Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Excuse me, Frau Zeit said, entering the parlour, I’d like a word.

Hans, who hadn’t finished his coffee yet, gestured towards the sofa. Suddenly, the light began to wane. The afternoon was dissolving into the cauldron.

No, thank you, said the innkeeper’s wife, I prefer to stand. Well, I’ll get straight to the point, as I’m sure you have work to do and so have I. I wanted to talk to you about Thomas. About Thomas’s lessons. I gather you’ve been helping him out with his homework and teaching him who knows what else. I’m grateful to you for taking the trouble. But my son doesn’t need a private tutor. And if he did, rest assured we’d hire one. Thomas goes to a good school where he receives a proper education. Neither his father nor I enjoyed that privilege. Thomas complains of being bored at school and I’m not surprised, bearing in mind the sweets you give him and the games you propose that distract him from his homework. No, you listen to me for a moment. I know you mean well. And as I said, I’m grateful. But my son’s education is the responsibility of his parents and his teachers. And not of strangers lodging at the inn. Have I made myself clear? Good. I’m glad to hear it. No, that doesn’t matter. And, if I may say so it’s none of your business either. For that reason, as Thomas’s mother, I’m asking you not to teach Thomas anything, especially things that are of no use to him at school. As I said, I appreciate your good intentions. Now appreciate mine. Good afternoon. Let me know what time you want supper.

Before going out into the corridor, Frau Zeit added: Oh, I forgot. My husband says you’re using too much oil and he can’t keep filling the lamp. Tell your husband, said Hans solemnly, I need the lamp in order to work because tallow candles are a strain on the eyes, and I’ll pay him each week for the oil I use. Good afternoon.

When Hans was alone with his cup of cold coffee, he made two decisions — that night he would not dine at the inn and, come hell or high water, Lisa would continue to receive lessons from a stranger.

Always watched over, ever closer to the high temperatures of summer, Hans and Sophie had gone on an outing. Elsa and Álvaro had gone with them. The four of them had hired a calèche and followed the main road to the banks of the River Nulte. Sophie was wearing an almost transparent shawl and a white bonnet with a flowered ribbon at the neck and a brim from beneath which her nose peeped out mischievously whenever she looked at Hans. Less sensibly dressed for the weather, Hans was sporting a simply absurd felt cap and a fine waistcoat. (Still in a waistcoat? she had remarked scathingly when she saw how overdressed he was for May.) They strolled through fields full of burgeoning colours in search of a suitable patch of shade. Spike aloft, Sophie’s parasol swung this way and that, succumbed, rested on her shoulder as they spoke. Elsa and Álvaro walked behind them, almost in silence.

They chose a spot beside the river and spread out a checked blanket on the grass. The poplar trees along the banks of the Nulte were in full leaf and the reeds were beginning to poke through the water. A few bands of sunlight filtered through the branches making a bridge between the two banks. They sat in a semicircle — the two women folding their legs so they were sitting on their heels, the two men clasping their arms round their knees. They laid the food out on the blanket. They ate and drank, alternately talking and letting the river speak. After dessert, Álvaro asked the others if he might, as he explained in not very correct German, “take a flagrantly Spanish siesta”. Elsa dug out some magazines she had brought along and sat beneath the perfumed shade of a lime tree; none of the others noticed that, except for the first one, all the magazines were in English. For a moment Sophie and Hans were alone, or at least far enough away from the others to be out of earshot.

Sophie told Hans that Rudi Wilderhaus wrote to her every day and had begun addressing her as my beloved future wife , a liberty he had hitherto, as became the formal nature of their engagement, not seen fit to take. What are his letters like? Hans asked, wracked with torment. They are — Sophie paused — polite (but she was thinking banal ), and solicitous (but she was thinking pedantic ). You must be very happy, said Hans. Yes, she said, very. Then everything is going well, he said, I’m glad, I’m glad. I can’t complain, Sophie added, because Rudi is very discreet and he doesn’t pester me. He never comes to the house more than once or twice a week, and he scarcely complains when I go out dancing with my friends. How thoughtful of him! exclaimed Hans. How very thoughtful! Moreover … she began, her eyes narrowing. Moreover? he came closer. Moreover, Sophie continued, he does his utmost to behave like a gentleman, a perfect gentleman, if you see my meaning! Aha, Hans began fidgeting. But Sophie said no more. Aha, said Hans, growing more and more agitated, by a perfect gentleman you mean … too much of a gentleman? What a relief it is, Sophie smiled, to be able to talk to someone who is low-minded. And so, ventured Hans, do you think it’s a good thing? I mean, do you greatly value such … gentlemanliness? You should know, she replied, showing her profile under the brim of her hat. I’m afraid, as my father says, I’m a practical girl.

Hans swallowed hard. Everything felt inevitable and flowing, just like the river.

Hot and heavy, evening falls over the fields. The flock of sheep flees the encroaching shadow as if it were scorched grass. The air smells peculiar; it moistens their misshapen muzzles. The sheep parade their unease. A chorus of bleats interrogates the horizon.

The librarian makes sure the door is locked and leaves the building. She has stayed on after closing time to catalogue the new stock. She begins walking, her woollen coat draped over her shoulders. The librarian is looking forward to kicking off her shoes as soon as she gets home. She looks up at the sky and notices the closeness of the air, as if it were going to rain.

The flock hears the distant bark of sheepdogs. They begin running instantly, to be on the safe side, as though anticipating danger. The barking stops and they come to a halt. The sheep prick up their ears. Then mistrust gives way to meekness, and they resume their slow chewing.

The librarian walks past St Nicholas’s Church, and turns left into Jesus Lane. She could take a less solitary way home, but it is farther, she is already tired, and her feet are aching too much. Each footstep sends a shooting pain through her heels, the sound reverberates in her head. The echoes stop. What was that? Did she hear something? No, it was nothing. The librarian resumes walking, a little more hurriedly.

The dogs head home, and with them the shepherd. They have herded the sheep into a line and are taking them towards the River Nulte. When the first sheep glimpses the riverbank, it stops in its tracks and tries to back away. Then the shepherd commands his dogs, the dogs bark at the sheep and the sheep begin crossing the river. Their legs plunge into the water, breaking up the reflection of the trees, their wool gets wet.

The librarian’s heels clatter on the uneven paving, slipping on the traces of mud. A fine rain has begun to fall or so she thinks — her face is not dry. Not wanting to look behind her, the librarian feels for her keys in the pocket of her coat.

The first sheep sees the shepherd coming towards it and freezes. Its leg muscles quiver. It takes two, three, four steps without knowing where to go. The shepherd lunges forward, hunched over. Moving its plump sturdy body, the sheep tries to flee. It scurries clumsily, thrusting its head forward as if it were a dead weight.