Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Rudi uttered these last words with the cold clarity of a doctor diagnosing his own illness. Sophie did not speak. For a moment the two of them listened to the silence, the sporadic burble of the fountain. Until Rudi added: Unless this is an even harder test. I am still in love with you. As much as or more than ever. Good God! Sophie Gottlieb, look at me, listen to what I’m saying. I’m willing to forgive you, to forget everything, do you understand? I, too, am crazy and I’m still willing. We’ll both deny it, we’ll deny everything until he’s gone, until all this has been forgotten. What do you say? Just give me a sign, do you hear? One simple sign and things between us will be as they were. As if nothing had happened, do you understand? Nothing. Ask of me whatever you will. Just ask.

Unable to open her mouth, Sophie was aware then that she had never felt so much respect for Rudi nor had she loved him less.

His eyelids grew as heavy as bags full of clothing. Up in the rafters, the cobwebs expanded. Unable to stop even in sleep, their drowsy eyes kept moving left and right, deciphering the darkness.

He dreamt the floor was spinning on an axis, his body was a clock, the bed was a water wheel. He was moving without getting anywhere, space spun in spirals, traced a bull’s eye, circles within circles. In the middle of it all a plughole awaited. A hand emerged from the water and waved about asking for help. And Hans was going to but he didn’t, the ground was a sticky web, his legs turned to jelly, and suddenly he only had one hand.

He woke up like someone falling backwards. It was cold. The room was enveloped in a white glare. The bed felt peculiar. When he realised he had woken up with his feet on the pillow and his head at the bottom of the bed, he knew the time had come. He leapt to his feet, pulled on a wool overcoat, sat down to write two letters.

Elsa leant out of the window to see who was there and instantly went downstairs before Bertold could get to the door. She was surprised to see Lisa there so early — Hans’s letters didn’t usually arrive before breakfast. She concealed it down the front of her dress. She patted Lisa’s head, gave her two aniseed balls, and closed the front door. Lisa walked to the market sucking one of them guiltily — when would she stop accepting sweets as if she were a child?

Sophie locked herself in her bedroom to read Hans’s letter. She was unable to have any thoughts. All she could feel was a spasm coursing through her body, an emptiness in her veins. She bit down hard on her lip. She tried to distract herself by gazing out of the window. Then she rang for Elsa and told her to start inventing some excuse. That afternoon they were going out no matter what.

It was drizzling. It drizzled constantly now. Hans could scarcely believe that only a few months ago he was out walking in the dazzling sunshine. He was standing under one of the balconies. Waiting. His nose dripped as he counted the seconds. Reaching up to wipe it, he noticed a hazy blotch in the distance, and recognised Elsa’s nervous walk among the umbrellas and horses. He thought of waving to her, but cautiously refrained. He was worried not to see Sophie. Suddenly Elsa gestured to him imperceptibly (a movement of her head, a click of her heels) before vanishing. Hans was alarmed, although Elsa instantly reappeared, as if nothing had happened, head held high, and a few yards behind Sophie appeared, unable to help staring at him intently. Elsa stopped, said something to Sophie and remained on the corner of Grinder’s Alley. As Sophie approached him, hiding her face under her umbrella, Hans felt a hollow sensation in his gut. The same thing happened to Sophie as Hans’s boots, frock coat and scarf loomed ever larger.

Thank goodness you came, said Hans. I had good reason to, Sophie replied, tilting her umbrella. They looked at one another strangely. He thought Sophie looked beautiful and a little tired, like an actress with dark shadows under her eyes. She thought Hans looked too thin and rather handsome with his dripping-wet hair. There was a moment’s silence, as though they had met simply in order to gaze at one another. It was Sophie, accustomed to being practical as a defence, who spoke first. Elsa, she explained, will wait for five minutes on that corner. I thought it best for us to see each other here because it is a craftsman’s quarter, a place friends of mine would never set foot in. Hans laughed and then immediately became serious. I’ve just sent my resignation to the publisher, he said in a hushed voice. What about our European anthology? asked Sophie. I don’t know, replied Hans, perhaps one day. Perhaps, she whispered. I also wanted to tell you that I told Brockhaus about you, I sent them some of your translations and poems, don’t pull a face, they want to meet you. Hans, Sophie protested, who said you could? How many times have I—? Well, anyway, I’m grateful, I can’t think about those things now. At least think about it, he insisted. I can manage by myself, she said. Are you very annoyed with me? asked Hans. Not at all, said Sophie, I understand, you have your life. Now I have to think about mine. But, aren’t translating and writing part of your life, too? They are only my dreams, she replied.

On the corner of Grinder’s Alley, Elsa folded her arms and looked at Sophie, shaking her head. Sophie raised her hand to tell her she was on her way.

Listen, Hans said quickly, I can’t stay here any longer, I have to continue my journey, I need to move, to start again. I know, I know, she sighed, where will you go? To Dessau I suppose, he replied, you never know. I see, she said. Look at me, he said, please look at me — even though I know you can’t, I’d like you to come with me. Sophie remained silent. Hans’s eyes were flashing. Or can you? he insisted. We still have time! Would you come? With a sad but resolute look, Sophie replied: Don’t you think it’s better not to follow anyone? Hans shrugged his shoulders. Sophie smiled, tears in her eyes. Elsa crossed the street.

Farewells are so strange. There’s something terrifying, deadly, about them, and yet they awaken a desperate urge to live. Perhaps farewells create new territories, or they send us back to the only territory that truly belongs to us, that of solitude. It is as though we needed to go back there from time to time, to draw a line and say: I came from here, this was me, what sort of person am I? I used to believe love would provide me with the answers. Our love has filled me with doubt. What sort of person am I? I don’t know, I’ve never really known. I am alone with myself (I on the one side, she on the other) and in a sense this has been possible because of being with you. Oh, my love, I’m afraid I’m not explaining myself well! I hope you can hear me even though you don’t know what I’m saying. Wouldn’t that be a kind of greeting in the farewell ? And more than anything a lot of pain, of course. I’m making your head spin! (Good, that way I shall xxx xxxx xxxxbe able to steal a few kisses while you ponder my words.) Hans, will I see you once more before you leave, even if only for a few moments? If I managed to get away once I can get away twice. Do you know what my father said when he saw me come in with …

… for farewells, as you say. I think that living is above all about greeting things deservingly, and saying farewell to them with the appropriate gratitude. I suspect no one has this ability.

Sophie, I’m going to make a confession. Xxxx xxxx xxx xxx xxxIn the past, when I would go back to a place and meet up with old friends, I was the one who ended up saying farewell to everyone. Now, I don’t know why, I feel as if it is the others who are saying farewell to me. I’m not sure if this is a good or a bad thing. We lose the fear of letting go of our baggage, but also the certainty that what is in them belongs to us.