Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

At a quarter to four in the afternoon, fifteen minutes earlier than the arranged hour, Hans had knocked at the door to the Gottlieb residence and Bertold had accompanied him into the drawing room. Hans had asked whether the master of the house was at home so that he could pay his respects, and Bertold had replied that unfortunately he had gone out calling and would be back late. After a few minutes of fretful waiting, Hans wondered whether Sophie was getting ready in her bedroom or whether she was inflicting a small revenge on him. However, as soon as the long hand of the clock struck four, he heard the swish of Sophie’s skirt at the other end of the corridor. Hans leapt to his feet, sat down on the sofa, then stood up again. Good afternoon, Sophie said entering the room, may it be stated for the record that you are the one who is unpunctual.

Burying his nose in his teacup and peering over its rim, Hans studied Sophie more closely and realised that this time her expression was untranslatable — was she offended or on guard? Was that smile of hers sardonic or amused? Hans folded his legs, she unfolded hers. He clasped his hands on his knee, she unclasped hers, resting them in her lap. Hans frowned, as though about to speak, she raised her eyebrows as though preparing to listen. So, you read … Hans ventured. Yes, Sophie replied, I read your letter, which is why I asked you to come here. In any case, he continued, well, I’d like to take the opportunity, as we are here, to apologise once again for the way I spoke to you the other evening, I honestly didn’t mean, I assure you, at no time did I imagine, that it, it wasn’t my. Don’t trouble yourself, she interrupted, you already explained all that in your letter. And are you still angry with me? he said.

Angry? Sophie repeated, and her question reverberated like a tuning fork. She glanced about, making sure neither Elsa nor Bertold were in the room. Then she did something so swift that Hans was only able to see it clearly in his memory, rather than when it actually happened:

Sophie leant forward.

She remained erect, poised.

She bent her body over the low table.

She brought her face close to his.

She collided with his lips.

She offered him her warm, determined tongue, which disarranged his mouth.

Swift, undulating.

She withdrew her face.

She tilted backwards.

She settled back in her chair, gazing at him unruffled.

Hans’s reply was a stammer. His mouth was awash with flavours. His blood was on fire. Sophie’s manner scarcely helped dispel his disbelief — she was watching him, completely serene, as though for a moment he had let his fantasies carry him away, and on resuming their conversation had discovered everything in its place, including Sophie, who was sitting still listening to him. What was most excruciating and delicious was how long their silence lasted. Sophie gave no sign of adding anything. Hans thought of a hundred words and they all dissolved on his tongue. That kiss didn’t seem to accept any commentary.

Are you sorry? Hans finally managed to say. Because I’d quite understand, believe me, I mean, if it was just a sudden whim, I promise I’ll pretend it never happened, you needn’t worry, I don’t mind, you know, these things, well they’re normal between friends, they can happen to anyone, can’t they?

Sophie’s eyes narrowed, as she shrugged off the flood of unnecessary comments, still savouring the earlier silence. She gave a slow smile. And then she hurled herself at Hans in order to kiss him again, only this time much more violently, deeply and lingeringly. She bit his lip, he clasped her neck.

When they drew apart, Hans could see the strange expression on Sophie’s face, and thought she was worried someone might surprise them.

But it wasn’t concern that made Sophie look like that. It was the sweet ache in her groin.

At first glance Café Europa was just another reflection in the string of shop windows in Glass Walk, the place where all the city’s glaziers were crammed together. Anyone walking down the narrow street had the impression they were being mesmerised, for each shop window was reflected in the ones opposite, and on a sunny day they became so superimposed it was difficult to be sure which door to walk through. Or at least that was Hans’s experience whenever he went to Glass Walk to have a cup of hot chocolate, wake himself up with an umpteenth coffee or browse the newspapers.

Café Europa was the only place in Wandernburg, where, besides the skimpy pages of the Thunderer , one could read above all the French press, as well as the broadsheets from Berlin, Munich, Dresden and Hamburg. On his first visit there, Hans was surprised to discover among the magazine racks the cultural supplement of the Morning News and even an issue of the Jena Literary Review . As occasional out-of-date issues of the Gazette or the Daily Bulletin would arrive from Madrid, Álvaro was in the habit of going there to do his weekly business accounts. The moment he opened a newspaper from his native country he would begin railing against King Ferdinand or censorship. Even so he would continue to devour them with an avidity Hans found strange and moving in equal measure — his friend couldn’t leave Wandernburg, yet he had never left Spain either. During the afternoons they spent reading in the café, Álvaro would bring Hans cuttings from Spanish Pastimes and other publications written by exiles in London that he received. He passed the time comparing news items and gesticulating furiously while his coffee grew cold.

That Saturday, they were sitting at one of Café Europa’s round marble tables conversing in the soft glow of the oil lamps. At the other end of the room two billiard tables shone dimly beneath a halo of smoke. Álvaro had folded his newspaper and was once again telling Hans that he was behaving oddly, by turns elated and anxious. The fact is he was right. Apart from the organ grinder, Hans had spoken to no one about what had happened at the Gottliebs’ house on Wednesday afternoon. Not even to Sophie herself. Nor had he spoken of her most recent letters, replete with double entendres and insinuations. Hans sensed he had no need to explain his excitement to Álvaro, and that somehow he had known what was happening from the start. As for what was making him anxious, Hans decided to be frank.

I’m embarrassed to tell you this, Hans admitted, but the fact is I’m running out of money. (Really? Álvaro was surprised. Why didn’t you say so?) I told you, I was embarrassed, and I didn’t want to think too much about it either, I suppose I was hoping for a stroke of luck. Up until now I always did things in the same way — I worked, saved and travelled until I ran out of funds, then I started all over again. But things changed since I came here, I stayed longer than I should, I’ve been careless with money, and now I can’t expect that (of course you can, dear fellow! Álvaro protested, dropping his cup into its saucer. How much do you need?) No, truly, I’m grateful, but a loan won’t solve my problem. (What will then?) A piece of good news. Yes, don’t pull that face, I’ve been waiting for it for days. If it arrives, all will be well. If not, then, within eight or ten days at most I’ll positively have to go to Dessau, talk to Herr Lyotard and look for work there. (At least let me tide you over! What are friends for!) Friends, my dear Urquijo, are there to listen, which is what you’ve been doing and, believe me, that’s enough of a help. I’m relieved to have got it off my chest. But now I beg you let’s not talk about it any more, and don’t insist on lending me money — if my situation doesn’t change, I shan’t be able to pay you back, and if it does then I won’t need it.) Cabrón , muttered Álvaro, patting him on the back, how well you pronounce my Basque surname! Rather better, Hans grinned, than your pronunciation of our German names. Álvaro gave one of his booming laughs. Then he straightened up in his chair and said with a solemn air: Just let me ask you one question, how much do you have left? How much? Hans sighed, gazed up at the ceiling, appeared to calculate among the rafters, and quoted a sum. Not one thaler more? exclaimed Álvaro, alarmed. Are you sure? What about the inn? Don’t worry, said Hans, next week is paid for, we’ll see if it’s my last. And changing the subject: Do you dare to beat me at billiards again?