Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

I beg your pardon? Hans took the basket.

Teach me, said Lisa, to read those books you’re reading, you keep saying I should, I should, then teach me (but I, well, he stammered, that is, your family), I don’t think it can be that difficult, I know plenty of stupid people who can read. Give me back that basket will you? That’s better, thank you. We’ll start tomorrow, shall we? You must excuse me now. My mother will be back any minute and we’ve lots to do. I’ll leave you in peace. Until tomorrow, then.

Lisa went down the stairs with a grin on her lips and butterflies in her stomach. She tidied the kitchen before leaving to fetch Thomas from school. On her way, she bumped into Frau Zeit, who was hurrying home to get the tea ready. You’re late, said her mother, I don’t like your little brother having to wait at the gates. I’ve been doing laundry, she replied, and I cleaned the kitchen. Very good, her mother said, but you’re still late. I’m on time, said Lisa. And if you keep answering back you’ll be even later, Frau Zeit said finally. While you’re about it, child, take your brother to the square until his tea’s ready, you know what he gets like at home. But mother, Lisa groaned. And she watched Frau Zeit as she began walking away.

In the market square, Thomas was playing blind man’s buff with some other children next to the baroque fountain. Lisa watched over them with a mixture of exasperation and envy, as though she were losing an intrinsic part of herself in the game, and at the same time something new was preventing her from joining in. Her brother was running around blindfolded, arms outstretched. Suddenly he stopped, stuck out his hip and let out one, two, three little explosions. Thomas! his sister bawled. The other children roared with laughter. Thomas went on searching. He caught one of his friends, hurled himself at the lad, groped his face, stomach and tiny prick before shouting out his name. The others came running to make fun of the captured boy. They formed a circle, scaring the pigeons away, a few punches flew and the blindfold changed owners. Lisa found herself smiling. The children might seem rather silly, but they were having a lot of fun. When had she last played blind man’s buff? A long time ago. Well, not that long. Only last year. And why had she stopped playing? Because it was no longer appropriate, she was too grown-up to play those games. Was she really? Yes. Well, more or less. For a moment Lisa felt the urge to run around like her brother, to play with him and caper about. She was on the point of doing so when her heart leapt — Hans had appeared at the other side of the square and was heading towards her. Was he coming towards her? Of course he was. Or was he? For Hans had veered off, where was he going? He stopped in front of an old man with a beard, a beggar playing an instrument resting on a cart. Hans bent down, dropped some coins into his dish and — amazing! — stroked the black dog accompanying the old man. Only then did Hans turn round and acknowledge Lisa. She waved in a deliberately desultory manner. Then she turned her back and shouted to her brother: Thomas! For God’s sake, stop playing the fool, come along, it’s getting late!

The following day at noon, Lisa went to Hans again and finally persuaded him to give her secret reading lessons. They agreed to meet twice a week, at more or less the same hour — when Hans got up, while her father was out sampling a few beers and her mother was busy in the kitchen. Half-an-hour of class — according to her calculations, that was the longest Lisa could be out of her parents’ sight without them becoming suspicious. Half-an-hour with her head buried in a book. Half-an-hour reading, becoming someone else. Half-an-hour alone with him. Hans bought her an exercise book and a pencil. He kept them in his trunk so that no one would see them.

From that day on, Lisa began memorising the alphabet, learning the syllables, forming words with a swiftness and eagerness that never ceased to amaze Hans. Seeing her contort her hand to trace the symbols, hearing her delicious attempts to pronounce diphthongs, Hans was overcome with true emotion (an emotion mixed with another, darker frisson) and a sense that all was not lost. Lisa applied herself to her studies with an almost furious determination. The only thing she did as she cleaned, sewed and washed the laundry was repeat the strange alphabet over and over to herself. In the evenings, as soon as her parents had gone to bed (or when their panting stopped after the rhythmic creaking), Lisa would light an oil lamp, put it close to her bed, and copy out the letters with her brother’s pencils. Her homework had to be good, better than good. Too much depended on it — her self-esteem, her future, the threat of being punished by her parents, Hans’s opinion of her.

