Traveler of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  Before going out into the corridor, Frau Zeit added: Oh, I forgot. My husband says you’re using too much oil and he can’t keep filling the lamp. Tell your husband, said Hans solemnly, I need the lamp in order to work because tallow candles are a strain on the eyes, and I’ll pay him each week for the oil I use. Good afternoon.

  When Hans was alone with his cup of cold coffee, he made two decisions—that night he would not dine at the inn and, come hell or high water, Lisa would continue to receive lessons from a stranger.

  Always watched over, ever closer to the high temperatures of summer, Hans and Sophie had gone on an outing. Elsa and Álvaro had gone with them. The four of them had hired a calèche and followed the main road to the banks of the River Nulte. Sophie was wearing an almost transparent shawl and a white bonnet with a flowered ribbon at the neck and a brim from beneath which her nose peeped out mischievously whenever she looked at Hans. Less sensibly dressed for the weather, Hans was sporting a simply absurd felt cap and a fine waistcoat. (Still in a waistcoat? she had remarked scathingly when she saw how overdressed he was for May.) They strolled through fields full of burgeoning colours in search of a suitable patch of shade. Spike aloft, Sophie’s parasol swung this way and that, succumbed, rested on her shoulder as they spoke. Elsa and Álvaro walked behind them, almost in silence.

  They chose a spot beside the river and spread out a checked blanket on the grass. The poplar trees along the banks of the Nulte were in full leaf and the reeds were beginning to poke through the water. A few bands of sunlight filtered through the branches making a bridge between the two banks. They sat in a semicircle—the two women folding their legs so they were sitting on their heels, the two men clasping their arms round their knees. They laid the food out on the blanket. They ate and drank, alternately talking and letting the river speak. After dessert, Álvaro asked the others if he might, as he explained in not very correct German, “take a flagrantly Spanish siesta”. Elsa dug out some magazines she had brought along and sat beneath the perfumed shade of a lime tree; none of the others noticed that, except for the first one, all the magazines were in English. For a moment Sophie and Hans were alone, or at least far enough away from the others to be out of earshot.

  Sophie told Hans that Rudi Wilderhaus wrote to her every day and had begun addressing her as my beloved future wife, a liberty he had hitherto, as became the formal nature of their engagement, not seen fit to take. What are his letters like? Hans asked, wracked with torment. They are—Sophie paused—polite (but she was thinking banal), and solicitous (but she was thinking pedantic). You must be very happy, said Hans. Yes, she said, very. Then everything is going well, he said, I’m glad, I’m glad. I can’t complain, Sophie added, because Rudi is very discreet and he doesn’t pester me. He never comes to the house more than once or twice a week, and he scarcely complains when I go out dancing with my friends. How thoughtful of him! exclaimed Hans. How very thoughtful! Moreover … she began, her eyes narrowing. Moreover? he came closer. Moreover, Sophie continued, he does his utmost to behave like a gentleman, a perfect gentleman, if you see my meaning! Aha, Hans began fidgeting. But Sophie said no more. Aha, said Hans, growing more and more agitated, by a perfect gentleman you mean … too much of a gentleman? What a relief it is, Sophie smiled, to be able to talk to someone who is low-minded. And so, ventured Hans, do you think it’s a good thing? I mean, do you greatly value such … gentlemanliness? You should know, she replied, showing her profile under the brim of her hat. I’m afraid, as my father says, I’m a practical girl.

  Hans swallowed hard. Everything felt inevitable and flowing, just like the river.

  Hot and heavy, evening falls over the fields. The flock of sheep flees the encroaching shadow as if it were scorched grass. The air smells peculiar; it moistens their misshapen muzzles. The sheep parade their unease. A chorus of bleats interrogates the horizon.

  The librarian makes sure the door is locked and leaves the building. She has stayed on after closing time to catalogue the new stock. She begins walking, her woollen coat draped over her shoulders. The librarian is looking forward to kicking off her shoes as soon as she gets home. She looks up at the sky and notices the closeness of the air, as if it were going to rain.

