Traveler of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  Impelled by the waltz and in high spirits from the punch, Sophie told Hans about Rudi’s most recent letter. After putting up some resistance, Rudi had accepted postponing the wedding, and even seemed persuaded the new date was more appropriate for such a momentous event. Aside from that, reassured by the eloquence with which Sophie had striven to imbue her letters, he declared himself to be as much in love with her as ever and proud of his fiancée’s organisational skills, which ensured the success of the ceremony. This was all true, but it wasn’t the whole truth—Rudi had been sensitive of late, alternating between a tone of injured pride and one of emotional entreaty. For a few days he had stopped sending her gifts through the post, but when he saw that Sophie made no mention of it, he had regretted his retaliatory act and had redoubled his stream of offerings. She knew Rudi well and could imagine how much pain he was in. And for this reason, in the same way that she regretted being unable to reveal to Rudi her true state of mind, she also lamented being unable to tell Hans how much Rudi was suffering—each man was a moral intruder in the other’s eyes.

  No, Hans, my love, I am not as generous as you think nor do I give myself to you freely—whatever you take from me you have already given me, and when I return to you it is because everything has the power to flow back and forth between us, like an echo. When I think of you, when I give myself to you, I feel I am going to meet myself, and this makes me stronger and more serene. Serenity also comes from being able to give back exactly what you receive. What a selfish kind of generosity!

  Good night, my happiness. Touch one of your toes and pretend it was my playful hand. Your

  S

  Sophie, my delicious Sophie, what a wonderful idea—whatever you take from me you have already given to me. I have been reflecting about it all day, and I think your idea, which, like all true ideas, is more of an experience, elevates our love to a higher plane—that of individualism in its truest sense. Lovers in the classical tradition promise they will always remain the same, but with you I have learnt to change my plans for the good. I am not talking about freeing the one you love out of self-righteous altruism. This is about the certainty that your breadth is my horizon.

  After each brief parting, after that tranquil repossession of ourselves separately, I feel ready to embark upon a sweeter conquest of ourselves together.

  With you, love from

  H

  The smoke from the tables formed a halo round Álvaro’s hat, crept round its brim like a ghost along a cornice, then, rising up its crown, finally disappeared with a shimmer among the oil lamps. Café Europa had filled up suddenly, as though the customers had been waiting for a signal to storm the doors. Álvaro had been over some of the company budgets, had ordered a cup of hot chocolate and was presently leafing through an out-of-date copy of the Daily Clarion. Hans was on his sixth coffee of the day, and was absent-mindedly contemplating the vagaries of the smoke. Álvaro had just said goodbye to Elsa and Hans had arrived fresh from his tryst with Sophie. Neither of them had ever mentioned these parallel encounters, not out of mistrust but out of discretion. Whatever became of his affair with Elsa, Álvaro reflected, it would have few repercussions. The situation with Sophie was different, much more delicate. And he wasn’t sure which was more helpful to Hans—continuing to hold his tongue or speaking up once and for all.

  Have you seen this? Álvaro said, deciding to dissemble, and picking up another newspaper. Have you seen the Manchester Guardian? He opened it and spread out a double page that overlapped the table. Hans leant forward and read the caption—in Frankfurt they had just celebrated the anniversary of Metternich’s naming as chancellor. King Francis of Austria, King Frederick William of Prussia, Tsar Nicolas, King George of England and King Charles of Spain had all attended. Hans shrugged. Have you seen these speeches? Álvaro went on. Listen to this: “His Imperial Majesty”—referring to King Francis—“emphasised his continuing achievements”—he means Metternich—“a result of his unstinting zeal”—zeal! They can say that again—“his political astuteness and the courage with which he has devoted himself to safeguarding the established order”—it’s nothing if not accurate!—“and the triumph of law over the chaos wrought by those who aim to disturb the peace both within and beyond our borders”. Well, it goes on like that, and then: “His Majesty Frederick William III of Prussia praised Metternich’s career, extolled the Assembly’s work, and warned of the need to increase the room for manoeuvre of the German states”—what a nerve! And then, listen: “At all times in a spirit of friendship and cooperation”—how touching! “His Majesty King George IV underlined the importance of the Quadruple Alliance, which strengthens the economic and trade agreements between the states regardless of religious differences”. Ah, they’re so English, the English! But there’s more, listen to what … Sorry, interrupted Hans, may I? Álvaro handed over the newspaper, raising his arms in a gesture of innocence. Hans read in silence:

  Finally Prince Metternich took the floor, ending his speech to the applause of the Parliament: “The word freedom has no value as a point of departure, but rather as an end worth fighting for. It is the word ‘order’ that designates the point of departure. Admirers of today’s press wish to dignify it with the title of representative of public opinion, although it merely publishes the views of its journalists. Do these same demagogues even recognise the aforesaid function, that of representing public opinion, in the consensual declarations of our governments? Public opinion is a powerful force in every sense. Like religion, it penetrates where administrative measures cannot. Underestimating the power of the press would be as perilous as underestimating the value of moral principles. Posterity would never understand if we responded with silence to our opponents’ protests. The fall of empires depends on the spread of unbelief. That is why religious belief continues to be not only the highest virtue, but the greatest of powers. And therefore a decline in religion would also bring about a decline in the power of our nations.

