Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Unclasping her fingers, Sophie asked: Is that why you travel constantly? In order to keep starting again all the time? Staring at Sophie’s fingers, Hans smiled and said nothing.

Bertold (during his comings and goings in the corridor, or his pretence at coming and going) chose that moment to enter the room. Hans and Sophie looked around them. The sun had stopped streaming through the windows, a few shreds of light clung to the balcony railings. They had a sudden feeling of frustrated intimacy, as though, unthinkingly, they had fallen asleep without managing to touch each other. They had said many things and had told each other nothing. Fräulein, shall I light some candles? No thank you, Sophie replied, we’re fine as we are. Shall I bring more tea? No thank you, Bertold, Sophie repeated, you can go now. In that case … Bertold said, without moving.

And, in that case, he was obliged finally to leave the room.

The moment they were alone, with the same urgency as the fading light, Sophie uncrossed her legs and sat up straight in her chair. Listen, she said, we’ve spent hours talking of politics and I don’t even know where you were born. I know nothing about your family, your childhood. We’re supposed to be friends.

Caught by two opposing forces, one driving him forward to be closer to her, the other forcing him to withdraw in order to protect himself, Hans was paralysed. Forgive me, he said, I’m not used to speaking about that. Firstly because where a person is from is purely accidental, we are the place we find ourselves in. (Perfect, she sighed, more philosophy, and secondly?) And secondly, my dear Sophie, because there are certain things, which, were I to reveal them, no one would believe.

Sophie sank back in her chair. Vexed, she said: I think that’s unfair. You know my house, my father, things about me. And yet I scarcely know anything about you. I don’t even know why you want to go to Dessau, or wherever it is you’re going. If that’s the way you want it, so be it.

No, no, Hans hastened to explain, that’s not true, of course you know me. You know very well who I am. You know what I think, you share my tastes, you understand my responses. And besides, you nearly always guess what I’m feeling. Is it possible to know anyone better than that? But, Sophie insisted, is there something unspeakable, something that might shock me? Because even if there was, Hans, I swear I’d rather know about it. I’m here with you, he said, how could you hope for anything better? So that’s how much you trust me, she murmured, folding her arms. My confidant is hiding the truth from me.

Hans watched Sophie withdraw completely. And he knew he had no choice but to lose all restraint. In a fit of recklessness, considering they could be seen from the corridor, and even though they could hear Herr Gottlieb in his study, he rose from his chair and grasped Sophie by the shoulders (she sat, arms still folded, gazing up at him in bewilderment) and declared: Sophie. Listen. Believe me. I’ve been travelling a long time, and I’ve never, never … I trust you. I do. And more.

More? Sophie asked, in a less hostile tone, still with her arms crossed, trying to hide the thrill she felt at suddenly having her shoulders grasped, at feeling Hans touch her for the first time, and also trying to hide the fact that she had not resisted as she ought. She was unsure whether to unfold her arms, aware that leaving them folded was a protection against any sudden impulses. Her own, not those of Hans.

I just want to be certain, Sophie said, that you are being honest with me.

Once Hans realised she had decided to stay, he loosened his grip very slowly and sighed. I believe in being honest, too. But sometimes honesty requires us to remain silent. Love, for example …

Sophie started when she heard this word, and looked at her arms, as though unsure of what to do with them. She immediately realised Hans had gone back to theorising, and felt a mixture of relief and regret.

… Love, he went on, which is the highest expression of trust between two people, is founded upon a lie. Those who love one another, even though all through their lives they have lied or secretly changed, are suddenly supposed to love someone else without knowing who the other really is. To me this is the greatest lie of all — to assume that it is absolute, sacred, a duty, as if those of us who love (and here, safe inside his theorising, Hans contemplated her open lips) were not relative, impure, unpredictable. That is why I ask you, Sophie, would it not be more profoundly honest to love from this starting point?

Nobody, she whispered, has ever spoken to me like that about love. And I, he whispered, have never met anyone who cared to listen.

Beyond the enclosed fields, towards the empty south-east, amid dozens of tired windmills, where the River Nulte’s waters grew more turbid, the red chimneys of Wandernburg’s textile mill loomed. Even before sunrise, the boilers had stirred and the noises of the mill had started up — the sloshing of the wool-rinsing machines, the cracking of the carders, the whirring of the Spinning Marys, the tapping of the meters, the rumble of coal in Steaming Eleanor’s belly.

Lamberg wiped his brow with his forearm. His breath mingled with the steam from the machine. He was used to rising at the crack of dawn, the arduousness of his job didn’t bother him, he had learnt to breathe with his mouth shut. But he couldn’t bear the effect on his eyes. They itched like the devil; he could feel the smuts circulating under his eyelids, although he knew rubbing them would only make it worse. Sometimes, while he was watching Steaming Eleanor’s engines from his platform, Lamberg would fantasise about gouging his eyes out. Whenever this urge came over him, he would close his eyelids, grit his teeth and put more effort in each of his gestures. Lamberg’s smooth, bulging right arm would pull levers and turn taps.

Lamberg! yelled Foreman Körten. Have you finished with that? Not yet! Lamberg cried out, leaning over the platform, ten more minutes! Foreman Körten muttered and moved on between the tanks of hot water, soapy bleach, potash and bicarbonate, his hair blowing about in the blasts of air drying the tufts of wrung wool, stopping next to the wool carder who oversaw the combs. Günter! said the foreman, How much fine have we got? As you can see, Günter replied, no more than a couple of pounds for every three or four of half-blood, five or six of quarter-blood, not to mention a lot more low-quarter. It’s not good enough! the foreman complained. How long is it since you checked the combs? I check them every morning, sir, replied Günter. That’s what they all say, grunted the foreman, and this is the result!

Lamberg opened and closed his eyes as if he were trying to trap something with his eyelids. He yelled at the stoker to stop. He halted the inductor, unblocked the hubs, filled the mixers, straightened the funnels and belts, shouted again at the stoker, then started up Steaming Eleanor’s pump. The sound, that rushing noise which echoed in Lamberg’s ears each night before he fell asleep, crescendoed until it took off. The vapour condensed in the air. The cylinders heated up. The pump whistled and the wheels began turning until they reached full speed. Lamberg contemplated the machine, feeling as though he were watching the workings of his own body. The valves opened, the bobbins rattled, the pistons shunted, the tubes juddered, the regulator roared, the cogs creaked, the wheels spun round.

The machine operators came down and formed a circle. The circle was made up of men, women and children. It was lunchtime, yet no one was eating. Except for the children, who munched their bread and cold sausage. They were all silent, heads pointing towards the same place in the midst of the circle, where one of the workers was speaking in hushed tones and gesticulating furiously. Lamberg listened, nodded and pressed his eyelids together. Fellow workers! declared the man in the middle. We must act tomorrow, we can wait no longer. The situation will never change unless we use force. The bosses have their methods, and we have ours. In England, comrades, machines have been wrecked, mills burned to the ground. We propose more peaceful means, at least for the time being. But we mustn’t let ourselves be bullied. There are men working here who were promised contracts seven years ago. There are children of men working here who are paid in food. And wives who work a full day and receive a quarter day’s wage instead of half. The delegates have discussed this at the assembly and we carried the vote, but now we want to hear from our comrades. Every man and woman here has a voice. There are five minutes left before the return to work. We’ll open the session to objections and criticisms and after that we’ll put the measure to the vote. Agreed? Good. We’re all agreed. Now is the time to speak up. Do we strike tomorrow or not? No objections, criticisms or questions? Nothing?