  The flock hears the distant bark of sheepdogs. They begin running instantly, to be on the safe side, as though anticipating danger. The barking stops and they come to a halt. The sheep prick up their ears. Then mistrust gives way to meekness, and they resume their slow chewing.

  The librarian walks past St Nicholas’s Church, and turns left into Jesus Lane. She could take a less solitary way home, but it is farther, she is already tired, and her feet are aching too much. Each footstep sends a shooting pain through her heels, the sound reverberates in her head. The echoes stop. What was that? Did she hear something? No, it was nothing. The librarian resumes walking, a little more hurriedly.

  The dogs head home, and with them the shepherd. They have herded the sheep into a line and are taking them towards the River Nulte. When the first sheep glimpses the riverbank, it stops in its tracks and tries to back away. Then the shepherd commands his dogs, the dogs bark at the sheep and the sheep begin crossing the river. Their legs plunge into the water, breaking up the reflection of the trees, their wool gets wet.

  The librarian’s heels clatter on the uneven paving, slipping on the traces of mud. A fine rain has begun to fall or so she thinks—her face is not dry. Not wanting to look behind her, the librarian feels for her keys in the pocket of her coat.

  The first sheep sees the shepherd coming towards it and freezes. Its leg muscles quiver. It takes two, three, four steps without knowing where to go. The shepherd lunges forward, hunched over. Moving its plump sturdy body, the sheep tries to flee. It scurries clumsily, thrusting its head forward as if it were a dead weight.

  The church bells begin chiming with a thunderous clang. Keeping close to the wall, the librarian looks back. Now she knows she is being followed. She quickens her pace, trying not to stumble, trying not to think. Her heels, the bells, the masked figure’s footsteps behind.

  The sheep is dragged over to the dip. The shepherd thrusts its head under the stream of water. The sheep struggles to get away. The shepherd strengthens his grip. He has to rub the sheep down, and he has to do it quickly.

  The masked figure has caught up with the librarian, who finds herself trapped between the wall and a still unlit street lamp. She wants to throw her head back and cry out, but she can’t.

  The shepherd begins rubbing the sheep’s flank vigorously with the water from the fountain, washing away the chaff and dust and excrement and the grease the animal secretes, the oily film that sticks to the wool and has to be rubbed, pulled, scrubbed away.

  She can’t throw her head back and cry out because the masked figure has grabbed her from behind and is holding a knife to her neck, covering her mouth with his gloved hand, and has begun groping her with slippery urgency, panting behind his mask.

  He ropes the animal’s legs together and grabs the shears, the honed metal. The rope tightens and the sheep’s flank goes into a spasm, seems about to explode, to leave its skin behind from so much writhing.

  He binds her wrists with a piece of rope, grapples with her until he manages to cram a handkerchief into her mouth. The rope tightens, cutting into her flesh. The masked figure leans against the street lamp to steady himself, keeping the librarian with her back to him, her face pressed against the wall.

  The wool closest to the skin resists the shears. The sheep’s lip curls with fright, baring its teeth. The shepherd works with both hands, his fingers trembling from the effort. The sheep’s mouth opens, letting out a more piercing bleat that resounds in waves. The shears become caught up in the twists of wool. The sheep’s teeth grind resignedly.

  The librarian screams with the handkerchief crammed in her mouth, the knife digging into but not breaking the skin on her neck. The masked figure works away, emitting short grunts. The librarian’s heavy thighs stay clenc
hed.

  The sheep’s eyes bulge, filling with an amber liquid. Wide open with fright, crazed, unseeing, the sheep’s eyes swallow up the light.

  The librarian’s coat lies tangled on the ground.

  The wool begins forming a mound.

  In a nearby alley, moving off into the distance, the nightwatchman’s cry can be heard: Watch over your fire and your lamps. Praise be to God! All praise!

