Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

… the two soldiers weep together

At the fateful news:

“How they hurt!” says one,

“How my wounds sting!”

“I would like to die with you,”

Says the second, “this is the end;

But I have a wife and children,

Who cannot live without me.”

“Wife, children? What matter?

Something grieves me more;

Let them live on charity,

In chains lies my Emperor!”

Reading it through again, she commented, I’m not convinced the poem is Bonapartist. They feel bound to spill their blood for Napoleon and this allegiance is inhuman, like the first grenadier’s impassioned response when his companion fears for his family. You could be right, said Hans, I hadn’t thought of it that way. Perhaps the poem’s strength is the way it avoids condemning either of the grenadiers, it simply offers two different ways of understanding fate.

Her head leaning on Hans’s shoulder, Sophie observed the mineral response of her nipples — they were still hard, not out of excitement now, but from the cold. My love, said Sophie, isn’t it time you lit the fire? You’re right, said Hans sitting up, it has got colder. The summer is over, she whispered. Not yet, he whispered.

Listen, said Sophie, there’s something I want to tell you. (Hans handed her a shoe.) Oh, thank you, where was it? (Hans gestured towards the space between bed and wall.) Anyway, there’s something I want to tell you and I don’t know how. (He shrugged, and smiled forlornly.) It’s just that, my father is becoming more and more nervous, he never stops drinking, the Wilderhauses are growing impatient, and I’m doing my best to keep up a pretence, but I don’t see how I can keep them at bay any longer. Rudi had a talk with me yesterday, he was furious, we quarrelled, and I had difficulty calming him down, I don’t know how long for (and so? he said, closing his eyes), and so, I was thinking, it might be a good idea, at least for a while, to stop (to stop? he echoed), I mean, to stop translating for a while, don’t you think? Look at me, Hans! Just for a while, until things settle down a little. (Aha, he breathed very slowly, you mean that we should stop seeing each other completely.) No, of course not! My love, I’ve already worked that out. (Ah, how?) Look, it won’t be so very different, we’ll just have to be more careful that’s all, and perhaps see each other less, Elsa will go on helping me, we can meet at least once a week, when Elsa goes out on an errand I’ll go with her, I’ll come and see you and she’ll wait for me in the usual place at a reasonable time, I’ve worked out that we’ll have a couple of hours to ourselves (if there’s no other way), I don’t think there is, not for the moment.

Halfway through the door, she turned and said: Do you know what annoys me? Not being able to finish our European anthology! Hans stuck his head out and replied: We’ll finish it one day.

Lying open on the desk, a book reproduced some verses by Heine:

So much we felt for one another that

We reached a perfect harmony.

Often we played at being married

Without suffering mishaps or quarrels.

We played together, cried out for joy,

Exchanged sweet kisses as we caressed.

At length we decided, with childish pleasure,

To play hide-and-seek in woods and fields.

So well did we succeed in hiding

That never again did we find each other.

The pulp of the day was squeezed out over the countryside. From Bridge Walk Hans contemplated Wandernburg’s misty domes, its pointed spires. The earth exuded a muddy smell of rain. The River Nulte shimmered in the distance. An occasional carriage shattered the calm of the main road. Hans lingered absent-mindedly for a moment, until he looked down and clicked his tongue — he had left the organ grinder’s sheep’s cheese behind at the inn.

The cave was cold inside. The surface of the rocks had a slimy sheen. Franz greeted him, sniffing timidly at his hands, as though sensing they ought to be carrying something. The organ grinder and Lamberg were gathering furze branches, old newspapers and kindling. Can I help? said Hans rubbing his arms. Yes, please, the old man replied, do me a favour, sit down and tell me what you dreamt last night, Lamberg hasn’t dreamt anything for me for days. Hans scoured his memory and realised he couldn’t recall a single recent dream; he would just have to make one up like he’d done so many times. That, the old man sighed as he stacked the firewood, is what most amused me about Reichardt, he always had a new dream to tell. Have you heard nothing? asked Lamberg. The labourers say they haven’t seen him for a while. No, the old man said mournfully, nothing. Hans went over to help fan the flames. When the fire began to shine light on them, Hans noticed a circular blotch on Lamberg’s neck — a wound or a bite mark. Lamberg caught him looking and turned up the collars of his wool coat.

Lamberg left early. He explained that tomorrow would be hard work, they were late with the autumn orders and there was a rumour going round the factory about more people being laid off. The organ grinder wrapped a scarf round his neck and accompanied him outside. A few moments later, seeing he hadn’t come back, Hans wrapped up and went after him.

A fine drizzle was falling, next to nothing. He found the old man absorbed in watching the twilight. The clouds were trailing off, like burnt-out fireworks. This rain makes me nervous, said Hans standing next to him. It’s always the same at this time of year, said the organ grinder, this is a clever rain, it tells us winter is coming and it takes care of the flowers. What flowers? Hans said, puzzled, observing the bald grass. There, there, the old man replied, pointing to some specks of colour among the tree trunks, the last flowers of autumn are much more beautiful than those of spring. And they fell silent, in their different ways, watching the light snap like an umbilical cord.

Hans left the Café Europa and peered down the narrow passage that was Glass Alley — if he wasn’t mistaken, the third turning on the left should take him down to Potter’s Lane, and from there into Ducat Street, where the Bank of Wandernburg was situated, which would lead him straight into the market square. That was right, and it was the shortest route. But where the devil was Potter’s Lane? Was it the third on the left after Café Europa or before? If he was able to draw a mental map of the city centre from memory, why were his calculations so seldom correct? How could he …

Idiot! a coach driver screeched from his perch, where do you think you’re going? Hans leapt backwards like a cat, flattening himself against the wall, and repeated the question to himself: Indeed, where did I think I was going? The wheels sped past, clipping his boots. When the coach disappeared from sight, at the end of the street, Hans was surprised to recognise the cobblestones of the market square.

Glancing up at the Tower of the Wind, he was pleased to see he was still in time to say hello to the organ grinder. He felt like listening to him play for a moment and then inviting him for a beer. They hadn’t taken a stroll together for quite a while; lately they only met at the cave. At first he didn’t notice — he walked on without glancing at the organ grinder’s spot. And even when it was obvious he still carried on walking like he always did, as if he were listening to the music. Only when he was within yards of the edge of the square did he blink several times and stop in his tracks. For a moment he had the sensation that he was in the wrong place. Hans glanced up at the clock tower once more, he looked around bewildered — for the first time that year, the old man wasn’t at his post during work hours.