Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Here’s to the other Spain, Álvaro said, emptying his tankard, which they always destroy. It happened with the Catholic monarchs, and then the Counter-Reformation, it went on happening for three centuries, it happened again in 1814, and then again in 1823, who knows when it will happen next. A country as conservative and as monarchist as Spain can only breed cynical rebels, and cynical rebels can only end up being punished by the fatherland (the fatherland doesn’t exist, said Hans, you blame everything on the fatherland! But it’s patriots, not the fatherland, who do the punishing), no, no, you’re wrong, of course it exists, that’s why it causes us so much grief. (Well, in that case, from a purely patriotic standpoint did you grieve over the loss of Spain’s colonies?) Did I? On the contrary! I rejoiced! It was high time we gave up the pretence of empire and focused on our own disasters. And the same goes for the Turks in Athens. I was delighted by poor Riego’s actions, he was a true patriot! A Freemason, a Francophile and a Spanish general (what did he do? Tell me), well, instead of going to defend Spain’s colonies in the Americas, he revolted, demanded the reinstatement of the Constitution of Cádiz and led the movement into Galicia and Catalonia. Perfect! Why attack the Americas? I doubt Bolívar will treat his people any worse than our Viceroys did (perhaps not, but let’s wait and see what the national oligarchies do after independence), ah, that’s a different matter, I think they’d be well advised to unite. (You see, empires are real, fatherlands aren’t!) You’re an obstinate soul, aren’t you? (So, what happened to the general?) Who? You mean General Riego? Nothing, he was executed to loud applause in a pretty square in Madrid.

In honour of Sophie’s visit, the organ grinder had decorated the entrance to the cave with a row of geometric shapes cut out of newspapers, hanging from the clothesline. Lamberg and Reichardt had helped him dust off the largest rocks and he had improvised some seating out of burlap sacks stuffed with wool. In order to create some atmospheric lighting, he had placed the open umbrella in front of a row of candles. He had arranged the earthenware tumblers, the plates, the bottles and tin mugs neatly on two trays, each on a straw chair. Outside were several little piles of wood and kindling to light the fire for the tea. Between them they had managed to give Franz a bath in the river; he had put up a struggle and growled throughout while Lamberg held him in his vice-like grip. In the middle of the cave, the barrel organ stood on its rug like an arbitrary statue or humble effigy — the organ grinder had changed the barrel for one containing the most lively dances. Although the plan was to have a simple picnic on the grass, the organ grinder knew how much this visit meant to Hans, and he wanted to make a good impression on Sophie. Do you think it’s too gloomy? he asked Reichardt, pointing to the umbrella. Reichardt rubbed his nose, made a sound like a blocked drain, and said: It’s fine so long as we can see her cleavage.

As she stooped to enter the cave, Sophie’s expression divided into two moments, as though half of her had preceded the other half. In one sense she had expected better, and in another worse. She found it awful and touching, as inhospitable as any grotto and yet believable as a dwelling. It took her a few moments to adjust to the dirt, to move in such a way as not to soil her dress without letting it show. Once she had overcome her awkwardness, she began to feel at home in the coolness of the cave, and, to Reichardt’s delight, bobbed delightfully when she accepted her first cup of tea. Elsa reacted differently. She took one look inside the cave, pulled a face, and elected to remain outside helping Álvaro prepare the tea.

Once the tablecloth and the food were spread out, the picnic turned out to be agreeably eccentric. Elsa and Sophie held their little tin mugs as if they were china teacups, sipped their tea slowly, and munched modest mouthfuls, fingers in front of their lips. Reichardt wolfed down everything in sight, spilling crumbs all over the place and belching, admittedly less explosively than usual considering there were ladies present. Lamberg said nothing, his cheeks bulging with lumps of bread as he ate. Álvaro spoke more loudly than Elsa would have liked, guffawed prodigiously, egging the excited Franz into the middle of the tablecloth, from which his master shooed him away gently so that he would not step on the ladies’ skirts. The organ grinder was a silently attentive host, intervening here and there, giving the impression of accompanying everyone while scarcely uttering a word. Sophie, who noticed his behaviour immediately, admired the harmonious atmosphere the old man had managed to create amid this diverse group of picnickers whilst passing almost unnoticed. Hans, who had been worried she would disapprove of the cave or his friends’ appearance, breathed a sigh of relief. And, were it not for who he was and for his age, he could have sworn the organ grinder was flirting with her a little.

Once they had finished their tea, the organ grinder proposed a round of dreams. Hans explained the ritual to Sophie who seemed to think it a delightful diversion. As no one elected to start, the organ grinder recounted the first dream. Last night, he said, I dreamt about a group of fellows eating soup in a tavern. The table was in darkness except for one or two red faces. Suddenly one of the men hurls a spoonful of soup into the air, the soup flies out of the dream then lands back into the spoon as if it were a die. Then the man drinks it and says: Six. And the same occurs with each spoonful. That, Álvaro surmised, means you wanted some luck. Don’t talk rot, said Reichardt, it means he wanted something to eat! The last interesting dream I had, said Hans, was a week ago. I dreamt I was on an island. But this was a strange island because it wasn’t surrounded by sea. What, no water at all? Lamberg asked curiously. No, replied Hans, no sea, no water, nothing. The island was surrounded by an enormous void. So, how did you know it was an island? said Lamberg. Good question, said Hans, and I don’t know how, I just knew it was an island. And I wanted to leave, I wanted to leave for some other islands I could see in the distance. But it was impossible, I didn’t know how to get to them and I became scared. Then I began running round in circles, like a headless chicken, until the island gradually began sinking. And I had to choose between leaping into the void and going down with my island. So what did you do, for Christ’s sake? Reichardt asked. I woke up, Hans grinned. Good! the organ grinder said approvingly, very good! And what about you, ladies, haven’t you any dreams to offer us? Elsa shook her head and lowered her eyes. Sophie looked at him a little embarrassed and said: I don’t know, well, I never dream much, last night, this is silly, but last night …

After the end of the round, Sophie told them a fable she remembered reading as a child. What if the dreams of those who love one another are woven together as they sleep by silken threads, she said, threads that move the characters in their dreams from above like puppets, controlling their fantasies so that when they wake up they are thinking of one another? What rot! Reichardt barked. I believe it, Hans rallied. I don’t, said Lamberg. What if the threads get tangled and you wake up thinking about the wrong person, Álvaro jested. Elsa looked at him, disconcerted. The organ grinder, who had been nodding thoughtfully, declared suddenly: Like a great handle, you mean? The handle of dreams! Yes, Sophie smiled, that’s exactly it.

Hans had slipped away for a moment in order to relieve himself amid the pine trees, when he heard Sophie call his name. He stood waiting for her, kissing her neck as she arrived. Hans, my love, she said, breathless from running, your old man is wonderful, a real character! We must bring him to the salon so that everyone can see him. No, not to the salon, he said. Why? Sophie asked, are you ashamed of people meeting him? Of course not, Hans said earnestly, lying, but the organ grinder isn’t a fairground attraction. He’s my friend. He’s a wise old man. He likes a quiet life. Well, she said, returning his kiss, there’s no need to get annoyed, just promise me we’ll come here again. Elsa doesn’t like it, said Hans. I know, she nodded, she’s ill at ease, although I’m not sure that that’s due to the cave. You mean … Hans probed. Him, of course, Sophie replied laughing.