The light was beginning to fade, casting a shadow on the meadow towards the east. Both had to go back to the city, but neither stirred. Evening was gradually closing in on them. And the light, in sympathy, lingered on.)
She was fastening her corset while Hans was opening his trunk. Today, he said, I’d like us to translate a young Russian poet I recommended to Brockhaus. But Hans, do you know any Russian, she asked? Me? he replied. Only the Cyrillic alphabet and a few dozen words. Well then? Sophie said, surprised. Ah, Hans chuckled, I told them you were fluent. We’ll translate using a third language, don’t worry. We have an original edition here—look: —a French translation, and an English one, and this nice Russian-German dictionary, what do you reckon?
They selected a few poems from the translations they had. They copied out the English and French versions, placing each stanza in a separate table. They checked each word in the dictionary in order to make sure they had understood the literal meaning of the original, then noted down the different meanings next to each table.
Do you know what? Sophie said playfully, this Pushkin’s adulterous loves are more believable than his spiritual ones. That’s typical of you, Bodenlieb! said Hans, looking over the draft they had just done:
Dorida’s long tresses hold me in thrall,
As does her blue-tinged gaze at the ball;
When yesterday I left, her charms
Enchanted me as I looked on her arms,
Every impulse leading me to more,
My desire sated as ne’er before.
But suddenly in the bitter gloom
Strange features filled the room;
A secret sadness made me start,
Another name was in my heart.
After Sophie had left, Hans reread the drafts of their translations. His head began to grow heavy, his muscles went slack and his cheek settled on the desk where it was warmed by the oil lamp. Before sitting up straight again, he had a strange fleeting nightmare—he dreamt he was going from one language to another like someone running through a line of sheets hung out to dry. Each time he encountered a language, his face became wet and he thought he had woken up in his mother tongue, until he got to the next sheet and realised his mistake. Still running, he began talking to himself, and could clearly visualise the language he was speaking—he was able to contemplate the words he was uttering, their structures, their inflexions, yet he always arrived too late. The moment he came close to understanding the language in which he was dreaming, he felt something slap him in the face, and he woke up in the next language. Hans ran like a madman, arriving once, a hundred times too late to perceive these languages, until suddenly he understood he had really woken up. Looming before his eyes he saw a huge oil lamp and a great mound of papers. He noticed, as he sat up, that one of his cheeks was burning. Then, with a sense of relief he began a train of thought, and for a moment he contemplated in amazement the logic of his own language, its familiar shape, its miraculous harmony.
Listen, the organ grinder implored, is this really necessary? Are you sure? (Hans looked at him reprovingly and nodded several times.) All right, all right, let’s do it.
Slowly, clumsily, as if with each garment he were peeling off a whole year, the old man finally took off his tattered shirt, his linen breeches and his worsted shoes. Just so you know, he added, as a last protest, I’m only doing this to please you. Separated from the organ grinder’s dry flaccid skin, the garments curled up into a stinking ball. The earth appeared to swallow them up.
Barefoot, his trousers rolled up to his knees, Hans took the old man by the arm in order to help him into the river. He watched as he immersed himself bit by bit—his paper-thin ankles, his unsteady legs, his sagging buttocks, his hunched back. At last all Hans could see was the organ grinder’s dishevelled white head as he turned and beamed at him, mouth wide open, and began swimming like a child, arms thrashing in the water. Hey, it’s not so cold! the old man shouted. Won’t you join me? Thanks, said Hans, but I take my bath when I get up in the morning! Every morning! Bah! cried the organ grinder. Old wives’ tales! Princes bathe in scented water and die young!
Hans watched with repulsion and fascination the ripples of grime dissolving around the organ grinder’s body. He splashed his arms about in them playfully: Look! the old man laughed, pointing at the grey and brown lumps. It’s attracted the fish! Yes, thought Hans, there was something repulsive and yet honest about such an attachment to dirt. There was an obscure integrity about the old man’s lack of hygiene, or rather his lack of shame, a kind of truth. Some time ago, the organ grinder had said something ridiculous and at the same time true—perfumes were a deception, they wanted to be something else. Perhaps. Although Hans loved perfumes.
He helped the old man out of river and draped a towel around his bony shoulders. His knees were knocking, more from the shock of the water than from its temperature. As he rubbed himself down with the towel, the organ grinder began fiddling with his dripping testicles. Hans could not help glancing at them out of the corner of his eye, and at his tiny shrivelled penis. The organ grinder noticed this at once and he laughed good-naturedly. He was laughing at Hans, at himself, at his penis and at the river. Hey, he said, do you fiddle with yourself much? Hans looked the other way. Don’t be embarrassed, the old man said, I shan’t tell anyone. Do you fiddle with yourself much, then? No, yes, replied Hans, well, no more than is usual. You might find this strange, the organ grinder said, but from time to time—whoosh!—so do I! Do you know what I think about when I fiddle with myself? a I think about a woman with no clothes on, dancing a waltz. A young woman, who smiles at me. I think Franz knows, because every time—whoosh!—the scoundrel starts barking as if someone had come in.
They ate lunch together, talking then falling silent for a while. Hans spoke of Sophie and the dreaded end of the summer. Next month everything will change, he said. But, kof, kof, coughed the old man, everything is always changing, there’s nothing wrong with that. I know, sighed Hans, but sometimes things change for the worse. By the way, what’s that cough you have? Cough? said the organ grinder. What cough? Kof. That cough, said Hans. Is it from the water? No, the old man shrugged, it’s from before, don’t worry, maybe it’s the first sign of autumn, but, tell me, do you love her? Do you really love her? Yes, replied Hans. How can you be so sure so soon? the old man asked. Hans reflected for a moment then said: Because I admire her. Ah, well, the old man smiled. Kof.
Two sun-drenched days later, the organ grinder’s cough went away and he said he felt better than a brand-new organ string. Concerned about the old man’s diet and the state of his clothes, Hans resolved to find him work through Sophie’s friends. He remembered the old man saying that in the summer people always asked him to play at some dance or other, but he wasn’t aware that he had received any such commissions that year.
Lisa knocked at the door and handed him a violet note without looking him in the eye. Hans thanked her and reminded her that the following day they had a lesson. She said “Yes, I know”, and disappeared down the corridor. Hans stood watching her, reflecting about the unfairness of age, how it came too slowly for some and too fast for others. He forgot all about the matter as soon as he sat down to read the letter:
My love, good news—a close friend (well, not that close), Fräulein von Pogwisch, is having a ball on Saturday and I’ve convinced her how much more original it would be if she hired a “real” itinerant musician instead of the customary quartet. I know this may seem a rather silly argument, but if you knew Fräulein von Pogwisch you would understand perfectly. The reason I thought of her is because, although her family have a good income, they aren’t exactly wealthy, and her parents will be only too happy to save some money under the pretext of being original. Do you approve of the idea, my love? I feel happy. Did you notice how light it was this morning? Or were you fast asleep? I love you to pieces, your
S
The following Saturday, as agreed, Hans went to the end of Bridge Walk at six-thirty
sharp to fetch the organ grinder. And Franz—the one condition the old man had insisted upon when accepting the job was that his dog be allowed to accompany them to the Pogwisch residence. Hans had hired a dogcart so Franz would feel at home. Hans’s face broke into a smile when he glimpsed the two of them walking down the path. Obeying his instructions, the old man had put on his only new shirt, a more or less presentable pair of breeches, and his best shoes. As he approached the cart, Hans saw that he had even combed his hair and trimmed his beard. Somewhat nervous, the organ grinder heaved himself into his seat, not allowing the driver to touch his barrel organ. I can manage, he said, I can manage. At that moment Franz gave two short barks, and Hans had the feeling he was repeating his master’s words. When the horses pulling the dogcart broke into a gallop, the organ grinder glanced about him, suddenly taken aback. How wonderful! he said. Do you know I can’t even remember the last time I rode in a carriage.
