Traveler of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  Sophie did not answer. There was a pause. Suddenly Hans heard himself say: Come with me to Dessau. What? she sat up. You heard me, come with me, he repeated, I’m begging you. But my love, said Sophie, I can’t just leave. You mean I’m not a good enough reason for you to leave, he said. I can’t understand why you expect so much of your lover and so little of your husband. That’s different, she said. I have no expectations of Rudi, but I have them of you, do you see? That’s why I’m asking you to do something, Hans, I’m asking you to stay. I’m terrified you might leave tomorrow. What terrifies you is not having the courage, he murmured. And what about you? Sophie shouted, are you incredibly free or an incredible coward? What right have you to preach to me? Be a woman for a moment, just for one moment, and you’ll see how different courage looks from here, you stupid man!

  A folded piece of paper, papyrus-coloured rather than mauve, written in haste. Hans read:

  Dear heart—this is a message of possibilities, for I am no longer sure of anything. Will I write to you again? Will you write to me? Will we see one another? Will we stop seeing one another? Will I think about what I write? Or will I think as I write?

  Until a moment ago, I wanted our next meeting, if we are to meet again, to be up to you, I wanted you to ask to see me after these long and lonely days. The reason for this, if indeed I was capable of reasoning, was that if I had asked, you would have come at my behest (you would have, wouldn’t you?) and perhaps contrary to your misgivings, to our misgivings.

  Yet it turns out this perfect reasoning has failed. Quite simply because between yesterday and today I realised that my desire to touch you, even if only for an hour, is stronger than everything else. To have you in the way that I want, however inappropriate or irresponsible. And I realised that if I kept my calm these past few days it was because deep down I believed you would come after me, that I wouldn’t need to chase you. It wounds my pride to admit it. And yet the proudest part of us is our intelligence and mine was insulted by keeping up this charade. It is not so much my feelings that have imposed themselves (my feelings are in tur moil) but the facts. Naive creature, how could I have been so sure of myself? Why didn’t I realise sooner that my treasured pride was also a token of my love for you? And how could I have assumed you would want to stay on here, unreservedly? I am comforted by the thought that my obstinacy in doing so was equal to yours when you assumed that, sooner or later, I would agree to follow you wherever you went.

  Although I still believe in the intensity of things, in their fleetingness, it is only now, as the afternoon fades, that I have begun to assimilate the idea that you might be leaving. It isn’t that now I know (I have always known) but that I feel it. And the idea feels unbearable. There is nothing more unbearable than experiencing in the flesh the suffering you have gone over a thousand times in your head. Perhaps tomorrow I will receive a message similar to this, a few lines asking me to go and see you. Or perhaps you will change you mind after reading this. Or perhaps neither of these things will happen, and the days will simply go by. Or (I tremble at the thought) perhaps when you read these words you will already be somewhere else. It is possible. As I said, this is a letter of possibilities.

  I have nothing more to say. Or I have many more things to say, but in another place, at another time. If love is a possibility, I kiss you here or there, now or on another day.

  Mistress of myself all of a sudden, that is to say yours

  S

  At noon the following day, a brief, lightly perfumed mauve note arrived, Hans read:

  Your reply cheered me up. Reading it was like a sip of water in the middle of a desert. I also forgive you. We’ll see each other at the inn from three o’clock until four-thirty. Not today. Better tomorrow, because the salon is the following day and it will be easier for me to find some excuse to go out on an errand. You are a naughty man. I shall reward you appropriately.—S

  Sophie bit the air, ensconced on top of him, legs apart. More than making love, she was treading grapes. Each time her hips collided with Hans’s stomach, she would propel herself higher in order to crash down with more force. Underneath the storm, at once overwhelmed and moved, Hans was scarcely able to resist the current dragging him to somewhere that was beyond them both, away from there, inside himself.

  The fire in the hearth crackled and sparked. For a while Hans had been staring intently into the embers. Sophie was still, she had sucked up all of him. Hans looked away from the fire, turned his head and gazed at her. Is anything the matter, my love? he asked. No, she replied, I don’t know whether I had an orgasm or a premonition.

