Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Lisa was about to respond when she glimpsed Hans, who was standing motionless in the corridor, listening. She turned away at once, pretending she hadn’t seen him. Hans’s curiosity got the better of his embarrassment and he stood there without moving. Lisa went on countering her mother’s admonishments with short, sharp ripostes. Notwithstanding her maternal authority, Frau Zeit was getting the worst of the argument. The two women shifted position, so that they were almost facing Hans. In the glow of copper and tin from the kitchen, he could see the creases spread over Frau Zeit’s face each time she raised her voice. And the scars, blotches and cuts on Lisa’s hands as she gesticulated. For an instant the contrast in their silhouettes, beauty and posture was lost, so that to Hans they became one and the same woman at two different moments, two identical women of different ages. Then he walked away from the kitchen.

Hans had to wait until Thomas burst in before he was able to recapture the light-heartedness he had felt when he got up. It was impossible to resist the boy’s tireless enthusiasm, his instinctive breed of optimism. Thomas said good morning to Hans absent-mindedly, asked him whether he liked elks, snatched his cup of coffee and hid it behind the couch, spun round in circles, arms akimbo, one leg in the air, and pelted down the corridor. Hans got to his feet, at which Thomas, thinking he was about to give chase, tore up the staircase. Not wishing to disappoint the child, Hans raced after him, pretending to be an angry ogre and bellowing for his cup of coffee, which he had already retrieved from the floor. When Thomas reached the end of the corridor on the second floor and was thrust up against the window, he turned to face his persecutor, his face suddenly so contorted, his eyes filled with such dread that for a split second Hans really believed himself an ogre. He was about to ruffle the boy’s hair so as to reassure him, when Thomas burst out laughing, and Hans realised the boy was the better actor. Taken aback, he glanced out of the window and noticed it was raining.

Thomas, you rascal! roared Frau Zeit with the redoubled rage of one who has scolded their other child to no avail. Thomas, I told you to come down at once and finish your homework! For the love of God, you haven’t even done the first exercise! They ought to start opening the school on Saturdays! Oh, and you can forget about going tobogganing! The boy looked at Hans, regained his composure, then shrugged as though acknowledging their game was over. Head sunk on his chest, he walked towards the staircase. The two of them went down in silence. When they had reached the bottom of the stairs, Thomas let out two small explosions. Furious, his father strode out from behind the counter, grabbed his son by the ear and dragged him down the passageway towards their apartment. When he returned, flustered, he said to Hans: As you can see, we’re just like any other family. Of course, Hans replied, don’t worry. The innkeeper plunged his hand into the pocket of his sagging trousers and said: By the way, since you are staying on, and in view of your, well, your late-night habits, I’m giving you this bunch of keys. Please don’t lose it. And always take it with you when you go out at night.

Midday was drowning. Umbrellas vied for space on the narrow pavement. Hans’s boots splashed in the puddles distorting his footsteps. Throwing up a spray of muddy water, carriages drove past him like a temptation. In the market square, the vendors were packing up their stalls. Hans glimpsed the organ grinder in his usual spot, hunched over, absorbed in the music, making the square turn. Drops of water dripped from his beard, sticking out from beneath his hood. Seeing him there, serene, Hans reconciled himself to the gloomy day — so long as the old man continued at the heart of Wandernburg, the city would be in order. As always, Franz was the first to sense his arrival — he pricked up his black ears, lifted his head from the floor, stretched his legs and shook his coat.

How goes your day? Hans enquired, squeezing Franz’s muzzle while the dog squirmed. Beautiful, replied the old man, have you noticed the way the mist sparkles? The mist? No, Hans confessed, I haven’t. It’s been changing colour all morning, the organ grinder went on. Do you like the mist? Me? Hans said, surprised, not especially, I don’t think. Franz and I enjoy it, don’t we, old rascal? the organ grinder said. And your public? Hans asked, gesturing to the dish in a fit of pragmatism he felt rather ashamed of. I mean, did you have much of one? Not many, replied the organ grinder, enough to pay for supper, you will come won’t you? Hans nodded, wondering whether to offer to buy the wine, for the old man usually took offence if he suspected Hans brought food to the cave in an attempt to stock him up rather than as a mark of courtesy. The old man went on: Lamberg says he’ll stop by for a while after supper. That boy worries me, he works himself half to death in the factory and he doesn’t laugh much, it’s a bad sign when someone drinks a lot and doesn’t laugh. Let’s try to cheer him up tonight, shall we? You can recount your travels to him, I’ll play a lively tune, and with a bit of luck Reichardt will tell a few dirty jokes. And you, rascal, have you been practising any new barks?

Fearing the weather might worsen, Hans went to talk to a coachman about taking him as far as the bridge that evening. The coachman told him the carriages had all been full that day and he couldn’t promise him a seat in one with a top. Hans said in that case he would reserve a seat in a tilbury without a top and would bring an umbrella. The coachman hemmed and hawed, then said he wasn’t sure there were any seats available in a tilbury either. Hans gazed at him fixedly, sighed, and handed him a couple of coins. The coachman immediately remembered a possible vacancy in the last carriage.

On his way back to the inn, where he was planning to read for a while, Hans strolled along the broad, acacia-lined pavements of King’s Parade, where the carriages rolled along with their polished wheels, sturdy horses and liveried coachmen. Among the calèches with folding tops, the gleaming landaus and the elegant cabriolets, Hans could not help remarking a carriage drawn by two white horses speeding along at a ceremonial trot. It took Hans a moment to transfer his gaze from the outside to the inside of the carriage — he started when he made out Sophie’s profile shrinking back from the rain, and next to her the outline of a hat. Sophie jerked her head away from the window and Hans heard a voice asking if she were feeling well.

The carriage turned off King’s Parade. At the end of Border Street, a figure was walking towards Archway. As the coach passed the figure turned around — Father Pigherzog, wearing a shovel hat and a cloak on top of his cassock, folded his umbrella and bowed in greeting. Inside the red velvet-lined cabin, Sophie remained motionless while her companion straightened up in order to return the gesture. Guten Tag, mein lieber Herr Wilderhaus! cried Father Pigherzog, his head revolving as the coach rolled by. And then he added, a little too late perhaps: God bless you! As the priest opened up his umbrella again, his hat fell onto the ground and got muddy. Annoyed, he walked up Archway clasping it between thumb and finger.

The sacristan was polishing the holy vessels. Peace be with you, my son, said Father Pigherzog as he entered the sacristy. The sacristan helped him off with his cloak, left his hat to soak in water and finished arranging the relics. How did the collection go, my son? asked the priest. The sacristan handed him the small metal box they referred to as the vessel of the divine will. God be with you, Father Pigherzog said, you may go now.

When he was alone, Father Pigherzog glanced about the sacristy and sighed. He looked up at the clock and sat down beside one of the lamps, transferring one of the piles of books on the table to his lap. He put the book of sacraments and the Misal Romano back. He pored over Pius V’s catechism for a moment, slipped a bookmark between its pages and placed it with the others. A large volume entitled Notes on the State of Souls remained in his lap. In it Father Pigherzog took note of various matters relating to Church business: details of each family’s practice and observance of Easter rituals; his personal impressions of parishioners, including brief reports about them; comments on and consequences of the weekly liturgy; shortages and possible requirements of the parish, as well as any significant contributions or donations; and lastly a section in which he wrote less frequently, addressed to “Your Excellency” and concerning the “Balance of the quarterly accounts of the lands given in concession by the Holy Mother Church”, which the priest would check before copying out the figures and posting them to the Archbishop. All of this Father Pigherzog would do in his neat script, dividing the subjects under headings.