  Lieutenant Gluck was dictating to Lieutenant Gluck, who was taking notes. The two Lieutenant Glucks had been assigned to investigate the increasingly alarming case of the masked attacker. The two men got on badly but they loved each other—they were father and son. The father had held the rank of lieutenant for years. He had reached a state of calm contentment, and no longer aspired to any higher position. The younger Gluck had recently made lieutenant, although his rank would not become official until the next annual review of police promotions. He had his sights set even higher, and was occasionally exasperated by his father’s lack of ambition. The veteran Lieutenant Gluck was proud of his son’s meteoric rise, and yet this removal of the professional hierarchy between them gave him cause for concern on a personal level—he didn’t wish to make too much out of it, but lately he had the feeling that his son disagreed with nearly all of his observations and flouted his orders, more out of defiance than conviction.

  Lieutenants Gluck and Gluck were in one of the offices in Wandernburg’s central police station, at the end of Spur Street. The room smelt musty, and the tiny window at the back was no bigger than a cell window. Lieutenant Gluck was leaning back in his chair, his heels resting on the edge of a desk full of woodworm. In the meantime, Lieutenant Gluck was pacing around his father’s chair taking notes. The older Gluck liked to run through all the facts in his mind in order to have a picture of the whole, before making any conjectures. His son preferred to investigate every possibility, analysing each clue as he went along, pulling on every thread to see where it might lead. Son, Lieutenant Gluck raised his head, will you keep still for five minutes? Sometimes a little calm is necessary in order to concentrate. I already told you, father, replied Lieutenant Gluck, I think better when I’m moving. But it’s the mind, not the body, that has to be agile, protested Lieutenant Gluck. It’s a wonder you can tell them apart, Lieutenant Gluck retorted, vexed. Sub-lieutenant! declared Lieutenant Gluck, removing his feet from the desk. Show some respect and keep still, that’s an order! And I’m warning you it applies to both things equally whether or not you can tell them apart! The son stopped pacing. Lieutenant Gluck announced solemnly: Is that clear, Sub-lieutenant? Yes, replied the son grudgingly. Yes, what, Sub-lieutenant? said the father. Yes, Lieutenant, said Lieutenant Gluck. Good, said the father, settling back in his chair, satisfied, in that case let’s continue.

  We know, Lieutenant Gluck resumed while his son took notes, that the attacker’s modus operandi has remained unchanged since the first attack, that is to say—in addition to the aforementioned carnival mask, the provenance of which we are attempting to determine, and the knife and the handkerchief he uses to silence his victims and the rope with which he ties their wrists, the attacker invariably strikes, according to all the witness statements to date—I’m not going too fast am I? All right, son, all right, I was only asking! Now, where was I? Oh yes—the attacker strikes in the vicinity of St Nicholas’s Church, more precisely in Wool Alley or Jesus Lane and other side streets off Archway. He doubtless chooses said streets because not only are they poorly lit and isolated, but because they enable him to lie in wait unseen by his victims, or rather by the women, intercepting them as they enter, or dragging them in as they walk past. To the best of our knowledge, the subject has never struck before seven o’clock in the evening or after ten o’clock at night. Therefore we can deduce (we can deduce, his son interrupted, stopping writing, that the attacker is well acquainted with the city’s habits, that is, he knows what time he is likely to find a victim in those streets, and more importantly he knows what time the policemen stop patrolling and the routes the nightwatchmen take), just so, just so, yes, and not only that (not only that what? his son said, looking up from his notebook), not only that, but we can, indeed we must, deduce from it the hours the attacker himself keeps. We might also suppose that he strikes relatively early because the next day he has to rise early for reasons of work, family or obligations of a different nature … (Go on, said Lieutenant Gluck.) Nothing, just that we should keep it in mind. If the subject is indeed familiar with police patrol times and the nightwatchmen’s itinerary, this would narrow down the suspect’s profile, whereas if his criminal routine is governed by familial responsibilities, then our search should include other types of profile (I can see no other reason for the criminal rising early except to go to work, reflected his son). Really? Why is that? (Quite simply, replied Lieutenant Gluck, because so far the criminal’s victims have all been young women, it follows he must be quick and agile, and of working age.) Hold on, we can’t be so sure about that, because it’s precisely the younger women who wear the kinds of garments that make running more difficult. What I mean is, if we take into account his victims’ clothing, the subject hasn’t needed to be fast on his feet. Patient, more like, I’d say. Anyway, have you got all that down, son? Good, excellent. How about a small beer? Don’t look at me like that, look at the time. We’re off duty!

