Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

After wolfing down his supper, Lamberg stood up. Leaving already? Reichardt objected, but it’s Sunday tomorrow! I know, said Lamberg, but I’m tired, I have to go back. There’s still some wine left, Reichardt tempted him, and I mean to polish off your share. You’re welcome to it, said Lamberg, rubbing his eyes.

Lamberg walked past the mills, skirted round the factory buildings, crossed the mud track where the workers’ lodgings were crowded. He groped his way up the stairs — the creak of steps merged with the snoring coming from the dormitories. As he passed the rows of doors, Lamberg checked who was asleep and who had gone to the city to enjoy their night off. He was glad to see the rooms adjoining his were empty.

He tiptoed inside. A smell of underarms pervaded the room. He could make out Günter’s sleeping figure. At the foot of the straw pallet stood a bottle of grain alcohol and two glasses of water containing floating candles. Lamberg smiled in the gloom — it amused him that his room-mate, a burly, bearded, rough fellow, couldn’t go to sleep in the dark. Lamberg moved closer to Günter. He watched him as he slept, lying naked on his front, the sheet rumpled between his thighs. He was breathing through his mouth. A film of sweat glistened on his shoulder blades, sculpting them. Illuminated by the sputtering candles, Günter’s downy hair appeared orange, like splashes of lava. All of him seemed to pulsate placidly, except for his buttocks — his buttocks tensed then relaxed, as though in his dream Günter were making a physical effort. Lamberg went over to his own bunk, undressed quietly, lay face down, eyes open. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. In summer with both men’s bodies sweating the temperature in the room became unbearable. It occurred to Lamberg he ought to have stopped off at the Picaro Tavern for a while to have a few drinks and enjoy himself. But then he heard Günter’s hoarse drowsy voice. Is that you? Lamberg smiled, turned his head and said: Yes, were you asleep? No, no, Günter replied turning over and stretching his arms, I was waiting for you. Lamberg sat down on the edge of Günter’s bunk. He brought his lips close to his red beard and spoke softly in his ear: Tell me, what were you dreaming about? Nothing, said Günter, I told you, I was waiting for you. Are you sure? Lamberg said, wiping the sweat off Günter’s broad chest with his hand. Günter grabbed his wrist, squeezing it until he winced. Lamberg let Günter pull him close. He found Günter’s mouth and licked his liquor-smelling tongue. Günter folded his knees. Lamberg saw his member stiff on his belly. His lips moved round it, disturbing his pubic hair, then lingering at his hips and the muscles on his abdomen. Günter let out a different groan, almost an entreaty. Lamberg lifted Günter’s member from his belly, leant forward, and with bloodshot eyes, sucked the tip as if it were a strawberry.

They leafed through Quevedo’s poems while they were waiting for Álvaro. Hans and Sophie had asked him to help them out with the Spanish translations. His imminent arrival inhibited them, and they smiled nervously, not daring to touch one another. What time did he say he was coming? she asked. At half-past three, he replied, and I’m surprised because he’s very punctual.

Fifteen minutes later there was knock at the door of room number seven. Álvaro greeted them in Spanish, humorously imitating his friend’s Saxon burr, and apologised for his tardiness. Is Elsa downstairs? Sophie asked. Álvaro replied uneasily: Who? Elsa? Ah, yes, yes, I saw her there, why? Sophie explained: I don’t know what’s got into her today, she’s been very curt with me, and she made up all kinds of excuses not to accompany me, and rather than go off in a coach as she usually does she has stayed downstairs. Well, Álvaro cleared his throat, servants aren’t what they used to be, you know.

We’ve got Quevedo, Hans read out, Lope de Vega, St John, Garcilaso … And what about Góngora? asked Álvaro. I think we’ll leave Góngora out, replied Hans, he’s untranslatable. But, Sophie said, according to you poetry is always translatable. It is, it is, Hans grinned, except for Góngora. And you’re able to read him in Spanish? Álvaro looked surprised. Well, said Hans, more or less, I have a few of his books in my trunk. How many languages do you know? insisted Álvaro. A few, replied Hans. And where did you learn them? Álvaro asked. Let’s just say on my travels, replied Hans. Then he went over to his trunk and rummaged around in it before extracting a weighty volume, which he brought back to the desk. Álvaro examined it with interest. Its title was Dictionary of the Spanish and English Languages, Wherein the Words Are Correctly Explained, Agreeably to Their Different Meanings , compiled by Henry Neuman and printed in London in 1823. It contained a vast number of terms pertaining to the arts, sciences, business and navigation. This gem, explained Hans, has helped me out of a tight corner on more than one occasion.

We still have no modern Spanish poets in our European anthology, can you recommend any? Don’t worry, Álvaro laughed, in Spain all the modern poets died out with the baroque era. In that case, said Sophie, I’d like to include Juana Inés de la Cruz, who I understand lived in colonial Mexico and was widely read in Spain. I have read some of her sonnets, where is that old edition from Madrid? Could you pass it to me, Hans, thank you, now, let me see, this one, for instance. This isn’t yet another chivalrous knight praising his beloved, one of those absent maidens that have nothing to say throughout the entire poem, here it is she who speaks. It is a courtly sonnet, very serious and very ironical. Here, read it:

To whoe’er is heartless I give my heart,

The one who gives his heart I heartless leave,

Plight constant troth to whoe’er mistreats me,

Disdain the one who offers constant love,

Whoe’er I beseech fondly I a diamond find,

Am diamond myself to any fond approach,

Triumphant wish to hail whoe’er would slay me

And slay the one who would see me triumph.

The one I reward sees the fading of my desire,

Whoe’er I implore sets me on fire

In either way I unhappy find myself.

If you are going to translate this, Álvaro remarked, you have to take great care with the word diamante , it’s a play on words— di-amante , someone precious yet hard, impervious to love. Of course, Sophie said, looking up from the book, I hadn’t thought of that! And look at the end. The poem begins tragically and ends so pragmatically. After all that strife, the lady chooses between causing pain or suffering. And she decides torment and self-denial are not for her:

But then for sport I choose

The one I love not, to labour in vain,

And to whoe’er loves me not, am all aflame.

Of course, Sophie went on excitedly, the ideal would be reciprocity, but Juana Inés warns us if there has to be a victim it won’t be her. A seventeenth-century Mexican nun! If only my friends could read her! (We will translate it, Hans laughed, and you can give it to them as they come out of church on Sunday.) It is so different from any other love sonnets! Like these ones by Garcilaso, for example, they are wonderful, so subtle, and yet they have the same dreadful essential idea behind them — I love you provided you remain silent, you are perfect because I scarcely know you, nor do I need to:

Inscribed on my soul is your face

And whenever I wish to write of you …

If I’m not wrong, said Sophie pointing to the page with her slender finger, the poet has such a clear image in his soul of his beloved that he has no need to see or even to speak to her — he already knows everything he intends to say about her, it is engraved within him (oh, come now, please, come now! Álvaro protested), and that is why he goes on to admit, correct me if I’m wrong, my dear, that he prefers to contemplate this image of his beloved when he is alone: