Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

S

We shall meet. With or without proper excuses, we shall meet. And in the meantime, yes — let us savour this waiting, which the ancients praised so much. Nowadays everything seems so much more rushed than it did in olden times, does it not? To me, patience is a kind of mysterious flower. A flower all of us, unknowingly, have clasped in our hands. You are teaching me how to pull out its petals, and so forgive me if I crumple it without meaning to.

I am not complaining, though — you sent me a kiss, or so you said.

Xxxx xxxxSophie, Sophie Gottlieb, I don’t know why my language goes all awry when I write to you. Never has stammering felt so satisfying. I don’t know what I would do first if I were alone with you. Ah, but you say I shouldn’t write such things in a letter. In that case, it gives me great pleasure to tell you in writing that I would do everything that is unmentionable to you … So you see I am repeating what I said, and enjoying it.

You asked me (and you say it is a serious question — of course it is!) what is the origin of beauty. After thinking about it for a long time, I would say it comes from transience and joy. I am almost certain of it. Or perhaps an image would help — beauty originates from the tremors of the bridge between tingling and truth. When that bridge trembles, it means something important is crossing it.

I hear your footsteps. The bridge is trembling.

H

Hans, darling Hans, it upsets me a little to think that the other night, during our precious few hours together in the salon, I was unable to do anything but pretend. Luckily, the next day your beautiful flower arrived with the girl from the inn, thank you so much, again. I slipped it like a treasure between the pages of my album, and there it was this morning until my nosy father saw it peeping out and asked if Rudi had sent it (of course!) and said it had wilted and I should throw it away, because Rudi would be sending me many more. My father doesn’t like things to wilt.

Elsa has just come into the room. I must leave you now, I shall take this opportunity to give her my letter. But no, I am not leaving you. Un bacio all’italiana e spero ansiosamente di rivederti presto, amore.

S

You were right, Sophie, cuore —anticipation is a joy when you imagine the person you are waiting for will come. Anticipation is a kind of child. Only, unlike in parenthood, we nurture it before it bears fruit. Now I know. You are Ithaca. You are the journey.

Did I tell you that when I imagine you I can’t see you clearly, like in those portraits of people smiling in profile. I always see you in constant movement, a little blurred. In my imagination you are always on the move, doing lots of things, all of them marvellous, without you even realising it. And I see myself xxxxxxxtraipsing in your wake, slowly catching up with you.

Beware of so much Italian fervour, it can be very dangerous in spring. If you persist I shall have to ask for your help with some of my translations. As an antidote to this agitation I suggest a dose of French relativism, tout au juste milieu, as Professor Mietter is fond of saying, mixed with a few drops of German rationality. One has to be prudent. If I come into contact with your ear I intend to nibble it without asking your permission. That’s a promise.

Your very own,

Hans.

If doors had voices, that afternoon Hans’s seemed to have changed its tone; it didn’t scream at him in the same way when he went to open it. Or so he would imagine later, after Sophie had left.

He played the clown in order not to show how nervous he was. Fräulein Gottlieb! he said stepping aside, what an honour, what a surprise! Bodenlieb, smiled Sophie, call me Bodenlieb. That’s the name I gave the gentleman downstairs.

The moment Sophie set foot in the room, Hans saw the floor, the walls, the furniture from a different perspective, as though he were hanging from the rafters. I should have tidied up a little. Please excuse the mess, he said. Well, she said, glancing about, it’s not bad for a bachelor.

They took turns stammering. They looked at one another anxiously, as if saying: Calm down.

Hans brought her a chair, took his time offering her tea, and tripped over twice. Sophie was curious about his trunk, leafed through a few books, admired the watercolour with the little mirror on the back, laughed at the tin bathtub. Although she didn’t care about the trunk or the books or the picture or the bathtub.

They spoke of this and that, yet they still hadn’t really said anything. At least, not until Sophie stood up and announced: Elsa will be waiting for me at seven o’clock in the market square. She’s visiting a friend. Shall we make the most of our time? Or are we going to spend all afternoon chatting?

She let her hair down like a river breaking its banks. The water flowed over Hans. He swallowed hard. Without saying anything, he pulled the shutters to and lit some candles. Only then did they kiss, tasting the words in each other’s mouth.

Sophie’s slender hands read rather than caressed. She noticed Hans was trying not to be rough with her and was moved — she didn’t need this gentle treatment. He found her body looser than he’d anticipated. He noticed how she led him on, how sophisticated and un-childlike her responses were. Sophie thought him supple without being strong. She guessed at rather than glimpsed the muscles beneath his slender frame. They began to undress, with all the awkwardness of people who are not performing. Their skins gave off a not altogether clean smell. Their desire opened like a valve.

Hans had perched on the edge of the bed. Sophie stood looking at him, hands behind her back, fumbling with the last laces. As he sat waiting, shoulders sloped, back hunched, a few unbecoming folds pushed their way in around his midriff. The insides of her thighs had a hollowed out droopiness to them. Hans’s toes were rather stubby. Sophie had rough patches on her elbows. A few misplaced hairs sprouted from Hans’s navel. As Sophie’s dress loosened, it revealed slightly sagging breasts, veins that seemed to radiate from nipples scored with tiny stretch marks.

And every new imperfection they discovered in each other made them more real, more desirable to one another.

As she slipped off her petticoat, her stockings, her corset, Hans saw Sophie’s flesh bared in the light of the flickering candles. He saw the light waver, bend over the wicks, quiver. The candle flames shone into the contours of her skin, then withdrew. Sophie was naked.

After so much waiting, so many distractions, Hans finally saw her whole body. And something strange happened to him. Instead of being able to dwell on every fold as he had dreamt of for a hundred nights, instead of patiently contemplating her body until he felt he had understood and assimilated it, Hans became blinded from an excess of looking. He was so anxious to take in every part of her, however much he cast his eyes over her skin he only managed to become confused, his eyes clogging up with shapes. He thought he had just made a discovery — eyes also have an appetite. And if they are too greedy, they become clouded. And so his eyes became clouded as they moved from her feet to her shoulders, her hips to her breasts, her smile to her pubis, without being able to unite the images in one single one, without being able to determine the whole. Like words without syntax, like children learning Latin, like when you jump from one painting to another and a riot of colours forms on the inside of your eyelids. Hans looked at Sophie’s body and did not understand what he was seeing. His vision stammered and his lips blinked, his mouth clouded over and his eyes watered. And so he decided to touch everything he was unable to see. He moved closer, clasped hold of her and felt that his senses had reunited, that action had prevailed over mystery. Now that there was no distance between them, he was able to grasp the real and imagined essence of Sophie, who trembled without a trace of fear and sighed without a trace of romanticism.