Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

What did Sophie see of him? Nothing, everything. She looked without looking. Focusing on any detail. She read his ribs to accumulate evidence. And she concentrated on smelling him, soaking him up, becoming one with him. At first she did not try, like Hans, to make a whole out of the parts — she was content to assume he was there, undivided, she surrendered to the feeling that she was possessing him and therefore giving herself. She took in the immensity of Hans, all at once, encircling him. And, of course, she also touched him, part by part. But each part was a whole in itself, a place of arrival. She held him and let him go, took hold of him again, like learning to talk, or opening a map, like when light fills a space. It resembled a collapse. Accepting to be lost and discovering that she already knew this place, this well, this path. And so Sophie did not look at Hans — she remembered him. And as she came to him and he came to her, she knew if she closed her eyes she would see him always.

From the first mutual frisson, they both knew that yes. Yes because yes.

As they swayed, not gently or cautiously now, Hans turned his head and discovered that Sophie had turned the watercolour round so the mirror was facing the room. He was fascinated to see that only part of them fitted within its tiny frame. He looked at his image sideways on, trying to recognise them in the fragmented figures in the mirror, astonished that the naked torso pressing against a hip was him, that the arched back, hands plunged into the mattress, was Sophie. At exactly the same moment she had noticed the play of shadows their bodies cast on the opposite wall in the distended light of the candles — the two of them mutating, thickening or diluting, growing or shrinking like ink on a blotter. She wondered if he, too, was contemplating their shapes. Hans in the meantime was wondering if she had noticed the scene in the mirror.

At the end of everything, or at the start of something new, a cadenced silence enveloped them. Wrapped around each other like scrawled handwriting, their bodies almost hanging half out of bed, Hans and Sophie were gripped by an intense feeling of imminence. They waited quietly, each certain the other would whisper the truth, some kind of truth. They hung there as if they were on a motionless swing. All they could hear was their own breathing and the sputter of candles. Hans felt torn yet strangely at ease — he had the urge to talk and was brimming with silence. He felt at peace in this contradiction, as though opposing currents were pulling him by the arms, keeping him afloat. She said nothing either.

They looked at one another again before getting dressed. At last Sophie spoke: I love your knee, she said, leaning forward and running her tongue over it. Hans felt a flush of shame go up his leg and turn to joy when it reached his head. All of a sudden he noticed Sophie’s thigh. The part of her thigh that had an elongated blemish as if drawn by a pencil on it. And I love your mark, he replied. I hate my mark, she said, covering her leg. But Hans insisted: Your mark enhances you, you’re lucky to have it.

A few moments later, Sophie was running towards the baroque fountain, where Elsa was waiting for her, worrying about Herr Gottlieb’s strict timekeeping.

A HONEYED LIGHT SPREAD OVER the countryside at rest. To the south of Wandernburg, fields of corn ripe for harvesting shimmered lazily. Each ear made its choice, catching hold of the wind that fluttered like a kite. Warm, sweet, expectant grain. A cloudless, limpid sky. Colours dripped onto the cornfield, dotting it with purple thistles and gaudy poppies. Melting under the unruly sun. The waters of the Nulte flowing between the poplars were scarcely deep enough now for washing clothes, for wading into or sustaining the green of its banks. In this blazing afternoon the labourers toiled. High above them all, as sharply defined as a dome, the sun beat down on the landscape, forging its shapes.

Lying at the cave mouth, Franz half-closed his eyes and sniffed the wind as it changed. Listened to the cicadas. Scratched his ear. Drooled thinking of a piece of meat …

(The meat his master and friends were roasting. The meat. Roasting. He was thirsty but didn’t feel like getting up. Getting up to go and drink from the river. He wouldn’t go now. He’d go after he’d eaten the meat. The meat. Would he go now? It was hot. Not as hot as before. Less. His ear itched. His master had raised his voice. What was going on? But his master had looked at him. Nothing was going on. No danger. They were all fine. His master and his friends. The one who always stroked him and the one who never stroked him and the one who had a strong smell and the one who came sometimes, on a horse. They were all fine. What a relief. It wasn’t as hot. Less hot. It was getting dark. The one who never stroked him scared him a little because he didn’t stroke him and he looked straight at him as if he were going to kick him. But he didn’t kick him. He was his master’s friend. His ear. The river. And the meat? Wait. His master didn’t like him to eat the food before it went on the fire. He would feed him bits of meat after. Not before. He didn’t like it. That sudden voice? Who had shouted? The voice belonged to him. The one who came sometimes. The one who came on a horse.)

