Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Kant and menstruation, Hans reflected, why ever not?

“The drama of this most recent and shocking attack,” Lieutenant Gluck was reading from the third edition of the Thunderer , “is thought to have taken place on Friday in close proximity to the area where the assailant usually operates; that is, as our well-informed readers will already be aware, in the narrow pedestrian streets leading from the above-mentioned Wool Alley as far as Archway. Although the identity of the latest victim has not been officially revealed, reliable sources have informed this newspaper that the young woman’s initials are A I S, that she is twenty-eight, and that she is a native of Wandernburg. As before, the lack of any eyewitnesses precludes the elaboration of any new theories over and above those already mentioned in previous cases. We would like to believe that the local police force and the special constabulary might be roused from their baffling inactivity and shameless ineptitude. At least this is the hope in the hearts of Wandernburg’s imperilled young women, whose fears we have tirelessly reported in these pages. Lest the sole clues on the files of the above-mentioned forces of order be those already in the public domain, this newspaper is in a position to confirm with near certainty that the masked culprit is a relatively tall, stocky man, thirty to forty years of age. It only remains for us to wait with resigned impatience for …”

This is shameful! Lieutenant Gluck protested, hurling the newspaper onto the office desk. Reliable sources, for Heaven’s sake! Those fools have no idea what they’re talking about, and to crown it all they have the nerve to try to teach us how to do our job! Don’t upset yourself, son, Lieutenant Gluck remarked impassively, as a matter of fact these articles suit our purposes — if the culprit reads them he’ll feel safer, and that’s better for us. I prefer him not to know that we’re almost on to him. Now, forget about the press and tell me, did you copy out the draft report? Good, excellent, and the marks on the wrist were identical? Identical, replied Lieutenant Gluck, he definitely prefers to use fine cord, which indicates that he’s not a particularly strong man. And what did the latest victim say about the smell? his father asked. She seems adamant that it was lard, said Lieutenant Gluck. Yes, but what sort of lard? She isn’t sure, his son explained, she said she was in no position to notice that sort of detail at a time like that, but she thinks it could have been bear fat. And does the victim cook? Asked Lieutenant Gluck. I beg your pardon, Father? said Lieutenant Gluck, puzzled. I asked you, his father said, whether the victim is in the habit of cooking or whether she has servants who cook for her. As you’ll appreciate, said his son, the woman’s domestic arrangements didn’t enter into the interrogation. This isn’t a matter of domestic arrangements, Lieutenant Gluck corrected him, on the contrary, it is of vital importance — if the girl is in the habit of frying, she’ll know the difference between pig lard and bear fat, for example. And if she confirms this detail, then we are down to two suspects. So, go and ask for her to be summoned to make another statement, please. And while you’re doing that, I’ll go to the Central Tavern and reserve a table. You know how busy it gets at this time of day.

With no pressing assignments from the publisher, with September closing in and the days growing shorter, that afternoon Hans and Sophie decided to go for a walk. They strolled as far as the banks of the Nulte, avoiding the main pathway and taking a narrower trail that led from the south-eastern edge of Wandernburg out into the countryside. They sat down beside the river. They kissed each other with longing but didn’t make love. Then they fell quiet, reading the waves.

Suddenly there was a sound of splashing and the lines of water were erased. They looked up and saw some swans flying past in formation. Hans watched them with delight — their harmonious whiteness felt like a small gift to him. Sophie, however, contemplated them with a feeling of unease — on the shifting surface of the water, the swans looked deformed, broken. A wing there, a whorl of water here, farther away half a head. A detached beak, a patch of sunlight, two ridiculous webbed feet. How easily and swiftly beauty can be undone, Sophie thought.

Sophie stood up and the afternoon appeared to teeter. The sun had begun to melt behind the vast landscape, its bright light eclipsing the outline of the poplar trees. Seen from the ground where Hans was still sitting, five-sixths of the day was sky. Sophie’s back looked bigger, it had a slippery, zest-like sheen. She was surveying the horizon, and as she moved her arms, the rays of light traversed her sleeves. The two of them found it hard to look at one another — both were thinking more or less the same thing.

Isn’t it beautiful? Sophie said, her back to him, pointing at the blazing grass. Yes, beautiful, replied Hans. Don’t you think this light is special? she asked. That too, he answered. And the hill, she said, have you noticed the way the hill glows? I have, he nodded. Rudi wrote to me, Sophie announced without changing the tone of her voice, he says he’s coming back soon. And the cornfields, said Hans, have you seen them? Of course, replied Sophie, they’re the same colour as my eiderdown! I’ve never seen your eiderdown, said Hans, is it really that colour? Yes, well, almost, she shrugged, it’s a little darker. And when is Rudi coming back? he asked. A little darker, said Sophie, yet somehow brighter. Ah, that’s better, said Hans. In a couple of weeks, Sophie sighed, I don’t think he’ll stay away longer than that. That shade of orange, he resumed, only looks good in big rooms, is your room big? Neither big nor small, she replied, cosy. Couldn’t he stay longer in that accursed country house of his? asked Hans. Can’t you convince him, make up some story, delay him a while? Sophie wheeled round, gazed at him with trembling eyes, and exclaimed: What the devil do you want me to say to him? An orange eiderdown, said Hans, tracing circles with a dry twig, it’s a little bold, to be honest, if the room isn’t all that spacious or there’s no adjacent window.

Auntie, said little Wilhemine, what are spiders’ webs for? Sophie looked round at her niece, puzzled. Elsa and Hans laughed.

Little Wilhemine had come to spend a few days in Wandernburg with her grandfather and her aunt. Much to Herr Gottlieb’s dismay, her father had not come with her, and had sent a servant instead. While the little girl scampered in the field, closely monitored by the servant, Hans and Sophie moved a few yards away in order to talk in private.

Do you know Dresden? he asked. I’ve been there a few times to see my brother, she replied. And do you like it? he said. It’s an improvement on Wandernburg, she sighed, although it has a rather neglected air. Like all Napoleonic cities, said Hans. The best thing is the Elbe, said Sophie, observing the Nulte, a real river, and those bridges, those arches! It needs a bigger theatre, Hans asserted. Don’t tell me you’ve been to Dresden as well? she said, surprised.

Auntie, auntie, Wilhemine insisted, running towards to them, what are spiders’ webs for? Why do you ask, my love? asked Sophie, stroking her hair. There’s a butterfly in that tree, the girl said, pointing, it’s caught in a cobweb and can’t get free. Ah, smiled Sophie, now I understand, poor butterfly! It’s very pretty, and it’s trapped, repeated the child. Shall we rescue it? Sophie proposed, approaching the tree. Yes, the child replied solemnly. That’s my girl! her aunt said approvingly, lifting her up. Let go of it, nasty spider!

Forgive me for asking, Hans whispered as Wilhemine strained to reach the spider’s web with a twig, but why didn’t you tell her? Tell her what? Sophie turned to him, without letting go of her niece. I’m asking you why you didn’t tell her the truth. And what is the truth, may I ask? said Sophie. That however ugly the spider’s appearance, he replied, it isn’t bad, it’s simply trying to survive. And it does this by spinning webs. That everything follows a cycle, even the beautiful butterfly. It’s another law of nature. If she were my niece, I would have explained that to her. But she isn’t your niece, Sophie bridled, and besides, teaching her to protect what is beautiful, however fragile or ephemeral, is also part of learning. That’s another law of nature, Herr know-it-all. And I don’t see why scepticism will teach her more wisdom than compassion. All right, all right, Hans backed down, don’t get angry. I’m not angry, said Sophie, it makes me sad.