Traveler of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  Lisa took the envelope with a solemn air, tucked it between her skirt and blouse, sighed, and threw herself into Hans’s arms. He managed to catch her in time to prevent her from falling flat on her face. Lisa considered herself embraced—she kissed the corner of Hans’s mouth and declared: I’ll tell my mother Thomas has left one of his schoolbooks behind and can’t finish his homework without it. But what if Thomas finds out? Hans frowned, what if he tells your mother it’s a lie? She gave the laugh of a heroine and retorted: And what do you suppose I’m going to steal from his room? You’ll go far, he said, astonished. We’ll see, Lisa said moving towards the door. Ah, and it might be a good thing if you kept the little scallywag amused for a while. He’s playing in the corridor. Wish me luck.

  Hans went to find Thomas, who was scrupulously dismembering and scrutinising a toy cart made of wood. What’s that game you’re playing? Hans asked. The boy held out a twisted axle and a torn-off wheel. Dear little Thomas, Hans said, kneeling down, you know I’m leaving tomorrow. What’s that to me? the boy said, pinching his leg.

  Lisa had scurried off towards Stag Street. She was clutching the envelope in one hand, and holding onto her hat with the other. She was reflecting on the importance of her mission, and how handsome Hans was, and how much he had always trusted her. Halfway there, however, something began to niggle away at her, then to upset her and finally to enrage her. She slowed her pace. She came to a sudden halt. She stared at the envelope. At Hans’s flowing, expert writing. At the stupid name, Sophie, which she could now read with loathing. She looked for a lighted doorway. She sat down on the step, and without hesitating, opened the envelope, doing her best not to tear it. She read stumblingly the first few paragraphs. The sentences were terribly long and the writing difficult to decipher. She made out the odd sentence, a word here and there. She recognised many of the verbs and some of the nouns. She was unable to understand its content, but it was obviously a love letter to that stuck-up woman. A love letter from Hans, which she couldn’t even read. Lisa leapt angrily to her feet. What was she doing? How could she have been such a fool? She ran back in the direction she had come. She reached Highgate. As soon as she glimpsed the water flowing beneath Bridge Walk, she tore the letter into little pieces and scattered them on the River Nulte.

  Álvaro and Hans met at the Central Tavern to say their farewells. Neither spoke much—they looked at one another, smiled awkwardly, clinked tankards. A cold draught seeped through every crack in the walls, cancelling out the effect of the wood stoves. Outside, along the sides of the market square, the vendors were staying up to arrange their Christmas stalls with rattles, pumpernickel bread, stars, sugar sweets, baubles, flagons of wine, coloured candlesticks, marzipan, wreaths.

  I shouldn’t have come, Álvaro grumbled, last evenings are always terrible. Shall I get you another beer, you poor martyr? said Hans, clapping him on the back. Is this it, then? Álvaro insisted, you’re really leaving? Yes, yes, replied Hans, why are you so surprised? I don’t know, Álvaro shrugged, well, I am a little, I suppose I was hoping something might happen, I’m not sure what, anything, and that you’d end up staying. Amigo mío, Hans raised his tankard, I have to continue on my way. And, said Álvaro, raising his tankard in turn, you have to work on your Spanish accent. If you like, retorted Hans, we could discuss your German accent. Their brief burst of laughter ends abruptly. Anyway, sighed Álvaro, I’ve never seen anybody leave Wandernburg before. Not wishing to quibble, said Hans, but I’m still here, aren’t I? Nobody, said Álvaro, astonished. Maybe, said Hans, I just loathe Christmas. And I loathe farewells, replied Álvaro, so, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to be there tomorrow when your coach leaves.

  They quit the tavern. They walked along, trying to talk about something else, anything else, until they reached the corner of Old Cauldron Street. Their eyes met. They took a deep breath. They nodded as one. They promised to write to one another. They took another deep breath. Hans stepped forward, arms outstretched, Álvaro withdrew. No, he said, I’d rather not. I mean it, I can’t. It’s bad enough having to go back to that accursed tavern tomorrow on my own. Let’s pretend we’re meeting tomorrow as usual. Really. Not another word. I’m going home. Goodnight. Que descanses, hermano.

  Álvaro raised an arm, wheeled round, and hurried off along the street.

  Hans splashed icy water on his face, making himself start. He shaved in front of the broken mirror on the back of the watercolour. He cut himself twice. He wanted to believe he had slept a little, even though he had the impression of having lain awake all night talking to himself in whispers.

  He squashed in clothes, crammed in books, folded papers. He managed to close his luggage. He glanced about the room to make sure he had left nothing behind. Under the bed, covered in fluff, he made out a mass of fine fabric, which he assumed at first was a sock, but which turned out to be something completely unexpected—Lisa’s nightdress. He placed the chairs in the corners of the room, lined up the candleholders, pushed the shutters to—the steamy windowpanes distorted the neighbouring rooftops. Hans took hold of his valise, the handles of his trunk and the rest of his belongings. The trunk seemed heavier than when he arrived. He didn’t glance back to take a last look at the empty room. He walked out into the corridor, closing the door behind him.

