Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

In the end, at the behest of his parents, Rudi had no choice but to leave Wandernburg. They wished him to spend the holidays with them at Baden, where each summer the family rented a section of the spa, and then at their country mansion in the environs of Magdeburg, where the Wilderhauses owned land, which it was necessary to supervise occasionally. Rudi said goodbye to Sophie solemnly, insisting once again that she go with him. And once again she politely refused, citing her need to keep her father company, as well as the zealous care with which Herr Gottlieb was preparing for the wedding. You do know, my love, Rudi had said before giving her a last snuff-flavoured kiss, that even if you came with me, I would never dream of disrespecting you before our wedding day. I know, I know, she had said, blinking, and responding to his kiss more passionately than usual, that’s what I love about you, my darling, but let’s be patient, that way we’ll enjoy our reward even more.

And so, having made a hundred promises, and with a vague sense of unease, Rudi embarked on his last summer holiday as a bachelor. The day of his departure, he had a manservant deliver an emphatic love letter to Sophie, in which he swore he would write to her daily and would return at the very latest at the start of the shooting season. She replied to him immediately with a briefer letter, which she addressed to the spa, so that Rudi would read it on his arrival at Baden. But before that she scrawled a few lines on her violet notepaper.

My love, my mischievous love — the faster time passes, the more I seem to leave my mark on things, as though the depth of my footprint depended on the speed at which I am going. Even as my actions excite and scare me, I feel indifferent to their consequences. Is it possible to experience all those things at once? Yes, as more than one person. The Sophie who has just said goodbye to Rudi feels relieved, and yet she pities him, too, and feels sorry in spite of herself. That Sophie is walking a tightrope so as to give the appearance at home that everything is normal when in fact it is most irregular, so as not to rouse Father’s suspicions about something that is deeply suspect. Yet the Sophie who writes to you is like a swirling current running hot and cold. When she needs to lie or to dissemble, she possesses a self-assurance that scares me, and that somehow I admire, because I never thought her capable of it. And yet as soon as she sees you or thinks about seeing you, the current boils over, it rages with a strange urgency. Then nothing else matters, all obligations, all suffering can wait until tomorrow; anything to avoid the unbearable torment of not seeing you now. And from where I am now the future seems like a useless, beautiful mountain. I am down in the valley, lying naked in the shadows, talking to you. E non abbiamo più.

At least until September, while everyone is away on holiday, it will be easier for us to meet. It is simply a question of keeping up appearances outside your room, which is our world. I want to enjoy these days, which of course entails taking a certain amount of risk. Calling on my father’s acquaintances is beginning to grate on my nerves. It is exhausting having to weigh every word, every opinion. It is exasperating having to dress up. It is hateful that the library is closed. My friends bore me to tears. When we aren’t discussing eligible young men, we talk about dresses, and vice versa. But discussing Dante with them would be worse! Did I tell you how much I love you? Well, just in case.

I shall see you tomorrow. What a long wait! I found a book of Calderón’s poems in the house, I thought it could be of some use. By the way, when are you going to show me your famous organ grinder’s cave?

The most multilingual, melodious kiss from your

S

… and a tendency to leave your mark on things, you say. I know that feeling — like stepping back into the impression left by a pleasurable experience. But there is also the other side of the coin. We leave our mark on things, and things leave their mark on us. These past days, Sophie, I know very well, that wherever we may be, they have left their mark on us and there is nothing we can do to change that. I don’t know xxxxxx how long it will all last either, and for now I don’t care. Today it is thus, we both agree, and with you it is always today.

Even so, my darling, will you allow me to say, until tomorrow?

All my love,

H

At the windows dawn broke insistently and night fell gently. The light expanded, blistering. One by one, without anyone realising they had gone, the city authorities abandoned Wandernburg. Mayor Ratztrinker took his family to the landscaped country estate he had just purchased from Herr Gelding. One Friday, around mid-morning, the councillors abandoned the town hall. And, in what one of the journalists at the Thunderer would later refer to as a “scandalous” coincidence, on that same day, six underage girls suddenly ran away from home.

For Lieutenants Gluck and Gluck, however, there was no repose. They discussed the different possibilities, made renewed searches of the alleyways where the masked man usually perpetrated his deeds, returned to the office to compare notes. The son insisted there were now only three possible suspects. The father, more cautious, thought there were four. Let’s question them, Lieutenant Gluck said with irritation, and put a stop to this once and for all! Not so fast, son, his father said, holding him back, let’s not be hasty. If we start questioning suspects, the culprit will probably take off the next day. We have to wait a little longer, we can’t make any mistakes. We need him to make another move. And when we’re absolutely sure, we won’t question anyone, we’ll simply get a warrant from the superintendent and arrest him. You’re not as quick as you used to be, Dad! Lieutenant Gluck protested. Sub-lieutenant, I order you to be calm, replied Lieutenant Gluck.

Rumours. Rumours passing from mouth to mouth, from window to window, from name to name, rumours resounding like a changing melody, propagating like weeds. In a small city words are expansive, viscous, they belong to no one and to everyone. The good people of Wandernburg wanted to know who, where, what, when and how. And in order to find out who was who, they all gave the appearance of being what they were not.

The rumours had gradually ballooned, spreading from street to street, from door to door. Everyone was talking about the same thing and they all fell silent as one.

Sophie was gazing out of the window. She had been lying quietly, curled up on her orange silk eiderdown for some time. Her eyes were glassy, her eyelids puffy, the tip of her nose red as if she had caught the sun. At the foot of the bed lay a scrapbook, a discarded mirror, and a bundle of folios with a quill pen on top. She wasn’t sure what she ought to do, although she knew what she wanted to do. She didn’t want an eternity, just a little more time. She breathed in slowly, rubbed her nose. She tidied the papers, folded them and slipped them into an envelope then rang for Elsa.

When Elsa came into the bedroom, she held out the sealed envelope. Could you post this for me, my dear? she said. I’ll do it first thing tomorrow, Miss, said Elsa, when I go out to do the shopping. No, no, said Sophie, go now. But I’ve got to lay the table for lunch, Elsa protested. It doesn’t matter, said Sophie, standing up, I’ll see to the table while you go to the postbox. Elsa sighed: You know your father doesn’t like you doing the. That’s an order, now go, Sophie interrupted her sharply. And on seeing Elsa pull a face because she was not accustomed to being spoken to in that tone, she added: Please. Elsa shrugged, took the envelope and left the room, puzzled by all this hurry to post another letter to master Rudi. When the bedroom door closed once more, Sophie went over to her dressing table. She applied a brisk layer of make-up to hide her puffy eyes. She added some rouge. She gave her hair a half-hearted comb, then hurried downstairs to her father’s study.