Herr Gottlieb had a habit of bursting out laughing, almost invariably because of something his daughter said. It was an admiring and at the same time nervous laugh, the laugh men put on when they are listening to an intelligent woman who is much younger than them. Whenever Herr Gottlieb gave one of his guffaws he looked down at the tips of his whiskers, as though surprised at how bushy they were. Hans would spend more time taking tea with him than with Sophie, who would often go out to the dressmaker’s with Elsa, or to go over musical scores at a friend’s house, or to return a social call. Only when he was able to keep Herr Gottlieb talking until the late afternoon did Hans manage to see her and exchange a few words. Sophie was oddly reserved—she seemed intent on avoiding serious conversation or remaining alone with him, but her gaze still had a dizzying effect on Hans. When he was out of luck and left the house early, he would go straight to the market square to accompany the organ grinder back to his cave.
Although Herr Gottlieb had little in common with Hans, he seemed to have found in him the perfect interlocutor. Herr Gottlieb was one of those men who in shying away from intimate conversations show an obvious need for them. Hans sensed that Herr Gottlieb misunderstood his questions yet gave Hans the answers he wanted to hear. And so, after some trivial remark about the beauty of the house, his host seemed to think he was referring to Sophie, and let slip some of his concerns about his daughter. Hans refrained from setting him straight and began listening eagerly. Her mother having died during birth, Herr Gottlieb, who also had a married son living in Dresden, had always been Sophie’s sole guardian. He had brought her up with that mixture of over-protectiveness and panic that is the lot of the youngest members of a family. Herr Gottlieb was undoubtedly proud of his daughter, and yet, perhaps for that very reason, he was also plagued with anxieties. As you have seen for yourself, said Herr Gottlieb, Sophie is an extraordinary young woman (Hans tried not to agree too heartily), but I’ve always feared that with her character and her high expectations it will be hard for her to find a good husband, you see? Perhaps you are worrying unnecessarily, ventured Hans, your daughter seems like a fascinating young woman with a forceful personality (Hans immediately thought: I shouldn’t have said fascinating), that is, she is a distinguished young woman, and I’m sure she is perfectly. Herr Gottlieb cut across him: If my daughter persists in being so fascinating and strong-willed, she’ll end up with a string of suitors but no husband.
Before Hans had a chance to reply, Herr Gottlieb added: That is why it is imperative that her marriage to Rudi Wilderhaus should take place at the earliest opportunity.
Hans did not respond straight away, as if he had only perceived an echo of what Herr Gottlieb had said and was still waiting to hear his voice. Immediately afterwards he felt something like a blow to the forehead. I beg your pardon? What? Hans stammered, and fate provided another convenient misapprehension—Herr Gottlieb assumed Hans was interested in Rudi Wilderhaus. Just so, replied Herr Gottlieb, none other than the Wilderhauses, if you please, and do you know something? They are in fact very friendly, much more friendly than they are reputed to be, and, naturally, awfully sophisticated (Naturally, said Hans, who hadn’t the slightest idea who they were), but above all, generous. Only a few weeks ago the Wilderhauses were here in this very room, well, in the dining room to be precise, and his parents formally asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage, and I, can you imagine, good God, a Wilderhaus! (I can imagine! exclaimed Hans crossing his legs abruptly) Well, I played hard to get, as is only natural, and after that we settled on the earliest possible date, in October, at the end of the summer. Even so, I confess …
At that moment they heard footsteps and voices at the end of the corridor that led from the hallway to the drawing room. Hans heard the familiar rustle of Sophie’s skirts. Herr Gottlieb stopped in mid-sentence, his face breaking into an expectant smile, which he maintained until his daughter appeared in the doorway.
