Traveller of the Century Read online

  Sophie wrung her hands like someone screwing up a piece of paper.

  What about you, my dear? she asked Frau Levin all of a sudden. Have you nothing to say? Frau Levin looked bewildered. My wife, Herr Levin spoke for her, ahem, my wife agrees with me. What a happy coincidence! Sophie exclaimed. He’s right, Frau Levin said in a faint voice, I agree with him. Sophie bit her lip.

  What about you Mademoiselle? Hans said provocatively, staring intently at her lip.

  Me? replied Sophie crooking her wrist level with her chest. Why, learned gentlemen, I feel honoured simply to be listening to you, for nothing delights us women more than to witness such a show of wisdom, isn’t that so, my dears? Why, we could spend days on end admiring this virile exchange of opinions. Yet, lo and behold, in full flow, you question a novice like me about Schopenhauer! and I must admit to feeling embarrassed, as the mere question bestows on me a value of which I am unworthy. And so, meine Herren, I beg your indulgence as well as your pardon for my poor knowledge of the subject, but you know what scant attention we women give to the great thinkers. Having said all of which, I shall venture upon this difficult topic in order to state that, as far as I can see, which undoubtedly is not very far, Herr Schopenhauer is decidedly one of the most wretched authors I have ever had the opportunity of misinterpreting. I must admit it is only recently I have had the temerity to read his book, but he seemed rather muddled on the subject of women, insisting we devote ourselves to housework or gardening, but never to improving our minds by reading literature, much less thinking about politics. And therein, gentlemen, lies a paradox, because in order for his ideas to thrive, that is, in order for his doctrine to be heeded, Schopenhauer would do better to recommend all of us women to make a thorough study of philosophical works, in particular his own. Despite my limitations as a theorist, it seems to me the greatest philosophers of our day are bedevilled by a contradiction—they all seek to establish new systems of thought, yet they all think the same way about women. Do you not find that terribly amusing, gentlemen? I am sure there are more palm hearts if anyone is hungry.

  They had arranged to meet at midday in the Central Tavern. Álvaro was waiting for him, elbows resting on the bar, one foot on the rail, in the pose of a good horseman. Hans staggered into the tavern half-an-hour late. Good afternoon, welcome back to the world, Álvaro said, more entertained than annoyed when he saw the dark circles under Hans’s eyes. I’m sorry, said Hans, I went to the cave last night, then back to the inn where I stayed up reading. What time is it? What! said Álvaro, astonished. Do you mean to tell me you don’t wear a watch? The fact is, I don’t see any point in watches, said Hans, they never give me the time I want. Well, Álvaro smiled, this is what is known as a cultural exchange—I resemble a German and you a Spaniard.

  My ancestors, Álvaro said, munching, came from Vizcaya. I was born in Guipúzcoa, but I’m Andalusian by adoption. I was brought up in Granada, do you know it? Yes, it’s beautiful, that’s where I spent my childhood, my father found a job at the Hospital Real and we stayed there. I think everyone should see two things before they die—the Generalife in springtime and Plaza Bib-Rambla in the morning. You should see the señoras of the city dressed up to the nines to go to the fishmonger, and their husbands out strolling with that bad-tempered yet in the end likeable air. Sometimes when I open my eyes in the morning I still think I’m in Granada. I don’t suppose you know where you are when you wake up, I imagine, well, perhaps you will one day. I’ve never made any friends like the ones I had in Granada. It’s a melancholy city, too, and in that way it resembles Wandernburg—the people are proud of their melancholy. Apart from the first few years here, with Ulrike, I tell you I’ve never felt as happy as I did back then. Maybe it was because I was younger, but everything seemed on the verge of happening. In fact the whole of Spain’s fate was about to be decided—we would either be invaded by foreign troops, or a traitorous king would be restored to the throne, or we would proclaim a republic. The days of the Cádiz Cortes were exhilarating, I take it you’ve heard of that? I’m sorry, but you Germans don’t give a … about Spanish politics! and well, things in my country came so close to being so different! As it was, I decided to go into exile when King Ferdinand swept back into power and tore up our constitution, reinstated the Inquisition and began executing people. Was I forced to leave? Yes and no. Admittedly, people were being spied on, driven from their jobs and arrested left, right and centre. But the main reason I left was that I was disillusioned, do you understand? They had taken over the country we’d been fighting for, we had won only to lose. So that even before we left many of us felt we were no longer living in our own country.

