Traveler of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  … you alone inscribed it there; I read

  It so alone I withdraw from you …

  We have to assume that in order to inspire this poem, Sophie continued, she must have possessed amazing qualities. And yet when he is interpreting them, the poet avoids her, isn’t this because he is protecting himself? Or hiding, so his beloved doesn’t get in the way? That is, he writes the poem on his own, with his eyes closed, and reads it to himself! (Hans, implored Álvaro, stop her, say something! She’s tearing our classics apart! Hans shrugged and gave a sigh.) And further on, look, another beautiful, rather suspect verse: “my soul has moulded you in its image”. Why should anyone be moulded?

  With the aid of Álvaro, a couple of dictionaries and a Spanish grammar, they worked on poems by Quevedo, Juana Inés, Garcilaso, and St John of the Cross. They began by making observations, then discussed their meaning and finally translated a first draft. Álvaro’s German was almost perfect, but he couldn’t follow metre. If either Hans or Sophie weren’t sure of a meaning, they would ask Álvaro to translate it as literally as possible, then try to adapt the rhymes and metres. Álvaro enjoyed watching them trade syllables and stresses, as if they had a metronome in their mouth. They seemed to him similar, happy and faintly ridiculous. When they took too long, Álvaro wondered why if they already knew what they were going to say it mattered so much how they said it. A strange pastime, he thought, and a strange way to love. But he said nothing to them (about love or poetry) and waited for them to decide.

  They took a break. Hans asked Frau Zeit to bring them up a jug of lemonade. While they chatted, Sophie spoke of the differences she found between her language and Álvaro’s. It’s the opposite of what I expected, she said, metre in German or English poetry resembles a dance, while in Spanish it is like a military march. In German poetry the dancer marks the rhythm until he decides to turn round and go on to the next verse, regardless of how many steps he takes. It is more spoken, more from the lungs, isn’t it? Spanish verse is beautiful and yet there is something rigid about it, something imposed that doesn’t seem to originate from speech, one has to count both accents and syllables, it’s almost Pythagorean. I imagine it requires great technical skill, perhaps that is why Spanish poetry can seem as rhetorical as French poetry. It must be so difficult to sound informal in your language, Álvaro, while observing metre! I suppose so, Álvaro shrugged, I don’t know much about verse. Although I have to say I think Spanish grammar is much more flexible, more fluid, shall we say, than German grammar. I feel like I’m banging a drum when I speak German and English, b-boom! B-boom! First–second! Subject–verb! You can never stray far from the path of the sentence, maybe this is why your German reasoning is so convincing; your language doesn’t allow any improvisation in mid-flow, you have to think before you speak in order to respect the word order. Whilst, as you see, Spanish grammar is like Spanish politics! Everything happens willy-nilly, by jerks. Ulrike always said I was more imaginative and less clear-headed when we spoke in Spanish. Ich weiß nicht, it’s possible.

  And yet it is far more difficult to translate a rhyming poem from Spanish into German than it is the other way round, isn’t it? Assonant rhymes are easy to achieve in Spanish and they have a ring to them. In German, on the other hand, because of all our different vowel sounds and the endless consonants, ach! Assonance is more difficult and the rhymes are weak. What I find tedious about the Spanish language, said Álvaro, is all the long adverbs—larguísimamente largos, coño!—and how bad it is at joining nouns together. In English or German, two or three things can become one thing, one new thing, whereas we are as purist about language as we are about religion, each thing is what it is, and if you want something else you have to use another word. And yet, replied Hans, as you were saying earlier, Castilian grammar, do you say Castilian or Spanish? (Oof ! Álvaro sighed. That is an extremely tedious subject, I don’t mind, whatever you like.) Well, in your language grammar allows you to play with words as if they were riddles, and this is immediately noticeable in poetry. Sentences in German are constructed like ships, out of big heavy sections. How funny! remarked Sophie, Álvaro eulogising German and Hans going into raptures over Spanish! What’s so odd about that, Miss Wandenburger, said Hans, doesn’t everyone aspire to being a little more of a foreigner?

