Traveler of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  Hans posted his manuscripts to Leipzig each week, back and forth, like the wind. The publisher remunerated his work with a money order Hans cashed at the Bank of Wandernburg, a square-shaped building of somewhat ostentatious neoclassical design at the end of Ducat Street. Each morning, spectral yellow carriages would depart from there escorted by a police guard. Establishing a work routine in Wandernburg felt at once strange and natural to Hans. The place still felt alien to him, as though he had only just arrived there, and was preparing to leave. And yet there were times when, wandering down an alleyway or crossing the market square, Hans would look up, and an unexpected feeling of harmony would overwhelm him—he liked the pointed towers, he was drawn in by the maze of curves and inclines. Then he would quicken his pace, trying to shake off this uncomfortable nesting instinct by telling himself no, he knew perfectly well he wouldn’t stay long, remembering the hundreds of cities he had visited.

  He would invariably rise at noon and go out to have a bite at the tavern, and, if he had time, meet Álvaro for a coffee (or three) at Café Europa, where they would sit browsing the newspapers and conversing, always about the same old thing, always about something else. Excepting Fridays, when he went to the salon, he would spend his afternoons in the Wandernburg public library or translating at the inn. Sometimes, usually on Sundays, Hans would go to the market square to listen to the organ grinder, and if he saw his dish was empty, he would wait for someone to stop and then begin dropping coins into it with theatrical zeal—coins the organ grinder invariably gave him back in the evening, the moment he arrived. Hans would have supper at the inn, translate or read for a while in his room and then head for the cave, where he would remain until dawn. And Sophie? Hans saw little of her and he never stopped seeing her—aside from the long Friday evenings, they would both improvise momentary meetings, arranged teas, casual encounters in the city centre, any excuse to see each other for a few moments. And then, of course, there were the letters, which traveled back and forth like the post, like the wind, like bilingual words in dictionaries, from Stag Street to Old Cauldron Street, and vice versa.

  The Wandernburg public library, like most libraries, was ugly but loveable, inadequate yet indispensable. It was run by a plump young woman, who would laugh for no reason when consulted about anything, and who spent the day reading, an open book clutched in her hands, which looked like paper pulp. The library was also an ideal place to meet Sophie, who often went there to read books deemed unsuitable to be seen in the house. Besides candles, shelves and dust, the library was also home to a large collection of magazines, specialist almanacs, romances, travel, history and pedagogy, regional newspapers as well as every single back copy of Wandernburg’s local newspaper.

  The Thunderer consisted of four sheets of convoluted grammar and bombastic language. It reported almost exclusively on local news, recording in unbelievable detail precise minutes of municipal meetings, verbatim transcriptions of Mayor Ratztrinker’s speeches, including repetitions, hesitations and mistakes, readers’ complaints about the state of a municipal flower bed, a stretch of road, a street lamp, exhaustive notices about the wealthy Wandernburg families (including the Wilderhauses), their illnesses, accidents, obituaries, death notices, funerals, births, marriages or receptions. There was also a section covering important news from neighbouring villages and, every now and then, an event of international importance—a coronation, a war, an armistice. The newspaper also boasted a financial section that gave information on the price of farm produce and wool (Hans was shocked to discover that Herr Gelding wrote monthly articles on the subject), the nation’s stock-market index, as well as those of Paris and London. Every Sunday, underneath the heated sermon of a certain Reverend Weiss and a list of the week’s religious services, there was a poem or literary review by Professor Mietter, whom the newspaper introduced in the heading above his contribution as, “Herr Doktor G L Mietter, a leading light of literature, a keen but impartial critic for our readers, an unrivalled bastion of good taste”.

  Hans lamented the dearth of poetry on the shelves of the Wandernburg public library, but was overjoyed when he discovered nine volumes of Rotteck’s Universal History, which he consulted frequently, as well as the helpful encyclopaedia Konversationslexikon, edited coincidentally by Brockhaus. One afternoon, while he was climbing a stepladder to reach one of Rotteck’s volumes, Hans glimpsed a plump, dark-haired figure. Even though he could only see her from behind, he was in no doubt from the way she was chattering away to the librarian that this was Frau Pietzine. She would often drop in in order to stay abreast of the latest recommendations from the Goddess of the Rhine or the Poetess of Swabia, and to devour the latest editions of the High Society Chronicle, Modern Trends or Remarkable Women.

