Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Well, in Spain, Álvaro said, munching on a chicken leg, we always like using the last but one invention, so we’ll have to wait until they come up with something new, like diving on wheels or taking to the air with pedals, before we get the train. What about boats? asked Lamberg. Has anyone been on a steamboat? What about farts? said Reichardt. Has anyone gone home propelled by their own farts? Listen, why do you want to know about these things? You’re not going anywhere, just like the rest of us. You don’t know that, replied Lamberg. You do, declared Reichardt, you know it as well as I do. Steamboats, my friend, are marvellous things, said Hans, travelling on them is like, I don’t know, like travelling by land and sea at the same time, like moving across water on a train, and the water behind you forms into two furrows, like two train tracks, but they immediately vanish and the water becomes smooth and you look at it and wonder: Which way did we come? And when you go up on deck, Lamberg, you feel as if you’re flying, your hair gets messed up, your clothes balloon out, I hope you manage to go on one. (Ha! belched Reichardt, you’ll be lucky!) I don’t see why not, if you save up some money you could take a trip (do you really think so? said Lamberg sceptically), there’s a steamer from Berlin to Charlottenburg which isn’t very expensive, and another to Potsdam, which isn’t very far either, in fact they have them all along the Rhine, and the Danube and the Elbe. Actually, I was thinking of travelling to Dessau by boat myself, you know, but I changed my mind at the last moment and, well, here I am. And here you’ll stay, said Reichardt, no one ever leaves here, whether by their own farts or by steamer, do they old man? I don’t know, the organ grinder said, feeding the last scraps of chicken to Franz, everything goes so fast these days. No one used to consider travelling more than twenty miles in one day. Maybe that’s why young people are less attached to places, because it’s too easy to leave them. They want to see the world. It stands to reason. In the end, Reichardt, it’s not that you and I are unable to go anywhere, is it? It’s that we don’t want to. We like where we are, we’re lucky.

Night tightened around the pinewood. Franz was playing with the empty bottles, pushing them along with his nose — the moon’s reflection shimmered inside them like a tiny ship. The fire had gone out, but they hadn’t noticed, the cheap wine warming their bellies. Except for the dog, each was drunk in his own way. Álvaro had just burst into tears all of a sudden. Hans, taken aback, crawled over to him. Álvaro, who usually avoided embraces, and always maintained the self-assured look other men admired him so much for, laid his head on Hans’s shoulder. In garbled German mixed with slurred Spanish, Álvaro spoke of Ulrike, the train journeys they had taken together, the damp Wandernburg weather that had killed her, the terrible German winters, how much better the weather was in Andalusia, the dry climate in Granada that would have cured her, how every night before he fell asleep he could hear her faint voice, how mourning never ever ended.

Álvaro went quiet. He tried to smile. He straightened his hair and clothes, rising to his feet as though nothing had happened. Gentlemen, he said, if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time I left. Lamberg asked him if he could drop him off at the mill on the way, as it was a long walk. Álvaro said he would and saddled his horse. The sound of hooves vanished into the night.

Was Wandernburg the same? Or besides shifting furtively did it change appearance? Did it have a definitive shape or was it a blank space, a kind of map that hadn’t been filled in? Could these wide, busy, light-filled streets be the same silent, cold and gloomy ones of a month or two ago? As he walked down Old Cauldron Street, Hans gazed in amazement at the gardens filled with barefoot children, at the flowering window boxes, the travelling musicians, the sweaty faces of the water-sellers hawking their cool water, sun-filled terraces where the pitchers seemed about to brim over with light. Sitting at one of the tables drinking a glass of iced lemonade was Lisa Zeit, who, when she saw Hans, moistened her lips, sat up straight and shrugged a shoulder in greeting, a gesture Hans found as exaggerated as it was heart-warming. Or that is what he thought, then said to himself he should have thought — simply heart-warming. Slumped opposite Lisa, Thomas was wolfing down a fruit sorbet. Hans waved to them and continued on his way. He crossed the sun-baked market square, walked through the impatient crowd gathered round the baroque fountain to fill their pots, winked knowingly at the organ grinder, and turned into Stag Street. Today, Hans thought, glancing about in a surprised manner, the streets seem just as I remembered them.

The last two Fridays, the salon at the Gottlieb residence had migrated to the courtyard, where the shade brought a pleasant breeze and a fountain burbled. The salon-goers sat in garden chairs around a table laden with food, polished fruit and ice-cold drinks. Although everyone had applauded the move outside, neither Elsa nor Bertold seemed very happy with the new arrangement, and spent all their time running up and down the steps to the house fetching and carrying trays, cups, jugs and cutlery. As was her custom, Elsa masked her displeasure by wearing a serious expression all the guests admired, mistaking it for conscientiousness. Bertold adopted two different faces, like the two halves of his harelip. Inside the confines of the yard, his mouth broke into a broad smile and his eyes twinkled good-naturedly; as soon as he stepped through the arch leading from the patio to the passage, he grimaced and began making sarcastic remarks and mimicking the speech of his master and his guests under his breath. Of everyone except Rudi Wilderhaus, whom he only dared mock when alone in his room.

That Friday, the Levins had been unable to attend the gathering because of a family engagement. And, as usually happens with those absent, they became the main focus of conversation. Although Sophie made polite efforts to change the subject, Frau Pietzine and Professor Mietter formed a rare alliance and, each in their own way, refused to move on to another topic. But don’t you think she suffers? Frau Pietzine insisted, waving her fan more vigorously, isn’t he a cold, aloof sort of husband? (My dear, Sophie said softly, slowing her own fan, there are many different types of marriage, and theirs …) Yes, yes, of course, I don’t deny that, and naturally it is her affair! But a good husband, my dear girl — as our esteemed Herr Wilderhaus well knows! — should show affection towards his wife, be attentive at all times, make her feel (safe? Sophie smiled, brushing her fan against her lips), yes, precisely, my dear, you took the words right out of my mouth! Hans cleared his throat sarcastically and shot Sophie a sidelong glance. Rudi shot them both a sidelong glance, and cleared his own throat much more forcefully, at which Hans and Sophie immediately looked away. But Monsieur Levin, said Álvaro, seems like a respectful man to me, and you can’t deny he is an excellent contributor to the salon. In a way, yes, Professor Mietter acknowledged, sucking a grape, Monsieur Levin is a good listener and his views, well, they are somewhat original shall we say. I understand he is a commercial broker and a mathematician, which is commendable. Unfortunately, despite being a self-taught and doubtless tireless reader, he lacks academic guidance. I agree that he is an interesting man, beyond his Judaism. Professor, Sophie said, folding her fan, at times your sense of humour is overwhelming. Frau Pietzine gave a nervous titter. A little more jelly, if you please, Mademoiselle, Professor Mietter said, pushing his plate forward with two fingers.