Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Far away in the meadows, sheep were finishing giving suck to their lambs, who clung to their teats as to a last ray of light. The wool of night was quickly being woven.

Reichardt and Lamberg had been the first to arrive, and were now sharing a bottle of wine and some stale bread. Álvaro had turned up a little later. At Hans’s request he had begun to drop by the cave from time to time, and, also at Hans’s request, on these occasions would bring with him a generous helping of food that his cook had prepared. Since he had been widowed, Álvaro lived alone in his house on the edge of the city, not far from the textile mill. He usually went everywhere on horseback. Once he was in the city he would leave his mount at a stable and either take carriages or walk. Álvaro sat bolt upright on his horse, heels flush with the animal’s flank, arms relaxed, almost down by his side. Seeing him ride one had the impression that his lively steed was at one with him, rather than obeying the tug of the reins. Álvaro never stayed very late at the cave. At a given hour, he would glance at his pocket watch, bid the others good night, and climb back on his horse.

Unusually for him, Álvaro arrived at the cave looking dishevelled. His hair was tousled and his cheeks flushed, as if he had washed his face after some strenuous effort. Sorry I’m late, he muttered, sitting down in front of the fire, I had a disastrous tilbury ride. First we almost turned over, then one of the wheels got stuck and I had to get out and push while the driver whipped the horse. The brute beat him so hard I feared the poor creature might not make it! It seemed to Hans his friend was explaining too much for the informality of the cave. He recalled his walk there earlier with the organ grinder, the state of the road, and remarked casually: How odd your tilbury should get stuck in the mud, it was almost dry this afternoon. That’s as may be, Álvaro replied abruptly, but the part we went along was muddy!

Their appetites sated and sharing the warmth of the fire, they struck up a friendly banter. Álvaro appeared to have regained his composure, and began joining in, having a laugh with Hans whenever he could, nudging him and patting him on the back. Their conversations gradually grew muddled. But before making them inebriated, the wine had granted them a couple of hours of clear-headedness. Then Álvaro had asked Hans something no one had ever asked him before: You’re always threatening to go to Dessau, he said, what exactly is it you have to do there? Herr Lyotard is expecting me, Hans replied solemnly. And who might he be? Álvaro enquired. I’ll tell you another time, said Hans, winking at him. Hey, Álvaro asked, and what about Berlin, don’t you ever think of going back there? No, said Hans, what would be the point? I may have good memories of it, but can I go back and find them? I may go there again but I could never go back. Going back is impossible. That’s why I prefer new places. And before Berlin, the organ grinder said curiously, where were you? A long way away, replied Hans. But, my dear boy, the old man said, folding one of Franz’s ears as if it were a handkerchief, why do you travel so much? Let’s just say, Hans replied, that I’m unable to live any other way. I think if you know where you’re going and what you’re going to do, you’re likely to end up not knowing who you are. My work is to translate, and I can do that anywhere. I try not to make plans, and to let fate decide. For instance, a few weeks ago I left Berlin. I was thinking of going to Dessau and decided to stop off here for the night, and now look — by chance I am still here, enjoying talking to you. Things don’t happen by chance, said the organ grinder, we help them along, and if they turn out badly we blame chance. I’m sure you know why you’re still here, and I’m delighted you are! And when you leave you’ll know why you did so as well. Hey, you two professors! Reichardt groaned. If you carry on philosophising I’m going to fall asleep!

No, no, Lamberg suddenly declared, narrowing his eyes, Hans is right. I’m never sure why I stay here. I don’t know what I’m doing at the mill or where I might go next. I’m the same as Hans, but I don’t move.

The fire and Lamberg’s eyes competed, sparking off one another.