  Another day, as Hans watched her condescendingly, Frau Pietzine came up to him and whispered in his ear, in a conspiratorial voice that left him wondering: I bumped into Elsa on the street and she told me Sophie would be here within the hour. Hans closed his book and looked at her, as though demanding an explanation. But Frau Pietzine simply repeated: Within the hour. And vanished between the rows of shelves.

  Lisa came back smelling of river. She came back with a burning brow and frozen arms, with mud from the riverbank on the hem of her dress, with the weariness of the river. She pushed the inn door closed with her foot, dropped the basket of laundry and pulled off her headscarf with a sigh. She called her mother twice. There was no reply. She went to the yard, quickly hung out the laundry, then wandered about the house—her father wasn’t there either and Thomas was still at school. She washed her face, tidied her hair and went upstairs.

  She knocked on the door, and before Hans could say Come in, walked into the room. She saw him hunched over the table surrounded by piles of open books, holding a quill. Lisa contemplated the raised lectern, Hans’s hasty writing, open-mouthed ink pot. There was something about those symbols, those printed characters that fascinated her, even though she couldn’t understand them, or perhaps because she couldn’t understand them. And above all there was something magical about the way Hans would spend hours immersed in these books, caught up in his own quiet fervour. He looked like a different person when he was reading, his face changed, he seemed distant but contented, like people when they sing. Her father also read, mostly newspapers, but it wasn’t the same—he turned the pages without ever immersing himself, like someone who goes down to the river, dips a toe in the water, then turns round. Hans’s way of reading was different. Hans was, what was Hans doing? What was it that held his attention? If throwing herself into books could change her that much then she wanted to learn, too.

  Hello, Hans said, what is it? How are you? Lisa asked. I’m very well, thank you, I’m working, he replied, what is it? I just wanted to see how you were, said Lisa, and to fetch your dirty laundry. My laundry? said Hans. Yes, said Lisa, examining the room, where do you keep it? Doesn’t your mother see to that? Hans said, rising from his chair. My mother, replied Lisa, beginning to walk round the table, hasn’t got time to see to everything, so I have to help her, you see, that’s why I came up, where do you keep your dirty laundry? Well, Hans paused, I don’t know, look here, are you sure your mother told you to? Aha! she exclaimed. It’s under the bed! Do you think that’s the proper place to keep clothes? Leave it, Lisa, please, said Hans, there’s really no need, honestly!

  Hans went over to try to take the basket away from her.

  Look here, said Hans, you shouldn’t have to, please let go of that basket! (It’s my job, said Lisa, what does it matter?) Quite, Lisa, it doesn’t matter, honestly, I’ll take it down to the yard (the yard? she said. You can’t do the washing in the yard, you have to go to the river), all right, then I’ll go to the river. (You? Lisa scoffed. You couldn’t wash out a single stain!) Give it to me! (Let go of that sleeve, will you, she insisted, brushing his finger.) Listen, Lisa, look here (all right, but let go), it’s just, I think … (Will you let go, then?) Yes, no! Wait, listen, you should be studying,
don’t you see? Studying at school, let go of the basket, you should …

  In that case, why don’t you teach me? Lisa paused.

  I beg your pardon? Hans took the basket.

  Teach me, said Lisa, to read those books you’re reading, you keep saying I should, I should, then teach me (but I, well, he stammered, that is, your family), I don’t think it can be that difficult, I know plenty of stupid people who can read. Give me back that basket will you? That’s better, thank you. We’ll start tomorrow, shall we? You must excuse me now. My mother will be back any minute and we’ve lots to do. I’ll leave you in peace. Until tomorrow, then.

  Lisa went down the stairs with a grin on her lips and butterflies in her stomach. She tidied the kitchen before leaving to fetch Thomas from school. On her way, she bumped into Frau Zeit, who was hurrying home to get the tea ready. You’re late, said her mother, I don’t like your little brother having to wait at the gates. I’ve been doing laundry, she replied, and I cleaned the kitchen. Very good, her mother said, but you’re still late. I’m on time, said Lisa. And if you keep answering back you’ll be even later, Frau Zeit said finally. While you’re about it, child, take your brother to the square until his tea’s ready, you know what he gets like at home. But mother, Lisa groaned. And she watched Frau Zeit as she began walking away.