  They went back to work after finishing the jug of lemonade. They had left Álvaro’s favourite poem for last. After looking up the meaning of the words antaños and huirse, Sophie asked Álvaro to read Quevedo’s sonnet aloud.

  ON THE BREVITY OF LIVING AND THE NOTHINGNESS OF HAVING LIVED

  “Is life there?” No reply is given

  Despite all the years I have lived!

  Fortune all my days has gnawed,

  My madness steals away the hours.

  Unable to know how or where

  My health and years have fled!

  Life gone missing, the living past endures,

  And every calamity presses round.

  Yesterday’s no more; tomorrow is not yet,

  Today is leaving in all haste,

  I am a was, a will be, and a weary is.

  Today, tomorrow, yesterday, I shape

  Shroud and swaddling clothes, and remain

  Present successions of the dead.

  I don’t know what moves me more, Sophie gulped, the way time passes so swiftly in the poem or the poet’s despair over the time that he has left. Wait, said Hans, am I right in thinking this poem is divided into two? (Well done, Álvaro said sarcastically, quartets and tercets!) Very funny. The title suggests the poem will be about the fleeting nature of time, how quickly we grow old. And the quartets are about that. Yet the tercets say almost exactly the opposite, here a different voice appears to be speaking, the voice of a person who is tired of life, an old man for whom the end is dragging on, why is that? I’d never thought of that, said Álvaro, surprised, and I know the poem off by heart. You never thought of it precisely because you know it off by heart. I’ve had an idea, Sophie said pensively, perhaps the key to this is in that peculiar “soy un fue”, that is, why isn’t it “soy un fui”? What if, after reminiscing in the quartets, the old man, fearful of time, is able to contemplate the whole of his life, and he distances himself so much from his memories that he sees them as though he were another person, he becomes detached from himself and a second voice is born, the one we hear in the tercets. Bravo! declared Hans. You’re both crazy, Álvaro said, surreptitiously rereading the poem. Now that you mention it, said Hans, I can think of another turn of the screw—after turning into someone else who contemplates his own life, the old man continues along the path towards death, and when he stumbles on it, or at least catches sight of it, he arrives full circle, encountering the child he was, his own beginning. Then, in the final tercet, yesterday, today and tomorrow merge into one. In that case, Sophie added, let me suggest an optimistic ending—once he has encountered his beginning, the circle closing could be construed as a kind of eternity. That would explain the “present successions of the dead”. Present, do you see, because he is still alive!

  Quevedo, Quevedo! Álvaro exclaimed. Come back to life, defend yourself!

  Hans and Sophie looked at one another. They were no longer thinking of Quevedo, all they could see was a succession of present moments.

  In the end, at the behest of his parents, Rudi had no choice but to leave Wandernburg. They wished him to spend the holidays with them at Baden, where each summer the family rented a section of the spa, and then at their country mansion in the environs of Magdeburg, where the Wilderhauses owned land, which it was necessary to supervise occasionally. Rudi said goodbye to Sophie solemnly, insisting once again that she go with him. And once again she politely refused, citing her need to keep her father company, as well as the zealous care with which Herr Gottlieb was preparing for the wedding. You do know, my love, Rudi had said before giving her a last snuff-flavoured kiss, that even if you came with me, I would never dream of disrespecting you before our wedding day. I
know, I know, she had said, blinking, and responding to his kiss more passionately than usual, that’s what I love about you, my darling, but let’s be patient, that way we’ll enjoy our reward even more.

  And so, having made a hundred promises, and with a vague sense of unease, Rudi embarked on his last summer holiday as a bachelor. The day of his departure, he had a manservant deliver an emphatic love letter to Sophie, in which he swore he would write to her daily and would return at the very latest at the start of the shooting season. She replied to him immediately with a briefer letter, which she addressed to the spa, so that Rudi would read it on his arrival at Baden. But before that she scrawled a few lines on her violet notepaper.

  My love, my mischievous love—the faster time passes, the more I seem to leave my mark on things, as though the depth of my footprint depended on the speed at which I am going. Even as my actions excite and scare me, I feel indifferent to their consequences. Is it possible to experience all those things at once? Yes, as more than one person. The Sophie who has just said goodbye to Rudi feels relieved, and yet she pities him, too, and feels sorry in spite of herself. That Sophie is walking a tightrope so as to give the appearance at home that everything is normal when in fact it is most irregular, so as not to rouse Father’s suspicions about something that is deeply suspect. Yet the Sophie who writes to you is like a swirling current running hot and cold. When she needs to lie or to dissemble, she possesses a self-assurance that scares me, and that somehow I admire, because I never thought her capable of it. And yet as soon as she sees you or thinks about seeing you, the current boils over, it rages with a strange urgency. Then nothing else matters, all obligations, all suffering can wait until tomorrow; anything to avoid the unbearable torment of not seeing you now. And from where I am now the future seems like a useless, beautiful mountain. I am down in the valley, lying naked in the shadows, talking to you. E non abbiamo più.

  At least until September, while everyone is away on holiday, it will be easier for us to meet. It is simply a question of keeping up appearances outside your room, which is our world. I want to enjoy these days, which of course entails taking a certain amount of risk. Calling on my father’s acquaintances is beginning to grate on my nerves. It is exhausting having to weigh every word, every opinion. It is exasperating having to dress up. It is hateful that the library is closed. My friends bore me to tears. When we aren’t discussing eligible young men, we talk about dresses, and vice versa. But discussing Dante with them would be worse! Did I tell you how much I love you? Well, just in case.

  I shall see you tomorrow. What a long wait! I found a book of Calderón’s poems in the house, I thought it could be of some use. By the way, when are you going to show me your famous organ grinder’s cave?

  The most multilingual, melodious kiss from your

  S

  … and a tendency to leave your mark on things, you say. I know that feeling—like stepping back into the impression left by a pleasurable experience. But there is also the other side of the coin. We leave our mark on things, and things leave their mark on us. These past days, Sophie, I know very well, that wherever we may be, they have left their mark on us and there is nothing we can do to change that. I don’t know xxxxxx how long it will all last either, and for now I don’t care. Today it is thus, we both agree, and with you it is always today.

  Even so, my darling, will you allow me to say, until tomorrow?

  All my love

  H

  At the windows dawn broke insistently and night fell gently. The light expanded, blistering. One by one, without anyone realising they had gone, the city authorities abandoned Wandernburg. Mayor Ratztrinker took his family to the landscaped country estate he had just purchased from Herr Gelding. One Friday, around mid-morning, the councillors abandoned the town hall. And, in what one of the journalists at the Thunderer would later refer to as a “scandalous” coincidence, on that same day, six underage girls suddenly ran away from home.

  For Lieutenants Gluck and Gluck, however, there was no repose. They discussed the different possibilities, made renewed searches of the alleyways where the masked man usually perpetrated his deeds, returned to the office to compare notes. The son insisted there were now only three possible suspects. The father, more cautious, thought there were four. Let’s question them, Lieutenant Gluck said with irritation, and put a stop to this once and for all! Not so fast, son, his father said, holding him back, let’s not be hasty. If we start questioning suspects, the culprit will probably take off the next day. We have to wait a little longer, we can’t make any mistakes. We need him to make another move. And when we’re absolutely sure, we won’t question anyone, we’ll simply get a warrant from the superintendent and arrest him. You’re not as quick as you used to be, Dad! Lieutenant Gluck protested. Sub-lieutenant, I order you to be calm, replied Lieutenant Gluck.

  Rumours. Rumours passing from mouth to mouth, from window to window, from name to name, rumours resounding like a changing melody, propagating like weeds. In a small city words are expansive, viscous, they belong to no one and to everyone. The good people of Wandernburg wanted to know who, where, what, when and how. And in order to find out who was who, they all gave the appearance of being what they were not.

  The rumours had gradually ballooned, spreading from street to street, from door to door. Everyone was talking about the same thing and they all fell silent as one.

