Traveller of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  They crossed a freezing hallway and went down a long corridor that felt as draughty as a bridge. The ceilings were so high they were almost invisible. At the far end, Herr Gottlieb’s magnificent whiskers parted slightly. Come in, come in, he said, puffing on his pipe. Thank you, Bertold, you may go. Welcome to my humble abode, this way, this way, we’ll sit in the drawing room.

  When they reached the main drawing room, Hans was able to study the recent course of history in its hotchpotch of styles: the Empire furnishings, the rather provincial insistence on classical motifs, the discreet capitals and pilasters, the pompous symmetry, the proliferation of cubes. Almost every piece of furniture, which Hans took to be made of mahogany, was decorated with excessively ornate gilt-bronze mounts typical of all those countries aspiring to be like the French. Other adornments had been added, mostly in Louis XVIII style, in a vain effort to conceal the fact that time had passed; the more modern furniture showed a different kind of sobriety, a metamorphosis, as though they were insects mutating unimaginably slowly towards rounded forms and paler woods (poplar, Hans suspected, or perhaps ash or cherry wood), as though the battles, treaties, freshly spilt blood and new round of armistices had undermined mahogany’s traditional stronghold, besieging it with inlays of amaranth and ebony, overwhelming it with rosettes, lilies, less weighty, more carefree crowns. While Herr Gottlieb pointed him to a chair opposite a low table, Hans remarked from the infrequent touches of Biedermeier that the owner of the house was not at his most prosperous. There was only the occasional homely touch, such as an overwhelmingly Germanic sideboard or an oval side table devoid of triumphant angles and made of simple young walnut or birch. This house, concluded Hans, has tried to find peace and failed.

  As they waited for the tea to arrive they talked of business (Herr Gottlieb spoke, Hans listened), and travel (Hans spoke, Herr Gottlieb listened), of matters as harmless as they were trivial. Herr Gottlieb was an experienced host—he had the gift of allowing his guests to feel at ease while not neglecting them for a single moment. Observing that Hans kept glancing towards the bay windows, he stood up and invited him to admire the view. The windows overlooked a balcony that ran along the whole of the front of the house to the corner of Stag Street. Leaning out to the left, half of the market square and the sentry-like silhouette of the Tower of the Wind were visible. Looked at from the opposite direction, from a tiny window in the tower, the Gottliebs’ balcony was a thin line suspended in mid-air, and Hans’s figure a vague dot on the house front. Suddenly, Hans heard the chink of teacups behind him, then Herr Gottlieb giving orders, and finally his raised voice calling Sophie.

  Sophie Gottlieb’s skirts swished in the corridor. The rustling sound made Hans vaguely uneasy. A few seconds later, Sophie’s figure stepped from the dim corridor into the brightness of the drawing room. My child, Herr Gottlieb announced, let me introduce you to Herr Hans, who is visiting our city. My dear Herr Hans, this is my daughter, Sophie. Sophie greeted him, raising an eyebrow. Hans was overwhelmed by a sudden urge to praise her or to run away as fast as he could. Lost for words, he remarked awkwardly: I didn’t think you’d be so young, Fräulein Gottlieb. My dear sir, she replied coolly, surely you’d agree that youth is an accidental virtue. Hans felt terribly foolish and sat down again.

  Hans had misjudged the tone, lost the thread of the argument. Sophie’s polite yet ironic response to another of his remarks, the kind of ill-judged quip men make when they are too eager to impress a woman, obliged him to take a different approach. Fortunately, Elsa, Sophie’s maid, came over to serve the tea. Hans, Herr Gottlieb and his daughter began the customary exchange of polite chitchat. Sophie scarcely took part, and yet Hans had the impression that she was the one determining its rhythm. Hans was impressed not only by the perceptiveness of Sophie’s comments, but by the way she spoke—she seemed to be selecting each word carefully and articulating, almost singing her sentences. As he listened to her voice, he swung from tone to meaning, meaning to tone, trying to keep his balance. He tried several times to impress her with one of his observations, but he seemed unable to ruffle the calm aloofness of Sophie Gottlieb, who, in spite of herself, could not help noticing Hans’s long locks, and the way he kept brushing them from his brow as he spoke.

