Traveller of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  I have been thinking, in odd moments, about the arguments you put forward at last Friday’s meeting. And, although I will not try to hide the fact that some of what you said jarred with me a little, or perhaps what jarred was your tone (why are you in the habit of making what is intelligent seem a challenge, and what is logical appear conceited?), I must confess I also found it interesting, and even to some extent original.

  “Interesting”! “To some extent”! Hans glanced for a moment at the sun pouring through the window, delighting in Sophie’s sense of pride. He knew that whatever she went on to say, he was going to enjoy her letter.

  For this reason, my dear Herr Hans, providing you are willing and can find no better way to spend your time, it would give me great pleasure to have the opportunity to speak to you outside the salon, which you may have observed requires me to share my attention and even to employ the ruses of a hostess, as I am sure you have perceived.

  This fleeting complicity with him, “as I am sure you have perceived”, made his breath quicken. So, she admitted perceiving that he had perceived! What exactly they had both perceived remained to be seen. But if Sophie thought she could get away with this disclosure without any consequences, she was mistaken—Hans was willing to cling to her words as to a branch in mid plunge.

  Therefore, if you have time, my father and I would be delighted to receive you at our house tomorrow afternoon at a half past four. I trust I am not importuning you with a fresh engagement—it appears you are a tireless reader, and tireless readers have little time for socialising. Kindly reply at your leisure during the course of the day.

  Affectionately,

  Sophie G

  Hans was aware of an omission in her aloof and rather abrupt ending, the subtle omission of a conventional, and, in this case, he thought, extraordinarily significant word—yours. If Sophie had not finished her letter with the usual polite phrase yours affectionately, perhaps her coy omission of that possessive revealed a sensual fear that could not be entirely ingenuous. Could it? Or couldn’t it? Was he imagining things? Was he making a fool of himself by being overly susceptible? Was he reading too much into it? Was he being too clever by half? Was he once more inadvertently confusing intelligence with conceit?

  He was rescued from this confusion by the postscript, which looked as if it had been jotted down as an afterthought, and revealed an uneasy hesitancy:

  PS I will also take the liberty of asking you to refrain from appearing before my father in the beret and broad-collared shirt I have seen you wearing in your walks around the city. Without wishing to deny my sympathies for the political connotations of such attire, I am sure you appreciate its inappropriateness in a household as traditional as mine. The more formally you dress the better. Thank you in advance for complying with these tiresome rules of etiquette. I shall do my utmost to reward your goodwill with canapés and sweetmeats. S G

  And Sophie’s last words were sweet, sweet her very last word.

  Hans was beside himself with joy and anticipation. What should he reply? And how long should he wait before doing so? What clothes was he to wear the following day? He stood up, sat down again, got to his feet again. He felt a wave of happiness, had a violent erection and then could barely control his emotions. He realised he must first read Sophie’s letter in a calmer state. He made himself wait a few minutes, looked out of the window at the heads, hats and feet moving up and down Old Cauldron Street, while he let the letter cool down. He read her opening admonishments over and over. He smiled at Sophie’s gentle rebuke, which revealed her nature as surely as they alluded to him. He studied the dissembling nature of her invitation, her winning disdain, the charming piquancy of her complicity. He pondered the abrupt ending, trying to gauge how much of it was due to aloofness and how much to prudence. And to finish off he savoured the marvellous appeal in the postscript, which was Sophie’s way of saying that she too noticed him in the street. Hans picked up his quill and dipped it into the ink pot.

