Traveller of the Century Read online

  Besides his habit of not taking part in any of the discussions, with the result that he didn’t feel they concerned him in the slightest, Rudi Wilderhaus felt too certain of his position, his status, his betrothal, to be at all concerned. Or rather he was obliged not to be concerned, for if he had been that would have meant lowering himself to the level of an unknown stranger with no social standing. Professor Mietter appeared to find nothing odd either in Sophie’s discreet and constant solidarity towards Hans, since (as he himself could testify from his first months at the salon) she was an attentive hostess, whose rule it was to indulge new members in order to make certain they stayed. For this reason the salon had begun with three or four regular members, and now boasted double that number. Moreover, in the professor’s view, Fräulein Gottlieb’s passionate and somewhat stormy nature was behind her tendency to enliven their debates by siding with whoever was in a minority. And it so happened that the outrageous Hans frequently found himself in a minority. In any event (the professor ended by reassuring himself) Sophie had continued to grant him preferential, even honorific treatment, confirming him as the incontestable authority in the salon and the starting point for any debate. Frau Pietzine might have suspected something amid her giggles and embroidery, yes. But she was far too enthralled by the arrival of this young guest, too amused by the novelty, to go against the tide. As for Herr Levin, who respected and feared Professor Mietter in almost equal measure, in some inadmissible part of his prudent self he was glad of Hans’s presence. Not because he agreed with his opinions, but because of the destabilising effect they had on the unshakeable self-assurance of the professor, who was so partial to criticising Herr Levin’s own contributions. Álvaro had sided with Hans from the start, and delayed the discussion of any differences they might have for the privacy of the Central Tavern. He did so not only out of loyalty but out of convenience—he had never met anyone as like-minded in Wandernburg, and had felt less lonely since Hans arrived. And Frau Levin? Frau Levin was silent, although she wrinkled her brow thinking who knew what.

  That afternoon there were magnolias in the drawing room. After they had taken tea, instead of shutting himself in his study as usual, Herr Gottlieb had stayed on to talk with the two of them. After chatting for a while about nothing in particular, Sophie had suddenly retired to her room. She hadn’t done so because she was upset with Hans or annoyed at her father’s intrusiveness. Quite the contrary, she had understood that if she wanted Hans’s visits to continue unimpeded she must allow her father to keep up his friendship with him. Neither of the two men was able to fathom this simple strategy, and so her father chewed his pipe contentedly and stared at Hans, and Hans coughed disappointedly and stared at Herr Gottlieb.

  During their hour-and-a-half-long conversation, accompanied by a bottle of brandy Bertold brought, Herr Gottlieb confided in Hans his concern about the forthcoming betrothal dinners. Luckily, he explained, the first of these would be held at the house of the bride to be. Imagine what a calamity it would have been for me, Herr Gottlieb told him, if the Wilderhauses—the Wilderhauses no less!—had received us first in their mansion, and then we—perish the thought!—had returned the honour here in this house. I tell you, I scarcely sleep a wink—scarcely a wink!—just thinking about the menu, what can one offer a Wilderhaus, you understand? Naturally we will be eating in the dining room rather than in here—a little more brandy my friend? Not even a drop?—Anyway, as I was saying, this week we will prepare the room, but will that be enough? I’ve already asked Petra—do you know Petra? And her daughter?—A fine woman, Petra, when we first employed her she was the best cook of her generation, why do I say was? No, yes, she still is, only things have changed, you know, we no longer entertain like we once did, times change, my friend! And this house, this house, well, anyway, there it is, but we’re all so nervous! No, Sophie isn’t, Sophie is never nervous, although I have to confess—are you sure you won’t have another drop?—I have to confess I find it difficult to stay calm, and what would you think of chicken consommé, noodles with cinnamon, a joint of roast meat, and to follow I don’t know, a compote, some meringues, what would you—and champagne, champagne to finish off obviously, but what about with the dinner?—Do you know what wines are served these days in Berlin, you’ll ask around? That’s good of you, I’d be most grateful. You know it’s a great relief talking to you. Don’t you think beef would be best?

