Traveler of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  Hans fell into an irritated silence. He looked at Sophie who was gathering up her things to leave, and said: It’s very obvious you don’t earn a living by translating, nor Rudi, for that matter.

  Hans saw Sophie’s fingers tighten around the door handle, her gentle knuckles tensing. Sophie released the handle. She slowly buttoned her gloves and responded, still facing the door: Do as you please, Hans. After all, as you’ve been kind enough to remind me, you’re the professional and I’m only an amateur. I wonder whether a professional needs the help of an amateur. Good day.

  My love—I don’t know which of us was right. But I do know that this translation, like all the others, belongs to both of us. And although I may have given a different impression, yesterday’s discussion was my clumsy way of consulting you.

  I have written to Brockhaus saying we won’t change the text, and if they wish to publish the book would they please find another translator.

  Would you do me the honour of continuing to work with me, Fräulein Bodenlieb, and of making me a better translator?

  Libertine bites from your

  H

  Dear professional libertine, I am not sure either which of us was right, although I am glad we agree on the main point—if we are working together the decision should be taken jointly.

  I know how difficult it was for you to send that letter to your publisher. I see in it an act of love. And, since I have the honour of being your assistant translator, it would be unfair of me to interpret it any other way. Thank you.

  Ah, what bites I have in store for you

  S

  Rudi’s shoulders, Hans reflected looking at them, had, so to speak, come back bearing a heavier load after the holidays. And the tone in which he spoke to Hans in the salon was not the same either—the words he used hadn’t changed, but there was a nasality about his voice, an air of restraint each time he turned to him and said for instance “Good night, how nice to see you again” or “Herr Hans, would you pass the sugar bowl?” How could he describe it, Hans kept thinking, it was as though Rudi were studying Hans’s every gesture, his every response, through a magnifying glass. He tried to ignore all these nuances and even attempted to appear more amiable, to wipe away any possible trace of guilt from his demeanour. Yet there Rudi was, every Friday, breathing down his neck, pressing his hand in an overly vigorous manner when he greeted him. Regardless of everything, with some difficulty, order reigned once more in the lives of both families—the Wilderhauses had reinstalled themselves in their sumptuous mansion on King’s Parade, Rudi had opened the hunting season and at the Gottlieb residence preparations had resumed for what would undoubtedly be the wedding of the year in Wandernburg.

  From the frame on the desk, a pale-faced woman stared into the distance, beyond Herr Gottlieb’s watery eyes, which were contemplating the photograph as though hoping it would utter a word, a whisper, anything, as he held onto his sixth glass of brandy. As far as Bertold could tell from having spent the past few weeks posted outside his study door, Herr Gottlieb spent entire afternoons doing little else but opening and closing drawers. The previous evening, Bertold noticed that his master had suffered a curious memory lapse that was most unlike him—he had not wound the clock at ten o’clock sharp, but had left it until almost twenty minutes later. In addition, that same morning Herr Gottlieb had not risen bright and early, as was his custom, and at midday, had burst into the kitchen and yelled at Petra on account of something to do with black olives.

  After eavesdropping for a few moments, Bertold rapped gently on the door. A grunt came from within. The servant entered, chin on chest. Sir, stammered Bertold, er, I came, well, to tell you you’re expected at the Grass residence, sir, and that yesterday they sent another polite reminder, that’s all sir, the carriage is ready whenever you are. (The Grass residence? Herr Gottlieb declared, lifting his head turtle-like. Those fools? And since when am I obliged to call on fools simply because they send me their pretentious visiting card? Is that what you came for, is that why you are bothering me?) Oh, no, sir, I didn’t mean to trouble you, it’s just that, if I may be so bold, sir, you haven’t been out of the house for days, and frankly, we are beginning be concerned for your health, sir, indeed, the other night you were imprudent enough to (imprudent? Herr Gottlieb flashed angrily. Who’s being imprudent, me or you!?) Er, I mean, you didn’t take the precaution of instructing me to accompany you on your evening stroll, exposing yourself to God knows what dangers, and I’m not sure whether you were even warmly enough dressed, sir, which is why I took the liberty this afternoon of preparing the carriage, and moreover (you may go, Bertold, thank you, Herr Gottlieb said, waving him away).

  Bertold took two steps back, and, concealing his displeasure, lifted his chin in the air and said: There’s one other thing I came to tell you, sir. Bertold spoke in a calm, outwardly respectful voice while endowing his words with an insidious, almost reproachful tone, as though deep down, rather than doing Herr Gottlieb’s bidding, he were attempting to warn him that it was time he pulled himself together for both their sakes. One of the Wilderhauses’ servants, Bertold resumed, after a calculated pause, has just delivered a card announcing Herr Rudi’s arrival. What! Herr Gottlieb snapped, and you’re telling me this now! Why the devil didn’t you say so before? I was about to, sir, replied Bertold, when you. Bah, interrupted Herr Gottlieb, pushing aside the bottle and straightening his lapels as he sat up, stop wasting time, go and tell Petra to prepare something to eat and a tray of Indian tea, why the devil didn’t you tell me this before! When did his servant say he was coming? Within the hour, Bertold said, standing to attention. Then take this away, Herr Gottlieb ordered, gesturing towards the bottle, and help me get dressed.