  Yes, please, another two over here, your health! When Napoleon’s lot arrived, I confess I felt peculiar. Yes, they had invaded our country, and yet they brought with them a culture we admired and laws we wanted. Did it make sense to fight for a rotten, medieval state? Hadn’t we always been independent without being free? Finally, I enrolled and spent a few months fighting in Andalusia and Extremadura. Then I was billeted at the garrisons in Madrid and Guadalajara, together with militiamen from all over Spain. And I swear, Hans, it was listening to the discussions, seeing my compatriots’ points of view that made me consider deserting more than once. But, coño, this was my country, after all! My idea was to receive the enemy, to learn as much from him as I could before driving him out and carrying on the revolution without him. I joined the guerrillas with one eye on the revolutionary juntas and the constitutional assembly, which were what most interested me. And I couldn’t help wondering where the hell the fatherland was, what exactly were we fighting for? Did I find out? Ah, that’s a good point. It may sound strange, but from talking to the other militiamen I realised it was our childhood memories we were fighting for.

  During the occupation, the thing that most, another? Steady on, all right, but only if you’re paying, I’m joking, what most upset me was seeing the way the priests supported us, the scoundrels were terrified Spain would end up like France! I can still remember the loathsome lessons they preached around the parishes. “What are you my child? A Spaniard by the grace of God. What are the French? Once Christians, now heretics. Of what is Napoleon born? Of sin. Is it a sin to kill a Frenchman? No, Father, heaven is our reward for killing one of those heretic dogs.” They weren’t patriots, they had an instinct for survival (patriotism is precisely that, said Hans), don’t be a cynic. I was unable to sleep at night and was assailed by doubts. What if we were fighting the wrong enemy? What if by fighting for Spain we were actually fighting against Spain, like the supporters of the French we so despised? Who was betraying the country more? I don’t want to bore you. The fact is, after the restoration I finally fled Spain. I roamed half of Europe until I arrived in Somers Town. On my first stroll around London I emptied out my pockets and realised all I had was one duro, do you know how much a duro is worth? Not enough to change into pounds, or should I say shillings. And so I walked as far as the Thames, gazed into its depths and tossed my coin into the water. (You threw it away? Hans asked, surprised. Why?) My dear friend, a gentleman like me could hardly come to a great city with that little money! I preferred to start from scratch than to manage on a paltry sum. I made contact with the Spanish community, for a while I lived off loans, and I took on a few of those jobs that are wretched to do and interesting to talk about. I was a nightwatchman, a waiter, a fish gutter, a groom at a racing stable, a framer’s assistant and a replacement teacher at a fencing school. (Are you that good a swordsman?) No, which explains why I was only the replacement! Finally, almost by chance, I entered the textile business. I had a stroke of luck, I invested my savings and they doubled. A friend and I made some more favourable investments, and that’s when I decided to take the risk and begin working exclusively in that industry. And I picked the right moment. Various relatives of mine joined the business, and a few years ago we set up a wholesale company trading between Germany and England. We operate in London, Liverpool, Bremen, Hambu
rg, and in Saxony and the surrounding area, which I am in charge of. I can’t say I enjoy what I do, but it gives me a good income and well, you know, you reach an age, a rather pitiful age if you like, when income becomes more important than enjoyment. And then of course there was Ulrike.

  (Pass the meatballs, said Hans. And did you never return to Spain?) No, yes, well, I went back after the 1818 amnesty. To see what things were like, I suppose. But I found the atmosphere disturbing, so I went straight back to London. That was when I met Ulrike, on a business trip to Germany. It was so, so … It was like a, a revelation. Unique. (Here, have a drink, said Hans.) She was from this part of the world, she was longing to come back here, so we moved to Wandernburg. One of the things that most pains me is the thought that Ulrike never got to know Spain, I was never able to show her the places I grew up in. No. We had plans to go there, we would often talk about it, we always used to say: “One of these days”, “This summer at the very latest”, you know the kind of thing. And then the Hundred Thousand Sons of Saint Louis arrived, and the Holy Alliance, may the devil take it, which made it impossible to go anywhere, and politics, the constitution and my relatives all went to hell. That was when the remaining members of my family went into exile in England. You and I come from wretched countries, Hans. Both were invaded by Napoleon and ruled by his brother, both fought for their freedom and regressed once they had attained it. Spain is my home, but not today’s Spain, the Spain of my dreams. A republican, cosmopolitan Spain. The more Spain asserts its Spanishness, the less Spanish it becomes. I suppose all countries are like that, aren’t they? Vague entities that guide us (I don’t know, Hans said, I don’t think countries guide us, I think we move around because of people, and they can be from anywhere), yes, but many of the people we love we meet in our own country, not another one. (We move around because of languages, Hans went on, which we learn, or, like you said, because of memories. But what if memories move around, too? What if your memories all come from different times and places? Which are truly yours? That’s my problem, that’s what my problem is.) Hey, are you feeling all right?

  Their shoulders began to fold like umbrellas. The Central Tavern had been filling up with other customers, the smoke and the smell of fried food floated up to the ceiling, mouths munched, laughed and drank. Having lost the relative privacy they had been enjoying at the bar, Álvaro and Hans began to feel a little out of place—the surrounding merriment seemed to mock their solemnity. What are they all laughing at? said Álvaro. Nothing in particular, replied Hans, people are the same everywhere—they laugh because they’re eating. Aren’t we simply a couple of sad sacks? Álvaro suggested. That’s another way of putting it, said Hans. They both burst out laughing, and in doing so their talkativeness came back. They spoke of the Wandernburgers’ strange manners, which combined surliness with an almost fanatical observance of etiquette. When I first arrived in Wandernburg, Hans told him, I didn’t have a clue how to behave. People here scarcely smile at you or lend you a hand, yet they have half a dozen ways of bowing and a limitless repertoire of greetings. That is, of course, assuming they manage to recognise one another through the accursed fog. How do they manage to flirt when they can’t even see one another? How do they reproduce? I suspect, said Álvaro, that they only couple during the summer months. Here, Hans went on, a man can hold on to his hat for a whole hour if his host doesn’t invite him to put it down. The ladies keep theirs on so as not to have to ask permission to go to the water closet to tidy their hair. You never know whether to sit down, bob your head, bow or tuck in your backside. In short, concluded Álvaro, they insist on manners because they are so uncouth.

  Hans saw five unusually well-dressed, or prodigiously badly dressed, men enter the tavern. What most struck him was that despite the place being packed to the rafters, a waiter elbowed his way across the room and turfed a group of young people from a table. Once it had been cleared and given a good wipe, the five men ceremoniously ensconced themselves, as though they had just walked into an assembly hall rather than a tavern reeking of smoked sausage. Three of them crammed shiny fat cigars into their mouths. The waiter brought over five tankards of stout and a bowl of strawberries. Álvaro explained to Hans that these men were Herr Gelding and his associates, owners of the Wandernburg textile mill. That’s where Lamberg works, Hans remarked. Is that the fellow your organ grinder introduced me to the other day? said Álvaro. I don’t envy him working for them. And there’s no avoiding them, because all the businessmen, industrialists, contractors, brokers and bankers in this city are related to one another. They stick close together. Intermarry. Cohabit. Reproduce. Look out for each other’s interests. And they’re forever guzzling beer. And this great family spends its time employing the members of another great family, that of the lawyers, doctors, notaries, architects and civil servants. If you added the two together you’d have the entire wealth of the local middle class, with a bit of loose change to spare. Some of which might belong to Herr Gottlieb. But not much. You might say this city’s economy is based on organised incest. I see you know them well, Hans chuckled. I know them too well, nodded Álvaro, and the worst of it is that as soon as they see me, we’ll be obliged to go over and pay our respects. Because, among other things, I make my living by selling what they produce.