  And I swear, Hans told the organ grinder later on that same evening, it took a supreme effort for me to stay calm while he was talking to me about that accursed dinner. Sophie went to her room, and her father spent two hours telling me about the Wilderhaus family, could things be any worse? The organ grinder, who had been listening, his gaze wandering as he played with Franz’s muzzle, finally spoke, only to say something completely bewildering: And you say there were flowers? Yes, yes, Hans said wearily. What flowers were they? What does that matter? replied Hans, why should you care? What were they? the old man insisted. I think, Hans relented, they were magnolias. Magnolias! the old man brightened up, are you sure? I think so, said Hans, puzzled. Magnolias, said the organ grinder, signify perseverance, she’s telling you not to give up. And since when do they mean that? Since for ever, the old man smiled, where have you been living? In that case, said Hans, should I say something to her, declare my feelings? No, the old man said, you have to wait, don’t be hasty, she’s not asking you to do anything, she needs time. She needs time to consider, but knowing you are still there, do you see? She needs to decide the time of her love, you have no control over it. You must persevere but also wait. Do peasants twist their sunflowers to face the sun? Well. You can’t twist magnolias either.

  The dawn mist floated in and out of the cave’s entrance. Hans and the organ grinder had stayed awake all night. They had just sat down side by side to look at the pinewoods, the river, the white earth. The fire warmed their backs. Hans was fascinated by the organ grinder’s silent attention as he contemplated the landscape, sometimes for hours. Hans looked at the old man out of the corner of his eye. The old man looked at the snow-covered scenery. The empty landscape observed itself.

  It observed itself weighed down by hardened mud, the long-established frosts, the compacted snow. The submerged pinewoods. The snapped-off branches. The bare tree trunks. In spite of everything, the Nulte went on flowing beneath the crust of ice, went on being the river of Wandernburg. The stark poplars swayed.

  Can you hear? said the organ grinder.

  Hear what? said Hans.

  The cracking sound, said the organ grinder, the cracking sound of the Nulte.

  Honestly, said Hans, I don’t think so.

  There, said the organ grinder, a bit farther down.

  I don’t know, said Hans, well, a little. And is the river saying something?

  It’s saying, the old man whispered, I’m on my way. I’m nearly here.

  What’s nearly here? Hans asked.

  Spring, the organ grinder replied, even though we can’t see it, even though it’s frozen, it is on its way. Stay another month. You can’t leave here without seeing Wandernburg in spring.

  Don’t these frozen trees, this icy landscape, make you feel sad? Hans asked.

  Sad? said the organ grinder, they give me hope. They’re like a promise.

  To the slow, steady rhythm of the handle, the days turned and turned, and Herr Gottlieb’s long-awaited betrothal dinners took place. During the first of these, which was held in Stag Street beneath the chandelier that recalled better days in the dining room Hans had never seen, amid the cabinets filled with porcelain and Saxon china figurines, around the big, oblong table that had once seen many more guests, Rudi had presented Sophie with the engagement ring. Eight days later, on the eve of the second betrothal dinner, she had reciprocated by sending him her portrait enclosed in an oval-shaped silver medallion. The Wilderhaus family had behaved towards Herr Gottlieb in a correct if unenthusiastic manner, and were certainly willing to indulge their son Rudi if this wedding
was really what he wanted. Neither Sophie nor her father had ever set foot inside Wilderhaus Hall, whose impressive facade they had only seen from King’s Parade. Herr Gottlieb’s first reaction as they walked around it was shock, followed by awe, then finally exhilaration. Sophie held her chin up and remained silent during most of the dinner. Herr Gottlieb left the mansion feeling profoundly relieved. At last everything seemed to be going smoothly—after the desserts had been served, contrary to his expectations, the Wilderhauses raised few objections to his conditions and had agreed to the sum of her dowry.