  In the market square, Thomas was playing blind man’s buff with some other children next to the baroque fountain. Lisa watched over them with a mixture of exasperation and envy, as though she were losing an intrinsic part of herself in the game, and at the same time something new was preventing her from joining in. Her brother was running around blindfolded, arms outstretched. Suddenly he stopped, stuck out his hip and let out one, two, three little explosions. Thomas! his sister bawled. The other children roared with laughter. Thomas went on searching. He caught one of his friends, hurled himself at the lad, groped his face, stomach and tiny prick before shouting out his name. The others came running to make fun of the captured boy. They formed a circle, scaring the pigeons away, a few punches flew and the blindfold changed owners. Lisa found herself smiling. The children might seem rather silly, but they were having a lot of fun. When had she last played blind man’s buff? A long time ago. Well, not that long. Only last year. And why had she stopped playing? Because it was no longer appropriate, she was too grown-up to play those games. Was she really? Yes. Well, more or less. For a moment Lisa felt the urge to run around like her brother, to play with him and caper about. She was on the point of doing so when her heart leapt—Hans had appeared at the other side of the square and was heading towards her. Was he coming towards her? Of course he was. Or was he? For Hans had veered off, where was he going? He stopped in front of an old man with a beard, a beggar playing an instrument resting on a cart. Hans bent down, dropped some coins into his dish and—amazing!—stroked the black dog accompanying the old man. Only then did Hans turn round and acknowledge Lisa. She waved in a deliberately desultory manner. Then she turned her back and shouted to her brother: Thomas! For God’s sake, stop playing the fool, come along, it’s getting late!

  The following day at noon, Lisa went to Hans again and finally persuaded him to give her secret reading lessons. They agreed to meet twice a week, at more or less the same hour—when Hans got up, while her father was out sampling a few beers and her mother was busy in the kitchen. Half-an-hour of class—according to her calculations, that was the longest Lisa could be out of her parents’ sight without them becoming suspicious. Half-an-hour with her head buried in a book. Half-an-hour reading, becoming someone else. Half-an-hour alone with him. Hans bought her an exercise book and a pencil. He kept them in his trunk so that no one would see them.

  From that day on, Lisa began memorising the alphabet, learning the syllables, forming words with a swiftness and eagerness that never ceased to amaze Hans. Seeing her contort her hand to trace the symbols, hearing her delicious attempts to pronounce diphthongs, Hans was overcome with true emotion (an emotion mixed with another, darker frisson) and a sense that all was not lost. Lisa applied herself to her studies with an almost furious determination. The only thing she did as she cleaned, sewed and washed the laundry was repeat the strange alphabet over and over to herself. In the evenings, as soon as her parents had gone to bed (or when their panting stopped after the rhythmic creaking), Lisa would light an oil lamp, put it close to her bed, and copy out the letters with her brother’s pencils. Her homework had to be good, better than good. Too much depended on it—her self-esteem, her future, the threat of being punished by her parents, Hans’s opinion of her.

  One afternoon, while writing a report on a book, Hans became distracted by the noises in the house. This distraction was partly because he had found the work frankly tedious, and partly because Thomas’s excited voice echoing through the corridor on his return from school was difficult to ignore. He stretched and left his room to go to downstairs and have a coffee. When Thomas saw him come down, he did the same as always—greet him cheerfully, do four or five acrobatic turns, and grin mischievously before running off in search of other amusements. As he watched Thomas run off, Hans felt forlorn—there is nothing more difficult to capture than a child’s attention when he is playing, he reflected. Holding his cup to his lips, he puzzled over why an adult was primed for the hatred of another adult, but not for a child’s indifference. Thomas’s wandering gaze, which delighted in things only to forget them instantaneously, the restless eyes with which he viewed the world, were they enamoured of everything or did they retain nothing?