Why does she look at me like that, if she’s engaged to whatever his name is? Hans wondered. He could think of one reason that was both simple and logical, but dismissed it as too optimistic. That afternoon, Sophie seemed particularly attentive to what he was saying, and kept giving Hans quizzical looks, as though she had guessed why his face was frozen in an expression of disappointment. During his conversation with Sophie, which had taken on a far more intimate tone than on previous occasions, Hans noticed how, progressively and perhaps foolishly, his hope began to feel renewed. He promised himself he would not examine this feeling, but allow it to carry him along like an object borne on the wind. And so, when Sophie declared he would be welcome company (welcome company, Hans savoured the words, mmm, “welcome company”) at her salon, he accepted without hesitation. Sophie Gottlieb held her salon on Fridays at teatime, and at them her guests would discuss wide-ranging questions of literature, philosophy and politics. The only virtue of our humble salon, Sophie went on, is that anyone can say what they like. Apart, should I say, from my good father, with his sense of propriety. (Sophie smiled disarmingly at Herr Gottlieb.) Our only rule is that people be sincere in their opinions, which believe me, Herr Hans, is nothing short of a miracle in a city like this. Guests are free to come and go as they please. No two afternoons are the same, some are incrediby stimulating, others more predictable. As we are in no hurry, these gatherings usually go on until quite late. I understand that for this reason alone, my dear Herr Hans, you would make an ideal member of our circle. (Hans could not help feeling a frisson of pleasure at Sophie’s small gesture of connivance.) We have tea and refreshments, and we serve an aperitif with a few canapés, we do not exactly go hungry. Occasionally we play music or perform impromptu readings from Lessing, Shakespeare or Molière, depending on how the mood takes us. We are relatively at ease in one another’s company—there are only eight or nine regular members, including my father and myself. In short, it is a pleasant way to spend the afternoon, so, if you have nothing better to do this Friday … or are you perhaps leaving before then? Me, leaving? said Hans, sitting bolt upright in his chair. Not at all, not at all.
Accustomed to the dense quiet of the Gottlieb residence, Hans was surprised to find the drawing room so abuzz the following Friday. While Bertold took his coat and walked away touching the scar on his lip, Hans’s first impression was of a concerto of murmurings with teacups as percussion. The main group was seated on chairs and armchairs around the low table. There was also a man standing over by the windows, wearing a thoughtful expression, and in a corner two other people were engaged in a more private conversation. Sophie sat to the right of the marble fireplace, or rather brushed the chair with the lace of her skirts, always about to stand up. With calm alacrity she would rise to her feet to serve tea, attend to one of her guests or walk about the room like someone overseeing the different functionings of a loom. She was the discreet hub of the circle, the mediator who listened, suggested, commented, forged links, smoothed out differences and elicited responses, constantly proffering pertinent remarks or stimulating questions. Hans gazed at her in admiration. Sophie looked so radiant, happy and self-assured in her movements that he was unable to stir from the doorway but stood for some minutes just watching her, until she herself went up to him—There’s no need to be shy!—and ushered him into the centre of the room.
She introduced him one by one to all the members of the salon except for Rudi Wilderhaus, who was absent that afternoon. Firstly to Professor Mietter, Doctor of Philology, Honorary Member of the Berlin Society of the German Language and the Berlin Academy of Science, Emeritus Professor of the University of Berlin. Wandernburg’s very own cultural luminary, he had contributed to several editions of the Gottingen Almanac of the Muses and published a poem or a literary column in the Sunday edition of the local paper, the Thunderer. Professor Mietter’s mouth was set in a slight grimace, as though he had just bitten on a peppercorn. He wore dark blue and sported an unfashionable white ringleted wig on his bald pate. Hans was struck by the professor’s air of unruffled sole
mnity amid the gaiety around him, as if he did not so much disapprove of it as consider it the result of flawed reasoning or a methodological error. Opposite him, teacup suspended mid-way between saucer and mouth, sat the wary Herr Levin, a merchant with a penchant for theosophy. Herr Levin avoided the eyes of his interlocutors, appearing to focus instead on their eyebrows. A man of few and perplexing words, quite the opposite of Professor Mietter, Herr Levin had the awkward manner of someone trying to appear irreproachable even in repose. Next to him sat his wife, the mouse-like Frau Levin, who was in the habit of speaking only when her husband did, either to echo what he said, to agree with him, or very occasionally to call him to order. Next, Hans was introduced to Frau Pietzine, for many years a widow, and a fervent devotee of Father Pigherzog’s sermons and of gemstones from Brazil. Frau Pietzine, who usually had a piece of embroidery in her lap which she would work on as she spoke, closed her eyelids as she allowed Hans to kiss her hand. He gazed at her yellow feather boa, her diamond ring, the strings of pearls that plunged like fingers into the pinkish skin of her cleavage.
Lastly, Sophie paused in front of the gentleman Hans had noticed standing beside the windows. My dear Herr Hans, she said, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Herr Urquiho, Álvaro de Urquiho. Urquijo, the man corrected her, Urquijo, my dear Mademoiselle. Of course, Urquixo! laughed Sophie, excuse my ignorance. Hans pronounced his name properly. Álvaro de Urquijo bobbed his head, sweeping the room with his eyes as if to say “Welcome to this”. Hans noticed the hint of irony in his gesture and felt an instant liking for him. He confirmed that Urquijo’s German was flawless, although imbued with an accent that gave it an impassioned quality. Our dear Herr Ur, er, Álvaro, said Sophie, however much he might regret the fact, is now a true Wandernburger. Believe me, my dear Mademoiselle, smiled Álvaro, one of the few reasons I do not regret becoming a Wandernburger is that you should consider me such. My dear friend, Sophie retorted, raising a shoulder towards her chin, you must not be so subtle in your flattery, remember you are a Wandernburger now. Álvaro gave a loud chortle and refrained from replying, conceding the point to his hostess. Sophie took her leave with a swift gesture, and went to attend to Frau Pietzine, who was clutching her needlework with a look of boredom on her face.