  When Lisa handed him the envelope, he felt the same pang of excitement he always felt when he received one of Sophie’s letters. As he sat down to read, his brow wrinkled—this wasn’t Sophie’s notepaper or her writing. Inside the envelope Hans discovered an ominous surprise. A white visiting card, substantial and stiff to the touch, embossed with heraldic insignia and military crosses. The card, he read, was that of Herr Rudi P von Wilderhaus, the younger.

  The letter, polite but to the point, was an invitation to dear Herr Hans, with whom he had not yet had the opportunity to converse as quietly as he would have liked, to accompany him on a shoot the following day at dawn, assuming that he had no previous engagements and that he enjoyed fresh air and nature. So that, if Herr Hans saw fit to honour him with his company, he would pick him up in his carriage at six-thirty sharp. And with this, he ended the letter, sincerely yours, etc.

  After weighing up for a moment the possible inconveniences of accepting this strange invitation against the possibly even greater ones of refusing it, Hans sent a note to Wilderhaus Hall (taking care that it sounded neither overly aloof nor overly enthusiastic) thanking Rudi kindly for his generous invitation, which he accepted with pleasure, in the meantime bidding him goodbye until the morrow, etc, with my sincerest gratitude.

  Hans’s first thought was: What does Rudi really want? And his second: My God, I have to get up at the crack of dawn. Followed by: What boots shall I wear? He had never cared for hunting. Or rather, he had an instinctive loathing for it. And yet he knew he should go. Not simply out of courtesy, but in order to wheedle information out of Rudi about his betrothal to Sophie, and to gauge how suspicious he was, if at all. Because of the hour, his apprehension or both, Hans was unable to sleep a wink, and the lordly clip-clop of hooves found him wide-awake, standing at the window.

  Rudi greeted him from the top of a long shooting brake drawn by four black horses. The driver’s seat towered aloft, and from behind a caged partition the dogs barked at the dawn. Rudi had pinned to his lapel an eight-pointed star with a falcon at its centre and an inscription that read: Vigilando ascendimus. He had on baggy breeches tucked into slender knee-length boots. Hans found them distasteful, yet felt ridiculous when he glimpsed his own as he clambered onto the carriage. Did you sleep well, Herr Hans? You look tired. Rudi’s face shone like polished marble. Oh, extremely well, replied Hans, indeed, I slept so soundly I confess I had difficulty waking up. Did you? smiled Rudi. I did indeed, smiled Hans.

  As Rudi’s shooting brake sped north through the countryside along dirt roads Hans had never before been on, dawn burst on the scene, lighting everything as if catapulted into t
he air. Rudi appeared calm, or at least sure of himself. He spoke little and only about trivial matters. Occasionally, he would stare fixedly at Hans with an ominously friendly expression. Isn’t it beautiful? he said, pointing at the woods. Then he would become absorbed in the landscape and inhale deeply. Only when he noticed Rudi’s burly chest rising and falling did Hans realise he was scarcely breathing himself.

  They descended from the vehicle and Rudi ordered the driver and the footman to wait there until they returned. Hans, who had been interpreting Rudi’s every gesture since their first greeting, was even more alarmed by this command—what did until they returned mean exactly? That they’d be a long time, that he didn’t know how long they’d be, or that the driver and the servant weren’t to go looking for them however long they took? Rudi slung his gun over his shoulder. He offered Hans another and quickly nodded his head.