  Something else surprised Hans as he sipped his tea—Sophie’s hands. Not so much their appearance, although they were unusually long, but her way of touching things, caressing surfaces, probing them with her fingertips. Whatever she touched, whether her teacup, the edge of the table, or a fold in her dress, Sophie’s hands appeared to determine its significance, to interpret every object. Observing her stealthy, darting fingers, Hans thought he understood Sophie’s manner more adequately, and he concluded that her seeming aloofness came from a deep-seated mistrust, a need to examine everything. This reflection offered Hans some relief, and he felt able to embark upon a subtle offensive. Herr Gottlieb continued to be interested in what he had to say, and Hans realised that the best way of communicating with Sophie was through the answers he gave her father. He stopped trying to impress her, made sure she knew he was no longer observing her, and focused instead on showing off his spontaneity and ingenuity as best he could to her father, who moved his whiskers up and down in approval. This different line of attack appeared partially successful, for Sophie gestured to Elsa to draw back the curtains fully. The quality of the light changed, and Hans had the impression that the sun’s last rays were offering him another chance. Sophie stroked her teacup thoughtfully. She slipped her forefinger out of the handle, and placed the cup delicately on its saucer. Then she picked up a fan lying on the table. While he was making Herr Gottlieb laugh, Hans heard Sophie’s fan splay out like a pack of cards shuffling fortunes.

  The fan opened, moved to and fro, contracted, snapped shut. One moment it was a-flutter, the next motionless. It made little twirls, revealing then suddenly concealing Sophie’s mouth. Hans was quick to see that regardless of her silence Sophie’s fan was responding to every word he uttered. Trying not to lose the thread of his conversation with Herr Gottlieb, he concentrated on deciphering the movements of her fan out of the corner of his eye. As long as the meanderings and digressions typical of a first visit went on, Sophie flapped her fan disdainfully. Once these opening sallies had finished, Herr Gottlieb sought to steer the conversation onto a terrain that Sophie secretly found tediously masculine—the rather crude exchange of achievements and supposed exploits through which two newly acquainted men become friends. Sophie found herself hoping that Hans, if he was as clever as he seemed to think he was, would swiftly find a way of manoeuvring their talk away from this banal topic. However, her father was determined, and she watched their young guest struggle in vain to find a way of changing the subject without appearing rude. Sophie flipped the fan into her other hand. Alarmed, Hans redoubled his efforts, but only succeeded in strengthening Herr Gottlieb’s belief that they both found the subject equally enthralling. Sophie slowly began retracting her fan. She appeared to have stopped listening and was gazing towards the windows. Hans realised time was running out, and, in a desperate lunge, made an unexpected connection between the matter to which Herr Gottlieb kept stubbornly referring, and something completely unrelated. Herr Gottlieb looked bewildered, as though the ice he was skating on had suddenly disappeared. Hans hastened to assuage his doubts with a torrent of arguments that justified the arbitrary association and finally succeeded in pacifying him, bouncing back and forth between the original and the new theme like a ball gradually losing height, slowly moving further and further away from the original topic until he was ensconced in the new one, which was far more likely to be in tune with Sophie’s interests. The folding stopped; the fan remained half open; Sophie’s head tilted towards the table. The discussions that followed were accompanied by a series of placid undulations from the fan, whose leisurely movement gave the pleasing impression that the conversation was taking the right direction. In a sudden fit of excitement, with a deft thrust Hans invited Sophie to a
bandon her position as spectator and join in the lively debate he was having with her father. Sophie was not prepared to yield this much terrain, yet the rim of her fan lowered an inch. Emboldened by these minor victories, Hans got carried away and made some impertinent remark—the fan snapped shut, tracing an emphatic ‘no’ in the air. Hans retreated, qualifying his remark with exemplary sophistry to such an extent it seemed he had meant the exact opposite, while not allowing his face to betray the slightest sign of distress. Sophie pressed the ribs of the fan against her lips, faintly mistrustful but plainly interested. This time Hans bided his time, listened patiently to Herr Gottlieb, and chose the precise moment in which to place a few apposite remarks that forced Sophie to raise her fan abruptly in order to conceal a conspiratorial blush. Then the flapping grew faster, and Hans knew the fan was on his side. Savouring a delicious feeling of confidence, Hans allowed himself to venture onto a slippery slope that might have descended into vulgarity (the fan, Sophie’s breathing, even her blinking stopped) had he not performed a swift verbal pirouette, alleviating with a dose of irony a remark which might otherwise have seemed conceited. When Sophie raised a slender, compliant hand to her cheek in order to train a perfectly trained curl, Hans sighed inwardly and felt a sweetness course through his body.

