Traveller of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  Time to go home, everyone! The church bell has chimed eight, watch over your fire and your lamps, praise be to God! All praise! The nightwatchman’s lantern hovers for a moment at the entrance to Wool Alley, crosses from left to right and carries on down Jesus Lane. Then the masked figure’s brimmed hat appears once more and he continues on his way, like an evil shadow emerging from the wall. Farther ahead, different, more delicate footsteps are heading towards Prayer Street and the lights of the city centre. The masked figure quickens his pace without breaking into a run. The number of paving stones between his resolute steps and the more delicate ones is diminishing. The mud on the street is soft from the afternoon rain. Two, now three, paving stones nearer. Four paving stones closer and the masked figure can make out the folds of his victim’s robe—excellent attire for a party, but not for running. An occasional street lamp lights up a small pair of hands clasping the edges of the dress, trying to lift it off the ground. Five, six paving stones closer and now they are both running. The victim leaps as though over puddles, she is fleeing with a desperate elegance she now curses, forced on her by the corsets and crinoline petticoats beneath her ample skirts. The masked figure, shoulders moving rhythmically, is gaining on his victim without needing to take his hands out of his pockets. In his pockets is a fine pair of gloves, a knife and a piece of rope. The young girl cries for help, no nightwatchman in the surrounding streets will hear her cry after the eight o’clock round. But a passer-by, especially in spring, might. The masked figure is aware of this, and on the final stretch, only a few paving stones away from her, he reaches out a long arm. Almost within his grasp, the young girl turns and sees the mask.

  Hey, old man, take a look at this toad, said Reichardt. The organ grinder glanced over to where Reichardt was pointing at an enormous toad. It had a puffed-up throat, sagging gullet and huge back legs. The slimy animal looks like a green cow, said Reichardt. Alerted by the two men’s gestures, Franz immediately went over and stood motionless in front of the toad. The toad croaked, Franz’s hind legs tensed, and Reichardt and the organ grinder burst out laughing. Are you feeling peckish, old man? asked Reichardt. A little, answered the organ grinder, I didn’t have any lunch. Reichardt pressed his toothless mouth close to the organ grinder’s ear: Why don’t we roast it? he said. The organ grinder looked at him aghast, then licked his lips. Have you any more firewood? Reichardt asked. Franz gave a growl that was more wary than aggressive. The toad throbbed, alert as a sumo wrestler.

  About time, lads! Reichardt cried as he saw Hans and Álvaro arrive carrying a cheese, two big loaves of bread and two bottles wrapped in brown paper. They said hello and sat down next to Lamberg, who was relaxing on his back, hands clasped behind his neck. We’re late, Hans said grinning, because Álvaro gets very talkative when he’s in a tavern. We’re late, Álvaro parried, knocking Hans’s beret off, because his lordship doesn’t possess a watch. Sorry, organ grinder, said Hans, what’s that smell? Toad’s turd! Reichardt replied, slicing into the cheese. What? said Álvaro, thinking he had misheard Reichardt’s gruff voice. And you’ll be next, said Reichardt, pointing the knife threateningly at Franz. The dog flattened its ears and scurried over to the organ grinder’s side for protection.

  The bottles in the grass shone in the evening sun. A warm breeze stirred the fragrances of the pinewoods. The River Nulte tinkled as it raced along. Lamberg had been more talkative than usual. So, Hans asked, did the police break up the strike? No, no, replied Lamberg, they came later, the strike had already ended. (Who ended it? asked Hans.) I don’t know, I don’t know really, actually not everyone was sure of following it through, some only wanted a few days’ holiday and a better wage, well, we all wanted that. (And what about those who attacked the foreman? said Hans.) That was only a small group, mostly the strike organisers. (But you supported the strike, didn’t you? said Hans.) Yes, well, sort of. (That Körten is a bastard! said Reichardt. You should have thumped him as well!) I don’t know, suddenly we got scared, because that wasn’t the plan, and then the police arrived. (But why did the strike stop before they arrived? asked Hans.) Oh, I think a few of the strikers made an agreement. (With Gelding?, Álvaro asked. Behind the delegates’ backs?) Possibly, I don’t really know, I think they went to the boss’s office to speak to him and when they came out again they’d reached an agreement about the wages. It was around that time the police arrived. Then we left and … (I’m sorry, Álvaro interrupted, but what happened to the delegates?) The delegates? Well, they were dismissed, they were all dismissed. (And didn’t anyone stand up for them? said Álvaro.) Yes, of course, we tried, but it was impossible. It was a case of them or us. And there were only five of them, and us was everyone else at the mill, do you see? That’s what happened. That’s all I know. No one likes anyone being dismissed.

  Lamberg’s eyes were very red and he was scraping at the ground with a twig. Hans remained silent. He glanced at Álvaro out of the corner of his eye. That Gelding is a bastard, sighed Álvaro. I’ve got to go home, said Lamberg standing up. But it’s Sunday today, said Reichardt, stay a bit longer and we’ll walk back together. That’s why I’m going, replied Lamberg, because it’s Sunday. I need to sleep. I need to sleep a lot.

  When Lamberg disappeared through the pine trees, Reichardt looked at Hans and Álvaro, spat a gob of wine-stained spittle and grumbled: You’ve scared the lad off. He’s got enough troubles. Don’t talk to him any more about politics or any of that stuff and nonsense. I’d like to see you two as wool workers. All I’m saying, protested Álvaro, is if they fought back a little, all the mill workers, starting with Lamberg, would have better lives. Forty years ago there was a revolution in France and the working people rose up. Then came Napoleon, who, however much of a dictator, put an end to privilege and redistributed land. Instead, what do we have now? For your information, Reichardt replied, your bloody Napoleon was worse than the clergy, doling out more titles than ever in exchange for this or that. We never had so many counts and barons, and that went for the whole of Saxony. Things have never changed for us—the same infernal drudgery, working the land and paying taxes. That’s the reality. The rest is politics and stuff and nonsense, a lot of stuff and nonsense. You’re right, said Hans pensively, but since the end of the Revolution, and I think this is what Álvaro is referring to, there has only been one solution for Europe, the same one as always. We don’t want Napoleon back, we want the promise there seemed to be then, do you see? The feeling that it was possible to change the old order. That’s the problem as I see it—all the countries in Europe have agreed not to change anything. I hope the French keep chopping each other’s heads off until there aren’t any left, they already came here and we don’t need them. Look, Álvaro said, not so long ago in Spain there was a French-style constitution, and this constitution proposed selling off land, like that owned by your bosses, and handing it over to peasants like you. More stuff and nonsense! Reichardt said. Do you suppose the ones who draw up these constitutions know anything about the land? I’m old now and I don’t give a damn, but I’ll tell you why your infernal revolution never reached the countryside—because we peasants didn’t start it ourselves. The wealthy families used us, they took over, then forgot about us. No one told the French peasants what would happen afterwards, no one explained their rights, or taught them how to organise themselves. You make me laugh with your revolution! Anyway, for God’s sake, you’re a businessman! (That’s neither here nor there, Álvaro protested, you can be what you want and have the ideas you have.) What do you mean neither here nor there! Of course it is! I’m sick of all your sanctimonious speechifying! Your Revolution didn’t stop the peasants here bowing and scraping to the landowners out of fear. In case you didn’t know, the year after Paris, the peasants here in Saxony mutinied. And do you know what many of them did? They kept on calling the bloody slave-drivers we were rebelling against sir! The revolution was a farce. And do you know something else? I won’t believe in any revolution that isn’t started by those who do all the
work, not all the talking. That is if I live to see another, which I doubt.

  Reichardt turned away, his gaze fixed on the river. Upset by his response, Álvaro took his time in replying: All right, but surely you can’t deny your situation improved somewhat under Napoleonic law. It gave you freedom and the right to acquire land. Oh yes, of course, Reichardt said, turning back, how generous to give us our freedom. But tell me, lad, once we were free, how were we meant to pay for a blasted acre of land? Look, when I was a boy, I saw with my own eyes people surrendering to the French without a fight. I saw French soldiers march into Wandernburg one afternoon, and the next morning they were helping washerwomen hang out their linen, do you understand? Shit, I’ll never forget those blue uniforms, the posture of those grenadiers, sitting bolt upright in their saddles, how we admired their blasted uniforms! And I remember their muskets, how they’d get twisted up in the sheets. The young girls smiled at them, sang songs in French as they washed their linen and looked at the soldiers in a way that … Anyhow, I don’t know why they needed their muskets. Well, the girls used to slip messages into the barrels. Sometimes the soldiers would accidentally step on a sheet and the girls would look at the boot print and laugh, and go back to the river and you wouldn’t see hide or hair of the girls or the soldiers until evening. It was bloody unbelievable. Everyone trusted them. I still know some French words, damn it! Some nights I have weird dreams and wake up with words like botte or peur or faim ringing in my ears, and I get a lump in my throat. And do you know what happened then? Do you? They betrayed us. They used us all. And when we began to demand what rightfully was ours, the princes allied with the French sent in more troops, more guns, and that was that. They attacked us, fired at us, accused us of not wanting to work. They told us if we didn’t go back out to the fields they’d shoot us. Oh, and while they were at it, they raped our women. You can’t learn that from reading books and newspapers. Revolutions! Look at the calluses on my hands, lily-liver.

  Oh my God, breathed Álvaro. The organ grinder handed him his bottle. Franz suddenly barked, as if he had remembered something.

  Álvaro, Hans said, as he let the dog nip his hand, we can’t deny that the Revolution betrayed all its principles. Liberty was turned into empire, equality was confined to the middle class, and fraternity ended in war. All right, said Álvaro, then we’re left only with its principles. Those principles. And I’m still waiting for a revolution, a real one. Revolutions don’t come about through waiting, said Hans, you have to make them happen. You don’t say, replied Álvaro, offended. Why don’t you start one, then, if you’re so clever? Because I no longer believe in revolutions, replied Hans. If you’ve stopped believing in your own ideals, muttered Álvaro, that’s your business.

  Hush, my friends, the organ grinder said raising his hand, they’re making a nest up there.

  They all listened as if transported to the twittering among the branches, the rustle of weaving, the occasional flap of wings. Hans was surprised he hadn’t heard them before. And gazing at the organ grinder, whose head was tilted towards the pine trees, he said to himself: That man thinks with his ears. But, on thinking this, Hans stopped hearing the birds.

  Have you read the news about this terrible case, ahem, of the masked attacker in the Thunderer? remarked Herr Levin, plunging the teaspoon into his teacup. Good God, don’t even mention it, said Frau Pietzine, this is the third time they have printed it, apparently there have been several attacks, always by the same perpetrator, a masked man, who, who—saints preserve us!—violates his victims before releasing them, and the worst of it is the police know nothing, or so people say, really, it’s dreadful to think the streets are no longer safe. It is obvious these events terrify you, meine Dame, Professor Mietter said mockingly, for you have retained every detail. Incidentally—Herr Gottlieb’s whiskers leant forward—speaking of the Thunderer, congratulations on your poem last Sunday, Professor, I found it particularly brilliant. (Hans remembered the poem, which he had read in the paper while having lunch—declamatory tone, long symmetrical verses, forced rhymes.) My daughter and I agreed, you know how much we both admire you. Professor Mietter gave him a look of perfect surprise, as though he had no clue what he was talking about, and then pretended suddenly to remember. Heavens, that, really, it was nothing, said the professor, waving his hands in the air (as if to say, thought Hans, “my self-admiration is even greater”).