  The creak of patent leather stopped in front of the study. The sound of someone clearing his throat could clearly be heard. Rudi Wilderhaus’s right shoe rubbed against the left leg of his breeches as though it had paused suddenly in the middle of a procession. Dense, almost visible, the particles of his lemony perfume dispersed before the door. There followed three sharp raps—Rudi knew that one knock at a door betrays unease, two knocks sound obsequious, but that three always sound resolute.

  On the other side of the door, Herr Gottlieb also cleared his throat, neither man aware that they were performing the same gesture. Herr Gottlieb was about to stand up and open the door when he instinctively realised that any remaining strength he possessed ought to be deployed there, in the centre of his own office, without stirring from his leather armchair. Yes, enter, he said in an overly high-pitched voice that failed to sound nonchalant. Rudi strode in with deliberate abruptness, rather like a husband arriving home earlier than expected and walking over garments strewn all over the floor. They hurried through the polite greetings, made a few of the usual noises and went straight to the point.

  This is why I’m asking you, dear father-in-law, said Rudi, and for the moment let us refer to these as mere questions, how can you permit your daughter to go on working with that man, and to top it all, in that filthy inn! And why do you go on receiving him in this respectable home? Herr Gottlieb replied with as much aplomb as he could muster: This gentleman continues to visit my home, which you correctly refer to as respectable, because there is no valid reason why Herr Hans should not continue to attend my daughter’s salon. Were it otherwise, dear son-in-law, wouldn’t I have already taken the necessary steps? Wouldn’t I have categorically prohibited him from coming here? Wouldn’t I have punished Sophie? The fact that I have failed to take any such steps is precisely because they are unjustified. What I’m trying to say, my dear Rudi … Or do you have convincing reasons? Well, do you? You say you’ve heard rumours, rumours! Now tell me, do you doubt my daughter’s honour, the honour of your future wife? For, so long as her virtue is without blemish, no one will be prohibited from entering this house. Anything else would be tantamount to recognising these sinister slanders, which in the name of my own decency I refuse even to consider.

  Rudi detected a
mixture of severity and alarm in Herr Gottlieb’s eyes. Plunging a little deeper into his liquid gaze, which was struggling to defy him, swimming in his moist entreaties, he understood that Herr Gottlieb was not defending Hans, he was simply behaving like a true gentleman.

  I, dear son-in-law, Herr Gottlieb resumed, tugging on his moustache as he might a bootlace, can vouch one hundred per cent for my daughter, her honour and her good name. However, in your place, if, as Sophie’s soon-to-be husband, I harboured the slightest doubt I would put a stop to it immediately. With the utmost discretion, naturally. I mean, if such were the case. Because, needless to say, it is not.

  Rudi smiled tersely and replied: Of course not, my dear Herr Gottlieb, of course not. This is simply a question, how can I say, of the norms of acceptable behaviour. But you have set my mind at rest. God be with you.

  The inn had been slowly emptying. The early morning sounds of doors opening and closing, of feet on the stairs, of noises in the corridor, had ceased. The creak of wooden floors was different, hollow. The windows seemed smaller, the light from them shrunken. Dawn had an insipid feel, and there was a brooding echo to Frau Zeit’s slow passage through the empty rooms, as if she were expecting the departed guests to somehow reappear. A pile of firewood had begun to form in the lean-to in the backyard, the tongs appeared gleaming in the hearth, the wool blankets had reappeared on the beds. The postman’s gallop scarcely slowed before the entrance, and the only packages he left were for the guest in room number seven. Silence had settled once more over the inn, and yet Hans, who had spent the whole summer lamenting the early morning noises disrupting his repose, was still unable to sleep properly. He would fall asleep for a few hours, then suddenly, inexplicably, he would begin to toss and turn, kept awake by the expectation of comings and goings that never materialised. Until that morning, after getting up and turning the watercolour round in order to shave, he looked at the dark shadows under his eyes, the stubble on his chin, and he understood the reason for his unrest. It wasn’t merely the deserted atmosphere of places once people had departed. It was above all the aftermath of that emptiness—with the arrival of autumn, he had stopped being an observer at the inn and had become a protagonist. He had become accustomed to studying the anonymous guests, to guessing at their lives from their faces, to imagining their futures. And now, all of a sudden, he was once more the focus of his own gaze. Hans closed the razor, ran his tongue behind his lips, checked the sides of his face and turned the mirror back to the wall.