  Since their first tentative letters, Hans and Sophie had begun writing to each other almost every day, and by now Hans had become a frequent caller at the Gottlieb residence. He had achieved what he thought would be the most difficult aim—becoming Sophie’s friend; and once he had, he felt disappointed. As had been their custom for some time, the two of them were taking tea in the drawing room. Herr Gottlieb had retired to his study and they were able to enjoy the luxury of gazing into each other’s eyes. As the carpet soaked up the afternoon light, Sophie described in detail the dinner at Wilderhaus Hall. Hans responded to her narrative with a sour smile. Why is she telling me all this? he thought. To show she trusts me? To see how I will react, or to put me off? Even as she spoke to him in a relaxed tone, Sophie could not help wondering: Why does he listen so happily to all this? To show his friendship? So that I make the first move? Or is he distancing himself? Yet the more Sophie shared her misgivings about the opulence of Wilderhaus Hall, the more Hans thought she was trying to bring Rudi into the conversation, and the more he smiled out of self-protection. And the more he smiled, the more Sophie thought he was deliberately showing his aloofness, and so the more she persisted in giving him details. And in their own way, during this exchange, they both felt an uncertain happiness.

  Imagine our amazement, Hans, Sophie went on, when half a dozen liveried footmen kept serving ice cream throughout the meal and offering us tea every fifteen minutes, then brought champagne, Scotch whisky and bottles of Riesling after dinner. (I can imagine, Hans replied, how upsetting!) I swear I didn’t know whom to greet first or how to address them, there must have been at least two uniformed coachmen, half a dozen servants, goodness knows how many chambermaids, and a kitchen staff the size of a small village (my, what indigestion! exclaimed Hans), seriously, I’m not used to so much etiquette, I wonder how anyone can feel truly at ease surrounded by so many people (oh well, said Hans, as with most things, you grow accustomed to it, you know), the only place where there’s any privacy is in the gardens (the gardens, he said, surprised), well, yes, there are two, one at the front and one at the back (of course, of course, Hans nodded), they were pretty, yes, but it sent a shiver up my spine when I realised one of them was full of graves, I’ll wager you can’t guess whose they were? (You have me on tenterhooks, he said.) The dogs’! Yes, you heard me, eleven dogs are buried there, the family’s hunting dogs, and each has a headstone with its name inscribed (how very commendable, Hans said, to extend such treatment to their poor animals), I don’t know, it all seems rather excessive to me, why would anyone need four billiard tables? (They certainly know how to keep themselves entertained! Hans said approvingly.) If they even play, because everything in that house looks unused, including the library, which incidentally is vast. I was able to leaf through a few old French volumes which I suspect no one has ever so much as glanced at. (And what about paintings? said Hans. Do they own many paintings, I imagine they must glance at them?) You seem in excellent spirits this afternoon, my friend, I’m delighted you are keen to know so much about my fiancé (I’m burning with curiosity, Fräulein, positively burning! said Hans, shifting in his seat), yes, indeed, they own many paintings, a large collection of Italian, French and Flemish masters they have acquired over the years from local convents. (What a magnificent investment! Hans exclaimed. And do they have a music room?) I’m afraid they do, a beautiful little room with gas lamps, and another marble-lined banqueting hall (yes, said Hans, marble is always best for banquets). May I offer you a herbal tea, Herr Hans, you seem a little on edge. Elsa dear, come here will you? I wasn’t aware you knew so much about architecture, indeed, I was going to tell you about the English taps and drainpipes, but I’m not sure I should.

  Hans arrived at the inn with a hunger on his skin and a hollow feeling in his chest. He had no inclination to go out, preferring to remain slumped on the old settee mulling over his conversation with Sophie. Lisa, who was still up, hastened to serve him what remained of the family’s dinner. When he saw her approach with a plate and bowl in her hands, he was suddenly touched. Thank you Lisa, he said, you shouldn’t have taken the trouble. There’s no need to thank me, she replied, trying to look as if she couldn’t care less, I’m only doing my duty. But the pinkish tinge to her cheeks suggested otherwise. In that case I’d like to thank you for doing your duty so well. Thank you, Lisa replied, without thinking. And, after she realised what she had said, she could not help smiling brightly.