  Elsa had taken off all her clothes, Álvaro had not. Now he was fastening his belt, tucking his shirt into his breeches. She hurriedly finished dressing and tidied her hair. Álvaro had remained in a sluggish daze—his movements were dulled, even his speech. In contrast, Elsa seemed distracted, as though on the point of saying something. It made him uneasy to see her in this state after they made love, it cast a cloud over his satisfaction. Moreover he was aware that at these times she appeared more demanding about certain things and he was more obliging.

  Listen, said Elsa, I’m going to try to speak plainly to you (Álvaro sighed, sat up straight on the sofa, made it clear he was paying attention), you claim, and I believe you, that before you went into business you were on the side of the working man (I was and still am, Álvaro clarified), yes, but you have money now (my fortunes have changed, not my ideals, he declared), well, whatever the case, you understand that better than I, but listen. In spite of what you say, I think you’d be a little ashamed if people saw us together. (What is this nonsense you are spouting?) Exactly what you are hearing, my precious. Out here in your country house we are equals, but back in the city I am what I am, and you are what you are. (Sorry, but you insult me. Have you still not realised that it’s my widowhood that troubles me, not our social positions? That’s what I am, a widower, is it so hard for you to grasp?) Oh Álvaro, of course not, but I don’t think the present can ever offend the past. Isn’t it time you forgot the past? I don’t mean her, but her death? (I need more time, Elsa.) We have time, my love, but not an eternity! (I know, I know.) When will you let me go to England with you, for instance? (Soon, soon.) Do you really mean soon? (You know I do, my darling.) How am I to know! (Do you speak English enough, princess?) You lost me after the word English, but I am making headway. (Nobody would deny it, my dear.) Precisely, nobody would whatever it was you said, so, when are you taking me to England? (Soon, soon …)

  It’s as if I’d been exiled twice, Álvaro said, staring into his tankard, first when I arrived here and then when I stayed on. That’s how I feel, Hans, what more can I say? Prost! Y salud.

  According to what Álvaro had just discovered, the Wandernburg authorities were trying to persuade Herr Gelding and his associates to consider changing their textile wholesaler. Herr Gelding had dismissed the idea, for the time being. Not out of loyalty to Álvaro, but because so long as their balance sheets continued to be extremely satisfactory, he saw no reason to alter their business arrangement. Apparently, an increasing number of voices within the town hall were, more or less overtly, beginning to make suggestions to anyone related to the textile mill. The more enthusiastic councillors referred to the initiative as “strategic action against ideological incompatibilities”. Mayor Ratztrinker called it the “restoration of managerial cordiality”. Herr Gelding preferred to call it “the boys getting in a strop”.

  Why don’t you go back to London? asked Hans, clinking tankards with Álvaro. This is my home, replied Álvaro, and besides, I refuse to leave anywhere again because someone wishes to throw me out. But what if you went of your own accord, said Hans, wouldn’t you be better off over there? Probably, Álvaro sighed, who doesn’t want to live in London? The problem is this city, this damned city, I can’t explain. One day I’ll clear off.

  It was past midnight. The chairs were resting upside down on the tables. At one half of the bar, a few locals drank up
while a waiter wiped down the other half with a soiled cloth. Look at the paintings of the Congress of Vienna and what do you see? The same old thing! A group of stout gentlemen determining Europe’s fate! Bureaucratic buffoons convening in order to stuff themselves silly and fix a date for the next meeting! A legion of noblemen admiring each other’s rings while they sign in the name of their people! Crossing their flabby legs, buffing their shoes on the backs of their calves, and examining their neighbours’ bellies as they belch discreetly! Hey, Hans said, pealing with laughter, you’re worse than Goya. Amen! belched Álvaro.

  Mark my words, said Álvaro, stumbling through the tavern door, something’s going to happen here, it has to happen. Here wh-where? Hans stammered. You mean in the tavern? No, of course not! replied Álvaro. Here in Europe! Look out for the door, Hans said, grabbing his arm. Look out, Europe! Álvaro shouted, charging into the street. Hey, I’m fa-falling, said Hans. Europe could fall! She should hold on, cojones! cried Álvaro. Co-come on, Hans gasped, it’s this way, Álvaro, you’re tw-twisting my arm. Where are you going? said Álvaro, confused. Let’s go and see the old man, Hans suggested. Now? said Álvaro, isn’t it a bit far? N-nonsense, replied Hans, places are neither near nor far, it’s all re-relative, if we st-start walking now we’ll be there in no time, come on, follow me, what are you doing? Don’t sit down, give me your arm, ge-get up.