  When he had written his reply, he avoided rereading it so as not to repent of some of the liberties he had taken in the midst of his euphoria. He took a deep breath, signed his name and folded the piece of paper. He finished dressing and went downstairs to give it to Lisa, taking the opportunity to ask who had delivered the letter and whether they had said anything. From Lisa’s description he knew that Elsa was the messenger. She said that she had said nothing worth mentioning, although, in Lisa’s opinion, she had been rather abrupt, and had even cast a disapproving eye over the inside of the inn. And that (Lisa did not say as much, but Hans deduced it, amused) both she and her mother believed Elsa was the author of the mauve letter. Lisa stared with a mixture of envy and longing at the paper Hans gave her. For a moment he thought Lisa was being inquisitive as she puzzled over the names of the sender and the addressee. He immediately felt a flash of shame—Lisa was not reading, she was wishing she could. She raised her eyes and studied Hans’s face, as if to show him she at least knew how to read his thoughts. Lisa’s adolescent beauty suddenly became firmer, as if anticipating the future. Hans did not know what to say or how to apologise. She seemed content with her brief intimidating flash—her features softened, she looked like a young girl again, and she said: I’ll deliver it right away, sir. Hans felt humbled by the word sir.

  Hans was sipping vegetable broth in the dining room when he saw Elsa’s hat appear in the doorway. He invited her to sit down, and was surprised when she accepted. After a moment of awkward silence, he smiled: Well? Elsa’s leg was pumping up and down once more, as though working an imaginary pedal. Do you have a message for me? Hans asked, without realising he was not looking her in the eye but watching her leg go up and down. Elsa stopped moving it abruptly. She handed him a letter. It’s from Fräulein Gottlieb, she said. This seemed to Hans so obvious that there must be more to it. I see, he ventured, trying to draw her out further. She gave it to me an hour ago, Elsa said, and asked me to deliver it here at the inn. I see, he nodded, with growing anticipation. I couldn’t come until now, Elsa said. That’s all right, said Hans, I’m grateful to you for bringing it. There’s no need, she said, I’m doing my duty. (I wonder what she means, thought Hans. Did she bring me the letter willingly despite being obliged to, or, on the contrary, would she not have brought it unless she’d been forced to? Hans was so nervous he was lost in his conjectures. Perhaps Elsa hadn’t meant either of these things. Perhaps her mind was elsewhere or she had simply wanted to rest for a moment on the sofa. But in that case why was she still there?) Elsa continued: Fräulein Gottlieb told me you needn’t reply, unless you wish to. (And what was he to make of this? Should he refrain from replying, did Sophie’s new missive imply some kind of interlude? Or was Sophie’s caveat an invitation to carry on with their communication, like the gestures she had made with her fan? Thinking wasn’t easy after a generous serving of vegetable soup.)

  Elsa left Hans with the impression she hadn’t managed to say everything she wanted, or hadn’t wished to tell him everything she should have. She had been inscrutable yet polite, avoiding his questions without refusing to answer them. After poring over Sophie’s letter, Hans felt none the wiser—in evasive, flawless grammar, Sophie expressed her delight at the news of his attendance the following afternoon; she mentioned some trivial detail about the meeting; above all (and this was almost the only thing he noticed in her letter) she seemed to have tempered the tone of her previous communication, rebuffing his flattery with cautious irony. Reluctantly, Hans realised he could spend the entire day trying to decipher hidden meanings, but no amount of effort would put an end to the waiting nor to the feverish turmoil he was beginning to fear would accompany his every movement from now on.

  As the light began to fade, Hans, the organ grinder and Franz crossed the city together. The little orange-and-green cart juddered over the cobblestones and the beaten earth. Hans marvelled at the way the old man calmly pushed his instrument almost two miles every day to and from the square. It also amazed him that th
e organ grinder never wavered when he reached a bend or crossing or fork in the road. Hans had been there for at least a month and a half and had so far failed to take the same route more than twice in a row—he would always reach his destination, but never without some modification along the way. Hans now suspected that rather than secretly shifting position, Wandernburg rotated suddenly like a sunflower turning to follow the sun.