As I told you, my dear, Fräulein Kirchen was saying to Sophie, she’s always been such a good girl, what a terrible thing! And in the meantime the police do nothing, if they had their way, well, what do they care? Of course until something happens to the police chief’s daughter if you think they’re going to catch this masked attacker you’ve got another think coming! But, Sophie asked, when did this happen? Sometime yesterday afternoon, it seems, replied Fräulein Kirchen, near to … Good heavens! Do you see what I see, my dear? What on earth does Fanny think she’s wearing? She’s getting worse lately, has she lost her taste or her senses? Did I tell you what she said to Ottilie when they were having tea at …
Sophie heard a murmuring near the door and walked out into the hallway. She saw Fräulein von Pogwisch waving her arms about in front of Hans and behind him, at a slight distance, the old man and the dog waiting beside the barrel organ. What’s the matter, my dear? Sophie asked. Nothing really, replied Fräulein von Pogwisch, I was just telling the gentleman and the musician that if they expect to bring that mongrel in here, the least they could do is to give it a bath first. My dear young lady, the organ grinder said, doffing the hat Hans had forced him to put on, I assure you that my dog, which is far from being a mongrel and extremely well-behaved, will do what he’s told and stay by the door. In that case, replied Fräulein von Pogwisch, please tie him up. Believe me, the old man smiled, that really isn’t necessary—Franz only misbehaves when he’s tied up.
Seeing the organ grinder enter the room, everyone present turned as one to look at him. The old man paused, bobbed his head and walked on pushing his little cart. Hans and Sophie accompanied him to the corner of the room Fräulein von Pogwisch had set aside for him, and offered him a glass of wine before he began. Thank you, my dears, the old man said earnestly, but I never drink when I’m working otherwise I lose my rhythm. Very professional! Sophie said, winking at Hans as she went over to greet a friend.
At eight o’clock sharp, most of the guests had arrived and were keen for the dance to begin. The lady of the house signalled to Sophie. She in turn signalled to Hans, Hans looked at the organ grinder, and the old man lowered his head, inhaled, closed his eyes and slowly began to turn the handle.
Despite the suspicious glances the guests gave the old man as they passed close to him, the first two or three dances went down well. Above all the first, a popular polonaise which the old man had been canny enough to play at a faster pace than usual on account of the guests’ youthful exuberance. The rows of couples began dancing around the room, laughing as they changed places. Hans heaved a sigh of relief, and for a moment he thought everything would go smoothly. Little by little, however, the dance began to lose steam. By the third tune, several couples began to leave the dance floor muttering. In the two that followed, the complaints became audible. At the sixth or seventh, the dance floor was all but deserted. Before the organ grinder could start up with his next tune, Fräulein von Pogwisch marched over crossly and ordered him to stop. The instrument quivered like an animal suffering from cold.
Hans and Sophie did their best to calm Fräulein von Pogwisch and the more irate among the guests. I say, what’s going on! one of them piped up. Whose idea was it to play minuets, anyway? What about some waltzes? another one demanded indignantly. Where are the waltzes! Well, added another, if the idea was to send us to sleep it’s been a great success! Which century does that thing belong to? cried another. Which century! We should invite my great-grandmother! Another one declared: My great-grandmother! Tell me, a voice rang out from the back of the room, where did you find this clown? Which poorhouse did you drag him out of ?
Hans pushed his way through and found the organ grinder backed into his corner clutching his barrel organ, unable to move.
They crossed the room amid disdainful whispers, mocking laughter and jeers. The organ grinder followed behind with that detached air that made him seem at once fragile and unassailable. As they were reaching the hallway, they heard a voice from inside shout: What a relief! Here’s a pianoforte! Come here, Ralph! Ralph! Come and play us a lively tune!