  Álvaro didn’t reply. His face was buried in his hands, his shoulders were rising and falling.

  All Souls’ Day began on a harsh note, with gusts of wind that bent the branches of the trees as if to give them a fright. The sky was filled with leaden clouds. A smell of snow permeated the air. The cobbles were slippery underfoot, sprinkled with some murky substance. The horses whinnied more loudly than usual. The market square had filled up with shadows that passed one another in silence. At the top of the tower, the clock hands seemed weighed down by a pulley. The weathervane creaked erratically. The parishioners who had just left afternoon Mass walked along, backs to the square, heads lowered.

  That afternoon Hans had gone out for a stroll, less for pleasure than because he felt restless—he had been trying to concentrate for hours, unable to translate a single sentence. His brain was a dicebox in which images, fears and the roots of words were being jiggled about. He was fretting over the difficulty of the text, the situation with Sophie and the organ grinder’s health. He followed the stream of people climbing the Hill of Sighs until he found himself opposite the railings of Wandernburg Cemetery—a place he had never visited. He contemplated the sea of black headscarves, the long flowing coats, the lowered veils, the felt hats pulled down, the dark armbands, the shoes submerged in their own blackness and the rebellious contrast of floral offerings. Where did all these people come from? Why were Wandernburg’s streets even more crowded on All Souls’ Day than they were in spring?

  At the entrance, a shabby beggar sat slumped against the wall. As they passed, the visitors stretched out their arms and dropped a few coins into his lap before hurrying on. This was the only day in the year when the beggar didn’t need to speak to or look at his benefactors. He simply accepted their charity, eyelids half-closed, almost with indifference. Mourners are generous, reflected Hans—they hope to buy a little more time. Hans began rummaging through his pockets in front of the bundle of rags. It opened its eyes and grunted: How’s the patient? Who, me? Hans started, I’m in perfect health, thank you, how about you? No, the beggar replied shaking his head irritated, not you, the organ grinder, is he any better? Ah, Hans said, surprised, well, sort of. When you see him, the beggar said, tell him his friend Olaf is waiting for him, don’t forget, will you? Olaf from the square. Now move along, please, you’re getting in the way of my customers.

  Hans noticed that no one, absolutely no one in the whole of Wandernburg Cemetery allowed a hint of a smile to cross their faces, not even when they greeted one another. He found such consensus incredible. In a place like that, wasn’t it as reasonable to weep or to laugh aloud out of pure astonishment, to laugh at the absurdity, the miracle of being alive? But those gathered there acted as if they were standing in front of mirrors rather than tombstones. Veils raised, the widows displayed their sorrow and practised the various overtures to falling into a faint. The men vigorously shook their umbrellas, flexed their shoulders, clenched their jaws. Fascinated by this spectacle, the children copied their parents as closely as they could. Each time a sob rang out, another louder one next to it ensued. Suddenly, amid the figures dressed in black, Hans made out Frau Pietzine’s puffy, painted face. Seeing her entranced, busy murmuring her laments and dabbing her eyes beneath her veil, he did not dare disturb her, and walked on by.

  Farther along the path, he stumbled on a strange sight—on an isolated knoll a man was dancing silently, eyes closed, around a grave bedecked with chrysanthemums. The dance was serene, old-fashioned. The painful memories etched onto the man’s face were overlaid with an expression of profound gratitude. Hans walked away thinking his grief was perhaps the most genuine of all those he had witnessed.

