Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Hello, said Sophie, are you dancing or watching?

Watching, he replied. Or conversing. May I have the pleasure of this conversation?

They asked for two glasses of punch and clinked glasses, drifting towards a quieter corner of the room. Hans was finding it hard to direct his gaze any higher than her collarbones, and he scolded himself, afraid of seeming like an idiot. He had never seen Sophie Gottlieb dressed for a ball, he hadn’t needed to in order to desire her skin, her smell, her touch; now he wondered what would become of him after seeing her in this gown. She noticed Hans’s embarrassment. She felt flattered and pretended, of course, to disapprove of the way he was looking at her. To be honest, Hans said, longing to say something else, I never expected to find you in a place like this. Really? Sophie laughed. Do you imagine Dante and Aristotle are my sole amusements? And why ever not? Hans said. I’m sure even they would want to dance with you. Aristotle and Dante might, retorted Sophie, but apparently you wouldn’t, do you really not like dancing? Not much, Hans admitted, and I’m rather bad at it. I see, she said handing him her glass. Men never like anything they aren’t good at. But have no fear, we can talk. Between dances. Will you excuse me?

And Sophie fluttered her eyelashes, and joined a line that had begun a quadrille, leaving Hans holding a glass of punch in each hand.

Sophie danced as fluently as she spoke, and in an identical style — not overly mannered but elegant. She was charming to watch because she appeared to dance as though there were far more interesting things on her mind than to charm those watching her. From time to time, she would pause in front of a partner, lean forward to listen to what he had to say, then laugh softly before continuing to twirl. Hans wished he was beside her, dancing instead of thinking. But he had never been capable of overcoming his feeling of clumsiness and frustration the moment he moved his feet. Whenever he tried to dance he had the impression of an army of doubles jerking around him, multiplying as through a prism, showing him how ridiculous he looked. It became impossible for him to differentiate between his clumsiness and his embarrassment, and these feelings fed off one another until he finally fled to the side of the dance floor for safety. Watching Sophie and her friends, admiring their harmonious crossovers, he thought the difference might be that men tended to come apart when they danced, whereas women came together, uniting their minds and bodies. Noticing that Sophie kept stealing him glances as she danced, Hans could feel her getting closer. He knew it was too late for him to turn tail and run like he did on the bridge in his dream. He looked down at what was below and saw his feet, and then he felt awkward and joyful and helpless.

The orchestra paused for a break, the dancers applauded. As the couples, squares and rows broke up, Hans spotted Álvaro, whom he had lost sight of, in a clear space on the dance floor. He was talking to a young woman who had her back turned, and whom Hans thought he recognised. She seemed to be listening attentively even as she tapped her foot on the floor. She turned slightly and Hans glimpsed her in profile. It was Elsa. He tried in vain to hear what Álvaro was saying. Suddenly, Sophie came over to resume their conversation. Her collarbones moved in rhythm with her still panting breath. Once or twice, Hans imagined he saw Sophie sneak a glance at the patch of bare flesh between the top button of his shirt (which owing to the heat he had just undone) and the knot in his cravat.

A moment later, Elsa walked discreetly over to them. She greeted Hans with a nod, reminded Sophie of the time, then whispered something in her ear. Sophie nodded and took her by the arm. She allowed Hans to kiss her hand, although she withdrew it immediately. Suddenly adopting a serious air (That irresistible air Sophie has, thought Hans, when she returns to reality) and took her leave. Shall we meet again tomorrow? she asked. Yes, of course, he replied, at the salon. No, said Sophie walking away, I mean afterwards, here. Hans nodded without thinking.

Someone tapped him on the back.

Where’s my drink? Álvaro chuckled, I’ve been waiting ages for it!

I grant you we have been waiting for it a long time, said Hans, but once there are no more borders and we have a customs union, why any need for a single centre, a headquarters? I am all in favour of unification, but not centralisation. How naive, retorted Professor Mietter, that’s a utopia, especially in a nation as fragmented as ours. On the contrary, Hans insisted, our tradition of decentralisation makes federalism easier, think about it, the same laws and policies could govern each region without any of them yielding to a central power. That regional sacrifice, said Professor Mietter, if indeed it is a sacrifice, would be a lesser evil for the good of the fatherland. Nowadays, sighed Hans, everyone wants unification, and Germany is swarming with patriots. The odd thing is that the French invaders and not the patriots began this unification, on est patriote ou on ne l’est pas , Professor! My dear friends, interposed Álvaro, if you will allow me to say something about your country … (But Monsieur Urquiho , Sophie protested, this is your country, too!) Well, yes, in a sense, you are right, no matter, what I wanted to say is that I agree with Hans, because in my country, forgive me, in Spain, similar ironies exist. For instance, whether the purists like it or not, if Spain had been more centralised, Joseph Bonaparte would have easily controlled the whole country, do you see? (Not entirely, to tell the truth, Professor Mietter said.) Yes, it was precisely this autonomy of the provinces that saved us from complete defeat, because there are many fronts, not just one. Each region was fighting for a common territory, but they almost did so entirely separately. And so you could say Spain’s federalist spirit saved her national sovereignty. Ironic, isn’t it? I don’t know.

I maintain, said Herr Levin, raising a finger and clearing his throat, that if the Prussian leadership or the parliamentary-reform groups, ahem, stopped appealing so much to the national spirit and sought a united customs union once and for all, these questions would be far easier to resolve. Customs and commerce, gentlemen, that is the heart of the matter. Monsieur Levin, Professor Mietter said, removing his spectacles and glaring at him, do you mean to reduce the entire national dispute to a question of commerce? Herr Levin was speechless for a moment, lowered his eyes, shook his head, and said almost in a whisper: Yes.

What I’m saying, Hans went on, is that Germany, like other countries, continues dreaming of things that aren’t to be, and this is exhausting. The good old failed empire, the Lutheran rebellion converted into an orthodoxy (that’s your opinion, Professor Mietter muttered with a frown), forgive me, but it’s true, Napoleon’s betrayal, the utopia at Jena, etc etc. Who knows what comes next, but that doesn’t matter. It’s as if we can only write history from a position of regret. And look where it gets us.

Increasingly, when Hans defended the ideas he had always believed in, he felt he was doing so in the name of a single cause — in the name of Sophie. Rather than, or as well as, out of a dialectical vanity, which of course he also possessed, Hans argued with such passion because he knew Sophie was in agreement with him. And each time he spoke, he felt he was arguing on behalf of that agreement, pushing it elsewhere, far away from there.

But Rudi began making his presence felt. Not with full knowledge of the facts, for nothing could really fluster him — after all he was a Wilderhaus, but rather instinctively guarding against the intruder. Occasionally he would glance sideways at the round mirror hanging above the fireplace, and although he was too slow to glimpse any exchanges between Hans and Sophie, like a billiard ball arriving after the two others have cannoned off each other, he was aware now with whom he must disagree during the discussions, and what direction his interventions should take. He would do this in his own language, naturally, not in the tiresome one favoured by academics or the pretentious one used by pedants. He wouldn’t argue a particular point, for arguments were unpredictable and could always be refuted. No, he would speak from a place where he felt at ease, where he was unassailable — from his own social position. He was himself. He was Rudi Wilderhaus. Why, then, for God’s sake, why did he sometimes feel so afraid?