Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

My love (will I be able to keep calling you my love in the future?), of course we’ll meet. Even for a few moments. We’ll find a way. There are so many things I’d like to say to you. In that sense writing is like being in love — there’s never enough time to say what we want.

You asked me whether I think about the old man. I think about him every day. And also (don’t laugh) I worry about Franz. His dog, Franz, do you remember? I don’t know where he is. I’ve looked everywhere, but I can’t …

… convinced that people who stay in one place are more nostalgic than people who travel. What do you think? For those who are sedentary, time moves more slowly, leaving a trail, like that of a snail on the pages of a calendar. I think memory feeds on stillness. Those of us who stay feel nostalgia, and I know what I’m talking about. Nothing leaves me more wistful than going to see someone off, watching the carriage grow smaller until it vanishes. Then I turn around, and I feel like a stranger in my own city. I can’t stop thinking about how I’ll feel on my way to say farewell to you, my love, and I swear I don’t think I am able. I don’t even want to think about how I would see the things around me, how everything would look to me, when your carriage …

… because I can’t bear it either. I prefer it that way, too.

You’re right, people who travel are fleeing nostalgia. There’s no time for memories when you are travelling. Your eyes brim. Your muscles ache. You haven’t the strength or the attention for anything except keeping moving. Packing a bag doesn’t make you more aware of changes, rather it compels you to postpone the past, and the present is taken up with concerns about the immediate. Time slides over the traveller’s skin. (How is your skin? What does it smell of today? What colour stockings you are wearing?)

Yes, time slides over us. After a long journey, as though abundance produced amnesia, you think — is that it? Is that all And where was I in all this? …

He had imagined every possibility. That no one had read his note. That no one would open the door to him. That they would call the police. Insults would be hurled at him. He would be kicked down the steps. He had imagined every possibility, except this one — Herr Gottlieb would receive him without putting up any resistance.

Hans had resolved not to leave Wandernburg without saying goodbye to Herr Gottlieb, or without at least trying to. He felt, on the one hand, indebted to Sophie’s father for all the hospitality and kindness he had shown him when he first arrived. And on the other, that sneaking out of the city like a fugitive would have been an admission of guilt that he refused to accept. Overcoming his awkwardness at the situation, his anger at Herr Gottlieb’s tyrannical behaviour towards his daughter, and perhaps a secret sense of shame, he had sent a note asking to pay a visit to the house he had not set foot in for over a month, and had made his way towards Stag Street for the very last time. And yet now that he was in front of the door, staring at the swallow and lion’s-head door knockers, everything looked different. What the devil was he doing there? Why should he endorse anyone’s authority? How far could his visit be construed as an apology? And in the end, wasn’t it an accursed apology? Just then, the door on the right swung open. Bertold reluctantly let him in and began mounting the stairs without waiting. Hans was almost compelled to run after him. Once in the hallway, Bertold avoided his eyes, and told him in a hushed voice that Herr Gottlieb was in his study. Hans ventured to ask whether Fräulein Gottlieb was at home. She’s gone out, Bertold replied, turning on his heel.

Once more Hans experienced the dizziness of the corridor, its murky ceiling, its icy passage. Before stopping outside the study, he couldn’t resist peering into the drawing room where he had spent so many Fridays — he saw the furniture lined up as in a museum, armchairs with their dust sheets, flowerless vases. The curtains blocked off the windows. The clock on the wall gave the wrong hour. The round mirror warped the empty hearth. The study reeked of tobacco, sweat and brandy. Herr Gottlieb didn’t appear hidden in the gloom so much as fused to it, a flattened image. When he moved the lamp to the middle of his desk, Hans noticed the maze of furrows on his face — how old was he? They didn’t greet each other immediately. The dense silence exuded alcohol. The carpet exhaled dust. Hans waited for the first reproach, an angry gesture, a raised voice. But the head of the house didn’t appear to be looking at him with genuine resentment — what most showed in his eyes, what they exuded, was dismay. Have a seat, he said at last. Hans positioned himself in the leather armchair opposite. Herr Gottlieb gestured to the bottle, Hans served himself a small brandy. More! Herr Gottlieb ordered. Hans poured out a little more, raised his glass, not knowing what to toast.

The conversation began like all decisive conversations — with something else. They commented on the awful news about Professor Mietter. Hans made an effort to look aggrieved. Herr Gottlieb expressed his astonishment and even the hope that this was a result of some dreadful calumny or of police bungling. He said this with such conviction that Hans realised this defeated host would never accept the idea that he had invited a rapist as well as an adulterer into his home. They discussed the cold spell. The merits of French brandy. How pretty sleighs were. Afterwards they fell silent. Then the real conversation began.

I came here, sir, Hans coughed, to say goodbye. I know, replied Herr Gottlieb, my daughter told me you were leaving. It is the only reason I agreed to see you. You see, Hans tried to explain, I blame myself for the problems my friendship with your daughter might have caused (no, no, Herr Gottlieb interrupted calmly, I don’t think you do), believe me, it was never my intention, but when feelings, when feelings emerge, sometimes it’s impossible, even inhuman, to foresee how far … Don’t even try it, Herr Gottlieb sighed, things happened the way they did. And I can’t say I’m surprised.

Herr Gottlieb tried to relight his pipe. The cold, dry tobacco wouldn’t catch. He didn’t speak or look up until he had succeeded. With the smoke in his eyes once more, he resumed talking. His whiskers had an air of a bedraggled bird about them.

I feared this, Herr Gottlieb went on, I feared it from the beginning. The moment I saw the pair of you, my daughter and you, talking. I saw the disaster unfolding. There it was. And I could do nothing about it. I saw you talking and it was terrible. Sophie’s face lit up. Her face lit up, and I felt a mixture of tenderness and pain. I fought it to the end, of course. To the bitter end, damn it. As a loving father and as a man of honour. But I already suspected it would do no good. I know my daughter well. She’s, she’s (Hans ventured: Fascinating and strong-willed), dear God, she certainly is! Much too strong-willed. At first I considered forbidding you to come to the house. Yes, don’t be surprised. And I thought I’d do all I could to prevent you from meeting outside it. However, knowing my daughter, I told myself it would make matters worse. She would resist, quarrel with me, with the Wilderhauses, with everyone. And so I decided to cross my fingers and trust her to act sensibly. I thought that that way, without trying to force her, she would see reason and end up losing her infatuation with you. I knew that the more I stepped in the more she would turn it into some heroic passion. What I failed to predict was that the two of you would take it so far. Or that you would begin writing together, what a bright idea. Wait a moment, let me finish. And I had to grin and bear it. To keep up appearances. In front of my daughter, in front of Rudi, even in front of you. To act the fool. Those were agonising months. I can’t tell you what thoughts went through my head, but believe me they were many and various. Then it occurred to me to make some enquiries about you.