  The mud from the day before had begun to dry. Patches of melting frost gave off a slight mist. A stench of churned earth and urine wafted up from the ground. The grey city walls were stained with moisture and the remains of the day. Hans contemplated the age-old grime, the clotted neglect of Wandernburg to which he was still unaccustomed. The organ grinder sighed, and, placing a skinny hand on his shoulder, declared: Isn’t Wandernburg pretty! Hans looked at him with astonishment. Pretty? he said. Don’t you find it a little dirty, gloomy, small? Of course, said the organ grinder, but also very pretty! Don’t you like it? That’s a shame. No, please don’t apologise, there’s no need be so formal! I understand, it’s normal. Perhaps you’ll like it better when you get to know it. What I like about Wandernburg is you. You, Álvaro, Sophie. It’s the people, don’t you think, who make a place beautiful? You’re right, said the organ grinder, but for me it’s also, how can I explain? These alleyways never cease to amaze me, I never tire of looking at them because, Franz! Leave those horses alone! Come here you rascal! When that dog is hungry he thinks everyone’s his friend and is going to give him a bone instead of a kick. Where was I? Ah yes, to me these streets are, how can I put it, they’re so old that they seem new. What nonsense I talk! They fascinate me. Tell me, said Hans, what fascinates you? What exactly do you like about them? Nothing, everything, the organ grinder said, the square for instance, even though I’ve been playing there for years, every day I find it more interesting. I used to be afraid I’d grow bored with it, you know, that I’d have had enough of the square, but now the more I look at it, the less I seem to know it. If you could see the tower in summer compared to when it snows! It looks as if, as if it’s made of a different substance. And the market, the fruit, the colours, you never know what each new crop will bring, this winter, for instance, Franz! Watch out! Come here! Or what can I say, I like it when they start lighting the street lamps, have you noticed? I like watching the way people change without realising it, they keep walking by, the men’s hair thins, the women grow stout, the children grow up, new ones appear. It saddens me to hear young people say they don’t like this city, it’s good they are curious and think of other places, but wouldn’t it be good if they were also curious about where they are from, because perhaps they haven’t looked closely enough. They’re young. They still see things as either beautiful or ugly. Do you know I enjoy talking to you, Hans. I never talk this much to anyone.

  Far away in the meadows, sheep were finishing giving suck to their lambs, who clung to their teats as to a last ray of light. The wool of night was quickly being woven.

  Reichardt and Lamberg had been the first to arrive, and were now sharing a bottle of wine and some stale bread. Álvaro had turned up a little later. At Hans’s request he had begun to drop by the cave from time to time, and, also at Hans’s request, on these occasions would bring with him a generous helping of food that his cook had prepared. Since he had been widowed, Álvaro lived alone in his house on the edge of the city, not far from the textile mill. He usually went everywhere on horseback. Once he was in the city he would leave his mount at a stable and either take carriages or walk. Álvaro sat bolt upright on his horse, heels flush with the animal’s flank, arms relaxed, almost down by his side. Seeing him ride one had the impression that his lively steed was at one with him, rather than obeying the tug of the reins. Álvaro never stayed very late at the cave. At a given hour, he would glance at his pocket watch, bid the others good night, and climb back on his horse.

  Unusually for him, Álvaro arrived at the cave looking dishevelled. His hair was tousled and his cheeks flushed, as if he had washed his face after some strenuous effort. Sorry I’m late, he muttered, sitting down in front of the fire, I had a disastrous tilbury ride. First we almost turned over, then one of the wheels got stuck and I had to get out and push while the driver whipped the horse. The brute beat him so hard I feared the poor creature might not make it! It seemed to Hans his friend was explaining too much for the informality of the cave. He recalled his walk there earlier with the organ grinder, the state of the road, and remarked casually: How odd your tilbury should get stuck in the mud, it was almost dry this afternoon. That’s as may be, Álvaro replied abruptly, but the part we went along was muddy!

