Traveler of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  Sophie spoke of her need for independence, of Rudi’s plans to have a family, of what her fiancé’s buttocks felt like through his breeches, of what she imagined her sex life with him would be like, of the most curved penises she’d seen, of her curiosity about semen, of her monthly curse. And then in the same breath, incongruously, she began talking about Kant. According to Kant, Sophie said, killing an illegitimate child is less of a crime than being unfaithful. Pure reason, my eye! He says it would be better not to know of the existence of such a child, because legally he should never have existed. An adulterous relationship is a fictitious love. An illegitimate child is a non-existent being and therefore ending its life shouldn’t be a problem. This is what Kant says. And so our morality, Herr pretty bottom, becomes a negation of life. The morality we are taught is aimed at restricting life not helping us to understand it.

  Kant and menstruation, Hans reflected, why ever not?

  “The drama of this most recent and shocking attack,” Lieutenant Gluck was reading from the third edition of the Thunderer, “is thought to have taken place on Friday in close proximity to the area where the assailant usually operates; that is, as our well-informed readers will already be aware, in the narrow pedestrian streets leading from the above-mentioned Wool Alley as far as Archway. Although the identity of the latest victim has not been officially revealed, reliable sources have informed this newspaper that the young woman’s initials are A I S, that she is twenty-eight, and that she is a native of Wandernburg. As before, the lack of any eyewitnesses precludes the elaboration of any new theories over and above those already mentioned in previous cases. We would like to believe that the local police force and the special constabulary might be roused from their baffling inactivity and shameless ineptitude. At least this is the hope in the hearts of Wandernburg’s imperilled young women, whose fears we have tirelessly reported in these pages. Lest the sole clues on the files of the above-mentioned forces of order be those already in the public domain, this newspaper is in a position to confirm with near certainty that the masked culprit is a relatively tall, stocky man, thirty to forty years of age. It only remains for us to wait with resigned impatience for …”

  This is shameful! Lieutenant Gluck protested, hurling the newspaper onto the office desk. Reliable sources, for Heaven’s sake! Those fools have no idea what they’re talking about, and to crown it all they have the nerve to try to teach us how to do our job! Don’t upset yourself, son, Lieutenant Gluck remarked impassively, as a matter of fact these articles suit our purposes—if the culprit reads them he’ll feel safer, and that’s better for us. I prefer him not to know that we’re almost on to him. Now, forget about the press and tell me, did you copy out the draft report? Good, excellent, and the marks on the wrist were identical? Identical, replied Lieutenant Gluck, he definitely prefers to use fine cord, which indicates that he’s not a particularly strong man. And what did the latest victim say about the smell? his father asked. She seems adamant that it was lard, said Lieutenant Gluck. Yes, but what sort of lard? She isn’t sure, his son explained, she said she was in no position to notice that sort of detail at a time like that, but she thinks it could have been bear fat. And does the victim cook? Asked Lieutenant Gluck. I beg your pardon, Father? said Lieutenant Gluck, puzzled. I asked you, his father said, whether the victim is in the habit of cooking or whether she has servants who cook for her. As you’ll appreciate, said his son, the woman’s domestic arrangements didn’t enter into the interrogation. This isn’t a matter of domestic arrangements, Lieutenant Gluck corrected him, on the contrary, it is of vital importance—if the girl is in the habit of frying, she’ll know the difference between pig lard and bear fat, for example. And if she confirms this detail, then we are down to two suspects. So, go and ask for her to be summoned to make another statement, please. And while you’re doing that, I’ll go to the Central Tavern and reserve a table. You know how busy it gets at this time of day.

  With no pressing assignments from the publisher, with September closing in and the days growing shorter, that afternoon Hans and Sophie decided to go for a walk. They strolled as far as the banks of the Nulte, avoiding the main pathway and taking a narrower trail that led from the south-eastern edge of Wandernburg out into the countryside. They sat down beside the river. They kissed each other with longing but didn’t make love. Then they fell quiet, reading the waves.

  Suddenly there was a sound of splashing and the lines of water were erased. They looked up and saw some swans flying past in formation. Hans watched them with delight—their harmonious whiteness felt like a small gift to him. Sophie, however, contemplated them with a feeling of unease—on the shifting surface of the water, the swans looked deformed, broken. A wing there, a whorl of water here, farther away half a head. A detached beak, a patch of sunlight, two ridiculous webbed feet. How easily and swiftly beauty can be undone, Sophie thought.

  Sophie stood up and the afternoon appeared to teeter. The sun had begun to melt behind the vast landscape, its bright light eclipsing the outline of the poplar trees. Seen from the ground where Hans was still sitting, five-sixths of the day was sky. Sophie’s back looked bigger, it had a slippery, zest-like sheen. She was surveying the horizon, and as she moved her arms, the rays of light traversed her sleeves. The two of them found it hard to look at one another—both were thinking more or less the same thing.