  The fan episode had lasted scarcely a few minutes, yet to Hans it had felt like an eternity. Once it was over, Sophie joined in the conversation again with seeming normality, continuing to make her terse, perceptive observations. Herr Gottlieb encouraged her participation, and the three ended up chuckling merrily. After their second cup of tea, before she rose from the low table, Sophie looked straight at Hans, stroking the ribs of the fan with the tip of her forefinger.

  As the formal farewells began, Hans saw Sophie’s movements disappear before his eyes, as though sucked into a whirlpool, and all he could hear was the hum of the house. Hans shuddered, suddenly afraid of having appeared too distant, or of not having paid enough attention to what Herr Gottlieb had been saying. And yet his host beamed contentedly, saw him to the door without ringing for Bertold, and kept saying what a pleasure his visit had been: A real pleasure, Herr Hans, such an agreeable afternoon, don’t you agree? I’m so glad you liked the tea, we get it straight from India, you know, that’s the secret, it’s been a real pleasure, my friend, and don’t forget to come round and say goodbye if you leave soon, of course, farewell for now, thank you, you’re too kind, the same to you.

  Out in the fresh air, Hans began to walk without any idea where he was going, feeling terrible, wonderful.

  In the drawing room, Elsa had begun lighting the candles and Bertold was attending to the fire. Smoke emanating from his pipe and whiskers, Herr Gottlieb looked out of the windows, pensive. A likeable young man, he concluded. Bah, Sophie murmured clutching her fan tightly.

  Look who’s here, Franz! cried the organ grinder when he saw Hans’s sleepy head peering inside the cave. Franz ran up to him and hung on his jacket. We were beginning to miss you, the organ grinder admitted. Hunched over the open lid of his instrument, spanner in hand, the old man was checking its interior. Spread out on a newspaper were two cylinders studded with pins, some coiled strings, and a shoebox full of tools. Hans went closer to the organ. At first it looked as if the pins were scattered like tiny insects over the barrels, but on closer inspection he saw they were placed with great precision. He saw the hammers at rest, the lines of three screws to which the strings were fastened.

  These pins here, the organ grinder began explaining, turn with the handle and push up the hammers. There are thirty-four hammers in all, and they strike the strings. The low notes are on the left of the barrel, the high notes on the right. Each pin is a note, and each cluster of pins is a tune. You put a tune on the cylinder by punching holes in these parchments, you see, then stretching them round the barrel and banging the pins into the holes. But here’s the secret—the pins vary slightly in length and width, making the notes longer or shorter, enhancing or muting them. Each pin is a mystery. Not a note exactly, the promise of a note. The strings wear out, naturally, and sometimes one of them needs replacing. That’s a real problem because they are expensive. I buy them second-hand from Herr Ricordi at the music shop. I knock on the door and give him whatever I have in my dish. The strings have to be tightened with this device here, you see? Yesterday I was playing a pavane and, oh! the B-flats were terrible.

  How many tunes are there on each barrel? asked Hans. That depends, replied the organ grinder, these aren’t very big, eight apiece. I change them from time to time, or depending on who’s listening—no one wants slow tunes in summer, people like lively dances. Now that it’s winter on the other hand, people feel more introspective and are glad to hear classical tunes, especially when it rains. Don’t ask me why, but people prefer slow music when it rains, and they are generous (is what they give you enough to live on? Hans wanted to know), well, we manage, I live frugally, and Franz doesn’t need much either. Sometimes I get asked to play at a dance if people can’t afford an orchestra. Saturdays are good days because people give a lot of parties (what about Sundays? said Hans), Sundays it depends, if people leave church feeling repentant, they leave me something. People are more generous when they feel guilty. In any case, I don’t let it worry me too much, I enjoy playing, I enjoy being in the square, especially in spring. I hope you’ll be here to see spring in Wandernburg.

  When the organ grinder had finished tuning the strings and closed the lid, Hans could not help caressing the handle. May I? he asked. Of course, the old man smiled, only be careful, you have to turn the handle as if, I don’t know, as if someone were turning you, no, not so fast, relax your arm, that’s better, now let’s choose a tune, shall we? You see this small handle here? To change tunes you have to push it in slightly or pull it out, oh dear! Let go, I’ll do it. What do you prefer, a polonaise, a minuet? A minuet is better, it’s easier to follow the rhythm, go ahead, stop! Not that way, Hans, you’ll break it, you have to turn it clockwise! Slowly, let’s see?

