Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Yes, please, another two over here, your health! When Napoleon’s lot arrived, I confess I felt peculiar. Yes, they had invaded our country, and yet they brought with them a culture we admired and laws we wanted. Did it make sense to fight for a rotten, medieval state? Hadn’t we always been independent without being free? Finally, I enrolled and spent a few months fighting in Andalusia and Extremadura. Then I was billeted at the garrisons in Madrid and Guadalajara, together with militiamen from all over Spain. And I swear, Hans, it was listening to the discussions, seeing my compatriots’ points of view that made me consider deserting more than once. But, coño , this was my country, after all! My idea was to receive the enemy, to learn as much from him as I could before driving him out and carrying on the revolution without him. I joined the guerrillas with one eye on the revolutionary juntas and the constitutional assembly, which were what most interested me. And I couldn’t help wondering where the hell the fatherland was, what exactly were we fighting for? Did I find out? Ah, that’s a good point. It may sound strange, but from talking to the other militiamen I realised it was our childhood memories we were fighting for.

During the occupation, the thing that most, another? Steady on, all right, but only if you’re paying, I’m joking, what most upset me was seeing the way the priests supported us, the scoundrels were terrified Spain would end up like France! I can still remember the loathsome lessons they preached around the parishes. “What are you my child? A Spaniard by the grace of God. What are the French? Once Christians, now heretics. Of what is Napoleon born? Of sin. Is it a sin to kill a Frenchman? No, Father, heaven is our reward for killing one of those heretic dogs.” They weren’t patriots, they had an instinct for survival (patriotism is precisely that, said Hans), don’t be a cynic. I was unable to sleep at night and was assailed by doubts. What if we were fighting the wrong enemy? What if by fighting for Spain we were actually fighting against Spain, like the supporters of the French we so despised? Who was betraying the country more? I don’t want to bore you. The fact is, after the restoration I finally fled Spain. I roamed half of Europe until I arrived in Somers Town. On my first stroll around London I emptied out my pockets and realised all I had was one duro, do you know how much a duro is worth? Not enough to change into pounds, or should I say shillings. And so I walked as far as the Thames, gazed into its depths and tossed my coin into the water. (You threw it away? Hans asked, surprised. Why?) My dear friend, a gentleman like me could hardly come to a great city with that little money! I preferred to start from scratch than to manage on a paltry sum. I made contact with the Spanish community, for a while I lived off loans, and I took on a few of those jobs that are wretched to do and interesting to talk about. I was a nightwatchman, a waiter, a fish gutter, a groom at a racing stable, a framer’s assistant and a replacement teacher at a fencing school. (Are you that good a swordsman?) No, which explains why I was only the replacement! Finally, almost by chance, I entered the textile business. I had a stroke of luck, I invested my savings and they doubled. A friend and I made some more favourable investments, and that’s when I decided to take the risk and begin working exclusively in that industry. And I picked the right moment. Various relatives of mine joined the business, and a few years ago we set up a wholesale company trading between Germany and England. We operate in London, Liverpool, Bremen, Hamburg, and in Saxony and the surrounding area, which I am in charge of. I can’t say I enjoy what I do, but it gives me a good income and well, you know, you reach an age, a rather pitiful age if you like, when income becomes more important than enjoyment. And then of course there was Ulrike.

