Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

It’s as if I’d been exiled twice, Álvaro said, staring into his tankard, first when I arrived here and then when I stayed on. That’s how I feel, Hans, what more can I say? Prost! Y salud .

According to what Álvaro had just discovered, the Wandernburg authorities were trying to persuade Herr Gelding and his associates to consider changing their textile wholesaler. Herr Gelding had dismissed the idea, for the time being. Not out of loyalty to Álvaro, but because so long as their balance sheets continued to be extremely satisfactory, he saw no reason to alter their business arrangement. Apparently, an increasing number of voices within the town hall were, more or less overtly, beginning to make suggestions to anyone related to the textile mill. The more enthusiastic councillors referred to the initiative as “strategic action against ideological incompatibilities”. Mayor Ratztrinker called it the “restoration of managerial cordiality”. Herr Gelding preferred to call it “the boys getting in a strop”.

Why don’t you go back to London? asked Hans, clinking tankards with Álvaro. This is my home, replied Álvaro, and besides, I refuse to leave anywhere again because someone wishes to throw me out. But what if you went of your own accord, said Hans, wouldn’t you be better off over there? Probably, Álvaro sighed, who doesn’t want to live in London? The problem is this city, this damned city, I can’t explain. One day I’ll clear off. It was past midnight. The chairs were resting upside down on the tables. At one half of the bar, a few locals drank up while a waiter wiped down the other half with a soiled cloth. Look at the paintings of the Congress of Vienna and what do you see? The same old thing! A group of stout gentlemen determining Europe’s fate! Bureaucratic buffoons convening in order to stuff themselves silly and fix a date for the next meeting! A legion of noblemen admiring each other’s rings while they sign in the name of their people! Crossing their flabby legs, buffing their shoes on the backs of their calves, and examining their neighbours’ bellies as they belch discreetly! Hey, Hans said, pealing with laughter, you’re worse than Goya. Amen! belched Álvaro.

Mark my words, said Álvaro, stumbling through the tavern door, something’s going to happen here, it has to happen. Here wh-where? Hans stammered. You mean in the tavern? No, of course not! replied Álvaro. Here in Europe! Look out for the door, Hans said, grabbing his arm. Look out, Europe! Álvaro shouted, charging into the street. Hey, I’m fa-falling, said Hans. Europe could fall! She should hold on, cojones ! cried Álvaro. Co-come on, Hans gasped, it’s this way, Álvaro, you’re tw-twisting my arm. Where are you going? said Álvaro, confused. Let’s go and see the old man, Hans suggested. Now? said Álvaro, isn’t it a bit far? N-nonsense, replied Hans, places are neither near nor far, it’s all re-relative, if we st-start walking now we’ll be there in no time, come on, follow me, what are you doing? Don’t sit down, give me your arm, ge-get up.

Álvaro didn’t reply. His face was buried in his hands, his shoulders were rising and falling.

All Souls’ Day began on a harsh note, with gusts of wind that bent the branches of the trees as if to give them a fright. The sky was filled with leaden clouds. A smell of snow permeated the air. The cobbles were slippery underfoot, sprinkled with some murky substance. The horses whinnied more loudly than usual. The market square had filled up with shadows that passed one another in silence. At the top of the tower, the clock hands seemed weighed down by a pulley. The weathervane creaked erratically. The parishioners who had just left afternoon Mass walked along, backs to the square, heads lowered.

That afternoon Hans had gone out for a stroll, less for pleasure than because he felt restless — he had been trying to concentrate for hours, unable to translate a single sentence. His brain was a dicebox in which images, fears and the roots of words were being jiggled about. He was fretting over the difficulty of the text, the situation with Sophie and the organ grinder’s health. He followed the stream of people climbing the Hill of Sighs until he found himself opposite the railings of Wandernburg Cemetery — a place he had never visited. He contemplated the sea of black headscarves, the long flowing coats, the lowered veils, the felt hats pulled down, the dark armbands, the shoes submerged in their own blackness and the rebellious contrast of floral offerings. Where did all these people come from? Why were Wandernburg’s streets even more crowded on All Souls’ Day than they were in spring?

At the entrance, a shabby beggar sat slumped against the wall. As they passed, the visitors stretched out their arms and dropped a few coins into his lap before hurrying on. This was the only day in the year when the beggar didn’t need to speak to or look at his benefactors. He simply accepted their charity, eyelids half-closed, almost with indifference. Mourners are generous, reflected Hans — they hope to buy a little more time. Hans began rummaging through his pockets in front of the bundle of rags. It opened its eyes and grunted: How’s the patient? Who, me? Hans started, I’m in perfect health, thank you, how about you? No, the beggar replied shaking his head irritated, not you, the organ grinder, is he any better? Ah, Hans said, surprised, well, sort of. When you see him, the beggar said, tell him his friend Olaf is waiting for him, don’t forget, will you? Olaf from the square. Now move along, please, you’re getting in the way of my customers.

Hans noticed that no one, absolutely no one in the whole of Wandernburg Cemetery allowed a hint of a smile to cross their faces, not even when they greeted one another. He found such consensus incredible. In a place like that, wasn’t it as reasonable to weep or to laugh aloud out of pure astonishment, to laugh at the absurdity, the miracle of being alive? But those gathered there acted as if they were standing in front of mirrors rather than tombstones. Veils raised, the widows displayed their sorrow and practised the various overtures to falling into a faint. The men vigorously shook their umbrellas, flexed their shoulders, clenched their jaws. Fascinated by this spectacle, the children copied their parents as closely as they could. Each time a sob rang out, another louder one next to it ensued. Suddenly, amid the figures dressed in black, Hans made out Frau Pietzine’s puffy, painted face. Seeing her entranced, busy murmuring her laments and dabbing her eyes beneath her veil, he did not dare disturb her, and walked on by.

Farther along the path, he stumbled on a strange sight — on an isolated knoll a man was dancing silently, eyes closed, around a grave bedecked with chrysanthemums. The dance was serene, old-fashioned. The painful memories etched onto the man’s face were overlaid with an expression of profound gratitude. Hans walked away thinking his grief was perhaps the most genuine of all those he had witnessed.

Near the exit, as he was reading some of the names and dates on the tombstones, Hans almost tripped and fell onto a grave whose edges were concealed by weeds. A voice behind him cried out as if from nowhere: “Hey, careful with my lads.” It was the gravedigger. Hans wheeled round and gazed at him curiously. He was surprised by his youth (why do we imagine gravediggers to be old?) and relative cheerfulness. A lot of work? Hans said, just for something to say. Don’t you believe it, replied the gravedigger, it’s the living that give us all the work. My lads — as I like to call them on account of it makes me more attached to them, see? — they don’t give me much trouble, ha, ha! Forgive me for asking, said Hans. (No need to apologise, the gravedigger declared, am I that scary looking?) Of course, sorry, I mean, this is my first visit to the cemetery and I wondered whether many people come on normal days. Many, you say? the gravedigger laughed. No one comes! No one at all! People only come here once a year, on All Souls’ Day. Well, said Hans, clapping him on the back (an amazingly firm back, hard as wood), I must be going, it’s been a pleasure, good luck. Thanks, likewise, replied the gravedigger, if you ever need me you know where to find me. I hope I shan’t be needing you, said Hans, no offence. It’s only a question of time, ha, ha! The gravedigger raised his arm and waved goodbye.