Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Sophie, by now fully dressed, stood with arms akimbo. Hans stared at the floor without finishing his sentence.

Listen, he ventured, I don’t like the idea any more than you, but if we want to see the libertines in print we have no choice but to (but then, she objected, they’d no longer be libertines), yes, yes they would, they’d be libertines published against the odds, as libertine as possible in times of censorship, it’s that or nothing, it would be worse to withdraw the whole translation (frankly, she sighed, I don’t know if it would be worse or more honourable), all right, all right. Do you know how many threats were issued to the magazine Ibis ? And do you know what happened to the periodical Literarisches Morgenblatt ? They stopped publication several times, Brockhaus changed its name, it was banned again, and it went on like that for years, the publisher ended up losing a huge amount of money and tens of thousands of sales, it’s only natural they should try to avoid problems, this is part of the world of literature, too, Sophie, it isn’t simply about visiting libraries, there’s also this other side, of fighting against the elements. (I see, then let’s refuse to make any changes and allow them to commission someone else to do the translation, that way we aren’t preventing the publishers from printing the book, nor are we colluding with the censors.) But we’ve almost finished the texts! How can we throw away so many hours of work! (I don’t like it either, but I’d rather sacrifice our work than our dignity.) My love, all I ask is that you look at it from another perspective, censorship is unavoidable but also stupid, if we rewrite the most sensitive verses we can say the same thing in a subtler way, we could even use this opportunity to improve the translation (I can’t believe you’re suggesting we comply with such a command), I don’t intend to comply with it, but to manipulate it at our whim. (Translation and manipulation are two different things wouldn’t you say?) You know perfectly well I detest this situation as much as you, but if we really believe in our. (But my love, it is precisely because I believe in it, in our translation, that I refuse to delete a single comma!) I agree, in an ideal world, but the reality is different, wouldn’t it be more courageous to accept that reality and fight it from within in order to publish as much of the original text as possible? (You talk to me about fighting! Why don’t we pick a real fight by refusing to be trampled on? Write to the publisher and tell him …) That’s not fighting, Sophie, it’s giving in, trust me, this has happened many times before. (What? You’ve done this before? Is that how you work? Hans, I don’t recognise you, I honestly don’t recognise you!) Yes, no! That is, occasionally, but in my own fashion, I’ve never made an author say anything he hasn’t already said or couldn’t have said, I swear to you, but, how can I explain, instead of getting angry and doing nothing, I’ve tried to find inventive ways around it, using ambiguity, do you understand? It’s a question of strategy (it’s a question of principles, retorted Sophie).

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).