What were you thinking! Herr Gottlieb hissed as they made their way towards Archway, how could you be so insolent! Why do you humiliate me like this? Have you taken leave of your senses? What’s the matter with you? (Sophie was about to reply, when she encountered a pair of bloodshot eyes and a vaguely familiar, haggard-looking face—Lamberg turned away, embarrassed, then was about to stop to say hello when he noticed she was looking the other way, and he carried on walking stiffly.) Did you hear what I said, child? Are you listening to me? (Yes, I am, said Sophie, I’m forever listening to you.) Good, then do me the favour of responding when I talk to you, do you realise the way you’re behaving towards him? (Who do you mean? she said uneasily.) Who do you think I mean? Rudi, of course, for heavens’ sake! Are you listening or not? (Ah, she responded, I’ve already explained to him that everything is fine, that it’s just nerves.) I don’t care if it’s nerves or whatever, but you mustn’t give him this impression just now, you must be more considerate, affectionate, obliging. (Are you trying to make me into a good wife or a good actress?) Sophie Gottlieb! Now listen to me! You know I’ve never been in favour of that kind of thing, but I warn you, you are asking for a good hiding! I’m only reminding you, and God knows I shouldn’t have to, that you cannot behave so coldly towards your fiancé and be so friendly towards that man, or do you imagine the guests at the salon haven’t noticed? (Forgive me, what are you insinuating?) Naturally I am not insinuating anything! I am simply telling you, no, I am ordering you from now on to devote all your energy and time to what really matters, to your forthcoming marriage. (Even more time than I do? Sophie said, raising her voice. Haven’t I already sacrificed what I most enjoyed doing? Haven’t I already stopped working with Herr Hans in order to please you? What more do you want from me? Do you want me to stop thinking?)
What I like doing, kof, the organ grinder protested, is going out to work, I can’t stay here all day thinking. What you can’t do, Hans, chided him in earnest, is wander round outside in this condition. But I’ve only got a, kof, a cold! the old man insisted. His words sounded distant, as if the layers of blankets Hans had placed on top of him were muffling his voice.
Less than a week after his return to the square, the organ grinder had been obliged once more to take to his bed. The damp breeze and intermittent rain had given him a chill. His cough was persistent now, it had gone onto his chest. His temperature would not go down. His bones ached. Hans would wrap him in woolly layers, before helping him out his bed so he could urinate. A dark liquid dripped feebly from his shrivelled member, making a hole in the frost.
If Lamberg had entertained the possibility of stopping to greet Sophie in Archway, this was because she had been unexpectedly friendly on the two or three occasions when they had met. Lamberg had very clear ideas about Wandernburgers such as the Gottliebs—their good name and their appearance meant more to them than other people and their lives. He had always mistrusted Sophie, and yet the unaffected way in which she had behaved at the cave had made him reconsider. This was why it hurt him so much that when he plucked up the courage to smile and approach her she had walked straight past him. Would he tell Hans when he reached the cave? No, what was the point, he would only leap to her defence. What a fool I am, he said to himself, striding angrily down Bridge Walk, I never learn.
Lamberg thought the organ grinder looked less pale than the day before, but still poorly. When he saw Lamberg arrive, the old man put down his spoon and tried to get out of bed. Hans restrained him gently and pulled the covers back over him. Álvaro, who had just arrived, handed Lamberg a bottle of schnapps. Lamberg declined with a brusque gesture that startled Franz. Never say no to schnapps, my lad, the organ grinder said, even dogs know that! Lamberg allowed himself to smile for the second time that day, sat down on the edge of the straw pallet and raised the bottle.
The fire blazed. Cold air wafted in and out. Álvaro’s horse was gone. The schnapps was finished. And what about you? Lamberg asked, what did you dream about? This morning, the old man said, before I woke up, I dreamt of a lot of women standing in a row with their hands raised, and do you know the strangest thing? They were all wearing black, except one. Why do you think that was? Hans asked with interest. How should I know? the organ grinder replied, it was a dream!
