Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Accustomed to the dense quiet of the Gottlieb residence, Hans was surprised to find the drawing room so abuzz the following Friday. While Bertold took his coat and walked away touching the scar on his lip, Hans’s first impression was of a concerto of murmurings with teacups as percussion. The main group was seated on chairs and armchairs around the low table. There was also a man standing over by the windows, wearing a thoughtful expression, and in a corner two other people were engaged in a more private conversation. Sophie sat to the right of the marble fireplace, or rather brushed the chair with the lace of her skirts, always about to stand up. With calm alacrity she would rise to her feet to serve tea, attend to one of her guests or walk about the room like someone overseeing the different functionings of a loom. She was the discreet hub of the circle, the mediator who listened, suggested, commented, forged links, smoothed out differences and elicited responses, constantly proffering pertinent remarks or stimulating questions. Hans gazed at her in admiration. Sophie looked so radiant, happy and self-assured in her movements that he was unable to stir from the doorway but stood for some minutes just watching her, until she herself went up to him — There’s no need to be shy! — and ushered him into the centre of the room.

She introduced him one by one to all the members of the salon except for Rudi Wilderhaus, who was absent that afternoon. Firstly to Professor 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. Wandernburg’s very own cultural luminary, he had contributed to several editions of the Gottingen Almanac of the Muses and published a poem or a literary column in the Sunday edition of the local paper, the Thunderer . Professor Mietter’s mouth was set in a slight grimace, as though he had just bitten on a peppercorn. He wore dark blue and sported an unfashionable white ringleted wig on his bald pate. Hans was struck by the professor’s air of unruffled solemnity amid the gaiety around him, as if he did not so much disapprove of it as consider it the result of flawed reasoning or a methodological error. Opposite him, teacup suspended mid-way between saucer and mouth, sat the wary Herr Levin, a merchant with a penchant for theosophy. Herr Levin avoided the eyes of his interlocutors, appearing to focus instead on their eyebrows. A man of few and perplexing words, quite the opposite of Professor Mietter, Herr Levin had the awkward manner of someone trying to appear irreproachable even in repose. Next to him sat his wife, the mouse-like Frau Levin, who was in the habit of speaking only when her husband did, either to echo what he said, to agree with him, or very occasionally to call him to order. Next, Hans was introduced to Frau Pietzine, for many years a widow, and a fervent devotee of Father Pigherzog’s sermons and of gemstones from Brazil. Frau Pietzine, who usually had a piece of embroidery in her lap which she would work on as she spoke, closed her eyelids as she allowed Hans to kiss her hand. He gazed at her yellow feather boa, her diamond ring, the strings of pearls that plunged like fingers into the pinkish skin of her cleavage.

Lastly, Sophie paused in front of the gentleman Hans had noticed standing beside the windows. My dear Herr Hans, she said, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Herr Urquiho, Álvaro de Urquiho . Urquijo, the man corrected her, Urquijo, my dear Mademoiselle. Of course, Urquixo! laughed Sophie, excuse my ignorance. Hans pronounced his name properly. Álvaro de Urquijo bobbed his head, sweeping the room with his eyes as if to say “Welcome to this ”. Hans noticed the hint of irony in his gesture and felt an instant liking for him. He confirmed that Urquijo’s German was flawless, although imbued with an accent that gave it an impassioned quality. Our dear Herr Ur, er, Álvaro, said Sophie, however much he might regret the fact, is now a true Wandernburger. Believe me, my dear Mademoiselle, smiled Álvaro, one of the few reasons I do not regret becoming a Wandernburger is that you should consider me such. My dear friend, Sophie retorted, raising a shoulder towards her chin, you must not be so subtle in your flattery, remember you are a Wandernburger now. Álvaro gave a loud chortle and refrained from replying, conceding the point to his hostess. Sophie took her leave with a swift gesture, and went to attend to Frau Pietzine, who was clutching her needlework with a look of boredom on her face.

The afternoon slipped by pleasantly. Under the auspices of Sophie, who facilitated occasional exchanges between them, Hans was able to study the other members of her salon more closely. Each time he was asked what he did for a living, Hans replied that he travelled, he travelled and he translated. Some understood from this that he was an interpreter, others a diplomat, still others that he was on holiday. And yet everyone responded politely: Oh, I see. The conversations ebbed and flowed. Sophie circulated from one to another, aided by Elsa and Berthold. Herr Gottlieb, slightly removed from the centre of the gathering, his whiskers curled around his pipe, sat in silence observing the proceedings ironically, sceptical of whatever was being discussed, but proud of his daughter’s easy grace. Whenever she spoke, he smiled benignly like a person who believes they know the person to whom they are listening very well. Sophie on the other hand glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and gave him the opposite kind of smile — that of someone who believes the person listening to them hasn’t a clue about their beliefs. Herr Gottlieb seemed to pay most attention to Professor Mietter, often agreeing with what he said. Contrary to what he had initially thought, Hans had to confess that the professor was extremely knowledgeable. Despite his tedious way of holding forth, he advanced his arguments in a rigorous and impeccably orderly fashion, without his wig shifting an inch. Professor Mietter is almost unassailable, thought Hans — he either uses simple logic to put forward his views or else imposes them thanks to his listeners’ inertia, since in order to refute his opinions it is necessary to break down each of his erudite arguments, which he erects like firewalls. Although Hans was careful not to contradict him during that first meeting, he knew that if they met regularly they were destined to clash. For his part, Professor Mietter treated him with a studied politeness that Hans found almost aggressive. Whenever the professor listened to Hans’s opinions, so at odds with his own, he would raise his teacup cautiously to his lips, as though not wanting to steam up his spectacles.

Hans thought Bertold was following Elsa around, or that Elsa was trying to avoid Bertold, or both. Despite her attentiveness, Hans sensed a rebelliousness in Elsa — her gaze was more direct than was usual among servants, as though behind her silence there was defiance. Although they had both been employed at the Gottlieb residence for roughly the same length of time, Bertold seemed to be part of the furniture, whereas Elsa gave the impression of just passing through. Bertold attended the guests obligingly, Elsa did so grudgingly. My dear! Frau Pietzine suddenly called out to her. My dear, go to the kitchen and ask if there are any meringues left, yes, thank you, dear, and so, darling Sophie, will you not delight us today with your piano playing? Really? Oh, I’m so disappointed! The piano when it is well played is so, so, I just adore the piano, don’t you think, Herr Hans, that our beloved Sophie ought perhaps to, well, to play a little welcoming piece in your honour? I think if we all insist, what do you mean you refuse! Oh don’t make us plead, child! Really? Next week, you say? That’s a promise? Very well, very well, but remember you’ve given your word! It’s my age, you see, Herr Hans, at my age music moves one so!