Walking through the door was like plunging into a fountain of cool water. Night had fallen and the air was laced with the sound of crickets. Seeing them emerge, Franz pricked up his ears, lowered his tail and frowned. A moment later, Sophie appeared. She stopped Hans, clasping his hands and bringing them up to her cheeks. She closed her eyes in a gesture of deep regret and sighed: I don’t think it was a good idea to choose this house, it’s my fault. No, Hans replied stroking one of her ringlets, it wasn’t your fault and it wasn’t your idea either. Sophie went over to the organ grinder, gave him a long embrace and told him she was sorry. I’m the one who is sorry for playing your friends tunes from thirty years ago, replied the old man. I think I’m no longer …
At that moment, Fräulein von Pogwisch appeared in the doorway. She contemplated Hans sharply, looked scornfully at Sophie, and finally her gaze settled on the organ grinder as one encountering a peculiar rock in her path. I’ve come to pay you for your concert, announced Fräulein von Pogwisch. She placed a few coins on top of the barrel organ and made as if to leave. I should think so, Hans said angrily, especially as you were the one who cut it short. I wouldn’t dream of taking your money, Madame, said the organ grinder (the only trace of irony Hans was able to detect in his words was his use of Madame—the hostess was still a young woman), I couldn’t accept payment because I haven’t done my job, people pay me for playing, but I have never charged anything for not playing. Good evening, Madame, I apologise for the inconvenience.
Will you please explain why you didn’t accept? Hans rebuked him on the way back, that money was yours, you earned it! You did the best you could! Dignity is one thing, pride another. You, Franz, and the barrel organ all need the money and you weren’t stealing it from anyone. Now it turns out you went through all that for nothing. Ah, no, replied the organ grinder, forgive me, but you’re wrong, it wasn’t for nothing—it was lovely riding in this elegant carriage.
(Whenever I am menstruating, Sophie had reflected as she climbed the stairs at the inn, a strange thing happens to me. On the one hand I feel, or in theory I know, I’m more of a woman than ever. Yet on the other hand it stops me, limits my fulfilment. For example, I imagine Hans will want to make love as soon as I get upstairs, or that’s what I like to imagine. And I know I will, too, and I won’t stop feeling awkward, like an intruder in my own body. In any event I’ll end up feeling guilty, which I detest. Guilty about what? It’s hard to be open when nature dictates one thing and one’s conscience another. But is it really a dictate? Or is it a wonderful possibility, which I’m free to refuse? The fact is today I have cramps, I feel sick, I have a pain shooting down from my waist, and I haven’t felt like eating all day. I’d like to tell Hans all this, but I’m not sure he’d understand or that I’d be able to explain it to him even …)
Lying face up, clasping his back between her calves, Sophie said: Don’t pull out this time, then.
The smell of blood hindered them at first and then finally made
them lose all inhibition—they shared its stains, soiling themselves in the act of lovemaking.
She was embarrassed at him seeing her bleed onto his sheets, but she felt this sight united them or obliterated a secret. Suddenly it seemed natural and profoundly true—now, when he spilt his seed inside her, they would be brought together by a common desire not to conceive, to unleash together a pleasure that began and ended completely with itself. If the past is like a father, its true offspring would be this absolute present, not the future. (This idea struck her as she reached the edges of orgasm, interrupting her thoughts.)
They spoke in hushed voices, naked. Sophie’s loins were soaked in blood and Hans’s pubic hairs were matted, solidified. Their features expressed the intensity and repose of those still in the aftermath of pleasure. They listened to one another breathing, wiggled their feet, stretched their limbs. How delicious, he said, not having to pull out. Mmm, she said. Or did you not enjoy it? he asked, concerned. No, it isn’t that, she replied, I don’t know how to describe it, I loved it and at the same it scared me, do you understand? I’m not sure, he said, turning to look at her. You see, Sophie said sitting up, I’ve always been afraid of being a mother. Don’t get me wrong, I want to have children. I just don’t want to be a mother. Is it possible to be both a selfish girl and a doting mother? What can you do when you want to be both things? Oh, my love, so many stupid things go through my head, the discomforts of pregnancy, gaining weight, my skin losing its smoothness, physical pain. I suppose I don’t know how to be a strong woman. On the contrary, Hans said, embracing her, only a strong woman admits these things.
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