  Five minutes later, Álvaro and Hans were sitting at the table with Herr Gelding and his associates. Hans was surprised at the exaggerated politeness with which Álvaro spoke to them, marshalling his accent, masticating his voice, imbuing it with a military air completely at odds with the singsong Spanish lilt he had when he spoke to Hans. Herr Gelding immediately launched into the question of his payments, which Álvaro responded to by quoting figures, prices and dates from memory.

  What vexes me, Herr Gelding said, sucking on his cigar, the corners of his mouth stained with strawberry juice, is this culture of self-pity, this constant griping despite improving conditions. Although you have to hand it to the scoundrels, conditions have improved because of their griping! No, I’m not denying certain things aren’t negotiable, I can even understand day labourers wanting, shall we say, guarantees of longer-term employment. What I’m saying, gentlemen, as God is my judge, is that I work longer hours than they do in order to keep production up. And as is only natural, I demand no less of a commitment from my workers. People rail against flexible hiring practices, yet such practices have seen this accursed city grow by seven per cent in each of the past twenty years, perfect, congratulations, yours is an excellent guild, but do you know what, gentlemen, can you guess what happens when you give in and make an employee permanent? Ah, surprise, surprise, he stops working so hard! Look, work takes work. They’ll be asking us to turn off the machines next so they can take an afternoon nap! Upon my soul, gentlemen, I don’t know what the world is coming to. Take the machine operators, for instance. The machine operators start work half-an-hour later because it takes time for the boilers to warm up. Very good, I accept that, that’s the way boilers work, someone stokes them up and then you come along afterwards. Ah, yet they still find reasons to complain! Isn’t that enough to, well, isn’t it? Those damned machine operators get up later than I do, and they work a twelve-hour day. And what does that mean, gentlemen? Unless I’ve lost the ability to count, it means they work half a day, half a day, and the other half they have off. Is that enough to exhaust a man? Is it a reason to start making demands? Or do they expect to have more time off than at work? In my day, gentlemen, in my day! What would these operators think of the hours my father put in, my good father, may God keep him in His glory, who never complained in his life, and who built up a factory all on his own! Oh, no more strawberries, what a shame. My father knew how to, but what’s the use. This is no way to build a nation, or anything else for that matter!

  Encouraged by Hans’s frowns, Álvaro cleared his throat and said: My dear Herr Gelding, you will have noticed that your workers spend most of their time off sleeping. Herr Gelding stared at him, cigar drooping, mouth open in ast
onishment. He looked more puzzled than offended, as though Álvaro hadn’t understood what he had been saying. Ah, but Herr Urquiho, replied Herr Gelding, we mustn’t interfere, no, a worker must be free to do as he pleases in his time off, without any meddling from me, of course! I don’t know how they run things in your country, but rest assured, one of the rules in my company is complete freedom of the workers outside the workplace. I imagine we agree on that!

  The knocking on his door finally forced him out of bed. A few bands of light filtering through the drawn shutters crept towards Hans’s cold feet. He pulled on the first thing he could find on the chair, shuffled over to the door and opened it, still trying to unglue his eyelids—smiling, Lisa handed him a mauve sheet of paper. Hans meant to thank her, although he gave a yawn that sounded like hanyeu. He took the letter from Lisa’s chafed fingers and closed the door.

  In the dim light filtering through the shutters, Hans glimpsed the name on the card accompanying the letter—Sophie Gottlieb.

  He jumped up, went to the washbasin to splash water on his face, opened the shutters, and sat down by the window. The card was printed on stiff paper and had a thin raised edge. The inscription was an unusual orange-grey colour that suggested solemnity and a hint of coquetry. Despite his eagerness, Hans paused before opening the letter, enjoying the uncertainty, savouring this moment of heightened expectation, lest what followed should be a disappointment. Sophie’s swift, resolute, slightly sprawling pen strokes caught his attention—this was a feline hand rather than the writing of a young lady. There was no heading or greeting.