Just as the poplars by the river had difficulty holding onto their leaves, and the waters of the Nulte began to ice over, and the streets became slippery, Sophie and Hans’s resolve began to falter, to lose its momentum. Meeting alone was becoming more and more complex. The rumours were no longer a possibility or something to guard against, but a fixed routine that dogged them in every street, on every corner, behind every shutter. Elsa and Sophie would circle the inn, gradually approach the doorway, and glance about before slipping inside. Their random encounters grew briefer—the days were shorter and she and Elsa had to be home before nightfall. Some afternoons, because of the timing or the hurry, Elsa was unable to visit Álvaro, and this affected her mood and her willingness to make excuses for Sophie when she went out. Sophie did not always manage to keep her temper with her father or to behave affectionately towards her fiancé. And Hans could not stop thinking of Dessau. They even argued now some afternoons.
I didn’t say I wanted to leave, replied Hans, tugging at the blankets. Before I met you I travelled all the time, and, well, I just wanted to know if, given the opportunity, you’d have the courage to follow me. Sophie sat up, pulled the blanket over to her side, and said: Given the opportunity? I must remind you I’m about to marry, and I can’t leave my father all alone, not to mention subject him to such a scandal. Don’t forget, I’ve told you many times—it’s not so easy to escape from here. In the end, given the opportunity, you could as easily stay in Wandernburg in order to be with me as I could leave here in order to be with you, don’t you think?
They said goodbye obliquely, without giving one another a last kiss, the way people do when they don’t know when they will see each other again. In the doorway, he offered to accompany her to the baroque fountain. Leave together? Are you crazy? she said. There’s already enough gossip, I’d better go alone as always. But it’s different now, he insisted, the streets are darker and emptier, I could pretend to be walking behind you, just for a few minutes, if we cover our faces properly no one will recognise us. Listen, my love, she said, pulling on her gloves and folding her cashmere shawl into three, it’s very kind of you, but I have to go.
Sophie peeps out into Old Cauldron Street. She looks to left and right, fastens her bonnet and sets off. The contrasting warmth of her cheeks and the chill air has the effect of slightly lowering her spirits. She imagines Elsa must be waiting for her, and quickens her pace. She can still feel a prickle of moisture between her legs. Although uncomfortable, the reminder makes her smile. A bitten moon climbs the sky.
Near the corner of Archway, installed in the shadows between the street lamps, the figure in the long coat hears a woman’s shoes approach. He narrows his eyes, judges the distance, puts on his mask. When Sophie passes the corner, he waits a few moments before moving away from the wall. He begins walking at a slow pace. He leaves Jesus Lane and follows her. He walks behind her at a steady distance. Sophie hears or senses something moving behind her. She holds her breath and listens hard—all she can hear are her own alarmed footsteps. She walks on, nervously. She glances behind her. She sees no one. Even so, she quickens her pace. The masked figure gradually shortens the distance between them, taking great care his feet strike the ground in tandem with his victim’s nervous steps. He estimates that twelve or fifteen strides will bring him close enough. Less than eight or ten, now. A few yards from the inescapable, Sophie has the happy idea of suddenly stopping in her tracks. Caught off guard, the masked figure cannot avoid taking a few more steps before coming to a halt. She clearly hears the echo of feet that aren’t hers. Then she reacts. She drops everything—her parasol, her shawl, her ridiculous bag. She takes off. She runs as fast as her legs will carry her, screaming at the top of
her voice. For a moment the masked figure hesitates—usually his victims attempt to flee when he is closer to them. Flustered, he gives chase, calculating how long he has until the end of the alley. After covering half the distance separating them, he doubts he will catch her before they come perilously close to the next street, which is more brightly lit. Still chasing her, he slows down. Sophie reaches Potter’s Lane and turns into it, crying for help. The masked figure stops dead, turns round and runs off in the opposite direction, towards the darkness. Just then a nightwatchman blows his whistle and comes over brandishing his lamp.
The next morning, accompanied by Elsa, Sophie reported to the main police station in Wandernburg. A sleepy looking Hans arrived to offer moral support; he had just received her urgent message and had immediately made his way to the address on Spur Street. Amazingly, he had found it at the first attempt, following Sophie’s hastily drawn map. Outside the police station, Hans heard about the masked attacker’s unsuccessful assault, and it was all he could do to stop himself from uttering the reproach he could anyway see in Sophie’s startled expression. She had decided not to tell Rudi, and much less her father—it would have provided him with the necessary excuse to forbid her from leaving the house. When Sophie finished telling him about it, Hans embraced her recklessly, and she didn’t stop him. Elsa gave a meaningful cough and they stepped away from one another. Before entering the police station, Sophie glanced at Hans’s appearance and asked him to take off his beret. Didn’t someone steal it? she whispered in his ear. Yes, he said putting it away, but I had a spare one. Where do you get them from? she asked, puzzled. They’ve been banned for years!
