Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

He would invariably rise at noon and go out to have a bite at the tavern, and, if he had time, meet Álvaro for a coffee (or three) at Café Europa, where they would sit browsing the newspapers and conversing, always about the same old thing, always about something else. Excepting Fridays, when he went to the salon, he would spend his afternoons in the Wandernburg public library or translating at the inn. Sometimes, usually on Sundays, Hans would go to the market square to listen to the organ grinder, and if he saw his dish was empty, he would wait for someone to stop and then begin dropping coins into it with theatrical zeal — coins the organ grinder invariably gave him back in the evening, the moment he arrived. Hans would have supper at the inn, translate or read for a while in his room and then head for the cave, where he would remain until dawn. And Sophie? Hans saw little of her and he never stopped seeing her — aside from the long Friday evenings, they would both improvise momentary meetings, arranged teas, casual encounters in the city centre, any excuse to see each other for a few moments. And then, of course, there were the letters, which travelled back and forth like the post, like the wind, like bilingual words in dictionaries, from Stag Street to Old Cauldron Street, and vice versa.

The Wandernburg public library, like most libraries, was ugly but loveable, inadequate yet indispensable. It was run by a plump young woman, who would laugh for no reason when consulted about anything, and who spent the day reading, an open book clutched in her hands, which looked like paper pulp. The library was also an ideal place to meet Sophie, who often went there to read books deemed unsuitable to be seen in the house. Besides candles, shelves and dust, the library was also home to a large collection of magazines, specialist almanacs, romances, travel, history and pedagogy, regional newspapers as well as every single back copy of Wandernburg’s local newspaper.

The Thunderer consisted of four sheets of convoluted grammar and bombastic language. It reported almost exclusively on local news, recording in unbelievable detail precise minutes of municipal meetings, verbatim transcriptions of Mayor Ratztrinker’s speeches, including repetitions, hesitations and mistakes, readers’ complaints about the state of a municipal flower bed, a stretch of road, a street lamp, exhaustive notices about the wealthy Wandernburg families (including the Wilderhauses), their illnesses, accidents, obituaries, death notices, funerals, births, marriages or receptions. There was also a section covering important news from neighbouring villages and, every now and then, an event of international importance — a coronation, a war, an armistice. The newspaper also boasted a financial section that gave information on the price of farm produce and wool (Hans was shocked to discover that Herr Gelding wrote monthly articles on the subject), the nation’s stock-market index, as well as those of Paris and London. Every Sunday, underneath the heated sermon of a certain Reverend Weiss and a list of the week’s religious services, there was a poem or literary review by Professor Mietter, whom the newspaper introduced in the heading above his contribution as, “Herr Doktor G L Mietter, a leading light of literature, a keen but impartial critic for our readers, an unrivalled bastion of good taste”.

Hans lamented the dearth of poetry on the shelves of the Wandernburg public library, but was overjoyed when he discovered nine volumes of Rotteck’s Universal History , which he consulted frequently, as well as the helpful encyclopaedia Konversationslexikon , edited coincidentally by Brockhaus. One afternoon, while he was climbing a stepladder to reach one of Rotteck’s volumes, Hans glimpsed a plump, dark-haired figure. Even though he could only see her from behind, he was in no doubt from the way she was chattering away to the librarian that this was Frau Pietzine. She would often drop in in order to stay abreast of the latest recommendations from the Goddess of the Rhine or the Poetess of Swabia, and to devour the latest editions of the High Society Chronicle, Modern Trends or Remarkable Women .

Another day, as Hans watched her condescendingly, Frau Pietzine came up to him and whispered in his ear, in a conspiratorial voice that left him wondering: I bumped into Elsa on the street and she told me Sophie would be here within the hour. Hans closed his book and looked at her, as though demanding an explanation. But Frau Pietzine simply repeated: Within the hour. And vanished between the rows of shelves.

Lisa came back smelling of river. She came back with a burning brow and frozen arms, with mud from the riverbank on the hem of her dress, with the weariness of the river. She pushed the inn door closed with her foot, dropped the basket of laundry and pulled off her headscarf with a sigh. She called her mother twice. There was no reply. She went to the yard, quickly hung out the laundry, then wandered about the house — her father wasn’t there either and Thomas was still at school. She washed her face, tidied her hair and went upstairs.

She knocked on the door, and before Hans could say Come in, walked into the room. She saw him hunched over the table surrounded by piles of open books, holding a quill. Lisa contemplated the raised lectern, Hans’s hasty writing, open-mouthed ink pot. There was something about those symbols, those printed characters that fascinated her, even though she couldn’t understand them, or perhaps because she couldn’t understand them. And above all there was something magical about the way Hans would spend hours immersed in these books, caught up in his own quiet fervour. He looked like a different person when he was reading, his face changed, he seemed distant but contented, like people when they sing. Her father also read, mostly newspapers, but it wasn’t the same — he turned the pages without ever immersing himself, like someone who goes down to the river, dips a toe in the water, then turns round. Hans’s way of reading was different. Hans was, what was Hans doing? What was it that held his attention? If throwing herself into books could change her that much then she wanted to learn, too.

Hello, Hans said, what is it? How are you? Lisa asked. I’m very well, thank you, I’m working, he replied, what is it? I just wanted to see how you were, said Lisa, and to fetch your dirty laundry. My laundry? said Hans. Yes, said Lisa, examining the room, where do you keep it? Doesn’t your mother see to that? Hans said, rising from his chair. My mother, replied Lisa, beginning to walk round the table, hasn’t got time to see to everything, so I have to help her, you see, that’s why I came up, where do you keep your dirty laundry? Well, Hans paused, I don’t know, look here, are you sure your mother told you to? Aha! she exclaimed. It’s under the bed! Do you think that’s the proper place to keep clothes? Leave it, Lisa, please, said Hans, there’s really no need, honestly!

Hans went over to try to take the basket away from her.

Look here, said Hans, you shouldn’t have to, please let go of that basket! (It’s my job, said Lisa, what does it matter?) Quite, Lisa, it doesn’t matter, honestly, I’ll take it down to the yard (the yard? she said. You can’t do the washing in the yard, you have to go to the river), all right, then I’ll go to the river. (You? Lisa scoffed. You couldn’t wash out a single stain!) Give it to me! (Let go of that sleeve, will you, she insisted, brushing his finger.) Listen, Lisa, look here (all right, but let go), it’s just, I think … (Will you let go, then?) Yes, no! Wait, listen, you should be studying, don’t you see? Studying at school, let go of the basket, you should …

In that case, why don’t you teach me? Lisa paused.