One afternoon, while writing a report on a book, Hans became distracted by the noises in the house. This distraction was partly because he had found the work frankly tedious, and partly because Thomas’s excited voice echoing through the corridor on his return from school was difficult to ignore. He stretched and left his room to go to downstairs and have a coffee. When Thomas saw him come down, he did the same as always — greet him cheerfully, do four or five acrobatic turns, and grin mischievously before running off in search of other amusements. As he watched Thomas run off, Hans felt forlorn — there is nothing more difficult to capture than a child’s attention when he is playing, he reflected. Holding his cup to his lips, he puzzled over why an adult was primed for the hatred of another adult, but not for a child’s indifference. Thomas’s wandering gaze, which delighted in things only to forget them instantaneously, the restless eyes with which he viewed the world, were they enamoured of everything or did they retain nothing?

Thomas enjoyed picking his nose as thoroughly as possible, as though hoping to find some buried treasure deep inside his nostrils. He didn’t do this using just one finger, but by forming a relentless pincer with his thumb and forefinger (the thumb tunnelling inside while the forefinger acted as a support). He did his homework in the same way, with a look of bemusement and scorn. Or rather, that was how he contemplated it, without writing a single word in his exercise book. Since Hans had begun spending more time at the inn translating, he had been able to observe Thomas’s habits more closely, and to discover how little interest he had in studying. Because he liked the boy, and perhaps also to disguise the fact that he was helping Lisa, he would occasionally give Thomas a hand with his homework.

Thomas’s school curriculum consisted of reciting aloud, handwriting, arithmetic and above all Bible studies. Hans learnt that his fellow pupils were artisans, peasants and Jews — in other words he attended a municipal school. The week before, Thomas had misbehaved or so his teacher had thought, and had made him write out the slogan: “Patience, piety, purpose” a hundred times, as well as inflecting the three nouns through their different cases. The teacher had surprised Thomas exchanging shameful drawings with another boy. He had caned them both for a quarter of an hour in front of the class. He had told them it was for their own good and they must learn to face the consequences of their actions. On discovering what had happened, Herr Zeit had gone to the teacher to apologise. The teacher had reminded him that unless the same discipline they attempted to inculcate at school were maintained in the home, all their efforts would be in vain. In agreement with the school’s methods, Herr Zeit, furious, had gone home and caned his son for another quarter of an hour while listing all the sacrifices they, his parents, had made for him.

Hans had tried to give the boy reasons to study, but Thomas, with a mixture of naivety and common sense, had refuted his arguments one by one. What’s the use of reading? he would protest, digging his elbows into his schoolbook. It’s useful for everything , Hans would insist, for anything you might want to do. But I don’t want to do anything, the boy had retorted. Then you’ll need to know even more if you want to go through life doing nothing, Hans had said, grinning. There are only three ways of learning, Thomas — through experience, listening and reading. But as children are prevented from doing practically everything, including listening to grown-ups’ conversations, the only way to learn is to read, do you understand? Well, Thomas had said grudgingly, but what about writing, what’s the use of writing? Hans had responded with amusement: So you can do what mummies do. Mummies? the boy had gaped at him with astonishment. In ancient Egypt, Hans had explained, oh, and while we’re on the subject, if you can find Egypt for me on a map I’ll give you a bag of sweets, that’s what maps are for, too! In Ancient Egypt they would write the names of the gods because they knew words outlast statues, buildings, even the mummies themselves. Stuff and nonsense! Thomas had protested. How can a word last longer than a bit of stone! Stones are hard and words are not. And anyway, look, pencil is easy to rub out, see? … You’re right, Hans had admitted, although I don’t suppose you or I will ever be able to build a castle or a pyramid; it takes a very long time, lots of money and thousands of people. But you and I on our own, do you see? can write pyramid or castle without anyone’s help. Stuff and nonsense! Thomas repeated, picking his nose. But a moment later, as Hans began to walk off, he had stopped him and asked: Hey, what sort of life did those mummies have?