Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Lamberg spoke once more: I’ve always dreamt of running away to America. To America or any place where you can start afresh. I’d like to start afresh.

Lamberg went quiet and gazed into the fire as if attempting to read a map in the flames.

The organ grinder’s bony fingers played along Franz’s flank as the dog began to fall asleep. I’ve hardly travelled at all, he said, and honestly, Hans, I admire all the things you’ve seen. When I was young I was afraid to travel. I thought it might lead me astray. Lead you astray? said Hans, puzzled. Yes, explained the organ grinder, I thought it might lead me into thinking my life was different, but that this illusion would last only as long as I went on travelling. I don’t know, Álvaro reflected, leaving or staying, perhaps that’s a simplistic way to look at it. In fact, it’s impossible to be fully in one place or to leave it completely. Those who stay could always have left or could leave at any moment, and those who have left could have stayed or could always come back. Doesn’t virtually everyone live like that, on the frontier between leaving and staying? Then you’d feel at home in a port city, like Hamburg, Hans said. I had a home once and lost it, sighed Álvaro. I’ve just remembered an Arabic proverb, Hans said, placing a hand on Álvaro’s shoulder — he who follows a path becomes the path. What the hell does that mean? said Reichardt. I don’t know, Hans grinned, proverbs are ambiguous things. The best path is a winding path, declared Álvaro. Is that another proverb? Reichardt asked, belching. No, replied Álvaro, I just made that up. The best path, Reichardt ventured, is the one that leads to the sea. I haven’t seen the sea in thirty years! The best path, suggested the organ grinder, is the one that leads you to the point of departure.

For me the best path, Lamberg spoke again, would be the one that makes me forget the point of departure.

The organ grinder thought this over. He was about to respond when Lamberg leapt to his feet, brushed off his corduroy jacket and wool breeches. I have to go, he said, gazing at the dying embers. It’s late and I’m working tomorrow. Thanks for the supper. The organ grinder stood up laboriously and offered him a last swig of wine. The four others said goodbye without getting up. Before stepping through the cave mouth, Lamberg turned and said to Hans: I’m going to think about what you said. With that he vanished into the night.

And why can’t you have another home? the organ grinder asked. It’s too late for that now, Álvaro stammered, half out of sorrow, half in his cups. Aren’t you happy here? said the organ grinder. I never wanted to come here, Álvaro protested. So why don’t you leave? Reichardt asked. Because I don’t know how to, Álvaro replied. The best thing to be, said Hans, would be a foreigner. A foreigner from where? the organ grinder said. Just a foreigner, Hans shrugged. I ask because the ones I know are all different, said the old man. Some never adapt to the place they live in because they aren’t accepted. Others just don’t want to belong. And others are like Álvaro, who could be from anywhere. You speak like Chrétien de Troyes, Hans said in astonishment. Like who? asked the organ grinder. An early French poet, Hans replied, who said something extraordinary: He who believes his birthplace to be his homeland suffers. He who believes all places could be his homeland suffers less. And he who knows that no place can be his homeland is invincible. Wait a minute, Reichardt protested, now you’re complicating things. What has some long-dead Frenchman got to do with anything? I was born in Wandernburg, this is my home and I couldn’t live anywhere else, and that’s that. Yes, Reichardt, said Hans, but tell me, what makes you so sure? How do you know your home is here and not in another place? I just do, damn it, snapped Reichardt. How could I not know? I feel part of the place, I’m a Saxon and a German. But Wandernburg is Prussian now, argued Hans, so why do you feel Saxon and not Prussian? Why do you feel German and not Teutonic, for example? This place has been Saxon, Prussian, half-French, practically Austrian, and who knows what it will be tomorrow. Isn’t it pure chance? Borders shift around like flocks of sheep, countries shrink, break apart, grow bigger; empires are born and die. The only thing we can be sure of is our lives, and we can live them anywhere. You just like to complicate things, Reichardt sighed. I think you’re both right, the organ grinder said. It’s true, Hans, our life is the only sure thing we have. But that’s precisely why I know I’m from here, from this cave, this river, this barrel organ, they are my home, my belongings, all that I have. Fair enough, said Hans, but you could be playing your barrel organ anywhere. If it were anywhere but here, the organ grinder smiled, we would never even have met.

Now there were only three of them. Reichardt had gone to sleep it off. The wine was almost finished, and Álvaro’s speech had become punctuated by slurred s s and exotic j s. Hans reflected that Álvaro’s German improved as his pronunciation worsened, as though being drunk brought his foreignness to the fore once and for all, and the patent impossibility of adapting completely to another language made him more careful, more confident. His mouth dry, his tongue loosened, Álvaro was entering his last half-hour of clear-headedness. He scrutinised almost every word the other two uttered, rolling them round on his tongue with a puzzled expression, savouring them as though they had only just been invented. Gemütlichkeit ? Álvaro repeated. Amazing, isn’t it? And so difficult— Gemütlichkeit … First it compresses your lips, look, as if you were whistling, Gemü … but then suddenly, eh, suddenly you have to smile, how funny! Tlich … but, I’ll be damned, the joy doesn’t last long before there’s a kick to the palate, keit , there keit ! and your jaw is left hanging … Hans, who had been listening with amusement, and contorting his lips along with Álvaro, asked how he would translate the word into Spanish. I’m not sure, Álvaro frowned, that depends, let me see, the problem of course is that you can say the word Gemütlichkeit to mean, to mean simply cosy , or blissful , can’t you? Bah, but that’s nonsense because it can also mean what you were saying, Gemütlichkeit , that is, oh I can hardly talk any more, the, the pleasure of being, of being where you are, the joy of staying, of having a home, can’t it? That’s what you were saying and that’s what I don’t have. That, said Hans, is what no German can find. Oh, but do you know what? Álvaro went on, taking no notice of Hans, I’ve thought of another word, one, one that’s the opposite of the other one, and, well, actually it’s not Castilian, its Galician, but every Spaniard knows this word, it’s very pretty, listen to the sound, it’s funny— morriña . When he heard how musical the word was, the organ grinder clapped and shook with laughter. He insisted Álvaro repeat it six times in a row, attempting to say it himself and chuckling each time he heard it. Suddenly exhilarated, Álvaro explained that morriña was a kind of nostalgia for the homeland, a faraway feeling of sadness that was somehow sweet. And that to be republican and Spanish was like suffering from morriña , a bittersweet feeling, an honour and a sorrow. A sorrow that comes and goes, the sorrow of sailors, said Álvaro, but we all have something of the sailor in us.

Somewhat incoherently and between hiccups, Hans told them the Tibetans referred to man as “he who migrates”, because of his need to break his chains. The organ grinder, apparently still sober, replied pointing to the pinewood: I have no chains, if anything a few roots. Yes, well, of course, Hans stammered, of course, well, yes, but what the Tibetans mean is that things like chains and roots hinder our movement, and to travel is to overcome these limitations to free ourselves from our bodily ties, do you understand? Álvaro, my friend, you understand what I’m saying don’t you? Certainly, comrade! Álvaro exclaimed. Let’s overcome our morriña , our nostalgia and our Gemüt … Gemütlichkeit ! Lads, the old man smiled, I’m too advanced in years to overcome my bodily ties, if anything I’m trying to preserve them. As for nostalgia, well, isn’t nostalgia a way of travelling? Hans’s hiccups suddenly stopped, he contemplated the organ grinder and said: Álvaro, listen! If we took this fellow to Jena, more than one professor would be out of a job! Are you listening, Álvaro? Alas, no, Álvaro spluttered, I’m not listening to you or to myself any more.