I can’t help it, Hans went on, when I stay in one place for a long time I notice I don’t see so well, as if I were losing my eyesight. Things begin to look like one big blur, and nothing amazes me any more. On the other hand, when I travel everything is a mystery, even before I arrive. For instance, I love going by stagecoach and observing my fellow travellers, I invent lives for them, speculate about why they are leaving or arriving somewhere. I wonder whether something will happen that will bring us together or whether we’ll never meet again, which is more likely. And, since it is almost certain we’ll never meet again, it occurs to me this intimacy is unique, that we could remain silent or declare ourselves, you know the kind of thing; for example, I look at one of the ladies and think: I could tell her right now “I love you”; I could say “Madam, I want you to know I care”, and there would be one chance in a thousand that instead of looking at me as though I had lost my mind, she’d say “Thank you” or smile at me (my eye! said Reichardt. The lady would slap you in the face for being so forward), yes, of course, but she might also ask “Do you mean it?” or confess “It’s been twenty years since anyone said that to me”, do you see? What I mean is it thrills me to think that this is the only time I will ever meet the passengers in this stagecoach. And when I see how quiet, how serious they are, I can’t help wondering what they’re thinking as they look at me, what they must feel, what their secrets are, how much they suffer, whom they love. It’s the same with books, you see mounds of them in bookshops and you want to read them all, or at least to have a taste of them. You think you could be missing out on something important, you see them and they intrigue you, they tempt you, they tell you how insignificant your life is and how tremendous it could be. Everyone’s life, Álvaro declaimed in a comic voice, is both insignificant and tremendous. How young you are, Hans, said the organ grinder. Not nearly as young as I look, Hans replied with a grin. And such a flirt! Álvaro added. Hans hit him on the head with a twig. Álvaro pulled Hans’s beret down over his face and jumped on top of him. They rolled around the floor, laughing aloud, while Franz joined in excitedly, looking for a chance to enter the fray.

I see mysteries everywhere, too, the organ grinder said pensively, only, like I was telling you today, I see them without having to leave the square. I compare what I see with what I saw yesterday, and I tell you, it’s never the same. I look around and I see if one of the fruit stalls is missing or if someone is late for church or if a couple have had a quarrel or if a child is sick. Do you think I’d notice if I hadn’t been to the square so many times? I’d feel giddy if I travelled as much as you do, I’d have no time to concentrate. You think it’s so wonderful, Reichardt said mockingly, because you get mesmerised just looking at the view. I’m almost as old as you. (Which of you is older? Hans asked, amused.) That’s a rude question, whippersnapper! Can’t you see with your own eyes? He is, he is, look at my arms, feel! My problem is I get bored. I’m not so curious any more, as if places had aged like me. I mean, everything’s the same, but diminished.

Hans looked at Reichardt, drained his glass and said: What you just said is brilliant. “Everything’s the same, but diminished.” I don’t think you realise how brilliant, damn it. I’ll realise whatever you like, as long as you pass the bottle, Reichardt retorted. In short, said Álvaro, there seem to be two types of people, wouldn’t you say? Those who always leave and those who always stay put. Well, and there are also those of us who first leave and then stay put. The way I see it, the organ grinder asserted, is this — there are those who want to stay put and those who want to leave. All right, said Álvaro, but wanting to leave and leaving aren’t the same thing. Take me, for example, I’ve wanted to leave Wandernburg ever since, well, it doesn’t matter, for a long time now, yet look, I’m still here. Thinking of leaving is one thing, but actually doing it is another. My dear man, the organ grinder said, am I not always on the move? But you’re different, said Hans. (No, no, said the organ grinder, letting Franz lick the palm of his hand, we’re just like everyone else aren’t we, boy?) You know where your home is, you’ve found your place, but apart from a few exceptions like you (and Franz, the organ grinder said, don’t forget Franz), seriously, though, I think that in order to know where we want to be we have to travel to different places, get to know things, people, learn new words (is that travelling or running away? the organ grinder asked), that’s a good question, let me think, well — it’s both, travelling can also be running away, but that’s not a bad thing. And running away isn’t the same as looking ahead either.