Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

At that moment the child’s twig pierced the spider’s web and hit the tree trunk, causing the spider to fall and crushing the butterfly.

A sharp shower crumpled the grass, its needles pricking the grateful earth. They sat in silence watching from inside the cave, as though the storm were a monologue or a guest who dared not venture inside. Álvaro and Hans were sharing a bottle of wine. Lamberg and Reichardt were vying over a piece of cheese. At the back of the cave, surrounded by candles, bending over the open barrel organ and squinting in concentration, the organ grinder was adjusting the workings with a spanner. How goes it, organ grinder? Hans asked. Better, replied the old man, raising his head, much better, some of the strings are worn out, I’m thinking of dropping in at Herr Ricordi’s store to buy some new ones. The other day at the dance, you know, I thought some of the low notes sounded off-key, do you think perhaps that’s why they didn’t like my music? Young people today have a good ear, they go to the conservatoire, they study piano, don’t they? That could explain it.

Even as the organ grinder closed the lid of his instrument, the storm outside began to subside, the rain fell more slowly, lost its fury. The pinewood hung there, trickling green. The grass shook itself off, blowing hard. Excellent! the organ grinder said joyously. If it doesn’t get cold, we can make a campfire tonight and sleep in the open air. Good idea, Reichardt agreed spitting out a plum stone, I’ve brought my blanket, and besides there’s plenty more wine.

The clouds floated away to the east like washed linen hung out on a line. A ribbon of light fell through the cave entrance. Heavy with the last breath of summer, the afternoon had an overpowering smell. Just as well I didn’t bring an umbrella, said Álvaro. It’s hot all of a sudden, isn’t it? said Hans. What peculiar weather. Lamberg frowned, blinked hard then murmured: I don’t like it when the weather’s good, I prefer storms. What nonsense is this, lad? Reichardt asked. It’s true, said Lamberg, I don’t like it, people think they have to be cheerful when the weather’s good, as soon as the sun comes out they behave like idiots.

The night was warm. Lamberg lit the fire, staring intently at the flames — each time he moved, Franz would put his tail between his legs. They roasted a few sardines and finished off the bottles. They sang songs, spoke ramblingly, confided their secrets to one another, told a few white lies. Álvaro confessed he was in a state over Elsa, and Hans pretended to be surprised as he listened to the details. Later on, the organ grinder allotted them all turns and they each recounted a dream. Álvaro suspected Hans had made his up. The organ grinder said he liked Lamberg’s so much he would try to have the same dream himself that night. Lamberg took off his shoes, placed his feet closer to the fire, and heaved a sigh. Are you staying? the old man asked. It’s Saturday, Lamberg replied without opening his eyes. Reichardt got out his blanket before also settling down. Álvaro rose to his feet and announced he was going home. The gallop of his horse floated among the sound of the crickets. Hans and the organ grinder stayed awake talking in hushed tones, their whispering gradually becoming more sporadic, less coherent. Soon, only the fire’s crackle and the sound of snoring could be heard around the cave.

Snores, crackles, crickets, birds. The stars look like sparkling dust. The organ grinder has fallen asleep with his mouth so wide open that a toad could seek shelter in it. Lamberg is breathing through his nose, jaw clenched like a vice. Franz has crawled under his master’s blanket and only the tip of his tail is poking out. Depending who you are, Hans thinks, sleeping under the stars makes you feel exposed or invulnerable. It is still early for him. Surrounded by slumbering people, he feels like an impostor and attempts to fall asleep himself. He has tried concentrating on his own breathing, counting the fire’s tiny explosions, making out the soughing sounds of the pinewood, watching the position of his companions, and even imagining what they’re dreaming about. But he doesn’t fall asleep. It is because of this, a quirk of fate he will later regret, that he is able quietly to spy on Reichardt’s actions. Reichardt’s blanket stirs, he sits up, pulls his shirt down, glances about several times (when his turn comes, Hans closes his eyes) and rises to his feet without a sound. His face is changed. In the light of the fire, his wrinkles harden and his lips set in a grimace of weariness, of loathing. Before taking a step forward, Reichardt makes sure the others are sleeping. He stares so intently at Franz’s tail, poking out from beneath the blanket, that Hans thinks he will do something to it. He collects his belongings, ties a knot in his blanket and begins to gather up everything he can lay his hands on — Lamberg’s sandals, the organ grinder’s hat and empty bottles, the remainder of the food, Hans’s unknotted scarf, the coins in his frock-coat pockets. When he feels Reichardt’s hand groping his ribs, he can’t help jerking slightly, enough to make Reichardt pause, withdraw his hand, and look up at Hans’s face. Then he discovers his watchful eyes. The two men fix each other’s gaze. Reichardt is holding the coins in the palm of his hand. Hans is unable to utter a word. Instead of moving away, Reichardt continues to stare at him, making no attempt to justify himself. Hans can’t work out whether this hesitation is a plea or a threat. At first he thinks he sees surprise on Reichardt’s face, then he thinks it is contempt. Finally he opens his eyes wide, focuses properly and decides it is a look of shame — Reichardt is capable of stealing from his friends, but perhaps not with one of them watching him.

Embarrassed and more taken aback than Reichardt himself, Hans does something he had not intended, something that takes Reichardt by surprise and which relieves and saddens him in equal measure — he closes his eyes once more. With a mixture of shame, gratitude and resentment, Reichardt resumes what he was doing. He takes Hans’s cap, adds it to his spoils, and runs off down the path.

THROUGH THE WINDOWPANES, the sky resembled a piece of paper held up to a lamp. A tiresome drizzle persisted. For a few days now Hans and Sophie had said goodbye half-an-hour earlier — the days were growing shorter.

Leaving already? Hans asked, touching her nipple like someone pressing a bell. Sophie nodded and began hurriedly getting dressed. Wait a moment, he said, I want to tell you something. She turned, arched her eyebrows and went on dressing.

Look, said Hans, the publisher thinks, that is, he’s written to me to say it might be a good idea if we revised the French libertines a little, you remember, the poems by de Viau, Saint Amant? (If we revised them? Sophie asked, stopping in the middle of rolling up her stocking, a good idea ? What do you mean?) Yes, I mean, or rather Brockhaus means, that because of the problems they’ve had in recent years, they suggest we. (Suggest or demand?) Well, that depends on how you look at it, they’re asking us to do our utmost to avoid alerting the censors. Apparently they were cautioned last month about one of the translations we sent. (What? Which one?) I’m not sure, they didn’t say exactly, you’ve read the libertines’ texts, but the fact is now it seems the publishers are worrying they might seize their book list, do you see? It’s just a question of, I don’t know, of toning them down a little, without relinquishing the. (Wait a moment, wait a moment, didn’t you say that by signing them with the authors’ pseudonyms the censors wouldn’t realise they were banned authors?) And they haven’t, my love, they haven’t realised, but apparently the censor raised an objection when approving the galleys, the publisher explained this wasn’t their usual man, who is on our side and who lets everything through, he was unwell and the idiot replacing him says there are at least fifteen pages that are unprintable unless we, do you follow? That’s what Brockhaus said, unless we’re artful enough to revise certain passages, and …