Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Silence radiates, like concentric rings, from the centre of the market square towards the yellowish gloomy alleyways, from the capricious tip of the Tower of the Wind to the sloping contours of St Nicholas’s Church, from the high doors to the railings round the graveyard, from the worn cobblestones to the dormant stench of the fields manured for spring, and beyond.

When the nightwatchman turns the corner of Wool Alley and enters narrow Prayer Street, when his cries dissolve into echoes … to go home, everyone! … bell has chimed eight! … your fire and your lamps … to God! All praise! … and when his pole with the lantern at its tip is swallowed up by the night, then, as on other nights, a figure emerges from a narrow strip of shadow, the black brim of his hat poking out. His arms are thrust into the pockets of his long overcoat, his hands snug in a pair of thin gloves, his expectant fingers clasping a knife, a mask, a length of rope.

Opposite, there is the sound of light feet, of brisk heels coming down the alleyway. The gloves tense inside the overcoat, the brim of the hat tilts, the mask slips over the face, and the shadowy figure begins to move forward.

In Wandernburg a sandy moon turns full, a moon caught unawares, a moon with nowhere.

THE DAY SPRING CAME to call in Wandernburg, Frau Zeit woke up in an astonishingly good mood. She scurried about the house as if the light were an illustrious visitor whom she must wait upon. Herr Zeit stood behind the counter browsing through the Thunderer , an untouched cup of coffee in his hand, while his wife and daughter cleaned and oiled the pokers and fire tongs, before storing them in the backyard shed. From time to time, Lisa would gaze at the streaks of soot on her milk-white arm. Then her mother would hurry her along. Have you carded the mattress wool yet? she asked, fondly brushing a lock of the girl’s hair from her face. Lisa wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and said: Only in number seven, mother. Is that all? said Frau Zeit, surprised. What about the other rooms? I was about to start on them when you called me, I came down to see what you wanted and after that there wasn’t time. Don’t worry, my love, the innkeeper’s wife said, a rare smile appearing on her face, enhancing her good looks, you finish this, I’ll go and see to them.

All that had hitherto been rattling bolts, half-closed shutters and darkened windows suddenly became a flurry of doors opening, shutters flung wide and gleaming windowpanes. Carpets, curtains and rugs unfurled like tongues from the inn windows, and from all the windows in the city. Young girls no longer walked with eyes lowered to the ground — they raised their heads as they passed by. They wore brightly coloured clothes and floppy straw hats with daises in them. The young men bobbed their heads at them, and inhaled an aroma of vanilla. Elsa turned into Old Cauldron Street. She was holding a parasol in one hand and in the other a mauve letter.

Hans was sitting on his trunk, shaving. Legs apart, he gazed into the little mirror propped up on the floor. He had not yet sloughed off his drowsiness and still felt startled at the way Lisa had burst into his room without knocking, or at least without him hearing her knock, in order to begin cleaning the room before he had time to get dressed. Hans yawned in front of the little mirror on the back of the watercolour. He remembered snippets of conversation from the salon the night before. The snuffbox Rudi had held out to him several times, whether as a sign of hospitality or contempt he could not tell. His disagreements with Professor Mietter, who never lost his patience. His own remarks, more vehement than he would have liked. Álvaro’s resounding laugh. Sophie’s furtive glances. The whispered jokes he had managed to share with her. The way in which …

There was a knock at the door.

He opened it to find Lisa standing there again. Instead of handing him the mauve letter, the girl stood gazing at his half-shaven chin, at the faint trace of down above his lips.

Hans sat down to read the letter without finishing shaving. He smiled when he opened it and saw that all it said was:

Why did you look at me in that way yesterday?

Hans dipped his quill in ink and sent Lisa to the Gottlieb residence with another letter which read succinctly:

In what way?

Sophie’s response was:

You know in what way. In that way you shouldn’t.

Hans felt a frisson as he replied:

How observant you are, my dear lady — I had no idea I was being so obvious.

Hiding the letters in her basket and keeping away from the busiest streets, Lisa would hurry back and forth between the inn and the Gottlieb residence. She would also try desperately to read the scrawls, to decipher some clue to their unfathomable code, some pattern, some telltale word. All she managed to determine was that their messages contained no numbers — this meant they weren’t arranging a meeting. And Lisa was right, although only by chance — they usually wrote the times in words.

She knocked once more at the door of room seven and handed Hans another letter with the reply:

How observant you are, my dear sir — looks speak volumes.

Have a good day and do not to drink too much coffee. S

And so the morning passed, until he went out to meet Álvaro for luncheon. Before going into the Central Tavern, Hans went over to the corner where the organ grinder was playing. He listened to mazurkas, polonaises and allemandes. Franz seemed distracted by the new bustle in the square, but he wagged his tail to the rhythm of the dances. It was obvious from the half a dozen or so coins in the organ grinder’s little dish that the gloomy Wandernburgers were delighted to have left winter behind. As was his custom, the old man winked at Hans, still continuing to turn the handle. Unwittingly copying the organ grinder’s gesture, Hans responded with a circular wave of his hand that meant “we’ll meet later”. The old man nodded contentedly and glanced down at the dish, raising his eyebrows. Hans laughed, rubbing his hands together like someone contemplating a treasure trove. Franz’s gently lolling tongue seemed to taste the sweetness of the noontime hour.

The organ grinder paused to sit down and eat the bread and bacon he had brought with him in his bag. While he and Franz were sharing their meal, Father Pigherzog stopped to watch them on his way back to church. Franz raised his head and gave an enquiring bark. My good man, Father Pigherzog said, bending over them, aren’t you uncomfortable sprawled on the ground? If you have nowhere else to go, at the old folks’ canteen we can offer you a meal at a table, it won’t cost you a penny, my son. The organ grinder stopped munching and looked up at the priest in a puzzled way. Father Pigherzog stood there beaming, his hand clasped across his chest. When he had swallowed his mouthful of bacon, the organ grinder wiped the corners of his mouth with his sleeve and replied: Sir, I applaud your idea of a canteen and I hope it is a help for the old folks. With this, he took another bite. Sighing, Father Pigherzog continued on his way.

In the afternoon, Hans went back to the inn to change and find some warm clothing in order to accompany the organ grinder back to the cave. When he opened the door to his room he was not surprised to find a mauve letter at his feet — before going to lunch he had sent one of Novalis’s poems to the Gottlieb residence, and Sophie did not like others to have the last word. He slowly unfolded the note. He saw there was another poem and smiled.

Dearest friend,

(“Dearest”! Hans’s heart leapt.)

Dearest friend, I reply to your Novalis poem with one of my favourite poems by Madame Mereau, I don’t know whether you know her. I chose it because it speaks to us women readers, to all those who dream of another life in this life,