Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

On hearing these last words, G L Mietter, Doctor of Philology, Honorary Member of the Berlin Society of the German Language and the Berlin Academy of Science, Emeritus Professor of the University of Berlin, tireless collaborator on the Gottingen Almanac of the Muses and chief literary critic on the Thunderer , did what no one, not even he, would have thought — he began sobbing uncontrollably.

Gentlemen, we’ve done an excellent job, declared the Chief Superintendent.

Congratulations, sir, said Gluck the younger, ironically.

The following day at noon, the other members of the Gottlieb salon were sent brief notes informing them the Friday meetings were suspended until further notice.

As he gobbled down a late breakfast at the Café Europa, Hans read with sleep-filled eyes a fervent article on the first page of the Thunderer that ended:

… of this shady individual whose Lutheran tendencies had on more than one occasion sown the seeds of suspicion among the local authorities, not least because of his suspected association with Anabaptist sects. Even his writings seemed to have fallen off in comparison to his earlier work, and while his previous merits remain unquestioned, the quality of his contributions — as our observant readers will have noticed — had become noticeably inferior. Given the deplorable circumstances, we now feel at liberty to reveal that for this and other reasons, our newspaper had long been considering relieving the professor of his Sunday column with the — as we see it — worthy intention of allowing fresh young voices to be heard, which is what our public deserves, and what our newspaper has always prided itself on providing. Yesterday’s appalling turn of events has merely brought forward this imminent change fortuitously — wisdom would decree, there are times when the fate of scoundrels appears to be carved in stone. As newspapermen and as fathers, we welcome wholeheartedly this unexpected arrest. It is precisely what we have been demanding both actively and passively from this very tribune. By the same token we now have a duty to ask ourselves — is this case absolutely and unquestionably closed? Was the wretched culprit really acting alone? Is he, without a shadow of a doubt, the sole perpetrator of each of these attacks? Or could this be an official version designed to allay the population’s fears? For such fears are indeed legitimate, and only when they have been properly laid to rest will we feel safe in our own homes. And moreover we are convinced that at this very moment our readers are mulling over similar concerns. We will provide a more in-depth analysis of the matter in tomorrow’s edition.

November was growing cold, the organ grinder was burning up. Towards the middle of the month, Doctor Müller admitted that his patient was deteriorating — his bronchioles were closing up, his fevers were worse, and in the past few days he had suffered momentary losses of consciousness. Occasionally he would come round, utter three or four intelligible words, and close his eyes before plunging into a fitful sleep. Doctor Müller continued prescribing him with purges, balms, infusions, cataplasms and enemas. Yet he did so with less conviction (or at least so Hans thought), as one might read out a list of minerals. Faith is as powerful as any remedy, my friend, the doctor had assured him on his last visit. Do you believe that, doctor? Hans had said, removing the bedpan from between the old man’s wizened legs. Absolutely, Müller had replied, science comes from the spirit. Be patient and have faith, your friend may still get better. And what if he goes on getting worse? Hans had asked. Doctor Müller had smiled, shrugged and folded his stethoscope.

The organ grinder’s eyelids wriggled like a pair of caterpillars. They creased, puffed up, their crusty edges opening to reveal two eyeballs floating in liquid. For a moment his eyes turned in circles and were lost between blinks, until gradually he was able to focus. Franz gave his brow a cooling lick. Behind, at the back, far away, Hans greeted him with a wave of his hand. Hans stooped, crossed the pool of light and shadow separating them, and spoke into his ear. The doctor is coming, he whispered. What a shame, the old man gasped, I was thinking of going shopping. Then he remained silent, supine.

Hans watched him, not daring to touch him, breathing with him, following the air going in and out of his lungs, watching him give and receive light, suspended between each breath. He knelt down next to the old man, held him gently by the shoulders and said: Don’t go.

The organ grinder opened his eyelids once more and replied slowly, without coughing: My dear Hans, I’m not going anywhere, on the contrary, I shall soon be everywhere. Look at the countryside. Look at the leaves on the birch trees.

At which, he was wracked by a prolonged yet strangely calm coughing fit.

Hans gave him a handkerchief and turned to look at the leaves. From inside the cave he could see only one birch tree, almost leafless. He gazed intently at its branches, at the dark fluttering leaves.

Hans, the old man called out. What? he replied. I’m going to ask you a favour, the old man said. I’m listening, Hans nodded. Kof , please speak to me using the familiar form of you , said the old man. All right, Hans grinned, carry on, I’m listening. That was all, thanks, the old man said. What? That was all, the old man repeated, kof , I just wanted you to address me informally. Hush, don’t talk, whispered Hans, don’t talk so much, be patient, you’re going to get better. Yes, breathed the old man, just like that birch tree.

The wind outside whistled along the river. The branches in the pinewood were rattling. The air inside the organ grinder’s lungs also crackled, it climbed up his trunk, sprouting branches. The pine trees pierced the mist. His chest scaled the branches.

Having overcome his sense of shame, or perhaps because he wanted to be as close to the old man as possible, Hans became curious. How does it feel? he whispered in his ear. The organ grinder seemed to like the question. You feel it, he said, smell it, touch it. And above all, kof , you hear it. You make your way in little by little, it’s like swapping something with someone. But everything happens slowly, kof , ever so slowly, you start to recognise it, you see? It comes towards you, and you can hear it, as if dying were a, kof , I don’t know, a sombre chord, it has high notes and low notes, you can hear them quite clearly, some rise, others fall, kof , they rise and fall, can’t you hear them? Can’t you hear them? Can’t you? …

Doctor Müller cleared his throat twice. Hans wheeled round with a start. Müller doffed his hat. I thought you were never coming, said Hans, more in a tone of entreaty than reproach. Unfortunately, said the doctor, I have many other patients to attend. Hans remained silent and moved away from the old man. Doctor Müller knelt down next to straw pallet, listened to his chest, took his temperature, placed a pill between his lips. His temperature is quite high, Müller announced, but he seems comfortable. How can he be comfortable, Doctor? Hans demurred. He’s bathed in sweat and shivering. My dear sir, Doctor Müller said, rising to his feet, in my lifetime I’ve seen many men go through this, and I can assure you, rarely have I seen one who is suffering so little. Look. Take his wrist. His pulse is slow, remarkably slow considering how much difficulty he has breathing, it’s as if he were sleeping, you see, ah, well, he has fallen asleep! It’s the best thing for him. He needs rest, lots of rest. And now you must stop worrying, my good man, I’ve given him a sleeping pill. Get some rest yourself.

The week went by slowly, the hours dragged like mud. Health has a slippery quality — its swift passage is imperceptible. Illness on the other hand lingers, it delays time, which ironically is the thing it extinguishes. Slowly, inexorably, illness coursed through the organ grinder’s body, anointing it with shadows. His limbs had grown emaciated. A translucent layer enfolded his bones. When his fever peaked, his hands shook even more, tracing indecipherable pictures in the air. And yet the old man seemed to be passing away with instinctive equanimity. When he was not exhausted after vomiting or drifting into unconsciousness, he would make an effort to sit up amid the filth of his straw pallet in order to gaze at something in the pinewood and beyond. At such times, Franz, who only left his side in order to scavenge for food or to defecate among the trees, pricked up his triangular ears and watched with him. Can you hear that, Franz? the organ grinder nodded, can you hear the wind?