  As the discussion continued, Hans questioned his own state of mind. In an attempt to be honest, he had to admit his reservations towards Professor Mietter might be motivated by envy, or more precisely, by jealousy that Herr Gottlieb had included Sophie in his praise of the professor’s poem. Although (Hans thought, consoling himself on the one hand while on the other feeling ashamed of himself for doing so) perhaps Herr Gottlieb had only said this in order to make his remark sound more polite. Could Sophie really admire poems such as those of Professor Mietter? Not knowing where to direct his dismay, Hans noticed that Rudi looked completely distracted, and almost instinctively, he said vengefully: And what about you, dear Herr Wilderhaus, did you appreciate the poem as much as we did? Rudi looked up from his teacup, glanced about with a startled air, and, sitting up straight, replied: Regrettably on this occasion I am unable to share my impressions, for there are days when I do not have time even to browse the newspapers.

  Naturally, Professor Mietter said, straightening his wig, I don’t mean to excuse these atrocities, but tell me, have you seen the way some young women dress nowadays? How much more can they reveal? At this rate, there will be no more dressmakers! Sophie (who that afternoon, Hans could not stop noticing, was wearing an elegant, low-cut, pearl-grey dress and a fine coral necklace, because when the salon was over she was going to spend the evening with some of Rudi’s friends) raised an eyebrow and said: Professor, I am sure I must have misheard you, could you explain what you meant by that remark? Mademoiselle, said Professor Mietter, it was only a joke, there is no need to make a drama out of it. You are quite right, Sophie smiled disdainfully, the victims provide us with quite enough drama. (Take that, Mietter! Hans thought gleefully. And once again he said to himself: Of course she couldn’t like that poem.)

  Given that there are no witnesses, suggested Herr Levin, we cannot rule out the possibility that this masked man might be a kind of collective myth, that is, ahem, a pretext to justify, as it were, shameful indiscretions. I must admit, said Professor Mietter, your idea is an ingenious one; in any event it would explain why the police have not yet arrested anyone, and the increase in the number of cases being reported. Gentlemen, Sophie said folding her arms, both of you seem to me to be rather carried away this afternoon! Liebes Fräulein, Professor Mietter said, adjusting his spectacle frames, I hope we have not given you the wrong impression, rest assured I consider myself a most fervent admirer of the fair sex. Is that so, Professor? Sophie replied, clasping her coral necklace. And in what way do you admire us? I have the feeling this debate could prove most informative. Well, Professor Mietter said, taking a deep breath, in my opinion women, cultured women that is, are on a higher spiritual plane. Unlike so many uncouth men we encounter in our daily lives, such women appear to be untouched by vulgar things. (Even when they wish to be touched by them? remarked Sophie. My child, Herr Gottlieb chided her.) Believe me, Mademoiselle, no man of honour would dare underestimate the highest destiny that is the lot of every mother, to be the pillar of her family, a source of filial love, a focus of harmony and, why not say it, all that beautifies our homes—do such merits strike you as trifling? (Let us say, she replied, that with a little effort I could think of a few more.) My impulsive friend, I’m afraid you insist on misunderstanding me. I do not mean to argue that men are superior to women, almost the contrary. I am simply saying that men possess certain innate abilities in some areas, just as women undeniably possess them in many others. That is why the roles some women writers challenge today are no more than the result of the application of logic, the product of centuries of human relat
ionships. (How reassuring, Sophie said, to know that science sanctions our domestic chores.) These are not my words, but those of the distinguished moral philosopher Hannah More, whose works I should add I have read with interest, and who I imagine, being a woman herself, cannot be charged with militating against her own sex. (You would be surprised, dear Professor, how relentlessly some of my friends cultivate their misogyny. And speaking of British women moralists, have you by any chance read Mary Wollstonecraft? I can recommend a good translation.) I cannot say I have, my dear, but in any case there is no need—I’m perfectly able to read in English.