Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

And suddenly Rudi began to talk openly and at length about his feelings. His broad back seemed to hunch slightly. Hans had the impression Rudi was talking to him in a beseeching tone. That he was speaking about Sophie as if Hans were his confidant, or Rudi wished he were. In a few gushing moments, which to Hans felt like hours, Rudi told him how he had met Sophie, confessed how long he had waited for her, how often he had refused to take no for an answer. He felt inside the folds of his garments, unfastened two horsehair buttons and showed Hans his treasure — an oval medallion containing a miniature of Sophie. Hans read the inscription engraved on the back, too affectionate to have been mere pretence. He felt a tightening in his chest as he contemplated Sophie’s smile. Her portrait was painted on ivory (Ivory, Hans thought, more from jealousy than political conviction, imported by the British colonists in India, the imperialist pig!) and the glass was domed, like the mirror opposite the fireplace at the Gottlieb residence. Hans noticed that because of a defect in the glass, a tiny air bubble, one of Sophie’s eyes looked slightly bigger than the other, wider open, as if in warning. Rudi carried on talking excitedly about the wedding in October, about the dowry agreed on by the two families, the forthcoming preparations. Unsure of how to respond to such directness, Hans softened and was on the point of lowering his guard. Had he misjudged his rival? But then Rudi made an ambiguous remark in passing, which put him back on the defensive: Besides, Rudi said, you’re a close friend of hers, you must understand my feelings and be aware of hers.

You must understand my feelings and be aware of hers , Rudi had said. (What exactly did he mean by this? Hans wondered, was he referring to Hans’s conversations with Sophie? Did he want to know what she had told him, was he asking him to be disloyal? Or was he insinuating that Hans had become too close to his fiancée?) I’m being completely honest with you, Rudi continued, because I know I can trust you in this matter. (Was Rudi a master of irony? Was he capable of subjecting him to such subtle torture? Was he speaking out of deliberate malice or with the innocence of the cuckold?) Sometimes, you see, I worry that Sophie might be too sophisticated for a man such as me. Let’s be honest, I haven’t had much time for study due to my obligations (what was this — a fit of humility or a defiant display of mockery?) In short, I needn’t describe her to you (why needn’t he, why?) but for me one of her attractions is that way she has of remaining slightly aloof (she might well be aloof with you, you fool!) and, how should I say, just a little wild (well, we agree on that) not to mention her beauty, I don’t know what you think. (And now what should he do — agree or turn a deaf ear? What would rouse a jealous man’s suspicions more — another man praising his fiancée or maintaining a stubborn silence?) And do you know what else I like about her? The way she smiles. That’s what I most like about her. Knowing a woman’s smile is important, isn’t it? Because a man aspires to make his wife happy, and when people are happy they smile a lot. And if Sophie and I are going to be very happy together, it’s important for me to like her smile.

Hans felt the urge to spit in Rudi’s face or to embrace him.

As he reached the end of his declarations, Rudi gave Hans a glimpse of the true source of his anxiety. Contrary to Hans’s initial fear, what most troubled him about his betrothal to Sophie was not the appearance of a rival (a possibility he appeared to exclude out of ignorance or conceit) but the doubts that a woman as self-possessed and difficult to please as her could instil in a man such as he.

At that moment, Hans at last saw Rudi. And he understood his torment. And he pitied him. This betrothal might to some degree have been born of convenience — but not on his part. For Rudi it was a consequence of having fallen in love. And for this reason, sensing Hans had affinities with Sophie that were inaccessible to him, the powerful Rudi Wilderhaus was seeking his help, almost unwittingly. For a moment Hans was able to put himself in Rudi’s place, to glimpse the weakness behind his show of strength, to put his finger on the trigger of his fears. And yet, seeing Rudi suffer, he knew he could never be loyal to him, and would never be his friend. And he felt wretched and jubilant, filled with cruel delight, more traitorous than ever, and truer to his desire.

He inhaled the intoxicating morning breeze, held it in his lungs like someone smoking pungent tobacco, breathed out slowly. He walked over to Rudi and without looking him in the eye said: Pass me that gun.

I dare not call this a reply, Sophie, for these hasty lines scarcely honour your radiant letter. Yet I am aware of how soon we forget feelings (not a complete but a gentle, imperceptible forgetting, like an unremembered tune you still hear as a murmur in the background). That is why I wanted to reply urgently, now, this instant. In fact, your letter is impossible to match. Were I to take the time necessary to write the reply you deserve, I would first have to overcome the turmoil your letter has caused me. And if I write to you while under its influence, as I am doing, I will not do justice to its loftiness. If I think about it, your letter can only be replied to with music.

But I have to say something, if only in prose. And it is this, and I don’t know what else. I remember you each day with an overpowering feeling of complicity. An inexplicable complicity that seems to come from somewhere beyond, from many things we haven’t experienced. It is curious. The last few times we have met, I have felt a strong desire finally to xxxxxxxsleep with you. And yet I notice a feeling between us of afterwards — not only the tension of two people who have never touched, but also (and this is what is so strange) the calm intimacy of those who have slept together. And I do not mean, the devil take me, platonically.

And between the before and the after, between the having and the not having slept together, there is this peculiar happiness. Sophie, I can’t think of you without grinning foolishly. That is the good thing.

The good thing is you exist.

Yours, Hans.

I have chosen this moment to write to you because it has suddenly begun to rain, and on hearing the insistence of those playful raindrops and seeing how everything became more faint, I felt an irresistible urge to speak to you. But today there is no salon, nor any credible excuse for me to leave the house. What there is, is an arch of floating clouds that pass from me to you, or from you to me, I wouldn’t know which way they are going. How are you today, you bad boy? What are you translating? I translate what I imagine you would say to me if we could see one another. I also read some of my beloved Duecento poets. Il corso delle cose è sempre sinuoso …

I wish I could converse with you a moment, dear Hans. I love addressing you using formal language, I feel deliciously nervous when I speak to you like that in front of others. I wish I could see you right now and that you were here beside me. Not so that we could sleep together (how reckless of you to say such things to me in a letter? What if someone read them? Don’t you know we young ladies like to be a little more reticent, if not in our desires, then at least in our words? I love your impulsiveness) but in order to stroll along the path to the bridge and to walk beside the river and lose ourselves in the fields.

I send you a kiss of rain, which has just stopped. Has it reached you? Is it refreshing? And, with my kiss, a question. What is the origin of beauty? Do you know? It sounds a little pretentious, I know, but it is a serious question. What is its origin?