Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

You, here again? clacked the Chief Superintendent. That was quick, you like a bit of fun.

The Chief Superintendent questioned him for half-an-hour. Hans went from being addressed politely as “ you ” to being called “ foreigner ”. When he mentioned Rudi, Hans was told no charges would be pressed because he had been defending his honour. He, on the other hand, would remain in custody for a few hours in order to make a statement about the incident and about his relationship to the offended party. The offended party? Hans said in astonishment. The Chief Superintendent, realising he was refusing to collaborate, ordered the foreigner to be thrown into the cells for the night in order to help him to collect his thoughts.

The cell itself was innocuous — it was more ugly than intimidating. A simple square plunged into darkness. It was no filthier than the organ grinder’s den. It was, of course, cold. And above all damp, as if the walls had been smeared with a mixture of steam and urine. The pallet wasn’t the worst he’d slept on either, although to be on the safe side, Hans decided to remove the mattress. The jailer guarding his cell was given to belching and had a queer sense of humour. He didn’t seem concerned with the arrests or what went on in the police station. He only opened and closed the cell door. All the rest, he affirmed, was none of his business, nor did they pay him enough for him to worry about it. When Hans asked whether he might use the bucket as a seat, he replied shrugging his shoulders: Masturbate into it if you want. Then he added: That’s what most people use it for. Hans let go of the bucket instantaneously and crouched as best he could.

To begin with Hans was surprised that the jailer insisted on bringing him supper. He even found his cruel jokes amusing. (If a man’s to be condemned to death, he had said, it might as well be on a full stomach.) Hans wolfed down the salted bread, the slice of bacon and the sausage. Afterwards, he was surprised when the man diligently offered him a second loaf. He quickly understood the reason for all this generosity — the jailer had been ordered not to give him any water. Don’t take this personally, he said, and don’t complain, it could be worse. Did you really think we’d tie you up? Beat you? Hang you upside down by your feet? Don’t be a fool. We save our strength here. Go thirsty for a day. Or sign the declaration and leave.

At midnight a bailiff woke him up tapping on the bars with a truncheon. In between gulps of water, which he made a point of spilling on purpose, the bailiff tried to persuade Hans to sign a declaration admitting to provocation and disturbing the peace in exchange for his immediate release. Each time Hans refused, the bailiff turned to the jailer and exclaimed: “Will you listen to that?”; “Well I never!”; “What’s to be done?” To which the jailer replied: “They say he studied at Jena”; “A real scholar”, and other such remarks. If Hans invoked justice or demanded a lawyer, the bailiff would guffaw: “A lawyer!” and the jailer would add: “Whatever next!”

Before leaving, annoyed at the stubbornness of the prisoner (who, deep down, was beginning to lose his nerve), the bailiff said: The law, you talk to me about justice? Let me remind you how justice works. Fritz Reuter spent two years in prison for waving a black, red and yellow flag. Arnold Ruge was sentenced to fifteen years on suspicion of belonging to subversive organisations. Several of your comrades took their own lives in prison. Others ask to do hard labour just so they can drink water or see the sun. In the Harz region mutilation is legal. It isn’t the only place. And for your information, in this principality, the death penalty can be carried out with an axe. Peasants who steal are beheaded. People pay eight groats to watch. They’re right. Some things are educational. Have I made myself understood? There’s justice for you. Real justice, you son of a bitch. Have a good night.

The next morning, when he went to wake him, the jailer found Hans with his eyes wide open. A viscous light poured through the bars, like oily gravy. A very young sergeant took him to the Chief Superintendent, who hadn’t changed his clothes, or was wearing similar ones. Have you calmed down, foreigner? the Chief Superintendent greeted him. Have you had time to think things over? Are you ready to sign? Nervous, battling with the fears that assailed him, Hans refused once more to sign the statement. The Chief Superintendent ordered him to be locked up again. Back in his cell, Hans sobbed in silence. Moments later, the jailer opened the bars and he was a free man.

Hans left the police station bewildered. Álvaro was waiting for him on the corner of Spur Street. About time! he said. I was getting anxious. How did you persuade them to let me go? asked Hans. Simple, replied Álvaro, I paid your bail. Oh, said Hans, surprised, I had bail? It wasn’t very much, said Álvaro, didn’t they tell you? Three guesses! Hans sighed. Never mind, what did they say? I came here first thing, explained Álvaro, and they told me I had to wait because you were signing a statement.

They made their way dolefully down Potter’s Lane, zigzagging towards Café Europa. Well, Álvaro said, patting him on the back, how do you feel? Fresh as a rose, hombre ! declared Hans. They only wanted to frighten me. And did they succeed? Álvaro grinned. They did rather, replied Hans.

After his second coffee, Hans’s sleepiness gave way to the keen alertness that overcomes anyone who hasn’t slept all night. He told his friend about the beating on King’s Parade, the Chief Superintendent’s interrogation, his detention in the cell, what the bailiff had said. Does it hurt? Álvaro asked, pointing to his puffy cheek and red nose. Hans was about to reply when he caught sight of one of the billiard players on the tables at the back — over the sound of colliding balls, Rudi was smiling disdainfully at him. Look who’s here, Hans whispered, glancing away and realising he did so with fear. Herr Imbecile, growled Álvaro, I’m going to tell him I’ll be waiting for him at eight o’clock on the bridge, I’ll give him honour! Don’t play the hero, said Hans, have a herbal tea instead. Álvaro insisted: I’m going to challenge him, I tell you, and you … Let go of my arm! Let go! Hans managed to calm his friend down. It wasn’t very difficult — the last thing Álvaro needed was a feud with the Wilderhaus family. When they stood up to go, the waiter informed them Herr Wilderhaus had paid their bill.

As soon as Hans walked in, the innkeeper leapt with unaccustomed agility from behind the reception desk. It’s Thursday already! he said with a look of consternation. Clasping his belly as though he were lifting up a sack of potatoes, he added: A couple of policemen went up to your room this morning. (What? Hans said, alarmed. And you didn’t stop them?) Listen, they had bayonets! I tried my best, but they insisted on searching your belongings (damn! Hans cried, raising his hands to his head), but I managed to ask Lisa to hide your trunk in number five, which is empty. No, there’s no need to thank me, sir. You’ve always paid. And a guest is a guest.

Hans pelted up the stairs. On one of the landings he bumped into Thomas, who crouched like a cat, slipped between his legs, tugged at his breeches and took off down the stairs.

He walked into his room and glanced about. The chairs were upturned, the mattress half on the floor, his valise open and his clothes strewn everywhere, the bathtub had been moved, the papers on his desk rifled through, the logs pulled from the fire. He searched everything carefully, and discovered the policemen had taken nothing of any importance except for some money he had hidden in a sock inside his suitcase. The only real casualty was the watercolour, which he picked up off the floor, its mirror smashed to pieces. He went out into the corridor, made sure no one was there and slipped into the adjoining room — he was relieved to find his trunk under the bed behind some brooms and wash bowls Lisa had placed there as camouflage.