The afternoon slipped by pleasantly. Under the auspices of Sophie, who facilitated occasional exchanges between them, Hans was able to study the other members of her salon more closely. Each time he was asked what he did for a living, Hans replied that he travelled, he travelled and he translated. Some understood from this that he was an interpreter, others a diplomat, still others that he was on holiday. And yet everyone responded politely: Oh, I see. The conversations ebbed and flowed. Sophie circulated from one to another, aided by Elsa and Berthold. Herr Gottlieb, slightly removed from the centre of the gathering, his whiskers curled around his pipe, sat in silence observing the proceedings ironically, sceptical of whatever was being discussed, but proud of his daughter’s easy grace. Whenever she spoke, he smiled benignly like a person who believes they know the person to whom they are listening very well. Sophie on the other hand glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and gave him the opposite kind of smile—that of someone who believes the person listening to them hasn’t a clue about their beliefs. Herr Gottlieb seemed to pay most attention to Professor Mietter, often agreeing with what he said. Contrary to what he had initially thought, Hans had to confess that the professor was extremely knowledgeable. Despite his tedious way of holding forth, he advanced his arguments in a rigorous and impeccably orderly fashion, without his wig shifting an inch. Professor Mietter is almost unassailable, thought Hans—he either uses simple logic to put forward his views or else imposes them thanks to his listeners’ inertia, since in order to refute his opinions it is necessary to break down each of his erudite arguments, which he erects like firewalls. Although Hans was careful not to contradict him during that first meeting, he knew that if they met regularly they were destined to clash. For his part, Professor Mietter treated him with a studied politeness that Hans found almost aggressive. Whenever the professor listened to Hans’s opinions, so at odds with his own, he would raise his teacup cautiously to his lips, as though not wanting to steam up his spectacles.
Hans thought Bertold was following Elsa around, or that Elsa was trying to avoid Bertold, or both. Despite her attentiveness, Hans sensed a rebelliousness in Elsa—her gaze was more direct than was usual among servants, as though behind her silence there was defiance. Although they had both been employed at the Gottlieb residence for roughly the same length of time, Bertold seemed to be part of the furniture, whereas Elsa gave the impression of just passing through. Bertold attended the guests obligingly, Elsa did so grudgingly. My dear! Frau Pietzine suddenly called out to her. My dear, go to the kitchen and ask if there are any meringues left, yes, thank you, dear, and so, darling Sophie, will you not delight us today with your piano playing? Really? Oh, I’m so disappointed! The piano when it is well played is so, so, I just adore the piano, don’t you think, Herr Hans, that our beloved Sophie ought perhaps to, well, to play a little welcoming piece in your honour? I think if we all insist, what do you mean you refuse! Oh don’t make us plead, child! Really? Next week, you say? That’s a promise? Very well, very well, but remember you’ve given your word! It’s my age, you see, Herr Hans, at my age music moves one so!
Whenever Frau Pietzine referred to her age, she would make a dramatic pause and wait for a fellow guest to pay her a compliment. Still unaware of this, Hans was not forthcoming with any praise. Frau Pietzine lifted her chin, blinked three times in succession and turned around to join in the conversation between Herr Levin and Álvaro. Hans edged closer to Álvaro, hoping to renew at the first opportunity the discussion they had left off previously. As soon as he exchanged a few ideas with Herr Levin, Hans had the impression he was far too condescending towards him really to agree with anything he said. He suspected Herr Levin of concurring with everyone not out of modesty, but because he was secretly sure of quite the opposite but was not prepared to argue about it. He also thought Frau Levin behaved towards her husband in the same way he did to the others. As for the Spanish guest, Álvaro, Hans was able to confirm what he had suspected—he was different from the others, not because he was a foreigner but because of some dissenting convictions that aroused Hans’s interest. Álvaro seemed willing to satisfy his curiosity—when Professor Mietter launched into one of his monologues, Álvaro would catch Hans’s eye, and a flicker of amusement would appear on Álvaro’s lips, which turned into a frank smile when Hans responded.
