Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Barefoot, his trousers rolled up to his knees, Hans took the old man by the arm in order to help him into the river. He watched as he immersed himself bit by bit — his paper-thin ankles, his unsteady legs, his sagging buttocks, his hunched back. At last all Hans could see was the organ grinder’s dishevelled white head as he turned and beamed at him, mouth wide open, and began swimming like a child, arms thrashing in the water. Hey, it’s not so cold! the old man shouted. Won’t you join me? Thanks, said Hans, but I take my bath when I get up in the morning! Every morning! Bah! cried the organ grinder. Old wives’ tales! Princes bathe in scented water and die young!

Hans watched with repulsion and fascination the ripples of grime dissolving around the organ grinder’s body. He splashed his arms about in them playfully: Look! the old man laughed, pointing at the grey and brown lumps. It’s attracted the fish! Yes, thought Hans, there was something repulsive and yet honest about such an attachment to dirt. There was an obscure integrity about the old man’s lack of hygiene, or rather his lack of shame, a kind of truth. Some time ago, the organ grinder had said something ridiculous and at the same time true — perfumes were a deception, they wanted to be something else. Perhaps. Although Hans loved perfumes.

He helped the old man out of river and draped a towel around his bony shoulders. His knees were knocking, more from the shock of the water than from its temperature. As he rubbed himself down with the towel, the organ grinder began fiddling with his dripping testicles. Hans could not help glancing at them out of the corner of his eye, and at his tiny shrivelled penis. The organ grinder noticed this at once and he laughed good-naturedly. He was laughing at Hans, at himself, at his penis and at the river. Hey, he said, do you fiddle with yourself much? Hans looked the other way. Don’t be embarrassed, the old man said, I shan’t tell anyone. Do you fiddle with yourself much, then? No, yes, replied Hans, well, no more than is usual. You might find this strange, the organ grinder said, but from time to time — whoosh! — so do I! Do you know what I think about when I fiddle with myself? I think about a woman with no clothes on, dancing a waltz. A young woman, who smiles at me. I think Franz knows, because every time — whoosh! — the scoundrel starts barking as if someone had come in.

They ate lunch together, talking then falling silent for a while. Hans spoke of Sophie and the dreaded end of the summer. Next month everything will change, he said. But, kof, kof , coughed the old man, everything is always changing, there’s nothing wrong with that. I know, sighed Hans, but sometimes things change for the worse. By the way, what’s that cough you have? Cough? said the organ grinder. What cough? Kof. That cough, said Hans. Is it from the water? No, the old man shrugged, it’s from before, don’t worry, maybe it’s the first sign of autumn, but, tell me, do you love her? Do you really love her? Yes, replied Hans. How can you be so sure so soon? the old man asked. Hans reflected for a moment then said: Because I admire her. Ah, well, the old man smiled. Kof .

Two sun-drenched days later, the organ grinder’s cough went away and he said he felt better than a brand-new organ string. Concerned about the old man’s diet and the state of his clothes, Hans resolved to find him work through Sophie’s friends. He remembered the old man saying that in the summer people always asked him to play at some dance or other, but he wasn’t aware that he had received any such commissions that year.

Lisa knocked at the door and handed him a violet note without looking him in the eye. Hans thanked her and reminded her that the following day they had a lesson. She said “Yes, I know”, and disappeared down the corridor. Hans stood watching her, reflecting about the unfairness of age, how it came too slowly for some and too fast for others. He forgot all about the matter as soon as he sat down to read the letter:

My love, good news — a close friend (well, not that close), Fräulein von Pogwisch, is having a ball on Saturday and I’ve convinced her how much more original it would be if she hired a “real” itinerant musician instead of the customary quartet. I know this may seem a rather silly argument, but if you knew Fräulein von Pogwisch you would understand perfectly. The reason I thought of her is because, although her family have a good income, they aren’t exactly wealthy, and her parents will be only too happy to save some money under the pretext of being original. Do you approve of the idea, my love? I feel happy. Did you notice how light it was this morning? Or were you fast asleep? I love you to pieces, your

S

The following Saturday, as agreed, Hans went to the end of Bridge Walk at six-thirty sharp to fetch the organ grinder. And Franz — the one condition the old man had insisted upon when accepting the job was that his dog be allowed to accompany them to the Pogwisch residence. Hans had hired a dogcart so Franz would feel at home. Hans’s face broke into a smile when he glimpsed the two of them walking down the path. Obeying his instructions, the old man had put on his only new shirt, a more or less presentable pair of breeches, and his best shoes. As he approached the cart, Hans saw that he had even combed his hair and trimmed his beard. Somewhat nervous, the organ grinder heaved himself into his seat, not allowing the driver to touch his barrel organ. I can manage, he said, I can manage. At that moment Franz gave two short barks, and Hans had the feeling he was repeating his master’s words. When the horses pulling the dogcart broke into a gallop, the organ grinder glanced about him, suddenly taken aback. How wonderful! he said. Do you know I can’t even remember the last time I rode in a carriage.

As I told you, my dear, Fräulein Kirchen was saying to Sophie, she’s always been such a good girl, what a terrible thing! And in the meantime the police do nothing, if they had their way, well, what do they care? Of course until something happens to the police chief’s daughter if you think they’re going to catch this masked attacker you’ve got another think coming! But, Sophie asked, when did this happen? Sometime yesterday afternoon, it seems, replied Fräulein Kirchen, near to … Good heavens! Do you see what I see, my dear? What on earth does Fanny think she’s wearing? She’s getting worse lately, has she lost her taste or her senses? Did I tell you what she said to Ottilie when they were having tea at …

Sophie heard a murmuring near the door and walked out into the hallway. She saw Fräulein von Pogwisch waving her arms about in front of Hans and behind him, at a slight distance, the old man and the dog waiting beside the barrel organ. What’s the matter, my dear? Sophie asked. Nothing really, replied Fräulein von Pogwisch, I was just telling the gentleman and the musician that if they expect to bring that mongrel in here, the least they could do is to give it a bath first. My dear young lady, the organ grinder said, doffing the hat Hans had forced him to put on, I assure you that my dog, which is far from being a mongrel, and extremely well-behaved, will do what he’s told and stay by the door. In that case, replied Fräulein von Pogwisch, please tie him up. Believe me, the old man smiled, that really isn’t necessary — Franz only misbehaves when he’s tied up.

Seeing the organ grinder enter the room, everyone present turned as one to look at him. The old man paused, bobbed his head and walked on pushing his little cart. Hans and Sophie accompanied him to the corner of the room Fräulein von Pogwisch had set aside for him, and offered him a glass of wine before he began. Thank you, my dears, the old man said earnestly, but I never drink when I’m working otherwise I lose my rhythm. Very professional! Sophie said, winking at Hans as she went over to greet a friend.