  Near the exit, as he was reading some of the names and dates on the tombstones, Hans almost tripped and fell onto a grave whose edges were concealed by weeds. A voice behind him cried out as if from nowhere: “Hey, careful with my lads.” It was the gravedigger. Hans wheeled round and gazed at him curiously. He was surprised by his youth (why do we imagine gravediggers to be old?) and relative cheerfulness. A lot of work? Hans said, just for something to say. Don’t you believe it, replied the gravedigger, it’s the living that give us all the work. My lads—as I like to call them on account of it makes me more attached to them, see?—they don’t give me much trouble, ha, ha! Forgive me for asking, said Hans. (No need to apologise, the gravedigger declared, am I that scary looking?) Of course, sorry, I mean, this is my first visit to the cemetery and I wondered whether many people come on normal days. Many, you say? the gravedigger laughed. No one comes! No one at all! People only come here once a year, on All Souls’ Day. Well, said Hans, clapping him on the back (an amazingly firm back, hard as wood), I must be going, it’s been a pleasure, good luck. Thanks, likewise, replied the gravedigger, if you ever need me you know where to find me. I hope I shan’t be needing you, said Hans, no offence. It’s only a question of time, ha, ha! The gravedigger raised his arm and waved goodbye.

  The first thing Hans glimpsed through the railings was not Mayor Ratztrinker’s exaggeratedly large hat, nor his fine silk socks, nor his velvet frock coat, it was his beak-like nose as he climbed out of his carriage. While the mayor’s whiskers ventured into the open air, a servant folded back the hood. No sooner had His Excellency’s foot touched the ground than a second servant handed him a wreath; the mayor clasped onto it as he would a funereal life belt. The cortège advanced slowly, accepting peoples’ greetings. When they walked past Olaf, Mayor Ratztrinker gave one of the servants a sidelong glance, at which the servant showered the beggar with coins. Good afternoon, Your Excellency, Hans murmured as he passed him on the way out. The mayor stopped, handed the wreath to a servant, and doffed his hat, pausing a moment before returning the greeting. This struck Hans as suspicious. They exchanged pleasantries, remarked on the worsening weather, and before saying goodbye Mayor Ratztrinker took a step forward. He looked Hans up and down, gestured to his beret and said nonchalantly: Jacobins aren’t welcome in Wandernburg. Neither are adulterers. Imagine what we think of Jacobin adulterers? The police, quite naturally, are concerned. Good afternoon.

  He arrived at the cave as night fell. The organ grinder was talking to Lamberg, who had brought him some supper. Hans sat down on a rock and patted Franz’s side. You’ve arrived, kof, just in time, I was telling Lamberg about my dream last night. (And how are you feeling? asked Hans.) Me?—kof—fine, just fine, you sound like a mother! But listen, I dreamt, kof, I was alone in the woods and I was very cold, like I hadn’t a stitch on, and then I began, kof, to shiver, and the more I shivered the more I sweated—funny, isn’t it?—only instead of droplet
s, kof, instead of droplets of sweat, my body gave off sounds, you know? Like notes, and the breeze carried them through the woods, kof, and they started to sound familiar, and I went on shivering and giving off sounds until, kof, I began to recognise the tune coming from my body, and at that moment I woke up (because of the dream? asked Lamberg), no, no, kof, because I was hungry!

  Hans burst out laughing. Then he grew very serious. The organ grinder stretched out his bony arm, beckoning him to come near, and asked cheerily: How is Olaf?

  No, child, no, Father Pigherzog whispered into her ear as the bell in the round tower rattled out the midday chimes with a clang like coins dropping into the collection plate, calm yourself, child, in spite of everything it is best you tell no one, nemo infirmitatis animi immunis, I sympathise, we spoke about this the other day, do you remember? Yet no matter how great your suffering only you can free yourself from it, that is what makes us worthy of the Lord, the power to transform evil into good, and to forgive, of course not, my child, I am not saying the Lord wishes you to suffer so much, but that He wants you to love once your suffering is over, so that your reward will be much greater. That is why, my child, you must tell no one about what happened to you.

  At the foot of the other tower, the pointed one, Frau Levin and Sophie were moving their lips, nodding their heads, shrugging their shoulders, warding off the cold wind and clutching their hats. A few yards away, Mayor Ratztrinker and Herr Gottlieb removed their hats, although in the gloomy afternoon daylight it might, from a distance, have seemed as if they were doing the opposite—taking off the heads of their respective hats. After the farewells, His Excellency’s last words hung thickly in the air, climbed the cracks in the tower, scaled the damp steps of autumn, edged between the flat clouds, dissolved little by little: “… and I’ll say it again, Fräulein, you look positively radiant, there’s nothing like a wedding to enhance a woman’s beauty!”