In here! a voice on the other side of the door cried out. The policeman who had accompanied them stood aside to allow Sophie, Elsa and Hans to enter the Chief Superintendent’s office. The Chief Superintendent himself was a nondescript, flabby individual, utterly unremarkable except for one subtly terrifying trait—his teeth clacked as he spoke, as if his dentures lagged behind his words by a fraction of a second, or as if a voracious appetite caused him to devour what he was saying. He listened to Sophie’s stammering, raised an arm to interrupt her, and ordered her to be taken into the adjoining office. And, teeth rattling, summoned Lieutenant Gluck and Sub-lieutenant Gluck.
Removing his cap in front of his superior, the younger Lieutenant Gluck corrected him in a hushed voice: Lieutenant, Chief Superintendent, sir, I’m a lieutenant now. The Chief Superintendent clacked an “Ah” and addressed Lieutenant Gluck’s father: Lieutentant Gluck, you must be proud of Lieutenant Gluck. I am, Chief Superintendent, sir, his father nodded, I’m ever so proud of my so, of Sub, of Lieutenant Gluck, Chief Superintendent, sir, thank you, sir. Don’t mention it, Lieutenant, clacked the Chief Superintendent, I always take an interest in my men’s progress. Speaking of which, how is the investigation coming along? Have we any strong suspects? People are nervous, politicians are beginning to ask questions. The young Lieutenant Gluck stepped forward to give his reply: We have, Chief Superintendent, sir. Is that so, Sub-lieutenant? his superior asked with interest. Lieutenant, Chief Superintendent, Lieutenant, the young man corrected him. Well, his father spoke up, best not to count our chickens, given the public disquiet the case has caused, it would be impossible to put right any mistakes. On the contrary, on the contrary! clacked the Chief Superintendent. The sooner we give them a culprit the sooner we can all relax. And in my view this is probably the work of a Jew. Do you think so, Chief Superintendent, sir? said Lieutenant Gluck, taken aback. Remember we already had a Jewish rapist nine years ago, the Chief Superintendent explained, we can’t dismiss the possibility of this being another one. I see, Lieutenant Gluck said, that’s a good theory, Chief Superintendent, sir, we’ll bear it in mind. The Chief Superintendent gave one last clack: I hope you can wrap this up quickly, lieutenants, it has gone on long enough. You may go, Vorwärts!
No sooner had they left the main office than Lieutenant Gluck approached his son and told him: You mustn’t speak to the Chief Superintendent like that, a sub-lieutenant isn’t supposed to … A lieutenant, insisted Lieutenant Gluck. A lieutenant isn’t either, Lieutenant Gluck said, annoyed, and don’t be so hasty. Whatever you say, Father, said Lieutenant Gluck. Lieutenant, call me Lieutenant, his father corrected him.
Lieutenant Gluck was questioning Sophie. His father remained silent, gazing out of the tiny window at the back of the room. The office, much smaller than that of the Chief Superintendent, had a musty odour. The young lieutenant was standing taking notes, and each time Sophie paused, he circled the woodworm-riddled desk. Is that all you can remember? he asked, hurling his quill into the inkwell. (The ink sloshed around in it, threatened to spill over the edges, gradually settled.) Are you absolutely certain you didn’t notice anything else about your assailant? His hair? His skin colour? The size of his hands? Nothing? I already told you it was too dark, Sophie replied, and as you can imagine I was too busy running away to notice these things. What about smells, insisted the lieutenant, did you notice anything peculiar about the way he smelt, his breath, his sweat, anything? I wasn’t close enough to him, she said, lowering her eyes and shaking her head, believe me, gentlemen, I wish I could be of more help. It’s a pity, said the lieutenant. Pardon me, Hans interrupted, isn’t there more we could do? How about if we kept watch at night pretending we are out strolling? I imagine you have a shortage of police officers, and there aren’t many nightwatchmen around. My dear sir, replied the lieutenant, irritated, we’ve already organised numerous special patrols to no effect. Repeating the exercise now would be of little use, the masked attacker never strikes two days, or even two weeks in a row. He’s nothing if not patient. He attacks out of the blue, bides his time. He appears then disappears. As though into thin air. Sophie (separating two slender fingers she had been clasping together since the start of the interview, brushing them against the sleeves of her dress, running them along the edge of the desk) said with a lump in her throat: Well, I hope you catch him soon, gentlemen, I had a narrow escape last night, but perhaps next time I won’t be so lucky, a few more seconds and, good God, I dread to think! Very well, Fräulein, sighed the lieutenant, we appreciate your assistance. You can go home now. We suggest you take extra care, and we’re glad you’re so quick on your feet. Well, Sophie murmured, standing up, I’m not that quick, just well informed. We women do read newspapers.