  Hans sighed.

  By the way, Álvaro continued to dissemble, how is the organ grinder? Last night I had supper with him, said Hans, he’s the same as always, he sings to himself and sleeps like a baby. Sometimes he coughs. I succeeded in buying him a new shirt and threatened to give him a bath. What did he say to that? asked Álvaro. He thinks cleanliness is overrated, replied Hans, that it depends on guilt and he is at peace with his conscience. Hans and Álvaro both laughed, but then suddenly Hans went quiet. Álvaro asked him how the translations were going and he said they were going well, he mentioned three or four poets and fell silent quiet again. Then Álvaro thought Hans might be anticipating another question and he resolved to bring up the subject. He was poised to open his mouth when there was a collision of billiard balls, followed by victorious cheers.

  Listen, Álvaro said at last looking straight at him, you are aware of the trouble you’re getting into, aren’t you? Hans gave a sigh, more of relief than unease. A smile flickered over his lips. Then he looked down, contemplated the dregs of his coffee, shrugged and said: It’s out of my control now. And I don’t want to control it. Álvaro nodded. After a measured pause, he went on: What about Sophie? Sophie, replied Hans, has more courage than both of us together. And the wedding? said Álvaro. I suppose it’ll have to go ahead, murmured Hans, Sophie doesn’t need saving, only loving. But do you seriously love her? asked Álvaro. So seriously, said Hans, that I know very well I mustn’t obstruct this wedding. And afterwards? said Álvaro. Afterwards, replied Hans, I’ve no idea. We’ll either continue seeing each other … Or? Álvaro pressed him. Or I’ll leave for Dessau, concluded Hans, where Herr Lyotard is expecting me.

  Álvaro’s hat continued to smoke, as if it was on fire. They did not notice when a fly landed on the brim. The fly liked it. It stayed there.

  Tell me something, Álvaro said, if you’re so in love with Sophie, how can you stand her being with another man while she’s with you? Because while she’s with me, Hans grinned, she’s not with anyone else. Yes, but yo
u’re not the only one, said Álvaro, and when you really love. The truth is, Hans interrupted, we’re never the only ones. Everyone is or thinks about being with others. Come now, said Álvaro, you don’t fool me, don’t pretend you aren’t jealous when you think of her and Rudi together! (The fly began crawling over the hat, rubbing its tiny legs on the shiny fabric.) I’m not saying I never feel jealous, replied Hans, only that my jealousy doesn’t depend on what she does. One can be eaten up with jealous imaginings. But aren’t you afraid of losing her? Álvaro insisted, that she’ll choose someone else, Rudi or some other man? Of course! said Hans. I just doubt I could prevent that by being the only man she sleeps with, do you see? I’d even go so far as to say one is more likely to lose a woman if one tries to stop her meeting other men. And what if she meets someone else and falls for him, Álvaro argued. There’s always that danger, Hans admitted, but frustrated curiosity is an even greater peril. We can become obsessed with someone we’ve never touched precisely because we’ve never touched them. That’s why I always mistrust faithful women, don’t laugh, they’re capable of idealising another man so much it becomes impossible for them not to fall in love with him. Don’t relationships between faithful couples fail? And how many marriages survive thanks to lovers? I’m still not sure, sighed Álvaro, if you’re pulling my leg, or if you genuinely believe this. My dear fellow, replied Hans, I do believe you’re becoming conservative in your old age! Álvaro shook his head: This is the young man in you speaking. When you’re young you enjoy playing with ambiguity. But as you grow older you stop being certain of almost everything, and you cling like a leech to the few things you know—the one you love, your family, your territory. I’m not as young as you think, replied Hans, and, aside from Sophie, I’m no longer certain of anything. And what about her, does she share your ideas? asked Álvaro. Oh, very much so! Hans chuckled. And besides … Besides what? Álvaro enquired, leaning closer. (The fly’s tiny wings quivered, threatened to take off.) And besides, Hans whispered, that way she’ll give me more pleasure, she can teach me what she learns with others. Oh, please! Álvaro exclaimed. Now you’re being cynical! No, no, Hans bridled, it’s impossible to be cynical when you’re in love. And I’m more in love with Sophie than I’ve ever been with anyone. How can I explain, for me there’s nothing more beautiful than feeling chosen, do you understand? Anyway, either report me to Father Pigherzog or buy me another coffee, it’s your turn. Coffee, no, said Álvaro, whisky. Waiter! Two whiskies, please! Both for this gentleman!

  It was then they saw the fly.

  What do we have to translate today, she asked slipping back into her white stockings. The Italians, he said, and the Portuguese. But first look at this.

