Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

A quarter of an hour later, Sophie reappeared in her father’s bedchamber wearing the gown. As soon as she had stepped into it she knew it would fit her. The three pearl buttons were perhaps a little tight at the back. The gold ribbon on the neckline was perhaps a little lower than it should be. And yet it was undoubtedly her size. Elsa had helped her into the old-fashioned corset that sculpted her waist, pushed up her bust, rounding off her subtle décolletage. She had donned a pair of embroidered silk stockings and wore satin-lined slippers adorned with ribbons. Before stepping out into the corridor, she had studied her reflection in the glass and had felt a strange tingling sensation, like a needle running down her spine.

A quarter of an hour later, when Sophie reappeared in her father’s bedchamber wearing the gown, Herr Gottlieb said nothing. He said nothing at first and looked at her, he looked through her, squinting the way short-sighted people do, focusing like those who are sightless. He stood motionless, his mind elsewhere, until abruptly he opened his eyes, dilated his pupils, parted his lips and said at last: It is perfect, my love, perfect.

Sophie hadn’t heard her father call her my love for a long time, not since she was a child.

Then Herr Gottlieb said: Come here, my child, my precious, come closer, my love.

Sophie walked over to her father. She stopped two steps away from him. She stood motionless and let him embrace her.

You have your mother’s shoulders, her father said.

Sophie felt slightly faint. The room was airless. The wedding gown was pressing her stomach. As were her father’s arms.

You have your mother’s waist, her father said.

The whole length of the white dress was reflected in the wardrobe mirror.

And you have your mother’s skin, her father said.

The airlessness, the gown, the mirror.

As though emerging from a well, Sophie pushed herself away with her arms.

But I’m not like my mother, she said.

Herr Gottlieb’s lips disappeared behind his whiskers. His face fell. His pupils contracted.

How young you are, child, he said, how terribly young (don’t say that, Father, Sophie replied, don’t talk as though you were already old), oh, but I am (no, Father, she insisted), you see, it isn’t just about age, my child, it is also about loss, you have so much youth left in you because — how can I put this? — you still have the feeling of being whole, the unmistakable belief that this wholeness will never end. When you lose that, whatever age you are, you are old, do you understand? And I love you so very much.

Shortly afterwards Rudi’s servants knocked at the door. His berlin was waiting in Stag Street.

Is something the matter, my dear? Rudi asked, removing a speck of snuff from his velvet frock coat with one finger. No, replied Sophie, rousing herself, nothing, why do you ask? For no particular reason, Rudi said, giving off a whiff of lemon scent, or perhaps because I’ve spent ages trying to decide on the wedding menu with you and you’ve hardly said a word. Oh, she said, you know I’m not very bothered about that kind of thing, honestly, you decide. Not very bothered, he stipulated, or not bothered in the slightest? Well, she retorted, is there a difference? Driver! shouted Rudi, rapping three times on the roof. Stop here!

Don’t stop, she cried, or rather she thought. But Hans hesitated, as though he’d just remembered something. Something that removed him from the room, and, at the same time, allowed him to see it vividly. They were both there. He could see himself. She, too.

Lying across the bed, he on his side, legs hooked under hers, both were assailed by the same vision, the exact same one, without knowing it. They saw two L-shaped torsos submerged in water, as though they had discovered themselves fornicating with their own reflection, struggling to possess it and to be separate from it. As though, thrusting against each other, neither knew where one ended and the other began, and they were no longer sure if they were two or one. As though neither could decipher the other by contemplating him or her, by contemplating each other as they gave themselves to one another. When the frisson came and they cried out as one, the image disappeared. The water went still. The mirror dissolved. Their bodies grew cold.

After leaving the mansion for his daily coach ride, Rudi saw him, on the right-hand side of the pavement, a few yards from where King’s Parade meets Border Street, strolling along. He saw him strolling along in his rabble-rouser’s beret, his common frock coat, his sloppy cravat, walking with that irritatingly absent-minded yet insolent gait of his, partly nonchalant, partly self-conscious, much like his free-flowing hair, as though while behaving as he pleased he always knew he was being watched. Rudi saw him through the window, he felt his gorge rise and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself a little. He gave three short raps on the roof of the carriage, his body rocking with the rhythm of the braking vehicle, slid his buttocks along the length of velvet. He waited for the driver to open the coach door, gracefully thrust one hip forward and let his boot fall onto the folding steps. He descended them with a faint creak of patent leather, his bulky frame leaning back in order to compensate for the tilt of the carriage, and stepped onto the pavement without muddying his boots. He approached Hans from behind, marching in step with him for a few paces, took one long stride forward. He dug his pointed heel in the ground, steadied himself, and nimbly brought his ankles together. He stretched a gloved hand towards Hans, and prodded him on the shoulder. And when Hans wheeled round, without uttering a word, he gave him a resounding punch in the face.

Hans crumpled like a rag doll and lay sprawled over the pavement. He tried to get up. Rudi reached down, helped him to his feet and punched him again. Twice. Once with each fist. A fist for each cheek. Hans crashed to the ground once more. During this second fall, amid the shooting pain and the spray of blood from his face, he realised what was going on. As he lay on the ground he received six or seven swift, precise patent-leather kicks. He made no attempt to defend himself. It would have been futile in any case. Amid the hail of blows, he noticed Rudi wasn’t trying to break his bones — he was aiming at the soft parts, mainly his stomach, avoiding his ribs. The kicking was astonishingly forceful yet measured, as though he were drumming a signal. Hans’s response to the punishment was to try not to choke or to cry out. When the battering was over, besides a feeling of panic, a sour taste on his tongue and a ring of fire in his head, Hans experienced a humiliating pang of sympathy.

Somewhat agitated, Rudi examined his gloves to make sure they weren’t soiled. He congratulated himself on having avoided Hans’s nose and mouth — such blows turn the defeated opponent into a blatant victim, besides being unnecessarily messy. He steadied his hands, adjusted his sleeves so that they were even, raised his chin to its normal height. He realised he was missing his buckle hat, stooped to pick it up from the floor bending at the waist, blew on it gingerly. He placed it on his head, turned round, walked back to his carriage. He caught sight of a mounted policeman, waited for him to approach, signalled to his driver.

The Chief Superintendent looked at him with languid curiosity, as though the sight of Hans’s wounds had woken him from a nap. His jaw dropped and his lips formed into something resembling a smile. Before he began to speak, his teeth clacked, emitting a sound of toppling dominos. The policeman who had arrested Hans stood in the doorway gazing at the ceiling. On it he counted six cracks, four candle stubs and three spiders spinning.