  Before reaching the stairs he almost tripped over a fir tree he couldn’t remember having seen there the day before. He left his luggage on the landing. He went down to the ground floor where he found Frau Zeit in her skirts and apron, already hard at work. Will you be wanting breakfast? she asked, a bucket of greyish water at the end of each arm. Just coffee, thank you, replied Hans. What do you mean, just coffee? the innkeeper’s wife scolded. You aren’t going to travel on an empty stomach, I won’t allow it, wait here. Frau Zeit set down the buckets (a pair of dirty cloths quivered like octopuses in the soapy water) and went into the kitchen. She came back bearing sausages, a wheel of cheese, a bowl covered with a cloth tied with string. Here, she commanded, and make sure you eat properly. My husband will be out in a moment to help you with your things.

  Herr Zeit’s face turned pink, swelled up, glistened, let out air like a balloon. As they went down the stairs, Hans had the impression that the innkeeper’s belly, crushed by the heavy bundles and splaying over them, was adding to the weight of his luggage. They placed everything behind the counter. Herr Zeit collapsed onto a chair (the back quivered like a hammock) and opened up his accounts book. It’s Monday already, he announced feebly. Hans handed him a linen bag containing some money. The innkeeper opened it and looked up at him, puzzled. There’s some extra, Hans explained. There was no need, said Herr Zeit, but I’m not one to refuse. Tell me, Hans asked, is Lisa here? She’s just gone out, replied the innkeeper, to take Thomas to school, is there something you want me to tell her? No, no, Hans hesitated, nothing.

  To kill time until the coach arrived, he went out for one last stroll around Wandernburg. The streets smelt of mud, bread and urine. He could already hear the creaking bars of shop windows. The frost softened with the dawn. Hans wandered down Archway, past the church, around the market square, paused in a corner. He saw a beggar walk by, kicking his legs in the air to stretch them. He thought he recognised Olaf. He called out. The beggar looked at him—it wasn’t Olaf. Excuse me, Hans said, do you remember the organ grinder who used to play here? What organ grinder, replied the beggar, continuing on his way.

  Hans looked up at the clock on the Tower of the Wind. Slowly he made his way back to the inn. Only when he found himself standing in front of it did he realise with astonishment he hadn’t got lost. A Christmas wreath was flapping on the door.