  Their appetites sated and sharing the warmth of the fire, they struck up a friendly banter. Álvaro appeared to have regained his composure, and began joining in, having a laugh with Hans whenever he could, nudging him and patting him on the back. Their conversations gradually grew muddled. But before making them inebriated, the wine had granted them a couple of hours of clear-headedness. Then Álvaro had asked Hans something no one had ever asked him before: You’re always threatening to go to Dessau, he said, what exactly is it you have to do there? Herr Lyotard is expecting me, Hans replied solemnly. And who might he be? Álvaro enquired. I’ll tell you another time, said Hans, winking at him. Hey, Álvaro asked, and what about Berlin, don’t you ever think of going back there? No, said Hans, what would be the point? I may have good memories of it, but can I go back and find them? I may go there again but I could never go back. Going back is impossible. That’s why I prefer new places. And before Berlin, the organ grinder said curiously, where were you? A long way away, replied Hans. But, my dear boy, the old man said, folding one of Franz’s ears as if it were a handkerchief, why do you travel so much? Let’s just say, Hans replied, that I’m unable to live any other way. I think if you know where you’re going and what you’re going to do, you’re likely to end up not knowing who you are. My work is to translate, and I can do that anywhere. I try not to make plans, and to let fate decide. For instance, a few weeks ago I left Berlin. I was thinking of going to Dessau and decided to stop off here for the night, and now look—by chance I am still here, enjoying talking to you. Things don’t happen by chance, said the organ grinder, we help them along, and if they turn out badly we blame chance. I’m sure you know why you’re still here, and I’m delighted you are! And when you leave you’ll know why you did so as well. Hey, you two professors! Reichardt groaned. If you carry on philosophising I’m going to fall asleep!

  No, no, Lamberg suddenly declared, narrowing his eyes, Hans is right. I’m never sure why I stay here. I don’t know what I’m doing at the mill or where I might go next. I’m the same as Hans, but I don’t move.

  The fire and Lamberg’s eyes competed, sparking off one another.

  I can’t help it, Hans went on, when I stay in one place for a long time I notice I don’t see so well, as if I were losing my eyesight. Things begin to look like one big blur, and nothing amazes me any more. On the other hand, when I travel everything is a mystery, even before I arrive. For instance, I love going by stagecoach and observing my fellow travellers, I invent lives for them, speculate about why they are leaving or arriving somewhere. I wonder whether something will happen that will bring us together or whether we’ll never meet again, which is more likely. And, since it is almost certain we’ll never meet again, it occurs to me this intimacy is unique, that we could remain silent or declare ourselves, you know the kind of thing; for example, I look at one of the ladies and think: I could tell her right now “I love you”; I could say “Madam, I want you to know I care”, and there would be one chance in a thousand that instead of looking at me as though I had lost my mind, she’d say “Thank you” or smile at me (my eye! said Reichardt. The lady would slap you in the face for being so forward), yes, of course, but she might also ask “Do you mean it?” or confess “It’s been twenty years since anyone said that to me”, do you see? What I mean is it thrills me to think that this is the only time
I will ever meet the passengers in this stagecoach. And when I see how quiet, how serious they are, I can’t help wondering what they’re thinking as they look at me, what they must feel, what their secrets are, how much they suffer, whom they love. It’s the same with books, you see mounds of them in bookshops and you want to read them all, or at least to have a taste of them. You think you could be missing out on something important, you see them and they intrigue you, they tempt you, they tell you how insignificant your life is and how tremendous it could be. Everyone’s life, Álvaro declaimed in a comic voice, is both insignificant and tremendous. How young you are, Hans, said the organ grinder. Not nearly as young as I look, Hans replied with a grin. And such a flirt! Álvaro added. Hans hit him on the head with a twig. Álvaro pulled Hans’s beret down over his face and jumped on top of him. They rolled around the floor, laughing aloud, while Franz joined in excitedly, looking for a chance to enter the fray.

  I see mysteries everywhere, too, the organ grinder said pensively, only, like I was telling you today, I see them without having to leave the square. I compare what I see with what I saw yesterday, and I tell you, it’s never the same. I look around and I see if one of the fruit stalls is missing or if someone is late for church or if a couple have had a quarrel or if a child is sick. Do you think I’d notice if I hadn’t been to the square so many times? I’d feel giddy if I travelled as much as you do, I’d have no time to concentrate. You think it’s so wonderful, Reichardt said mockingly, because you get mesmerised just looking at the view. I’m almost as old as you. (Which of you is older? Hans asked, amused.) That’s a rude question, whippersnapper! Can’t you see with your own eyes? He is, he is, look at my arms, feel! My problem is I get bored. I’m not so curious any more, as if places had aged like me. I mean, everything’s the same, but diminished.