  Thomas enjoyed picking his nose as thoroughly as possible, as though hoping to find some buried treasure deep inside his nostrils. He didn’t do this using just one finger, but by forming a relentless pincer with his thumb and forefinger (the thumb tunnelling inside while the forefinger acted as a support). He did his homework in the same way, with a look of bemusement and scorn. Or rather, that was how he contemplated it, without writing a single word in his exercise book. Since Hans had begun spending more time at the inn translating, he had been able to observe Thomas’s habits more closely, and to discover how little interest he had in studying. Because he liked the boy, and perhaps also to disguise the fact that he was helping Lisa, he would occasionally give Thomas a hand with his homework.

  Thomas’s school curriculum consisted of reciting aloud, handwriting, arithmetic and above all Bible studies. Hans learnt that his fellow pupils were artisans, peasants and Jews—in other words he attended a municipal school. The week before, Thomas had misbehaved or so his teacher had thought, and had made him write out the slogan: “Patience, piety, purpose” a hundred times, as well as inflecting the three nouns through their different cases. The teacher had surprised Thomas exchanging shameful drawings with another boy. He had caned them both for a quarter of an hour in front of the class. He had told them it was for their own good and they must learn to face the consequences of their actions. On discovering what had happened, Herr Zeit had gone to the teacher to apologise. The teacher had reminded him that unless the same discipline they attempted to inculcate at school were maintained in the home, all their efforts would be in vain. In agreement with the school’s methods, Herr Zeit, furious, had gone home and caned his son for another quarter of an hour while listing all the sacrifices they, his parents, had made for him.

  Hans had tried to give the boy reasons to study, but Thomas, with a mixture of naivety and common sense, had refuted his arguments one by one. What’s the use of reading? he would protest, digging his elbows into his schoolbook. It’s useful for everything, Hans would insist, for anything you might want to do. But I don’t want to do anything, the boy had retorted. Then you’ll need to know even more if you want to go through life doing nothing, Hans had said, grinning. There are only three ways of learning, Thomas—through experience, listening and reading. But as children are prevented from doing practically everything, including listening to grown-ups’ conversations, the only way to learn is to read, do you understand? Well, Thomas had sai
d grudgingly, but what about writing, what’s the use of writing? Hans had responded with amusement: So you can do what mummies do. Mummies? the boy had gaped at him with astonishment. In ancient Egypt, Hans had explained, oh, and while we’re on the subject, if you can find Egypt for me on a map I’ll give you a bag of sweets, that’s what maps are for, too! In Ancient Egypt they would write the names of the gods because they knew words outlast statues, buildings, even the mummies themselves. Stuff and nonsense! Thomas had protested. How can a word last longer than a bit of stone! Stones are hard and words are not. And anyway, look, pencil is easy to rub out, see? … You’re right, Hans had admitted, although I don’t suppose you or I will ever be able to build a castle or a pyramid; it takes a very long time, lots of money and thousands of people. But you and I on our own, do you see? can write pyramid or castle without anyone’s help. Stuff and nonsense! Thomas repeated, picking his nose. But a moment later, as Hans began to walk off, he had stopped him and asked: Hey, what sort of life did those mummies have?

  Excuse me, Frau Zeit said, entering the parlour, I’d like a word.

  Hans, who hadn’t finished his coffee yet, gestured towards the sofa. Suddenly, the light began to wane. The afternoon was dissolving into the cauldron.

  No, thank you, said the innkeeper’s wife, I prefer to stand. Well, I’ll get straight to the point, as I’m sure you have work to do and so have I. I wanted to talk to you about Thomas. About Thomas’s lessons. I gather you’ve been helping him out with his homework and teaching him who knows what else. I’m grateful to you for taking the trouble. But my son doesn’t need a private tutor. And if he did, rest assured we’d hire one. Thomas goes to a good school where he receives a proper education. Neither his father nor I enjoyed that privilege. Thomas complains of being bored at school and I’m not surprised, bearing in mind the sweets you give him and the games you propose that distract him from his homework. No, you listen to me for a moment. I know you mean well. And as I said, I’m grateful. But my son’s education is the responsibility of his parents and his teachers. And not of strangers lodging at the inn. Have I made myself clear? Good. I’m glad to hear it. No, that doesn’t matter. And, if I may say so it’s none of your business either. For that reason, as Thomas’s mother, I’m asking you not to teach Thomas anything, especially things that are of no use to him at school. As I said, I appreciate your good intentions. Now appreciate mine. Good afternoon. Let me know what time you want supper.