. There’s no such thing as silence, the organ grinder replied, and he went on listening to the night, head tilted to one side. I don’t know why you’re doing that, old man, said Reichardt. The wind is useful, snorted the organ grinder.
After a week of calculated meetings and assiduous courtesies, Hans achieved his aim and began to pay visits to the Gottlieb residence. Herr Gottlieb would receive him in front of the marble fireplace in the drawing room, smoking his amber pipe. On the mantelpiece stood a row of indolent statuettes that seemed about to topple into the hearth. During his visits, Hans had the chance to study the paintings hanging on the walls more closely—besides a few dusty family portraits, a couple of poor copies of Titian, one or two gloomy still lifes and some dreadful hunting scenes, his attention was drawn to a painting of a figure, seen from behind, walking through a snow-covered forest, lost or perhaps leaving, with a crow perched on a nearby tree trunk.
Traveller of the Century Page 5