  Within minutes she was next to him on the sofa, sitting with her feet tucked under her. Where’s your father? Hans asked. Asleep, Lisa replied. And your mother? Trying to put Thomas to bed, she said. And you? asked Hans. Aren’t you sleepy? Not really, Lisa said, shaking her head. Then she added: What about you? Me? Hans replied, surprised. No, well, a little. Are you going up to your room, then? she asked. I think I will, he said. Do you need some more candles? Lisa said. I don’t think so, replied Hans. Lisa stared at him with an intensity that was only possible from someone truly innocent or extremely artful. But Hans knew Lisa was still too young to be that artful. Good night then, Lisa said. Good night Lisa, said Hans. He stood up. She lowered her eyes and began picking at a hangnail.

  When Hans was already on the stairs, Lisa’s voice called him back. Aren’t you going to tell me what you keep in your trunk? she asked, making patterns with her foot. Hans turned around, smiling. The whole world, he said.

  Silence radiates, like concentric rings, from the centre of the market square towards the yellowish gloomy alleyways, from the capricious tip of the Tower of the Wind to the sloping contours of St Nicholas’s Church, from the high doors to the railings round the graveyard, from the worn cobblestones to the dormant stench of the fields manured for spring, and beyond.

  When the nightwatchman turns the corner of Wool Alley and enters narrow Prayer Street, when his cries dissolve into echoes … to go home, everyone! … bell has chimed eight! … your fire and your lamps … to God! All praise! … and when his pole with the lantern at its tip is swallowed up by the night, then, as on other nights, a figure emerges from a narrow strip of shadow, the black brim of his hat poking out. His arms are thrust into the pockets of his long overcoat, his hands snug in a pair of thin gloves, his expectant fingers clasping a knife, a mask, a length of rope.

  Opposite, there is the sound of light feet, of brisk heels coming down the alleyway. The gloves tense inside the overcoat, the brim of the hat tilts, the mask slips over the face, and the shadowy figure begins to move forward.

  In Wandernburg a sandy moon turns full, a moon caught unawares, a moon with nowhere.

  ALMOST A HEART

  THE DAY SPRING CAME to call in Wandernburg, Frau Zeit woke up in an astonishingly good mood. She scurried about the house as if the light were an illustrious visitor whom she must wait upon. Herr Zeit stood behind the counter browsing through the Thunderer, an untouched cup of coffee in his hand, while his wife and daughter cleaned and oiled the pokers and fire tongs, before storing them in the backyard shed. From time to time, Lisa would gaze at the streaks of soot on her milk-white arm. Then her mother would hurry her along. Have you carded the mattress wool yet? she asked, fondly brushing a lock of the girl’s hair from her face. Lisa wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and said: Only in number seven, mother. Is that all? said Frau Zeit, surprised. What about the other rooms? I was about to start on them when you called me, I came down to see what you wanted and after that there wa
sn’t time. Don’t worry, my love, the innkeeper’s wife said, a rare smile appearing on her face, enhancing her good looks, you finish this, I’ll go and see to them.

  All that had hitherto been rattling bolts, half-closed shutters and darkened windows suddenly became a flurry of doors opening, shutters flung wide and gleaming windowpanes. Carpets, curtains and rugs unfurled like tongues from the inn windows, and from all the windows in the city. Young girls no longer walked with eyes lowered to the ground—they raised their heads as they passed by. They wore brightly coloured clothes and floppy straw hats with daises in them. The young men bobbed their heads at them, and inhaled an aroma of vanilla. Elsa turned into Old Cauldron Street. She was holding a parasol in one hand and in the other a mauve letter.

  Hans was sitting on his trunk, shaving. Legs apart, he gazed into the little mirror propped up on the floor. He had not yet sloughed off his drowsiness and still felt startled at the way Lisa had burst into his room without knocking, or at least without him hearing her knock, in order to begin cleaning the room before he had time to get dressed. Hans yawned in front of the little mirror on the back of the watercolour. He remembered snippets of conversation from the salon the night before. The snuffbox Rudi had held out to him several times, whether as a sign of hospitality or contempt he could not tell. His disagreements with Professor Mietter, who never lost his patience. His own remarks, more vehement than he would have liked. Álvaro’s resounding laugh. Sophie’s furtive glances. The whispered jokes he had managed to share with her. The way in which …

  There was a knock at the door.

  He opened it to find Lisa standing there again. Instead of handing him the mauve letter, the girl stood gazing at his half-shaven chin, at the faint trace of down above his lips.