Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Hans was beside himself with joy and anticipation. What should he reply? And how long should he wait before doing so? What clothes was he to wear the following day? He stood up, sat down again, got to his feet again. He felt a wave of happiness, had a violent erection and then could barely control his emotions. He realised he must first read Sophie’s letter in a calmer state. He made himself wait a few minutes, looked out of the window at the heads, hats and feet moving up and down Old Cauldron Street, while he let the letter cool down. He read her opening admonishments over and over. He smiled at Sophie’s gentle rebuke, which revealed her nature as surely as they alluded to him. He studied the dissembling nature of her invitation, her winning disdain, the charming piquancy of her complicity. He pondered the abrupt ending, trying to gauge how much of it was due to aloofness and how much to prudence. And to finish off he savoured the marvellous appeal in the postscript, which was Sophie’s way of saying that she too noticed him in the street. Hans picked up his quill and dipped it into the ink pot.

When he had written his reply, he avoided rereading it so as not to repent of some of the liberties he had taken in the midst of his euphoria. He took a deep breath, signed his name and folded the piece of paper. He finished dressing and went downstairs to give it to Lisa, taking the opportunity to ask who had delivered the letter and whether they had said anything. From Lisa’s description he knew that Elsa was the messenger. She said that she had said nothing worth mentioning, although, in Lisa’s opinion, she had been rather abrupt, and had even cast a disapproving eye over the inside of the inn. And that (Lisa did not say as much, but Hans deduced it, amused) both she and her mother believed Elsa was the author of the mauve letter. Lisa stared with a mixture of envy and longing at the paper Hans gave her. For a moment he thought Lisa was being inquisitive as she puzzled over the names of the sender and the addressee. He immediately felt a flash of shame — Lisa was not reading, she was wishing she could. She raised her eyes and studied Hans’s face, as if to show him she at least knew how to read his thoughts. Lisa’s adolescent beauty suddenly became firmer, as if anticipating the future. Hans did not know what to say or how to apologise. She seemed content with her brief intimidating flash — her features softened, she looked like a young girl again, and she said: I’ll deliver it right away, sir. Hans felt humbled by the word sir .

Hans was sipping vegetable broth in the dining room when he saw Elsa’s hat appear in the doorway. He invited her to sit down, and was surprised when she accepted. After a moment of awkward silence, he smiled: Well? Elsa’s leg was pumping up and down once more, as though working an imaginary pedal. Do you have a message for me? Hans asked, without realising he was not looking her in the eye but watching her leg go up and down. Elsa stopped moving it abruptly. She handed him a letter. It’s from Fräulein Gottlieb, she said. This seemed to Hans so obvious that there must be more to it. I see, he ventured, trying to draw her out further. She gave it to me an hour ago, Elsa said, and asked me to deliver it here at the inn. I see, he nodded, with growing anticipation. I couldn’t come until now, Elsa said. That’s all right, said Hans, I’m grateful to you for bringing it. There’s no need, she said, I’m doing my duty. (I wonder what she means, thought Hans. Did she bring me the letter willingly despite being obliged to, or, on the contrary, would she not have brought it unless she’d been forced to? Hans was so nervous he was lost in his conjectures. Perhaps Elsa hadn’t meant either of these things. Perhaps her mind was elsewhere or she had simply wanted to rest for a moment on the sofa. But in that case why was she still there?) Elsa continued: Fräulein Gottlieb told me you needn’t reply, unless you wish to. (And what was he to make of this? Should he refrain from replying, did Sophie’s new missive imply some kind of interlude? Or was Sophie’s caveat an invitation to carry on with their communication, like the gestures she had made with her fan? Thinking wasn’t easy after a generous serving of vegetable soup.)

Elsa left Hans with the impression she hadn’t managed to say everything she wanted, or hadn’t wished to tell him everything she should have. She had been inscrutable yet polite, avoiding his questions without refusing to answer them. After poring over Sophie’s letter, Hans felt none the wiser — in evasive, flawless grammar, Sophie expressed her delight at the news of his attendance the following afternoon; she mentioned some trivial detail about the meeting; above all (and this was almost the only thing he noticed in her letter) she seemed to have tempered the tone of her previous communication, rebuffing his flattery with cautious irony. Reluctantly, Hans realised he could spend the entire day trying to decipher hidden meanings, but no amount of effort would put an end to the waiting nor to the feverish turmoil he was beginning to fear would accompany his every movement from now on.

As the light began to fade, Hans, the organ grinder and Franz crossed the city together. The little orange-and-green cart juddered over the cobblestones and the beaten earth. Hans marvelled at the way the old man calmly pushed his instrument almost two miles every day to and from the square. It also amazed him that the organ grinder never wavered when he reached a bend or crossing or fork in the road. Hans had been there for at least a month and a half and had so far failed to take the same route more than twice in a row — he would always reach his destination, but never without some modification along the way. Hans now suspected that rather than secretly shifting position, Wandernburg rotated suddenly like a sunflower turning to follow the sun.

The mud from the day before had begun to dry. Patches of melting frost gave off a slight mist. A stench of churned earth and urine wafted up from the ground. The grey city walls were stained with moisture and the remains of the day. Hans contemplated the age-old grime, the clotted neglect of Wandernburg to which he was still unaccustomed. The organ grinder sighed, and, placing a skinny hand on his shoulder, declared: Isn’t Wandernburg pretty! Hans looked at him with astonishment. Pretty? he said. Don’t you find it a little dirty, gloomy, small? Of course, said the organ grinder, but also very pretty! Don’t you like it? That’s a shame. No, please don’t apologise, there’s no need be so formal! I understand, it’s normal. Perhaps you’ll like it better when you get to know it. What I like about Wandernburg is you. You, Álvaro, Sophie. It’s the people, don’t you think, who make a place beautiful? You’re right, said the organ grinder, but for me it’s also, how can I explain? These alleyways never cease to amaze me, I never tire of looking at them because, Franz! Leave those horses alone! Come here you rascal! When that dog is hungry he thinks everyone’s his friend and is going to give him a bone instead of a kick. Where was I? Ah yes, to me these streets are, how can I put it, they’re so old that they seem new. What nonsense I talk! They fascinate me. Tell me, said Hans, what fascinates you? What exactly do you like about them? Nothing, everything, the organ grinder said, the square for instance, even though I’ve been playing there for years, every day I find it more interesting. I used to be afraid I’d grow bored with it, you know, that I’d have had enough of the square, but now the more I look at it, the less I seem to know it. If you could see the tower in summer compared to when it snows! It looks as if, as if it’s made of a different substance. And the market, the fruit, the colours, you never know what each new crop will bring, this winter, for instance, Franz! Watch out! Come here! Or what can I say, I like it when they start lighting the street lamps, have you noticed? I like watching the way people change without realising it, they keep walking by, the men’s hair thins, the women grow stout, the children grow up, new ones appear. It saddens me to hear young people say they don’t like this city, it’s good they are curious and think of other places, but wouldn’t it be good if they were also curious about where they are from, because perhaps they haven’t looked closely enough. They’re young. They still see things as either beautiful or ugly. Do you know I enjoy talking to you, Hans. I never talk this much to anyone.