Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Reichardt lifted up his tricorn hat and wiped his brow with his forearm. He glanced about — he was the only harvester in his row who had stopped. It was hours since they’d paused for a break, yet the others kept toiling as though it were nothing. Did they never tire? Or were they trying to impress the foreman? Because it was impossible they didn’t feel the slightest twinge, the same stabbing pain he felt in his shoulders from wielding the scythe all day long, the stiffness in his hips from turning to and fro all the time. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, the corn wouldn’t go up in smoke if they sat down for a moment to rest their legs. Reichardt waited for the foreman to look the other way before laying down his scythe. The calluses on his hands were stinging, although nothing hurt as much as his damned hips. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to recover his strength. Then the sound of metal scraping the ground, like a clash of swords, grew louder. As a youngster that sound had sent shivers down his spine. He had ended up becoming accustomed to it, had even grown to like it. Doubtless it still set the novices’ teeth on edge as they scythed. Not his. He was hardened. Not old, experienced. And he wasn’t even tired. He only needed a short rest, that was all. Five minutes. Nothing. There was a time when he didn’t need to stop either, but he wasn’t as good with a scythe as he used to be. In fact, it didn’t take as much strength as some muscly brutes thought. It was enough to know exactly where to cut the corn. If you cut very high, it would be too short and the foreman would shout at you. And if you cut too close to the ground, it was much more tiring and almost no one noticed the difference. Not to mention how some of them held the scythe! The clumsy oafs! No one could outstrip him where experience was concerned. Not even the foreman. So they thought they could tell him how to harvest corn? Working the land had its own time, like everything else. If you wanted to do a proper job, that is. And he wanted to do a proper job. That was why he needed five minutes, five bloody minutes’ rest.

Facing into the hazy sun, against the light, the day labourers moved forward as one, heads down, scything the horizon.

Behind them, the women stooped to pick up the corn and tie it into sheaves. After that the labourers would stack the bundles on the ox-cart and transport them to the barns. Reichardt always tried to be chosen to drive the carts because it was less arduous than scything. But this time it was the foreman who came up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder and said: You. Reichardt wheeled round and gave him the most fresh-faced look he could muster in a bid to hide his weariness. Good work, eh? Reichardt said, splaying his arms and forcing a smile. More or less, replied the foreman. Listen, you’ve been around a long time, haven’t you? Reichardt stared intently at the foreman, sharpening his wits, trying to determine whether the remark was a criticism or a sign of trust. More or less, he said, echoing the foreman’s tone. I need a favour, the foreman said. At your service, Reichardt smiled, relieved, I was about to go on scything, but if there’s something else needs doing … I want you to go to the barn this instant, the foreman nodded, pick out the best grain you can find and take it in a horse-cart to Wilderhaus Hall. Of course, sir, said Reichardt, consider it done! Good, said the foreman, turning on his heel. Oh, sir, Reichardt called him back, excuse me sir. What is it? said the foreman, with the expression of someone whose time is being wasted. Nothing, sir, sorry sir, I just wondered, well, will I be paid? What for? — The foreman looked surprised — For going there and coming back? Of course not, old man, this is a favour, not a job, and I’m sure you’ll carry it out in good faith, or am I mistaken? No, of course not, sir, Reichardt replied, lowering his head, I was just asking because, well, I do what I’m asked, naturally, only the law says that all transportation … The foreman cut him short with a loud guffaw: I see you have friends in Parliament, I’ll keep it in mind, I’ll keep it in mind. Now fetch the cart, old man, go on, get a move on! And remember a horse-cart, not an ox-cart.

Having at last obtained Herr Gottlieb’s permission, and under Elsa’s supposedly watchful eye, the two of them met at the inn after lunch three times a week to work. Before leaving the house, Sophie took the precaution of having coffee with her father and chatting to him for a while to put him in a good mood. They discussed their relatives, various other families, the wedding preparations, or some anecdote from Sophie’s childhood that might move Herr Gottlieb. At about three in the afternoon, Sophie would plant a kiss on her father’s brow and casually take her leave. She and Elsa would walk to Old Cauldron Street together. They would enter the inn, and, after a prudent amount of time had passed, Elsa would leave again. After making sure no one was following her, she would take a carriage to her own rendezvous. The agreement with Herr Gottlieb was to be home without fail before the nightwatchman finished his seven o’clock round. Elsa and Sophie would meet at exactly seven-thirty at the fountain. They chose to meet there because it was more likely to arouse suspicions if Elsa were always to return to the inn at the same time and always alone. Aware they were being observed, rather than dissembling they preferred to act as naturally as possible, which was the only way to forestall any rumours. And we can be thankful it’s summer, Sophie had said, otherwise I’d have to be home much sooner.

During the four hours they spent alone three times a week, Hans and Sophie alternated between books and bed, bed and books, exploring one another in words and reading one another’s bodies. Thus, inadvertently, they developed a shared language, rewriting what they read, translating one another mutually. The more they worked together, the more similarities they discovered between love and translation, understanding a person and translating a text, retelling a poem in a different language and putting into words what the other was feeling. Both exercises were as happy as they were incomplete — doubts always remained, words that needed changing, missed nuances. They were both aware of the impossibility of achieving transparency as lovers and as translators. Cultural, political, biographical and sexual differences acted as a filter. The more they tried to counter them, the greater the dangers, obstacles, misunderstandings. And yet at the same time the bridges between the languages, between them, became broader and broader.

Sophie discovered she had similar feelings when she made love to Hans as when she was translating. She thought she knew exactly what she wanted, what she desired. But then her certainties began to melt away, leaving fervent, conflicting intuitions to which she surrendered without worrying about the result. Later she would experience a strange fleeting lucidity, sudden bursts of light that would enable her to discover what she had been searching for — a definitive meaning, the precise feeling, the exact words. Then she would close her eyes and feel she was about to embrace an enormous sphere, to wrap her arms around it, to understand. Then, just as she was reaching the heights and was preparing to write or to speak to Hans from up there, the idea would unravel and the sphere would slip from her grasp, shattering into a thousand pieces. And although Sophie knew that no trembling emotion, no poem could be rendered in other words, because its totality was unattainable, her only wish was to begin again.

Hans’s aim, which coincided in part with his publisher’s weekly assignment, was to work on the modern European poets, always with the idea in mind of an improbable anthology, over which, for commercial reasons, Brockhaus was still hesitating. How many countries are we talking about here? his editor had asked him in a letter. As many as possible, Hans had responded, without really thinking. Begin by sending a sample, the editor had replied with probable irony, then we’ll talk. Even so, Hans was convinced that in the end, with a little patience and with Sophie’s help, this volume would one day come into being.