  Hans was surprised by how easy and at the same time awkward it was to play the barrel organ. Sometimes the handle would speed up, and other times it would drag. He was unable to make it turn twice at the same speed, and the music came out warped, misshapen, a hiccupping travesty. The organ grinder chuckled and exclaimed: What do you say, Franz, do you like it? The dog made an exception and gave several barks: Hans took this as a bad sign. When the tune had finished, Hans accidentally turned the handle the wrong way before the barrel had finished rotating. There was a crack. The organ grinder looked solemn, moved Hans’s hand aside, and opened the lid in silence. He checked both ends of the barrel, took the handle off, replaced it. I think we should leave it for now, he puffed. I understand, Hans said, forgive my clumsiness. Oh, it’s nothing, the organ grinder said more calmly, it’s been playing up lately, I think the changes in temperature affect it. They don’t make them like this any more, the new ones have bellows and pipes, this one is irreplaceable, superior quality, made in Italy. Italian? said Hans, where did you get it from? Ah, said the organ grinder, that’s an old story. Hans said nothing—he simply perched on the edge of a rock, elbows resting on his knees, chin in his hands. Franz went over and lay down at his feet.

  How strange, the old man said, I’ve just realised I’ve never told this to anyone. A Neapolitan friend I had many years ago built this barrel organ, Michele Bacigalupo, may he rest in peace. Michele was fiercely proud of this instrument, and when he was asked to play at a dance, he always took it with him because he claimed it had the merriest sound of all. He made his living with it, until one evening, while he was playing a tarantella, a young man was stabbed for refusing to let his fiancée dance with another man. All of a sudden, there was a scrum of men fighting each other rather than helping the victim. When she realised her fiancé was bleeding to death, the poor girl screamed and threw herself off the roof. When he saw the girl fall, the young man who had stabbed her fiancé leapt after her. It seems the rest o
f them were too busy brawling to notice any of this. And do you know what Michele did? He carried on playing! The poor man was so petrified he started up the tarantella again and again. From that moment on, the villagers became superstitious about the barrel organ—the families of the victims claimed it was cursed. No one wanted to dance to its music any more and Michele could no longer play it in public. Years later, I met Michele and began as an apprentice in his workshop. He taught me to play the barrel organ, to appreciate its sound, and to repair it, and then one day he gave it to me. He told me he couldn’t bear the fact that no one listened to it any more, and he knew it would be safe with me. I painted it, varnished it and promised him I would never make it play a tarantella (and have you kept your promise all these years? Hans broke in), my dear boy, how can you even ask? Tarantellas are not to be taken lightly.

  And that’s how this creature ended up with me, the organ grinder said, caressing the wooden box. And do you know what? That was my last trip, I was a very young man in those days, but I’ve never been out of Wandernburg since. (And those landscapes on the sides, said Hans, did you paint them yourself?) Oh, they’re nothing much, only what you see from the cave in spring, I painted them so it would get used to the breeze from our river, which is as small and melodious as the organ itself is (some credit should go to the hand, shouldn’t it? Hans said with a smile, you saw what a mess I made of it), well, it’s not so difficult, it’s a question of having the right touch, touch is the important thing. (Hans, who was toying with the idea of bringing a notebook with him to the cave, persisted: Tell me more.) My dear fellow, you talk like a detective! (Almost, said Hans, I’m a traveller.) Well, this is how I see it—every tune tells a tale, nearly always a sad one. When I turn the handle I imagine I’m the hero of that tale and I try to feel at one with its melody. But at the same time it’s as if I’m pretending, do you see? No, not pretending, let’s say that even as I’m getting carried away I have to think about the end of the tune, because I know how it ends, of course, but maybe the people listening don’t, or if they do they’ve forgotten. That’s what I mean by touch. When it works nobody notices, but when it doesn’t everyone can hear. (So, for you the barrel organ is a box that tells stories, said Hans.) Yes, exactly! Goodness, what a way you have of putting things, playing the barrel organ is like telling stories around the fire, like you the other night. The tune is already written on the barrel and it may seem like it’s all done for you, a lot of people think you just turn the handle and think of something else. But for me it’s the intention that counts, just turning the handle isn’t the same thing as really applying yourself, do you see? The wood also suffers, or is grateful. When I was young, because I was young once like you, I heard many organ grinders play, and I can assure you no two tunes ever sounded the same, even on the same instrument. That’s how it is, isn’t it? The less love you put into things the more they resemble one another. The same goes for stories, everyone knows them by heart, but when someone tells them with love, I don’t know, they seem new. Well, that’s what I think, anyway.