Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

(“Another life”? Hans paused. So is the life she has, the one she will soon have, the one that awaits her after this summer, not the life she longs for? In that case perhaps she? Perhaps it isn’t? Enough, read on!)

of another life in this life, another world in this selfsame world, those who are gaining strength thanks to words such as these. I see this poem as a hymn to the small revolution in every book, to the power of every woman reader. And although you are a man, in this way I consider you an equal.

(“An equal”, no less! Hans thought, filled with joy. And then doubt cast a shadow over him — an equal “in this way”, she says, but why not the other way? And what might that be? And why can’t we be equals in that way too? I mean, could there be anything more or was “this” all there was? And between the two what does “dearest friend” mean? Am I more a “friend” than a “dear”? Oh, I can’t read …)

And although you are a man, in this way I consider you an equal. For this reason I have copied out a few verses below, the ones I find most beautiful, in the hope that today or tomorrow you will respond with another poem.

(Aha! She’s inviting me to reply — that’s new. That is, she is allowing me the last word. Is that not a gift? A kind of surrender? Or am I reading too much into things as usual?)

Affectionately yours,

Sophie

(Mmm. “Affectionately”. That doesn’t sound very … No, it doesn’t. Yet she has written her name in full. She is offering herself, isn’t she? As though she were saying: I am yours completely. I am Sophie, I am. Oh stop this nonsense! I’m going to take a bath. No, it’s getting late. The old man will be waiting for me. It suddenly feels hot in here, doesn’t it? Now, let’s look at this poem. I’ll reply tomorrow. Curses! Shall I look for something now? Better tomorrow.)

Yours,

Sophie

All these women at peace, not wasting time on war,

Deeply aware of their intimate worth,

Between them creating wave-like shapes,

Summoned by the sign of the times,

Have come to unfurl from a fantasy realm

In spoken and written word, their unstoppable life;

Better no one try to detain their surging strength

Or they will find their way is blocked,

Because all these women are announcing their awakening,

The glad beginnings of their inner force.

Beyond the path to the bridge, the light was thinning. The muted rays of the sun spread tiny tremors across the grass. Stretching away from the city, muffling its sounds, the fields were neither green nor golden. The windmill sails turned, scattering the afternoon. Carriages arrived on the main road. Birds flocked, organising the sky. Hans, the organ grinder and Franz had gone through High Gate and were approaching the River Nulte, which flowed brightly between the poplars showing their first new leaves. The mud on the path had hardened — the cartwheels turned more easily, Hans’s boots threw up little clouds of dust that Franz sniffed over delightedly. Mixed with the heady scent of pollen and the heat of the paths, the countryside still gave off a smell of earth and manure, of fertiliser spread during the last ploughing. Beyond the hedges, labourers working late were hoeing weeds. Hans felt strange when he heard himself say: The countryside looks lovely. Didn’t I tell you so? smiled the old man. And you haven’t seen anything yet, just wait until summer. You’ll see how Wandernburg grows on you.

When they arrived at the cave, Hans begged the old man to let him try playing the barrel organ for a moment. The old man was about to say no, but Hans’s childlike tone won him over and all he could say was: Be careful, please, be careful. Hans focused on visualising the organ grinder’s hand movement and tried to reproduce it with his own arm. During the first piece, the handle moved at an acceptable pace. The organ grinder clapped his hands, Hans gave a roar of laughter and Franz barked madly. But when, emboldened, Hans tried to pull on the handle to change the tune, there was a slight crack from the rolls inside the box. The old man leapt forwards, snatching Hans’s hand away from the crank, and clutched the instrument to him like someone protecting his young. Hans, my friend, he said falteringly, I’m sorry, really, but no.

I’m going to tell you a secret, said the old man. When the barrel organ is playing and the lid is down, I like to pretend it isn’t the keys making the sounds, but the people the songs describe. I pretend they are the ones singing, laughing, weeping, dancing up and down between the strings. And that way I play better. Because I tell you Hans, when I close the lid there’s life in there. Almost a heart. And when everything goes quiet again, I hear the sounds of the barrel organ so clearly that for a moment I think I’m still playing. The music is here, in my head, and I don’t have to do a thing. You see, in the end, what matters is listening, not playing. If you listen you will always hear music. We all have music inside us, even those who walk through the square without even noticing me. The sound of instruments serves that purpose, it brings that music back. Sometimes, when I arrive in the square and begin turning the handle, I feel as if I had just woken up in the very place I was dreaming about. Thank goodness for Franz, he helps me realise if I’m playing asleep or awake, for as soon as the barrel organ starts churning I swear Franz pricks up his ears and lifts up his head. He’s very partial to music, above all the minuets, he loves the minuets, he’s a rather classical dog.

They had gone outside to watch the sunset. Wrapped in woollen blankets, they had sat like a pair of sentries at the cave entrance. Through the poplar trees, in the gaps between the trunks, the light formed into red knots. The organ grinder fell silent for a long moment, but suddenly he went on talking as if there had been no pause: And what are sounds? he said. They are, they are like flowers within flowers, something inside something. And what is inside a sound? I mean, where does the sound of the sound come from? I’ve no idea. Michele Bacigalupo — you remember Michele? — he used to say that with each sound we make we are giving back to the air everything it gives us. What does that mean? I’m not really sure either. I think music is always there, do you see, music plays itself and instruments try to attract it, to coax it down to earth. How strange, Hans said, I have a similar idea about poetry, only horizontally. (Horizontally? the old man said, looking puzzled.) I think poetry is like the wind you enjoy listening to, which comes and goes and belongs to no one, whispering to anyone who passes by. But I don’t think the sound of words comes from the sky. I imagine it more like a stagecoach travelling to different places. That’s why I believe in travelling, do you see? (Franz, said the organ grinder, stop that, stop biting his boots!) Yes, stop that, Franz. Deep down, people who travel are musicians or poets because they are looking for sounds. I understand, said the organ grinder, but I don’t see the need to travel in order to find sounds, can’t you also be very still, attentive, like Franz when he senses someone coming, and wait for sounds to arrive? My dear organ grinder, Hans said, placing an arm around his shoulder, we’re back to the same idea — should we leave or stay, be still or keep moving? Well, the organ grinder grinned, at least you agree we haven’t budged from that point. You win! said Hans.

They had fallen silent, shoulder-to-shoulder, absorbing the closing phrase of evening. Through the breaks in the pine trees beyond they could see the windmills. Hans heard the old man mumbling. Wait, wait, I don’t think so, said the organ grinder, I don’t think so (you don’t think what? asked Hans), sorry, I don’t think it’s true (what’s not true? Hans persisted), about being stuck at one point. I said the idea is always the same and that’s true. But we also like to reflect on it, turn it over in our minds, like those windmills. So maybe we aren’t so stuck after all. I was looking at the windmills, and suddenly I thought, are they moving or not? And I didn’t know. What do you think?