That afternoon Hans made these and other observations. And yet they all turned on the same axis, like threads around a bobbin—the focus, the real reason for his visit to the Gottlieb Salon, was beyond a doubt his desire to be close to Sophie. She spoke to him now and then, although their conversations never ran on, and it was always Sophie who broke them off on some pretext or other. So it seemed to Hans at any rate. Was it shyness? Or pride? Perhaps he was behaving inappropriately. Or possibly his conversation bored her. But if so then why had she invited him? That afternoon, Hans agonised over the meaning of Sophie’s gestures, conferring on each too much significance, veering constantly between enthusiasm and disappointment, sudden delight and petty resentment.
For her part Sophie had the impression that Hans, seemingly with impeccable courtesy yet with a certain underlying impertinence, had spent the entire afternoon creating small points of intimacy between them during their conversations. Sophie refused to tolerate this attitude for a number of reasons. Firstly, she had endless things to attend to during these gatherings, and was not about to neglect her duties in order to please anyone. Secondly, Hans was a newcomer, and should not expect any preferential treatment—this would be unreasonable and unfair on the others. Thirdly, she was of course a recently betrothed woman and her father was keeping an eagle eye on her from behind the veil of his pipe smoke. Finally, without knowing why, Sophie realised with annoyance that w
henever she spoke to Hans her mind began to wander and she had inconvenient thoughts quite unrelated to the salon.
Even so, Sophie told herself as she swished her skirts from one end of the room to the other, these slight objections were not enough of a reason to stop inviting Hans to the salon—she could not deny that his contributions, more frequent as the hours went by, were original and slightly provocative, and would enhance the debates. And this was the only thing, Sophie kept saying to herself, the only thing that persuaded her Hans should be allowed to keep coming.
I don’t know what it is about this city, Hans said, handing the bowl of rice back to the organ grinder, it’s as if it won’t let me leave. The organ grinder chewed, nodded his head and tugged on his beard. First you appeared, Hans said, and then her, there’s always some reason for me to delay my journey. Sometimes it feels as if I’ve just arrived in Wandernburg; other days I wake up with the sensation of having lived here all my life. When I go out I look at the coaches and say to myself: Go on, climb aboard, it’s very simple, you’ve done it a thousand times. Yet I let them go by, and I don’t understand what’s happening to me. Why, yesterday Herr Zeit didn’t even ask me when I was leaving as he does every night. I paused as we crossed on the stairs, but instead he looked at me and said, See you in the morning. It felt terrible. I hate knowing the future. I could hardly sleep for thinking about it. How many days have I been here? To begin with I knew exactly how many, but now I couldn’t say for sure. (Why does that worry you? the organ grinder said, what’s wrong with staying here?) I don’t know, I suppose I’m afraid of carrying on seeing Sophie and then having to leave, it would be worse, maybe I should continue my travels while there’s still time. (But isn’t that what love is, the old man said, being happy to stay?) I’m not sure, organ grinder, I’ve always thought of love as pure movement, a sort of journey. (But if love itself is a journey, the old man argued, why would you need to leave?). Good question, well, for example, in order to come back, in order to be sure you’re in the right place. How can you know that if you’ve never left it? (That’s how I know I love Wandernburg, replied the organ grinder, because I don’t want to leave.) All right, all right, but what about people? Does the same rule apply to people? For me there’s no greater joy than being reunited with a friend I’ve not seen for a long time. What I mean is, we also go back to places because we love them, don’t you think? And loving someone can be like a homecoming (being older, I think that love, love of places, people or things, is about harmony, and harmony for me is to be at rest, to observe what’s around me, being happy to be where I am, and, well, that’s why I always play in the market square, because I can’t imagine a better place), places and things stay the same, but people change, we change. (My dear Hans, places are constantly changing, haven’t you noticed the branches, the river?) No one notices those things, organ grinder, everyone walks around without seeing, they become accustomed, accustomed to their houses, their jobs, their loved ones, and in the end they convince themselves that this is their life, there can be no other, it’s just a habit (that’s true, although love can be a habit, too, can’t it? Loving someone could be, I don’t know, like living inside that person), I think I’m getting drunk, Hans sighed, slumping back onto the pallet. The organ grinder stood up. I think we need a third opinion, he announced with a grin. He poked his head out of the cave and proclaimed: What do you think, Franz? But Franz did not bark, and went on lifting his leg calmly against a pine tree. The organ grinder looked at Hans, who sat head in hand. Come on, the old man said, cheer up. What would you like to hear, a waltz or a minuet?
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