… Álvaro let out one of his loud guffaws. The organ grinder’s ideas amused him in a certain way. He still didn’t fully understand his friend Hans’s fascination with the old man, who mostly kept quiet and seemed to confuse austerity with not bathing very often. Although, as Álvaro began to get to know him better, he had to admit that when the old man did open his mouth, that mouth with its matted whiskers and every other tooth missing, what he said made sense. He gave the impression of being half-asleep, or daydreaming, until suddenly he would say something that, besides the typical Wandernburg naivety, revealed a keen awareness and an astonishing memory. Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the organ grinder was the impression he gave of being completely at peace with the past, as though he had already known happiness and expected nothing more from life. Quite the opposite of Hans, who suffered from a feeling of perpetual anxiety, as though waiting for some news that never came. The organ grinder almost never said anything Álvaro was expecting, and Hans invariably greeted his utterances with a warm smile. For a moment it occurred to Álvaro he might be jealous of the old man in some way. But as soon as the thought popped into his head, the same way a counter drops into the palm of your hand, he dismissed the idea as absurd. Him, jealous! Of that penniless old man! And on top of that because of Hans! Hadn’t he better go easy on the wine?

Besides, Hans was saying, they’ve just inaugurated a new railway line at Saint-Étienne. Where’s that? belched Reichardt. In France, said Hans, about two hundred miles from Marseille, an interesting place, have you been to France? No, and I haven’t been to your fat aunt’s house either, replied Reichardt. Marseille, you say? Lamberg added. I’d like to go there, to see the sea. There’s no need to go to bloody France to see the sea, lad! said Reichardt. Or did the French invent the sea too! They didn’t invent it, grinned Hans, but they call it mer , which you can’t deny sounds a lot better than Meer . It sounds the same, exactly the same! Reichardt protested. Don’t split hairs, Hans, said Álvaro, it sounds very similar. No, no, Hans insisted, say it, listen, carefully, the Spanish mar isn’t bad either. For all I care the French can take their mer , growled Reichardt, and piss it into the mouths of their mères ! The four others laughed, and Reichardt, pleased with his retort, went over to the organ grinder to see how the meat was cooking. Well, said Lamberg, pensively, what does it matter how it sounds, it’s the same word, isn’t it? It means the same, it refers to the same thing. But if it sounds different, insisted Hans, then the meaning changes, doesn’t it organ grinder? Hair-splitting, I say, simple hair-splitting! Álvaro repeated, clapping him on the back. What’s more, Hans went on, words refer to things, but they also create them, which is why every language not only has its own sounds but its own things. You’re quite right, Álvaro conceded. All right, but what about the train? Lamberg said impatiently. Ah, Hans resumed, the Saint-Étienne line. Who has travelled by train? asked Lamberg. Álvaro and Hans were alone in raising their hands. And where did you go? he said, pointing at Álvaro. It was in England, replied Álvaro, where there are lots of trains: Darlington, Liverpool, Stockton, Manchester. And what’s it like? Lamberg asked, agog. Like riding a horse! Reichardt exclaimed from over by the fire. Except softer on the arse! I don’t know, said Álvaro, noisy. And enjoyable? Lamberg insisted. I suppose so, replied Álvaro, I was there on business. Lamberg, said Hans, do you know the most enjoyable thing about travelling by train? Not the places you see, but the people you meet, because there are so many of them, it’s, imagine a hundred stagecoaches end to end filled with different people (rich people, only rich people travel! said Reichardt), and because trains can cross long distances, people come from many different places, even from other countries, that’s the thing I most enjoy about trains, it’s like being in a lot of different countries at the same time, do you see? As if the countries themselves were moving.