  Hans searched through his trunk and passed Sophie a copy of Atlas. In the centre pages was a selection of a young French poet they had translated together. And, underneath the heading, an introductory note accredited to Sophie. What’s this? she said, surprised. When did I write this? You didn’t, he replied, you said it. That day, I wrote down your ideas, copied them out, and sent them off together with the poems. And as you can see, the publishers of the magazine thought it was brilliant. C’est la vie, mademoiselle Bodenlieb.

  We can do nothing with Camões, said Hans, because he’s already published and the translations are good. Have you heard of Bocage? You haven’t? He has no reason to envy the greats. I’ve jotted down some queries, there are a few verses I don’t quite understand, what does pejo mean exactly, and capir? We have this (Hans handed Sophie a small, thick volume: A Pocket Dictionary of Italian, Spanish, Portuguese and German Languages, published in London in 1799), have a look at the poems.

  Hark Marilia to the shepherds’ pipes,

  Their merry lilt, their happy sounds!

  How the Tagus smiles! And can you hear

  The breezes dancing among the flowers?

  See how in their playful love

  They invite our most ardent kisses!

  Look how innocent from plant to plant

  The idling butterflies splash their colour!

  Over in yonder bush waits the nightingale,

  While amongst its leaves hovers a bee

  Or suddenly buzzes through the stirring air!

  Such a happy landscape, so clear a morn!

  And yet if in seeing this I saw not thee,

  Worse than death it would seem to me.

  Yes, said Sophie, I think “breezes” works better than “zephyrs”. What about the butterflies, asked Hans, is “floating” better than “idling”? No, no, said Sophie, “idling” is better, because it gives the impression they take their time going from flower to flower, and inadvertently show us their colours.

  Sophie worked in silence, head down. She went over the different versions, copied them out and consulted the dictionary. Hans became caught up watching her, so serious and concentrated, the long fingers of her right hand stained with ink, and he found her terribly beautiful. He tried to go back to the draft of the sonnet he had translated, but something buzzed in his ears like Bocage’s bee. Then he said: How is Rudi? Sophie looked up; Hans didn’t mention him very often, for which she was grateful, and she was surprised. Well, said Sophie, he is all right, he seems to have calmed down. On Monday I received a jet bracelet and a mother-of-pearl comb, so I suppose all is well.

  Importunate reason, pursue me not;

  Your harsh voice whispers in vain

  If with terms of love or force of gentleness

  You rule not, nor contrast, nor soften;

  If you attack the mortal instead of giving succour

  If (knowing the disease) you offer no cure,

  Let me linger in my madness;

  Importunate reason, pursue me not;

  Your aim, your wish is to corrupt my soul

  With jealousy, make me victim of the one

  Who fickle I discern in others’ arms—

  You wish me to abandon my love

  To accuse and scorn her, while my desire

  Is to bite, go mad, to die for her.

  You’ve done a perfect job, Sophie smiled.

  They finished the jug of lemonade Lisa had brought, and moved on to the Italians. In my view, said Hans, Leopardi is the best of the new poets, although he’s still very young. I also proposed a few articles by Mazzini to the magazine, but the editor thought them too scandalous and said this wasn’t a good time to publish them, but going back to what we were saying, I found these poems by Leopardi in the Gazzetta della Nuova Lira. Tell me which you prefer.

  Sophie read them and chose Song of Ancient Fables and Saturday in the Village, which reminded her of weekends in Wandernburg when she was a child. Hans suggested Song for Italy because, he said, he liked poems that spoke with disenchantment about the fatherland, whatever that happened to be.

  I see oh Italy! the walls, the arches,

  The columns and the images,

  The lonely towers of our ancestors;

  And yet I nowhere see the glory

  Or the iron and the laurels that once bedecked

  Our forefathers. Today, prostrate,

  Your forehead bare, and bare

  Your breast, you stare back at us.

  In Leopardi there seem to be two kinds of nostalgia, Hans asserted, I prefer the personal one. I see what you mean, she said, his historical nostalgia sounds imposed; the other is much more physical, as though it came from real experience. Here for instance:

  The young maid comes in from the fields

  As the sun is setting o’er the land

  Carrying her load of hay; while in her hand

  She bears a bunch of roses and violets,

  To use on the morrow as is her wont

  For a day of celebration,

  As decoration on her bosom and her hair.

  On the steps with her neighbours

  The old woman sits and spins,

  Facing the sky where the day is fading,

  Telling stories of the happy times …

  Isn’t it
moving? said Sophie, the way the young girl with the posy and the old lady spinning meet fleetingly in the street? The girl must be in love, because she has brought a posy from the fields, which she will take to tomorrow’s fair. Yet for the old lady there is no tomorrow, what she sees is the close of day, and she waits for nightfall, spinning. I can just see her watching the girl pass by, smiling, then turning to one of her neighbours and saying: When I was a young girl … Anyway, shall we go over it again? No, no, replied Hans, it’s fine as it is.

  … O playful boy, your flowering youth

  Is like a day full of delights,

  A calm and cloudless sky,

  Herald of the celebration of your life.

  Enjoy, my child, the sweet state

  Of this happy season.

  I say no more; but if perchance

  That celebration tarries, fear thee not.