Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Bertold took two steps back, and, concealing his displeasure, lifted his chin in the air and said: There’s one other thing I came to tell you, sir. Bertold spoke in a calm, outwardly respectful voice while endowing his words with an insidious, almost reproachful tone, as though deep down, rather than doing Herr Gottlieb’s bidding, he were attempting to warn him that it was time he pulled himself together for both their sakes. One of the Wilderhauses’ servants, Bertold resumed, after a calculated pause, has just delivered a card announcing Herr Rudi’s arrival. What! Herr Gottlieb snapped, and you’re telling me this now! Why the devil didn’t you say so before? I was about to, sir, replied Bertold, when you. Bah, interrupted Herr Gottlieb, pushing aside the bottle and straightening his lapels as he sat up, stop wasting time, go and tell Petra to prepare something to eat and a tray of Indian tea, why the devil didn’t you tell me this before! When did his servant say he was coming? Within the hour, Bertold said, standing to attention. Then take this away, Herr Gottlieb ordered, gesturing towards the bottle, and help me get dressed.

The creak of patent leather stopped in front of the study. The sound of someone clearing his throat could clearly be heard. Rudi Wilderhaus’s right shoe rubbed against the left leg of his breeches as though it had paused suddenly in the middle of a procession. Dense, almost visible, the particles of his lemony perfume dispersed before the door. There followed three sharp raps — Rudi knew that one knock at a door betrays unease, two knocks sound obsequious, but that three always sound resolute.

On the other side of the door, Herr Gottlieb also cleared his throat, neither man aware that they were performing the same gesture. Herr Gottlieb was about to stand up and open the door when he instinctively realised that any remaining strength he possessed ought to be deployed there, in the centre of his own office, without stirring from his leather armchair. Yes, enter, he said in an overly high-pitched voice that failed to sound nonchalant. Rudi strode in with deliberate abruptness, rather like a husband arriving home earlier than expected and walking over garments strewn all over the floor. They hurried through the polite greetings, made a few of the usual noises and went straight to the point.

This is why I’m asking you, dear father-in-law, said Rudi, and for the moment let us refer to these as mere questions, how can you permit your daughter to go on working with that man, and to top it all, in that filthy inn! And why do you go on receiving him in this respectable home? Herr Gottlieb replied with as much aplomb as he could muster: This gentleman continues to visit my home, which you correctly refer to as respectable , because there is no valid reason why Herr Hans should not continue to attend my daughter’s salon. Were it otherwise, dear son-in-law, wouldn’t I have already taken the necessary steps? Wouldn’t I have categorically prohibited him from coming here? Wouldn’t I have punished Sophie? The fact that I have failed to take any such steps is precisely because they are unjustified. What I’m trying to say, my dear Rudi … Or do you have convincing reasons? Well, do you? You say you’ve heard rumours, rumours ! Now tell me, do you doubt my daughter’s honour, the honour of your future wife? For, so long as her virtue is without blemish, no one will be prohibited from entering this house. Anything else would be tantamount to recognising these sinister slanders, which in the name of my own decency I refuse even to consider.

Rudi detected a mixture of severity and alarm in Herr Gottlieb’s eyes. Plunging a little deeper into his liquid gaze, which was struggling to defy him, swimming in his moist entreaties, he understood that Herr Gottlieb was not defending Hans, he was simply behaving like a true gentleman.

I, dear son-in-law, Herr Gottlieb resumed, tugging on his moustache as he might a bootlace, can vouch one hundred per cent for my daughter, her honour and her good name. However, in your place, if, as Sophie’s soon-to-be husband, I harboured the slightest doubt I would put a stop to it immediately. With the utmost discretion, naturally. I mean, if such were the case. Because, needless to say, it is not.

Rudi smiled tersely and replied: Of course not, my dear Herr Gottlieb, of course not. This is simply a question, how can I say, of the norms of acceptable behaviour. But you have set my mind at rest. God be with you.

The inn had been slowly emptying. The early morning sounds of doors opening and closing, of feet on the stairs, of noises in the corridor, had ceased. The creak of wooden floors was different, hollow. The windows seemed smaller, the light from them shrunken. Dawn had an insipid feel, and there was a brooding echo to Frau Zeit’s slow passage through the empty rooms, as if she were expecting the departed guests to somehow reappear. A pile of firewood had begun to form in the lean-to in the backyard, the tongs appeared gleaming in the hearth, the wool blankets had reappeared on the beds. The postman’s gallop scarcely slowed before the entrance, and the only packages he left were for the guest in room number seven. Silence had settled once more over the inn, and yet Hans, who had spent the whole summer lamenting the early morning noises disrupting his repose, was still unable to sleep properly. He would fall asleep for a few hours, then suddenly, inexplicably, he would begin to toss and turn, kept awake by the expectation of comings and goings that never materialised. Until that morning, after getting up and turning the watercolour round in order to shave, he looked at the dark shadows under his eyes, the stubble on his chin, and he understood the reason for his unrest. It wasn’t merely the deserted atmosphere of places once people had departed. It was above all the aftermath of that emptiness — with the arrival of autumn, he had stopped being an observer at the inn and had become a protagonist. He had become accustomed to studying the anonymous guests, to guessing at their lives from their faces, to imagining their futures. And now, all of a sudden, he was once more the focus of his own gaze. Hans closed the razor, ran his tongue behind his lips, checked the sides of his face and turned the mirror back to the wall.

Contrary to his nocturnal habits, Hans spent the morning translating. At noon, he went down and devoured a bowl of Frau Zeit’s thick vegetable stew. Afterwards, he went back up to his room to change his clothes and put on some scent — today was Friday. He left the inn winking at Lisa (who initially pretended to turn away) and walked towards Café Europa to have his fourth coffee of the day with Álvaro. As usual he arrived late, despite having left in good time — he had to circle Glass Alley half a dozen times, and swore to his friend he couldn’t for the life of him find the side street he usually took. The two men exchanged confidences, grumbled about the same things, and began strolling in the direction of Stag Street. As they stood in front of the doors to the Gottlieb residence, Hans remarked: Look, I’m sorry, this must seem stupid, but wasn’t the swallow door knocker on the right, and the lion’s head on the left? What? Álvaro said, surprised. The swallow on the? Hans, did you sleep all right? The fact is I didn’t, he replied.

As they entered from the icy corridor, they discovered Sophie sitting at the piano, and her father, Rudi and Professor Mietter all applauding. Hans thought she looked pale as she smiled at him, concerned. Would you give us latecomers the pleasure of an encore, dear friend? Hans said in greeting. As you already know, Rudi replied sharply, “ Paganini non ripete ”. Paganini, declared Álvaro, is a violinist. Rudi took offence: And what has that to do with anything, Herr Urquiho . Hans slipped over to the windows. The blue curtains seemed heavier. Through a gap in the shutters he glimpsed a misty corner of the market square and the question mark of the Tower of the Wind. Hans sensed Sophie’s eyes on his back, but he decided to be careful and carried on staring out of the window until the others arrived. In the meantime, Álvaro, Rudi and Professor Mietter discussed the aesthetic of the encore. Half-closing his eyes and listening carefully, Hans could distinguish Herr Gottlieb’s gruff, tutorly murmur addressing his daughter, whose voice was scarcely audible. It’s going to rain, thought Hans, and his observation was accompanied by one of Sophie’s distinctive sighs (well-timed, drawn out, with a hint of playful irony). Suddenly Frau Pietzine’s voice burst in, followed by that of Bertold, and a tinkle of cups and teaspoons rang out. When Hans turned round, he glimpsed Elsa’s raised eyebrows as Álvaro flashed her a sidelong smile.