Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Tramping across frozen mud and dried urine, they left Stag Street behind them. The flickering gas lamps lent the market square an intermittent presence — its luminosity fluctuated the way an instrument changes chords, the gradient of the deserted cobblestones rose and fell, the ornate fountain vanished for an instant then reappeared, the Tower of the Wind became smudged. Álvaro and Hans crossed the square listening to the sound of their own footsteps. Hans was still struck by the contrast between day and night, between the colourful fruit and the yellow darkness, the throng of passers-by and this icy silence. He reflected that one of the two squares, the daytime or night-time one, was like a mirage. Gazing up, he saw St Nicholas’s lopsided towers, its slanting silhouette. Álvaro stared at it and said: One of these days it is bound to topple over.

Unlike in the surrounding countryside where night falls slowly, day ends abruptly in Wandernburg, with the same alarming swiftness as that with which the shutters swing shut on the windows. The evening light is sucked away as down a drain. Then the few passers-by begin tripping over barrels outside taverns, all the carriage gear, kerbstones, loose logs, household waste. Beside each doorway bags of refuse decompose, while drawn by the stench dogs and cats gather round eating as the flies buzz overhead.

Looked at from the sky, the city is like a candle floating on water. At its centre, the wick, is the gaslit glow of the market square. Beyond the square, darkness gains ground in an ever-widening circle. Threads of light spread out like a pattern of nerves along the remaining streets. Rising from the walls like pale creepers, the oil lamps scarcely illuminate the ground beneath them. Night in Wandernburg is not as black as a wolf’s mouth — it is what the avid wolf devours.

For a while now, on certain nights, in the streets bordering the square, avoiding the nightwatchmen, standing in the shadows, merging with the walls, someone has been waiting. Along Wool Alley, in narrow Prayer Street or at the end of Our Saviour’s Alley, breathing silently, dressed in a dark flowing cape and black-brimmed hat, wearing snugly fitting gloves, arms thrust into pockets, clutching a knife in one hand and a mask and a piece of rope in the other, lurking on street corners, this someone is alert to every footstep, to the slightest sound.

And on this night, as on every night, near to the poorly lit streets where this someone is waiting, at times only a stone’s throw away, the nightwatchmen pass by with their lanterns dangling on the end of poles, and each hour on the hour remove their hats, blow their horns and cry out:

Time to go home, everyone!

The church bell has chimed eight, Watch over your fire and your lamps,

Praise be to God! All praise!

And the drifting market square with its frozen weathervane. And beyond, the lopsided towers of St Nicholas’s, the pointed steeple puncturing the edge of the moon, which goes on seeping liquid.

The drinkers crowded at the bar and sat round scratched pine tables. Hans glanced about the room, eyes darting from tankard to tankard, and was surprised when he recognised a familiar face. But isn’t that? he asked. Isn’t he? (You mean that fellow over there? Álvaro said). Yes, the one with the shiny waistcoat, drinking a toast with the other two, isn’t that? (The mayor? Álvaro finished his sentence for him. Yes, why? Do you know him?) No, well, someone introduced me to him at a reception a few weeks ago. (Oh, you were there, too! What a pity we didn’t meet then.) Yes, it was a crashing bore, what do you suppose he’s doing here at this time of night? (There’s nothing unusual about it, Mayor Ratztrinker is very fond of the Central Tavern and of his beer, he always claims his aim in life is to serve the townspeople, so I imagine drinking with them until dawn is the best way of getting to know them.)

Álvaro ordered a lager. Hans preferred wheat beer. Standing side by side in the steamy warmth, the two men soon confirmed that their fellow feeling in the salon had been no accident. Now that he was on his own, Álvaro spoke at length and openly, showing a passion he concealed when in company. Like all people with a lively temperament he possessed the twin qualities of anger and tenderness. Both were evident in his excitability when he spoke. Álvaro was drawn to Hans’s quiet conviction, the feeling that he knew more than he was saying. He was intrigued by Hans’s way of both being and not being there, that polite frontier from which he listened with an air of being about to turn away. They spoke in a manner two men rarely succeeded in doing — without interrupting or competing with one another. Amid laughs and long draughts of his beer, glancing sideways at the mayor, Álvaro told Hans about Wandernburg’s amazing history.

In actual fact, Álvaro said, it’s impossible to pinpoint the exact location of Wandernburg on any map, because it has changed places all the time. It shifts so much between regions it has become all but invisible. As this area has always been under Saxony or Prussia without either being the absolute ruler, Wandernburg developed almost exclusively as a result of land owned by the Catholic Church. From the start, the Church agreed to a few families in the region exploiting it, among them the Ratztrinkers, who own the mills and a large part of the textile industry, and the Wilderhauses. (The Wilderhauses? Hans started, the ones? …) Yes, the family of Sophie’s fiancé Rudi, apparently the Wilderhauses are direct descendants of the original princes of Wandernburg, why are you pulling that face? Seriously, they say Rudi and his brothers and sisters are the nephews and nieces of a great-great-grandson of one such prince. Besides owning a great deal of land, the Wilderhauses have relatives in the Prussian army and others in the civil service in Berlin. The fact is that these old families swore that, providing the Church gave them a part of its land, they would never accede to the demands of the Protestant princes, Saxon or Prussian. That land continues to provide their descendants with a substantial income, a divine third of which they hand over to the Church. (Very clever, said Hans, but why weren’t they invaded? Why did the Protestant princes tolerate this resistance?) Probably because there was little to gain from an invasion. The landowners around here have always been highly productive as well as competent managers. I don’t think anyone else would obtain such a high yield from this amount of land and livestock, which is scarcely worth going to war over. Who do you think received until recently one of the two remaining thirds of profit? The reigning Saxon prince, of course. So you see everyone came out winning — no one needed to invade anyone and there was scarcely even any need for legal wrangling. The Church held on to its property in the heart of heretic country. The Saxon princes avoided further embroilment in border conflicts and problems with the Catholic princes, and gained a certain reputation for clemency, which they used to their advantage when it suited them. And the Wandernburg oligarchs were safe from harm so long as they paid taxes to both sides, do you see? (Perfectly, said Hans. Where did you learn all this?) Business, my friend, you’ve no idea what you can learn when doing business (I’m still amazed you’re a businessman, you don’t talk like one), hold on, hold on, keep in mind two things: la primera , my dear Hans, is that not all businessmen are as stupid as businessmen seem, and number two, my friend, is a tale that begins in England and which I’ll tell you another day.

And how do you get along with all these families? asked Hans. Oh, marvellously! replied Álvaro. I secretly despise them and they pretend not to be watching me. In fact, we’re being watched at this very moment, pues que les den bien por el culo ! (Come again? said Hans. I didn’t catch that.) Nothing, it doesn’t matter. We smile at one another and do business together. I’m aware that some families have tried to find other distributors for their cloths. But we are the cheapest, and so for the moment they are better off putting up with me to be able to do business with my English partners. (And why aren’t you in England?) Well, the reply is a sad story that I’ll also leave for another day. The fact is they need our London distributors. After Napoleon’s defeat and the end of the blockade, they had no English contacts here in Wandernburg, and they saw in my partners a chance to expand their market. They are hardly in a position to choose; this is a tiny region, far from the Atlantic, which does little trade with the North Sea or Baltic ports. Quite simply they need us. Be patient, Herr Mayor! murmured Álvaro, raising his tankard towards Ratztrinker’s table. The mayor, who was out of earshot, responded with a grimace.