(Pass the meatballs, said Hans. And did you never return to Spain?) No, yes, well, I went back after the 1818 amnesty. To see what things were like, I suppose. But I found the atmosphere disturbing, so I went straight back to London. That was when I met Ulrike, on a business trip to Germany. It was so, so … It was like a, a revelation. Unique. (Here, have a drink, said Hans.) She was from this part of the world, she was longing to come back here, so we moved to Wandernburg. One of the things that most pains me is the thought that Ulrike never got to know Spain, I was never able to show her the places I grew up in. No. We had plans to go there, we would often talk about it, we always used to say: “One of these days”, “This summer at the very latest”, you know the kind of thing. And then the Hundred Thousand Sons of Saint Louis arrived, and the Holy Alliance, may the devil take it, which made it impossible to go anywhere, and politics, the constitution and my relatives all went to hell. That was when the remaining members of my family went into exile in England. You and I come from wretched countries, Hans. Both were invaded by Napoleon and ruled by his brother, both fought for their freedom and regressed once they had attained it. Spain is my home, but not today’s Spain, the Spain of my dreams. A republican, cosmopolitan Spain. The more Spain asserts its Spanishness, the less Spanish it becomes. I suppose all countries are like that, aren’t they? Vague entities that guide us (I don’t know, Hans said, I don’t think countries guide us, I think we move around because of people, and they can be from anywhere), yes, but many of the people we love we meet in our own country, not another one. (We move around because of languages, Hans went on, which we learn, or, like you said, because of memories. But what if memories move around, too? What if your memories all come from different times and places? Which are truly yours? That’s my problem, that’s what my problem is.) Hey, are you feeling all right?

Their shoulders began to fold like umbrellas. The Central Tavern had been filling up with other customers, the smoke and the smell of fried food floated up to the ceiling, mouths munched, laughed and drank. Having lost the relative privacy they had been enjoying at the bar, Álvaro and Hans began to feel a little out of place — the surrounding merriment seemed to mock their solemnity. What are they all laughing at? said Álvaro. Nothing in particular, replied Hans, people are the same everywhere — they laugh because they’re eating. Aren’t we simply a couple of sad sacks? Álvaro suggested. That’s another way of putting it, said Hans. They both burst out laughing, and in doing so their talkativeness came back. They spoke of the Wandernburgers’ strange manners, which combined surliness with an almost fanatical observance of etiquette. When I first arrived in Wandernburg, Hans told him, I didn’t have a clue how to behave. People here scarcely smile at you or lend you a hand, yet they have half a dozen ways of bowing and a limitless repertoire of greetings. That is, of course, assuming they manage to recognise one another through the accursed fog. How do they manage to flirt when they can’t even see one another? How do they reproduce? I suspect, said Álvaro, that they only couple during the summer months. Here, Hans went on, a man can hold on to his hat for a whole hour if his host doesn’t invite him to put it down. The ladies keep theirs on so as not to have to ask permission to go to the water closet to tidy their hair. You never know whether to sit down, bob your head, bow or tuck in your backside. In short, concluded Álvaro, they insist on manners because they are so uncouth.

Hans saw five unusually well-dressed, or prodigiously badly dressed, men enter the tavern. What most struck him was that despite the place being packed to the rafters, a waiter elbowed his way across the room and turfed a group of young people from a table. Once it had been cleared and given a good wipe, the five men ceremoniously ensconced themselves, as though they had just walked into an assembly hall rather than a tavern reeking of smoked sausage. Three of them crammed shiny fat cigars into their mouths. The waiter brought over five tankards of stout and a bowl of strawberries. Álvaro explained to Hans that these men were Herr Gelding and his associates, owners of the Wandernburg textile mill. That’s where Lamberg works, Hans remarked. Is that the fellow your organ grinder introduced me to the other day? said Álvaro. I don’t envy him working for them. And there’s no avoiding them, because all the businessmen, industrialists, contractors, brokers and bankers in this city are related to one another. They stick close together. Intermarry. Cohabit. Reproduce. Look out for each other’s interests. And they’re forever guzzling beer. And this great family spends its time employing the members of another great family, that of the lawyers, doctors, notaries, architects and civil servants. If you added the two together you’d have the entire wealth of the local middle class, with a bit of loose change to spare. Some of which might belong to Herr Gottlieb. But not much. You might say this city’s economy is based on organised incest. I see you know them well, Hans chuckled. I know them too well, nodded Álvaro, and the worst of it is that as soon as they see me, we’ll be obliged to go over and pay our respects. Because, among other things, I make my living by selling what they produce.