On hearing her last words, Lieutenant Gluck senior (who had been gazing absent-mindedly out of the tiny window) swivelled round suddenly and said: Wait, wait, so when did you say you started running? Sophie almost jumped when she heard the other lieutenant’s voice: What do you mean? I’m asking you, he explained, when exactly you started running away. You just said you weren’t very quick. So why couldn’t the masked attacker catch up with you?
Sophie sat down again and described the chase once more, this time mentioning the brief halt that had allowed her to discover she was being followed. Apparently excited, Lieutenant Gluck senior wanted to know why she had left out that detail in her previous account. Sophie told him she hadn’t considered it important, and that anyway all the questions had referred to her would-be attacker, not to her. The lieutenant asked her to recall as precisely as she could their positions in the alleyway, and to calculate how far they were from one another when she dropped her things and began to run. After listening to her with his eyes closed, the lieutenant went on: Are you sure this was more or less the distance between you? And yet you say he couldn’t catch up with you before reaching the next corner? Sophie nodded, pale-faced. Lieutenant Gluck glanced at Lieutenant Gluck, let the weight of his years slump into a chair and declared: Excellent, excellent! We’ve got him now, son. Fräulein, you are wonderful.
Draped in corners, folded on shelves, spread out over her orange eiderdown, piled on top of the dresser, arranged in boxes and according to size, the wedding trousseau swamped Sophie’s bedroom. Elsa, whose task it had been for months to gather it together, was reading aloud from a list. Leaning
against the doorjamb tugging the ends of his whiskers as though they were two pieces of string, Herr Gottlieb presided over the inventory. Sophie sat in a corner yawning discreetly.
Let’s see, Elsa recapped, plain and patterned cotton and silk stockings, petticoats, under-corsets, so far so good, now for the accessories, cuffs, bonnets, camisoles with lace trim, I think three dozen is enough, don’t you, sir? What! replied Herr Gottlieb. Only three dozen? She should have at least four, what am I saying, make that six! (Father, Sophie broke in, don’t be ridiculous, why spend all this money?) My beloved child, we are not here to scrimp and save but to do things properly, you deserve all this and much more! And remember, once you are a Wilderhaus, you will no longer have to worry about economising, well, six dozen then, Elsa, go on. As you wish, sir, Elsa intoned. White silk peignoirs for summer and dark moiré ones for winter, assorted camisoles, satin slippers, yes, that’s right, brocade and damask sheets, organdy pillowcases (organdy for pillowcases? Why? declared Sophie), to give you sweet dreams, Miss, bedspreads, blankets, bath towels, hand towels, face towels, extra towels for guests, three, I mean six dozen, that’s enough isn’t it? We need each kind. (I tell you I don’t need half of this, Sophie protested, it’s absurd.) It pains me deeply, Herr Gottlieb chided, to hear you say such things when you know how many years your father has been saving up for this moment, and the hardships your mother endured, may God rest her soul, and how happy she would have been to see the luxury you will enjoy. All I want, my child, is to know you will never need for anything so that I may grow old peacefully in the sure knowledge that I have done my duty, is this so hard for you to understand? And your ingratitude, Sophie, is not the best way of repaying my efforts. Anything more, Elsa? (Thwarted, Sophie stopped protesting and fell silent.) Yes, Elsa resumed, three high-waisted jackets, an otter-skin coat, a sable stole, four new bonnets, two with feathers and two with flowers, is that enough, sir? I don’t know, probably not, make it four of each just in case. As you wish, sir, Elsa intoned, and should Miss Sophie’s name be stitched in white? Not stitched, embroidered, Herr Gottlieb corrected, everything embroidered! (But I’m no good at embroidery, Father, Sophie reminded him.) Then Elsa will do it, damn it, that’s what she is here for. Let’s stop now, the guests will be arriving soon.
Traveller of the Century Page 48
