Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

That evening, while they were dining together at the Central Tavern, two big lemon-scented hands alighted on their backs. They turned to discover Rudi Wilderhaus’s closely shaven chin. Forgive me, gentlemen, he said, if I didn’t greet you before. On the contrary, said Hans stiffly, we are the ones who apologise for not having seen you. That’s only natural, replied Rudi, my table is at the back. I always reserve that one because it’s the quietest, why do people always crowd around the entrance? There isn’t a learned man in all Germany who can tell you, but there it is, gentlemen, they won’t walk more than a few paces!

With this, Rudi began to laugh, closing one eye and watching Hans and Álvaro through the other to see if they were joining in. The two men exchanged glances, gave a few forced sniggers, and then, on seeing Rudi’s ludicrous expression, suffered a genuine fit of laughter. In any case, gentlemen, Rudi said gesturing towards the table at the other end of the tavern, I’d be pleased if you’d agree to join us. They turned around and could make out the glowing cigars of Herr Gelding and his partners.

What a pleasant surprise, Herr Gelding said in greeting. Gentlemen, I believe you already know Herr Urquiho , who represents our distributors in London. Herr Urquiho , I can’t remember if I’ve introduced you to Herr Klinsman, ah yes, I pointed him out to you, I thought as much, and what about Herr Voeller? But do have a seat, please, have a seat, our distinguished Herr Wilderhaus here has just been telling us that you and he attend the same salon, who would have thought it! By Jove, a literary salon, why, Herr Urquiho , you really are a dark horse.

In the middle of the table was roast chicken on a platter, together with a dish of seasoned endives and a bowl of strawberries. Prost! Herr Gelding belched, picking up a strawberry between thumb and forefinger and dipping it in his tankard of beer. Herr Gelding’s remarks seemed to amuse Rudi, although he wrinkled his brow with each belch. Soon the others at the table, including Álvaro, began talking business. Rudi and Hans remained silent, sizing each other up like opponents across a chessboard. (Bah! one of Herr Gelding’s partners suddenly exclaimed. Don’t talk to me about Varnhagen, he’s only good for charging in advance and paying late!) The more affable Rudi was towards him, the more uneasy Hans became — why did he insist on smiling at him when they had never liked each other? Why did Rudi refresh his tankard as soon as it was half-empty? Was he trying to make him drunk? Did he know something, did he want to know something? (Don’t go all charitable on me Herr Urquiho , please! Herr Gelding chuckled. At this rate the labourers will be better off than us, mark my words, my grandfather was a labourer so I know what I’m talking about, things were far tougher in those days! So don’t come to me with that, we need men, do you hear, men, but all their sons have trades now, they learn to read and write!) In spite of everything, from a sense of male pride of which Hans deep down felt ashamed, he drank all the beer he was served, as though refusing would not only be churlish but would give Rudi a reason to mistrust him. As the alcohol began slowly to permeate his consciousness, Hans had the impression that his memories were also liquid sloshing round in a tankard, a frothy substance splashing at the rim, and that his secrets could be viewed through a glass. (Let’s be clear, said one of Herr Gelding’s partners, everyone deserves respect, just so long as we the management are respected, everyone wants their say without even having an income of a hundred ducats.) Now Rudi was speaking to him, speaking to him earnestly, too earnestly, and his hand was creeping over his shoulder, like a spider, thought Hans. (That’s a good one! Herr Gelding belched as he brought his hand down on the table.) Rudi placed his hand on Hans’s shoulder and began talking to him about horses and hunting. (Don’t even think about it! one of Herr Gelding’s partners declared. While prices continue to go down it’s best not to raise one’s expectations.) He spoke in a soft voice and told him he was also a traveller and how much he appreciated men of the world, that he already knew half of Europe and soon he would see the rest, God and my health permitting, said Rudi, soon I’ll see the other half with my wife Sophie, and it’ll give us great pleasure to write to you, she tells me that as well as being a good friend you are an excellent letter writer, an admirable quality, I like men who appreciate the value of words.

At midnight, alone once more, Hans and Álvaro zigzagged down Potter’s Lane. They were headed for the Picaro Tavern, where on Saturdays young women would dance without any of the affectations of the Apollo Theatre, to the strains of a small orchestra. Hey, you, Hans spluttered, how can you tolerate them? Who? said Álvaro. Oh them, it’s very simple, my dear, very simple — I never mix business with pleasure; that’s something I learnt in England. Before I knew that I was a little nobler and a lot poorer, if you see what I mean ! And I’m telling you, Hans said distractedly, we’ve gone past it, seriously, isn’t it farther back? In that other street, I mean. No, replied Álvaro, how can it be back there? Just follow me, come on! I swear, Hans went on, whenever those men open their mouths it makes me long for the cave. Your organ grinder is a strange bird, said Álvaro, sometimes he talks as if he knows everything, and other times I look at him and he seems like a poor old man in a cave. The organ grinder knows everything, replied Hans, don’t ask me how, but he does. It’s very odd, insisted Álvaro, I don’t know where he gets it from, have you ever seen him read? Does he have any books in the cave? Never, replied Hans, he never reads, he has no time for books or newspapers. When he isn’t playing his barrel organ, he’s gazing at the landscape. When I’m with him I feel a little stupid, as if I’d read everything without having read anything, sorry, did I tread on your foot? Are you sure we’re going the right way?

The Picaro Tavern was a place where no sooner people entered than the rhythm of the polka and the smell of sweat invited them to relax and cast their cares aside. Anyone who crossed its threshold with a heavy gait left with a spring in his step, wondering what had come over him. The clientele was mixed, everyone except the aristocracy, who preferred more discreet establishments farther from the centre, where they paid much more money to do the same things. On the chalkboard hanging next to a warped mirror, a message (complete with misspellings) announced: “The Picaro Tavern welcomes not ladies and gentlemen, but men and women.” The police never interfered with the tavern’s activities, provided it closed at three in the morning, held no parties during religious holidays and, in accordance with the Rules Governing Public Places of Free Admission in Wandernburg, its patrons did not wear masks. It was not uncommon after suppertime to find off-duty policemen in the tavern.

As they stepped through the tavern doors, an image of the organ grinder gazing through his fingers at the sun flashed though Hans’s mind. He grinned drunkenly and missed him foolishly, as though he had not seen him in years. He thought instantly: Tomorrow I’ll go to see him. They descended into the gloomy Picaro Tavern, looking for a place to sit. Suddenly, Hans thought he recognised somebody’s back — a stocky figure, hunched over, muscles tensed as though suffering from cramp. The figure instinctively wheeled round and faced him — it was Lamberg, wearing an old mask that covered his eyes and half his brow. Opposite him, at a safe distance, a waiter was trying to persuade him to take it off. Lamberg appeared not to hear him. His arms hung at his sides, tensed, as though pushing down on a spring. For a moment, Hans thought Lamberg was going to tip up a chair or punch the waiter. But all he did was to stagger, tear off his mask, walk over to Hans and embrace him wholeheartedly. His face stank of stale alcohol, his back was rigid. After flashing Hans a look of relief, the waiter disappeared among the dancers. What were you doing wearing that mask? Álvaro asked, coming over. Lamberg slowly raised his head from Hans’s shoulder, and said: I just wanted it to be Carnival. With that, he burst into tears for a few moments. He soon calmed down and remained silent, expressionless. Come on, Hans said, we’ll buy you a drink.