  Sophie was gazing out of the window. She had been lying quietly, curled up on her orange silk eiderdown for some time. Her eyes were glassy, her eyelids puffy, the tip of her nose red as if she had caught the sun. At the foot of the bed lay a scrapbook, a discarded mirror, and a bundle of folios with a quill pen on top. She wasn’t sure what she ought to do, although she knew what she wanted to do. She didn’t want an eternity, just a little more time. She breathed in slowly, rubbed her nose. She tidied the papers, folded them and slipped them into an envelope then rang for Elsa.

  When Elsa came into the bedroom, she held out the sealed envelope. Could you post this for me, my dear? she said. I’ll do it first thing tomorrow, Miss, said Elsa, when I go out to do the shopping. No, no, said Sophie, go now. But I’ve got to lay the table for lunch, Elsa protested. It doesn’t matter, said Sophie, standing up, I’ll see to the table while you go to the postbox. Elsa sighed: You know your father doesn’t like you doing the. That’s an order, now go, Sophie interrupted her sharply. And on seeing Elsa pull a face because she was not accustomed to being spoken to in that tone, she added: Please. Elsa shrugged, took the envelope and left the room, puzzled by all this hurry to post another letter to master Rudi. When the bedroom door closed once more, Sophie went over to her dressing table. She applied a brisk layer of make-up to hide her puffy eyes. She added some rouge. She gave her hair a half-hearted comb, then hurried downstairs to her father’s study.

  … convinced that, after much deliberation, such an important event should coincide with Christmas as well as with another joyous celebration, for it was during that festive season (do you recall, my love?) that you proposed to me. Bear in mind, too, that there are still a few minor organisational details which need resolving, and which, with a little extra time, I will be able to oversee myself. I know you understand my reasons, and I thank you with all my heart. It is going to be wonderful!

  Your letter arrived on Thursday, and as always it was a delight. I really do think you should read poetry from time to time, because, despite your objections, I insist you have something of the poet in you, and then we could enjoy sharing some of the books I would like you to read. Will you do that, my love? Have a good rest in that beautiful spa (where, of course, we will be going together next summer), take care of your charming parents, and please send them my fondest regards. Don’t play too much at cards, I know you, and beware of Fräulein Hensel, the shy ones are the worst! From what you have told me, I don’t think I like her very much. But of course you may invite her to spend a few days at Magdeburg, silly, you know you needn’t ask my permissi
on about that kind of thing. And it isn’t that I am not jealous, as you said in your letter—I detest telling people what to do with their free time as much as I detest them telling me what to do with mine.

  A kiss from your “elusive little diurnal moon” (what a wonderful metaphor, my darling Rudi!) and thank you so much for the gemstone necklace, I don’t know how to show my gratitude for such a gift. I miss you dreadfully, too. Until the next letter, your

  S

  What! Herr Gottlieb roared, you did what? Without consulting me? Is this some sort of bad joke? Or have you gone mad? There’s nothing mad about it, Father, whispered Sophie, it’s only a slight change, that’s all, just a few weeks, and besides, December is a much nicer time of year than October. But we were all set to begin the final preparations! her father growled, flinging his pipe across the desk (it struck the brandy bottle and clanged like a bell). I know, Father, I know, she insisted, that’s why I thought now was the moment to tell Rudi about it, before we started organising everything. And have you considered what the Wilderhauses will think of us, you foolish girl? said Herr Gottlieb, twirling his whiskers. Or what Rudi will think? Don’t worry, Father, Rudi will agree, I promise you, I already suggested a slight postponement in my last letter. You did what—Herr Gottlieb became incensed—and what did he say? Tell me his exact words or I shall read the letter myself! He said he wasn’t keen on the idea, said Sophie, but that if I was sure and if there was no other way … Heaven help me! said Herr Gottlieb in despair. One of these days you will be the death of me! Don’t say that, Father, she stammered. Well I am saying it! her father shouted, oh, and as for the fair tonight, don’t you dare mention it to me, do you hear, you’re not going and that’s final! Do you understand? Whatever you say, Father, Sophie nodded. Now leave! he said at last. Leave me alone, go!