Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Five minutes later, Álvaro and Hans were sitting at the table with Herr Gelding and his associates. Hans was surprised at the exaggerated politeness with which Álvaro spoke to them, marshalling his accent, masticating his voice, imbuing it with a military air completely at odds with the singsong Spanish lilt he had when he spoke to Hans. Herr Gelding immediately launched into the question of his payments, which Álvaro responded to by quoting figures, prices and dates from memory.

What vexes me, Herr Gelding said, sucking on his cigar, the corners of his mouth stained with strawberry juice, is this culture of self-pity, this constant griping despite improving conditions. Although you have to hand it to the scoundrels, conditions have improved because of their griping! No, I’m not denying certain things aren’t negotiable, I can even understand day labourers wanting, shall we say, guarantees of longer-term employment. What I’m saying, gentlemen, as God is my judge, is that I work longer hours than they do in order to keep production up. And as is only natural, I demand no less of a commitment from my workers. People rail against flexible hiring practices, yet such practices have seen this accursed city grow by seven per cent in each of the past twenty years, perfect, congratulations, yours is an excellent guild, but do you know what, gentlemen, can you guess what happens when you give in and make an employee permanent? Ah, surprise, surprise, he stops working so hard! Look, work takes work. They’ll be asking us to turn off the machines next so they can take an afternoon nap! Upon my soul, gentlemen, I don’t know what the world is coming to. Take the machine operators, for instance. The machine operators start work half-an-hour later because it takes time for the boilers to warm up. Very good, I accept that, that’s the way boilers work, someone stokes them up and then you come along afterwards. Ah, yet they still find reasons to complain! Isn’t that enough to, well, isn’t it? Those damned machine operators get up later than I do, and they work a twelve-hour day. And what does that mean, gentlemen? Unless I’ve lost the ability to count, it means they work half a day, half a day, and the other half they have off. Is that enough to exhaust a man? Is it a reason to start making demands? Or do they expect to have more time off than at work? In my day, gentlemen, in my day! What would these operators think of the hours my father put in, my good father, may God keep him in His glory, who never complained in his life, and who built up a factory all on his own! Oh, no more strawberries, what a shame. My father knew how to, but what’s the use. This is no way to build a nation, or anything else for that matter!

Encouraged by Hans’s frowns, Álvaro cleared his throat and said: My dear Herr Gelding, you will have noticed that your workers spend most of their time off sleeping. Herr Gelding stared at him, cigar drooping, mouth open in astonishment. He looked more puzzled than offended, as though Álvaro hadn’t understood what he had been saying. Ah, but Herr Urquiho , replied Herr Gelding, we mustn’t interfere, no, a worker must be free to do as he pleases in his time off, without any meddling from me, of course! I don’t know how they run things in your country, but rest assured, one of the rules in my company is complete freedom of the workers outside the workplace. I imagine we agree on that!

The knocking on his door finally forced him out of bed. A few bands of light filtering through the drawn shutters crept towards Hans’s cold feet. He pulled on the first thing he could find on the chair, shuffled over to the door and opened it, still trying to unglue his eyelids — smiling, Lisa handed him a mauve sheet of paper. Hans meant to thank her, although he gave a yawn that sounded like hanyeu . He took the letter from Lisa’s chafed fingers and closed the door.

In the dim light filtering through the shutters, Hans glimpsed the name on the card accompanying the letter — Sophie Gottlieb.

He jumped up, went to the washbasin to splash water on his face, opened the shutters, and sat down by the window. The card was printed on stiff paper and had a thin raised edge. The inscription was an unusual orange-grey colour that suggested solemnity and a hint of coquetry. Despite his eagerness, Hans paused before opening the letter, enjoying the uncertainty, savouring this moment of heightened expectation, lest what followed should be a disappointment. Sophie’s swift, resolute, slightly sprawling pen strokes caught his attention — this was a feline hand rather than the writing of a young lady. There was no heading or greeting.

I have been thinking, in odd moments, about the arguments you put forward at last Friday’s meeting. And, although I will not try to hide the fact that some of what you said jarred with me a little, or perhaps what jarred was your tone (why are you in the habit of making what is intelligent seem a challenge, and what is logical appear conceited?), I must confess I also found it interesting, and even to some extent original.

“Interesting”! “To some extent”! Hans glanced for a moment at the sun pouring through the window, delighting in Sophie’s sense of pride. He knew that whatever she went on to say, he was going to enjoy her letter.

For this reason, my dear Herr Hans, providing you are willing and can find no better way to spend your time, it would give me great pleasure to have the opportunity to speak to you outside the salon, which you may have observed requires me to share my attention and even to employ the ruses of a hostess, as I am sure you have perceived.

This fleeting complicity with him, “as I am sure you have perceived”, made his breath quicken. So, she admitted perceiving that he had perceived! What exactly they had both perceived remained to be seen. But if Sophie thought she could get away with this disclosure without any consequences, she was mistaken — Hans was willing to cling to her words as to a branch in mid plunge.

Therefore, if you have time, my father and I would be delighted to receive you at our house tomorrow afternoon at a half past four. I trust I am not importuning you with a fresh engagement — it appears you are a tireless reader, and tireless readers have little time for socialising. Kindly reply at your leisure during the course of the day.

Affectionately,

Sophie G

Hans was aware of an omission in her aloof and rather abrupt ending, the subtle omission of a conventional, and, in this case, he thought, extraordinarily significant word— yours . If Sophie had not finished her letter with the usual polite phrase yours affectionately , perhaps her coy omission of that possessive revealed a sensual fear that could not be entirely ingenuous. Could it? Or couldn’t it? Was he imagining things? Was he making a fool of himself by being overly susceptible? Was he reading too much into it? Was he being too clever by half? Was he once more inadvertently confusing intelligence with conceit?

He was rescued from this confusion by the postscript, which looked as if it had been jotted down as an afterthought, and revealed an uneasy hesitancy:

PS I will also take the liberty of asking you to refrain from appearing before my father in the beret and broad-collared shirt I have seen you wearing in your walks around the city. Without wishing to deny my sympathies for the political connotations of such attire, I am sure you appreciate its inappropriateness in a household as traditional as mine. The more formally you dress the better. Thank you in advance for complying with these tiresome rules of etiquette. I shall do my utmost to reward your goodwill with canapés and sweetmeats. S G

And Sophie’s last words were sweet, sweet her very last word.