  The wind is a rake, a pulley, a lever, the wind knows, it flattens the landscape, it blows everywhere and is everywhere a foreigner, it draws near, takes shape, runs in a ribbon around Wandernburg, it drops, surfs over rooftops, strips chimney stacks, buffets street lamps, scratches walls, it whistles along, whips up the snow, settles in doorways, rattles doors, the wi
nd rolls, rotates, roams, it heads towards the market square, it is empty, the cobbles are slippery, the Christmas stalls are not finished, the water from the baroque fountain has almost iced over, the wind shakes and breaks it, suddenly it turns, accelerates, climbs as though up a ramp, reaches the top of the tower, the ground shrinks away, the eaves thrum, the tower doesn’t move, but the time inside it does, the time which coughs in the clock, the wind plays with the weathervane making it point in a different direction, then spins round a few more times, shoots up, arches downwards onto a coach roof, slowing it slightly, bounces off and careens over the cobbles, buzzes behind the town hall, the market square was empty, or nearly empty, there was at least one dog, sniffing around between the stalls, a black-haired dog with triangular ears, a restless tail, an attentive nose, the wind strokes Franz’s side, ruffles his tail, Franz lifts his head, his stomach rumbles, he keeps on walking, he leaves the square, sniffs at several doorways, scratches with his paws, finds a few titbits, some strips of fat, peel, rotten fruit, bones, he glances about more relaxed, roots around here and there, moves off, crosses Archway and as he passes St Nicholas’s Church, passes its twisted facade, Franz stops and urinates copiously against it, the wall absorbs some of the urine, Franz continues on his way, turns the corner, disappears, the wind dries what’s left of the urine, the wind scrapes the wall, spreads over the steps, reaches the portico, polishes the arches, creeps under the iron main door, skates up the central nave, makes the candle flames and lamp lights sputter, weaves through the lower aisles, tumbles over the benches, sends a shiver up the spines of the early risers, one of whom draws in her shoulders, raises a hand to her chest and clasps her rosary beads, Frau Pietzine moves her painted lips, she has shadows under her eyes, she prays and prays, another, more slender back repeats aloud the same prayers, Frau Levin intones them vigorously, masticates the words, the wind turns towards the altar, it blows round the crucifix and the candelabras, and makes the angels’ toes go cold while on the other side of the altarpiece, in the sacristy, Father Pigherzog tightens his girdle and steps through the door, as the door to the sacristy opens the draught inside collides with the wind, and, as if driven back by a piston, the wind spins round, escapes under the door and dissolves in the open air, for a moment the wind in Wandernburg is still, the smoke from the chimneys rises vertically, the window panes rest, the clothes repose, until the wind gathers its various parts and grows in strength, skips once more up the steps, surges aloft, rises above the church, sharpens a spire, shakes the bell, flies over a few streets and begins to die down, to calm, it blows past balconies, drips with the water trickling from the flowerpots, forks into branches, one of which sweeps along the ground, ambles down Glass Alley, catches in horses’ hooves, carriage wheels, legs, eludes the shop windows, invisible in their reflections, licks the entrance to Café Europa, imbibes the aroma of chocolate, pauses in the doorway, on the other side of which Álvaro is resting his elbows firmly on a copy of the Gazette, he hasn’t slept, he’s been sitting like that for a long time, without reading, staring absent-mindedly at the far wall, the wind goes on by, moves forward, at the next corner runs into its other parts, it churns, swells, crosses Old Cauldron Street, enters the inn through the yard, sweeps down the corridor, bursts into the Zeits’ apartment, visits the children’s room, scarcely disturbs Thomas’s toys, discovers Lisa under her bed with a candle, secretly studying, spelling the words in her exercise book, on the other side of the room the firewood crackles, the wind flies up the chimney and out into the white sky, stretches like a piece of rubber over the city, leans against the other tower in the market square, coils around it like a rope, makes the weathervane spin, then crosses diagonally towards Stag Street, the knockers on the Gottlieb residence, lion and swallow, threaten to tap against the hardwood, or they do tap imperceptibly, the sound travels to the gallery, the coach houses, the frozen garden, a puff of wind is carried up the stairs, where Herr Gottlieb is asleep or does not want to get up, Bertold does not insist, Petra curses the food she is cooking by the five chimes of the five bells of the five rooms from which the servants can be called, on the top floor, Elsa browses her English-grammar book half-heartedly, she hasn’t a lot to do these days, on the ground floor, the wall clock waits for someone to wind it, everything in the drawing room has a lifeless air, and yet the Prussian-blue curtains flutter, twist, let themselves be ruffled by the gusts of wind blowing through the gap in the windows not properly closed, these gusts of wind scatter some of the ash from the marble fireplace, the statues stand idle on the mantelpiece, the unused flower vases, and to one side of the hearth, glimmering discreetly among the family portraits, Titian reproductions, still lifes and hunting scenes, is the painting of the traveler walking into the forest, a snow-covered forest, a forest that resembles the pinewood where the wind is also now blowing among the rocks on the hill, the spindly poplars, the frozen band of the River Nulte, thirty-two pointed pine cones, the mouth of an empty cave, the wind invades everything and leaves behind everything, it leaves behind the flat, milky-white fields, the planted cornfields, the frozen pastures, the flock of sheep on the point of lambing in the depths of winter, it leaves behind the fields where the peasants are burying roots in the ground, the windmill sails, the factory that tarnishes the air, the snow-covered paths, the main road that passes to the east of Wandernburg, and on which a few coaches are traveling to Berlin, or south to Leipzig, it leaves behind Bridge Walk, where Sophie is standing with her two valises, clinging on to her hat so that it doesn’t blow off, waiting for the next coach, her two valises filled with clothes, papers and doubts, and farther away, much farther away, the wind is also pulling along the coach that carries Hans, who is traveling wherever it may be, his trunk rattling on the roof rack, weighted down by canvas, ropes and snow, Hans, at whose feet sits a casket with a barrel organ inside, Hans who uses his sleeve to wipe the window, opens it, sticks his head out, and feels the wind welcoming him.

  Copyright © 2009 by Santillana Ediciones Generales

  Translation copyright © 2012 by Nick Caistor and Lorenza Garcia

  All rights reserved

  Farrar, Straus and Giroux

  18 West 18th Street, New York 10011

  Originally published in 2009 by Santillana Ediciones Generales, Spain,

  as El viajero del siglo

  English translation originally published in 2012 by Pushkin Press,

  Great Britain, as Traveller of the Century

  Published in the United States by Farrar, Straus and Giroux

  www.fsgbooks.com

  eISBN 9781466816152

  First eBook Edition : March 2012

  First American edition, 2012

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Neuman, Andrés, 1977–

  [Viajero del siglo. English]

  Traveler of the century / Andrés Neuman : translated from the Spanish by Nick Caistor and Lorenza Garcia.—1st American ed.

  p. cm.

  I. Caistor, Nick. II. Garcia, Lorenza. III. Title.

  PQ6664.E478 V5213 2012

  863’.64—dc23

  2011047016