  Contrary to his nocturnal habits, Hans spent the morning translating. At noon, he went down and devoured a bowl of Frau Zeit’s thick vegetable stew. Afterwards, he went back up to his room to change his clothes and put on some scent—today was Friday. He left the inn winking at Lisa (who initially pretended to turn away) and walked towards Café Europa to have his fourth coffee of the day with Álvaro. As usual he arrived late, despite having left in good time—he had to circle Glass Alley half a dozen times, and swore to his friend he couldn’t for the life of him find the side street he usually took. The two men exchanged confidences, grumbled about the same things, and began strolling in the direction of Stag Street. As they stood in front of the doors to the Gottlieb residence, Hans remarked: Look, I’m sorry, this must seem stupid, but wasn’t the swallow door knocker on the right, and the lion’s head on the left? What? Álvaro said, surprised. The swallow on the? Hans, did you sleep all right? The fact is I didn’t, he replied.

  As they entered from the icy corridor, they discovered Sophie sitting at the piano, and her father, Rudi and Professor Mietter all applauding. Hans thought she looked pale as she smiled at him, concerned. Would you give us latecomers the pleasure of an encore, dear friend? Hans said in greeting. As you already know, Rudi replied sharply, “Paganini non ripete”. Paganini, declared Álvaro, is a violinist. Rudi took offence: And what has that to do with anything, Herr Urquiho. Hans slipped over to the windows. The blue curtains seemed heavier. Through a gap in the shutters he glimpsed a misty corner of the market square and the question mark of the Tower of the Wind. Hans sensed Sophie’s eyes on his back, but he decided to be careful and carried on staring out of the window until the others arrived. In the meantime, Álvaro, Rudi and Professor Mietter discussed the aesthetic of the encore. Half-closing his eyes and listening carefully, Hans could distinguish Herr Gottlieb’s gruff, tutorly murmur addressing his daughter, whose voice was scarcely audible. It’s going to rain, thought Hans, and his observation was accompanied by one of Sophie’s distinctive sighs (well-timed, drawn out, with a hint of playful irony). Suddenly Frau Pietzine’s voice burst in, followed by that of Bertold, and a tinkle of cups and teaspoons rang out. When Hans turned round, he glimpsed Elsa’s raised eyebrows as Álvaro flashed her a sidelong smile.

  More tense than usual, although employing her usual strategic methods, Sophie clung to her role as organiser—it was her way of defending herself against the despondency that was beginning to haunt her, and above all, of protecting those few hours of subtle independence for which she had fought so hard. She stood up to greet the Levins, who had just walked in with that forced, rather unconvincing display of cheerfulness couples have when they have been arguing minutes before arriving at a party. Well, my dear friends, Sophie announced, now that we’re all here, I’d like to propose that we keep the promise we made to Herr Urquixo last week of reading a few passages together from our beloved Calderón (marvellous, Álvaro beamed, marvellous), and I’ve taken the liberty of selecting a few scenes from Life Is a Dream, because I assumed everyone would be familiar with the work. (Rudi cleared his throat and helped himself to a pinch of snuff.) Is everyone agreed, then? There are, let me see, one, two, three, seven characters altogether, and we have two copies of Life Is a Dream here in the house, plus two more which I borrowed from the library. (Ah, Álvaro suddenly realised, we’ll be reading it in German, then.) Naturally, amigo! How else? (Of course, Álvaro nodded, disappointed, I understand, but, La vida es sueño in German, ay!) View it as an informative exercise, it’ll be as if you are hearing it for the first time (let’s look at the translation, may I see a copy? Hans asked), here you are, don’t get too professional about it now, Monsieur Hans! Well, if everyone is ready, we’ll assign the roles. Any volunteers?

  Everyone decided Rudi should play the part of Prince Segismundo, at which Hans clapped his hands ironically. Sophie asked Professor Mietter to read the part of King Basilio, and the professor, flushing with pride, made as if to hesitate before accepting. Hans was given the part of Astolfo, also a prince, though with fewer lines than Segismundo. Frau Pietzine seemed happy to personify Lady Rosaura. They had difficulty convincing Frau Levin to take on the timid role of Princess Estrella. Álvaro declared he was incapable of reciting Calderón in German and preferred to listen, and so Bertold had no choice but to accept the part of Fife the jester. (Seeing as it’s only a play, thought Bertold, why the devil can’t I play a prince or a king?) Herr Gottlieb was equally displeased at being given the role of old Clotaldo, although he limited himself to twirling his whiskers in protest. Herr Levin, who wasn’t an admirer of Calderón, sat next to Álvaro to give the impression of an audience. Sophie acted as stage director, instructing everyone until at last the performance was ready to begin.

  PROFESSOR MIETTER [with affected unease]:

  What was that?

  RUDI [in his element, looking at Hans, or perhaps not]:

  It was nothing.

  I threw a man who wearied me

  From a balcony into the sea.

  BERTOLD [nodding unenthusiastically, and without an ounce of charm]: