Traveller of the Century Read online

  One thing I fail to understand, said Hans, is why the Church owned land in this region? What was a Catholic principality doing in Protestant territory? This city becomes more baffling by the minute. Yes, said Álvaro, it surprised me at first, too. You see, during the Thirty Years’ War these lands were virtually on the border between Saxony and Brandenburg, you might say they were Saxon by the skin of their teeth. The Catholic army invaded the region and used it as an enclave to disrupt the enemy communications. Thus, inadvertently, Wandernburg became a bastion of the Catholic League at the heart of the Protestant Union. At the Peace of Westphalia it was declared an ecclesiastical principality, waiter, two more tankards, what do you mean no! Never say no to the last round, no, I insist, you can pay next time, or don’t you intend to visit another tavern with me? What was I saying? Yes, and this became the Principality of Wandernburg, which is still its official name. Remember that in Westphalia princes were free to choose the religion of their state, a deplorable decision, I know. And it seems the ruling prince here at the time was a Catholic. Apparently, in order to save the city from destruction, his parents collaborated with the Counter-Reformation troops. That is how Wandernburg came to be, and still is, Catholic (very interesting, said Hans, I’d never heard that story, I didn’t even know Wandernburg was an ecclesiastical principality, I’ve travelled past it a few times, but), I’m sure you have, like everyone else, I came here for very different reasons, otherwise I’d never, well, let’s leave that for another day. Yes, and still more strange—the situation has remained almost unchanged in two centuries. This was only a small region, surrounded by enemies and one of hundreds of states scattered throughout Germany, and the reunification of the empire was never going to be determined by a few hectares. (And what about Napoleon? Didn’t everything change under the French?) That’s the interesting thing! Since Saxony sided with Napoleon, his troops carried out a peaceful occupation of Wandernburg, through which they passed unimpeded on their way to and from the Prussian front. In return for services rendered, Napoleon’s brother decided to respect the Catholic authority in Wandernburg. But when the emperor was overthrown, Prussia occupied part of Saxony, and Wandernburg ended up a few miles inside Prussian territory. Once again it became a border territory, only on the other side this time. And so, my friend, a toast! We’re Prussians now, coño! and should declare it from the rooftops. Let’s become inflamed with Prussian zeal! (And clinking tankards with that foreigner, Hans felt at home in Wandernburg for the first time.)

  Álvaro laughed: Now it’s Prussia which receives its share of the tribute, and that’s why it respects Wandernburg’s exceptional status. The Wildherhauses, Ratztrinkers and other landowners continue to declare themselves Catholics, and as defenders of the Church uphold its many privileges, while at the same time declaring themselves tolerant, interdenominational and Prussian before the King of Prussia, as vehemently as they once claimed they were Saxons, supporters of the French or what have you. This is why some descendants of exiled Lutheran families have returned, like Professor Mietter. Prior to the Congress of Vienna the authorities and the press would never have treated a man like the professor with such respect, but now it is politically advantageous (I don’t suppose Saxony will stand by and do nothing, Hans said), well, Saxony has made no moves as yet, I imagine they don’t expect the borders established at Vienna to hold for very long either, the way nothing does in Germany. That, I guarantee, would be no problem for the Wandernburg authorities. They would simply throw themselves into the arms of the corresponding Saxon prince, bemoan the atrocious torments they suffered at the hands of his Prussian enemy, declare a public holiday and receive the new prince with true Saxon pomp and ceremony. And so it will be evermore, until this land falls into the sea or Germany is unified. And for now neither event seems likely. I hope I haven’t bored you with my disquisition! (Disquisition? Where did you get that word from?) Well, in all modesty, I also know the word homily. (You sound like a Saxon grandmother!) So, as you see, Wandernburg’s borders change from one day to the next (aha, Hans said, jokingly, maybe that’s why I get lost whenever I walk around it. Álvaro looked at him, suddenly serious), so I’m not the only one, you also have the feeling sometimes that (that what? That the streets … move?) Yes, yes! I’ve always been too embarrassed to mention this to anyone, but I often leave home well in advance in case something changes place unexpectedly. And I thought I was the only one! Your health!

  The alcohol was beginning to slur Hans’s speech. He put a hand on Álvaro’s shoulder. Er, sorrry, he said to Álvaro, ’d’I step on your toe? Paardon me, y’know, ev’ sin’ we beggan talkin’ I been m-meanin t’ask you how ccome you spea’ ssuch good Sherman? Álvaro slumped suddenly. That, he replied, is the story I didn’t want to tell you. I was married for many years to a German woman. Ulrike. She was born about three leagues from here. She loved this place. The scenery. The customs. I don’t know. Those were her childhood memories. That’s why we came to live here. Ulrike. Many years. Who could possibly leave now?

  Hans contemplated the frothy remains on the rim of his beer mug, the hollow ears of the handles, all the things one looks at when everything has been said. Then he whispered, When? Two years ago, said Álvaro. Of tuberculosis.

  Álvaro and Hans drank up their beers. The waiters were wiping down the tables with the reproachful air they have when it is time to close. Hey, Hans stammered, aren’t there a lot of wwidowed people in Wwandernburg? Sophie’s father, Fffrau Pietzzzine, Proffessor Mietter even, perhaps. It’s no coincidence, Álvaro replied, border cities are soothing, they make you think there’s another world nearby, I don’t know how to describe it. Travellers come here, people who have lost their way or were headed somewhere else, lone wolves. And they all end up staying here, Hans. You’ll get used to it. I don’ thin’ sso, said Hans, I’m p-passing through. You’ll get used to it, Álvaro repeated, I’ve been passing through here for over ten years now.

  Hans was perched on his trunk, legs apart, trying not to drip water onto his bare feet, shaving in front of the mirror he had placed on the floor, the washbasin on one side and on the other a towel draped over the back of a chair. He liked this way of shaving, leaning as though over a tiny pond, because he felt it helped him to think—when you get up, especially if you are a night owl, your brain needs a bit of a shake-up. Sometimes it feels as if there aren’t enough hours in the day, Hans reflected. He had woken up in good spirits and eager to carry out all the tasks he had set himself. He would finish the book he was halfway through over lunch, go to see the organ grinder and suggest they dine together, meet Álvaro for coffee then follow Sophie a little, if, as on other occasions, he managed to bump into her out strolling with a friend, emerging from a shop with Elsa or on her way to pay someone a visit. Sitting clutching the razor, face streaked with foam, still only half-dressed, Hans had the impression all this could be done in a trice.

  His reverie was interrupted by shouts from downstairs. Considering the day officially started, Hans dried his face, replaced the watercolour on its hook, got a splinter in his foot, pulled it out cursing, finished dressing, and went out into the corridor. The shouts continued. Lisa was trying to get into the kitchen, while her mother and the suspended hams blocked the way. I don’t care what you say, Frau Zeit exclaimed, you can’t fool me, there’s at least fifteen or ten groschen missing. Mother, Lisa argued, can’t you see I bought an extra pound of beef as well as more tomatoes? Of course I can see, Frau Zeit retorted, and I’m wondering who asked you to buy all those tomatoes, the meat doesn’t matter, what’s left over can be salted, but who do you think is going to eat a whole basketful of tomatoes? And anyway, a pound of meat couldn’t cost that much, do you think I’m stupid? Mother, replied Lisa, I told you the prices went up this morning by one loth in seven. We’ll see about that! her mother protested. I’ll go to the market myself tomorrow, and I warn you. Do as you please, Lisa interrupted her mother in turn, if you don’t believe me you can go and see for yourself tomorro
w and the day after, and every day if you want. I’m not interested in the butcher or in tomatoes or in arguing with you. But child, Frau Zeit replied, seizing Lisa by the wrists, even if it’s true, don’t you see what things cost? When will you learn? If they put the price up overnight you have to haggle like the rest of us, do you hear? Haggle! And stop giving yourself such airs and graces.

  Lisa was about to respond when she glimpsed Hans, who was standing motionless in the corridor, listening. She turned away at once, pretending she hadn’t seen him. Hans’s curiosity got the better of his embarrassment and he stood there without moving. Lisa went on countering her mother’s admonishments with short, sharp ripostes. Notwithstanding her maternal authority, Frau Zeit was getting the worst of the argument. The two women shifted position, so that they were almost facing Hans. In the glow of copper and tin from the kitchen, he could see the creases spread over Frau Zeit’s face each time she raised her voice. And the scars, blotches and cuts on Lisa’s hands as she gesticulated. For an instant the contrast in their silhouettes, beauty and posture was lost, so that to Hans they became one and the same woman at two different moments, two identical women of different ages. Then he walked away from the kitchen.

  Hans had to wait until Thomas burst in before he was able to recapture the light-heartedness he had felt when he got up. It was impossible to resist the boy’s tireless enthusiasm, his instinctive breed of optimism. Thomas said good morning to Hans absent-mindedly, asked him whether he liked elks, snatched his cup of coffee and hid it behind the couch, spun round in circles, arms akimbo, one leg in the air, and pelted down the corridor. Hans got to his feet, at which Thomas, thinking he was about to give chase, tore up the staircase. Not wishing to disappoint the child, Hans raced after him, pretending to be an angry ogre and bellowing for his cup of coffee, which he had already retrieved from the floor. When Thomas reached the end of the corridor on the second floor and was thrust up against the window, he turned to face his persecutor, his face suddenly so contorted, his eyes filled with such dread that for a split second Hans really believed himself an ogre. He was about to ruffle the boy’s hair so as to reassure him, when Thomas burst out laughing, and Hans realised the boy was the better actor. Taken aback, he glanced out of the window and noticed it was raining.

  Thomas, you rascal! roared Frau Zeit with the redoubled rage of one who has scolded their other child to no avail. Thomas, I told you to come down at once and finish your homework! For the love of God, you haven’t even done the first exercise! They ought to start opening the school on Saturdays! Oh, and you can forget about going tobogganing! The boy looked at Hans, regained his composure, then shrugged as though acknowledging their game was over. Head sunk on his chest, he walked towards the staircase. The two of them went down in silence. When they had reached the bottom of the stairs, Thomas let out two small explosions. Furious, his father strode out from behind the counter, grabbed his son by the ear and dragged him down the passageway towards their apartment. When he returned, flustered, he said to Hans: As you can see, we’re just like any other family. Of course, Hans replied, don’t worry. The innkeeper plunged his hand into the pocket of his sagging trousers and said: By the way, since you are staying on, and in view of your, well, your late-night habits, I’m giving you this bunch of keys. Please don’t lose it. And always take it with you when you go out at night.

  Midday was drowning. Umbrellas vied for space on the narrow pavement. Hans’s boots splashed in the puddles distorting his footsteps. Throwing up a spray of muddy water, carriages drove past him like a temptation. In the market square, the vendors were packing up their stalls. Hans glimpsed the organ grinder in his usual spot, hunched over, absorbed in the music, making the square turn. Drops of water dripped from his beard, sticking out from beneath his hood. Seeing him there, serene, Hans reconciled himself to the gloomy day—so long as the old man continued at the heart of Wandernburg, the city would be in order. As always, Franz was the first to sense his arrival—he pricked up his black ears, lifted his head from the floor, stretched his legs and shook his coat.

  How goes your day? Hans enquired, squeezing Franz’s muzzle while the dog squirmed. Beautiful, replied the old man, have you noticed the way the mist sparkles? The mist? No, Hans confessed, I haven’t. It’s been changing colour all morning, the organ grinder went on. Do you like the mist? Me? Hans said, surprised, not especially, I don’t think. Franz and I enjoy it, don’t we, old rascal? the organ grinder said. And your public? Hans asked, gesturing to the dish in a fit of pragmatism he felt rather ashamed of. I mean, did you have much of one? Not many, replied the organ grinder, enough to pay for supper, you will come won’t you? Hans nodded, wondering whether to offer to buy the wine, for the old man usually took offence if he suspected Hans brought food to the cave in an attempt to stock him up rather than as a mark of courtesy. The old man went on: Lamberg says he’ll stop by for a while after supper. That boy worries me, he works himself half to death in the factory and he doesn’t laugh much, it’s a bad sign when someone drinks a lot and doesn’t laugh. Let’s try to cheer him up tonight, shall we? You can recount your travels to him, I’ll play a lively tune, and with a bit of luck Reichardt will tell a few dirty jokes. And you, rascal, have you been practising any new barks?

  Fearing the weather might worsen, Hans went to talk to a coachman about taking him as far as the bridge that evening. The coachman told him the carriages had all been full that day and he couldn’t promise him a seat in one with a top. Hans said in that case he would reserve a seat in a tilbury without a top and would bring an umbrella. The coachman hemmed and hawed, then said he wasn’t sure there were any seats available in a tilbury either. Hans gazed at him fixedly, sighed, and handed him a couple of coins. The coachman immediately remembered a possible vacancy in the last carriage.

  On his way back to the inn, where he was planning to read for a while, Hans strolled along the broad, acacia-lined pavements of King’s Parade, where the carriages rolled along with their polished wheels, sturdy horses and liveried coachmen. Among the calèches with folding tops, the gleaming landaus and the elegant cabriolets, Hans could not help remarking a carriage drawn by two white horses speeding along at a ceremonial trot. It took Hans a moment to transfer his gaze from the outside to the inside of the carriage—he started when he made out Sophie’s profile shrinking back from the rain, and next to her the outline of a hat. Sophie jerked her head away from the window and Hans heard a voice asking if she were feeling well.

  The carriage turned off King’s Parade. At the end of Border Street, a figure was walking towards Archway. As the coach passed the figure turned around—Father Pigherzog, wearing a shovel hat and a cloak on top of his cassock, folded his umbrella and bowed in greeting. Inside the red velvet-lined cabin, Sophie remained motionless while her companion straightened up in order to return the gesture. Guten Tag, mein lieber Herr Wilderhaus! cried Father Pigherzog, his head revolving as the coach rolled by. And then he added, a little too late perhaps: God bless you! As the priest opened up his umbrella again, his hat fell onto the ground and got muddy. Annoyed, he walked up Archway clasping it between thumb and finger.

  The sacristan was polishing the holy vessels. Peace be with you, my son, said Father Pigherzog as he entered the sacristy. The sacristan helped him off with his cloak, left his hat to soak in water and finished arranging the relics. How did the collection go, my son? asked the priest. The sacristan handed him the small metal box they referred to as the vessel of the divine will. God be with you, Father Pigherzog said, you may go now.

  When he was alone, Father Pigherzog glanced about the sacristy and sighed. He looked up at the clock and sat down beside one of the lamps, transferring one of the piles of books on the table to his lap. He put the book of sacraments and the Misal Romano back. He pored over Pius V’s catechism for a moment, slipped a bookmark between its pages and placed it with the others. A large volume entitled Notes on the State of Souls remained in his lap. In it Father Pigherzog took no
te of various matters relating to Church business: details of each family’s practice and observance of Easter rituals; his personal impressions of parishioners, including brief reports about them; comments on and consequences of the weekly liturgy; shortages and possible requirements of the parish, as well as any significant contributions or donations; and lastly a section in which he wrote less frequently, addressed to “Your Excellency” and concerning the “Balance of the quarterly accounts of the lands given in concession by the Holy Mother Church”, which the priest would check before copying out the figures and posting them to the Archbishop. All of this Father Pigherzog would do in his neat script, dividing the subjects under headings.

  He opened the Notes on the State of Souls at the most recent entry and browsed his comments. He took his quill, leisurely dipped it in the ink pot, wrote out the date and began his task.

  … who I am concerned about is Frau H J de Pietzine, whose trials and tribulations we have remarked upon on previous occasions. A host of fears confound her conscience and darken her soul, the salvation of which will depend in large part upon her willingness to embrace penitence, the exercise of which she is inclined to observe with far less enthusiasm than the act of prayer. A woman of faith and family condition should not make an exhibition of herself by attending frivolous social gatherings of every kind. Address this tendency at next confessionals.

  … as is clear from the previous entry, the excellent Herr Wilderhaus, the younger, whose nobility and generosity towards this humble parish we profoundly appreciate, has made an understandable choice, attendant upon certain of Fräulein Gottlieb’s virtues, virtues which, dare I say, in recent years have been unbecomingly eclipsed by xxxxxx a degree of rebelliousness and frivolity. Nothing, I hasten to add, which marriage, domestic bliss and the duties of motherhood cannot redress. Send sacristan to Wilderhaus Hall with a fresh letter on the parish’s headed paper thanking them again for their pious donation. Suggest to Herr Gottlieb a private interview with his daughter.