  Isn’t it beautiful? Sophie said, her back to him, pointing at the blazing grass. Yes, beautiful, replied Hans. Don’t you think this light is special? she asked. That too, he answered. And the hill, she said, have you noticed the way the hill glows? I have, he nodded. Rudi wrote to me, Sophie announced without changing the tone of her voice, he says he’s coming back soon. And the cornfields, said Hans, have you seen them? Of course, replied Sophie, they’re the same colour as my eiderdown! I’ve never seen your eiderdown, said Hans, is it really that colour? Yes, well, almost, she shrugged, it’s a little darker. And when is Rudi coming back? he asked. A little darker, said Sophie, yet somehow brighter. Ah, that’s better, said Hans. In a couple of weeks, Sophie sighed, I don’t think he’ll stay away longer than that. That shade of orange, he resumed, only looks good in big rooms, is your room big? Neither big nor small, she replied, cosy. Couldn’t he stay longer in that accursed country house of his? asked Hans. Can’t you convince him, make up some story, delay him a while? Sophie wheeled round, gazed at him with trembling eyes, and exclaimed: What the devil do you want me to say to him? An orange eiderdown, said Hans, tracing circles with a dry twig, it’s a little bold, to be honest, if the room isn’t all that spacious or there’s no adjacent window.

  Auntie, said little Wilhemine, what are spiders’ webs for? Sophie looked round at her niece, puzzled. Elsa and Hans laughed.

  Little Wilhemine had come to spend a few days in Wandernburg with her grandfather and her aunt. Much to Herr Gottlieb’s dismay, her father had not come with her, and had sent a servant instead. While the little girl scampered in the field, closely monitored by the servant, Hans and Sophie moved a few yards away in order to talk in private.

  Do you know Dresden? he asked. I’ve been there a few times to see my brother, she replied. And do you like it? he said. It’s an improvement on Wandernburg, she sighed, although it has a rather neglected air. Like all Napoleonic cities, said Hans. The best thing is the Elbe, said Sophie, observing the Nulte, a real river, and those bridges, those arches! It needs a bigger theatre, Hans asserted. Don’t tell me you’ve been to Dresden as well? she said, surprised.

  Auntie, auntie, Wilhemine insisted, running towards to them, what are spiders’ webs for? Why do you ask, my love? asked Sophie, stroking her hair. There’s a butterfly in that tree, the girl said, pointing, it’s caught in a cobweb and can’t get free. Ah, smiled Sophie, now I understand, poor butterfly! It’s very pretty, and it’s trapped, repeated the child. Shall we rescue it? Sophie proposed, approaching the tree. Yes, the child replied solemnly. That’s my girl! her aunt said approvingly, lifting her up. Let
go of it, nasty spider!

  Forgive me for asking, Hans whispered as Wilhemine strained to reach the spider’s web with a twig, but why didn’t you tell her? Tell her what? Sophie turned to him, without letting go of her niece. I’m asking you why you didn’t tell her the truth. And what is the truth, may I ask? said Sophie. That however ugly the spider’s appearance, he replied, it isn’t bad, it’s simply trying to survive. And it does this by spinning webs. That everything follows a cycle, even the beautiful butterfly. It’s another law of nature. If she were my niece, I would have explained that to her. But she isn’t your niece, Sophie bridled, and besides, teaching her to protect what is beautiful, however fragile or ephemeral, is also part of learning. That’s another law of nature, Herr know-it-all. And I don’t see why scepticism will teach her more wisdom than compassion. All right, all right, Hans backed down, don’t get angry. I’m not angry, said Sophie, it makes me sad.

  At that moment the child’s twig pierced the spider’s web and hit the tree trunk, causing the spider to fall and crushing the butterfly.

  A sharp shower crumpled the grass, its needles pricking the grateful earth. They sat in silence watching from inside the cave, as though the storm were a monologue or a guest who dared not venture inside. Álvaro and Hans were sharing a bottle of wine. Lamberg and Reichardt were vying over a piece of cheese. At the back of the cave, surrounded by candles, bending over the open barrel organ and squinting in concentration, the organ grinder was adjusting the workings with a spanner. How goes it, organ grinder? Hans asked. Better, replied the old man, raising his head, much better, some of the strings are worn out, I’m thinking of dropping in at Herr Ricordi’s store to buy some new ones. The other day at the dance, you know, I thought some of the low notes sounded off-key, do you think perhaps that’s why they didn’t like my music? Young people today have a good ear, they go to the conservatoire, they study piano, don’t they? That could explain it.

  Even as the organ grinder closed the lid of his instrument, the storm outside began to subside, the rain fell more slowly, lost its fury. The pinewood hung there, trickling green. The grass shook itself off, blowing hard. Excellent! the organ grinder said joyously. If it doesn’t get cold, we can make a campfire tonight and sleep in the open air. Good idea, Reichardt agreed spitting out a plum stone, I’ve brought my blanket, and besides there’s plenty more wine.

  The clouds floated away to the east like washed linen hung out on a line. A ribbon of light fell through the cave entrance. Heavy with the last breath of summer, the afternoon had an overpowering smell. Just as well I didn’t bring an umbrella, said Álvaro. It’s hot all of a sudden, isn’t it? said Hans. What peculiar weather. Lamberg frowned, blinked hard then murmured: I don’t like it when the weather’s good, I prefer storms. What nonsense is this, lad? Reichardt asked. It’s true, said Lamberg, I don’t like it, people think they have to be cheerful when the weather’s good, as soon as the sun comes out they behave like idiots.

  The night was warm. Lamberg lit the fire, staring intently at the flames—each time he moved, Franz would put his tail between his legs. They roasted a few sardines and finished off the bottles. They sang songs, spoke ramblingly, confided their secrets to one another, told a few white lies. Álvaro confessed he was in a state over Elsa, and Hans pretended to be surprised as he listened to the details. Later on, the organ grinder allotted them all turns and they each recounted a dream. Álvaro suspected Hans had made his up. The organ grinder said he liked Lamberg’s so much he would try to have the same dream himself that night. Lamberg took off his shoes, placed his feet closer to the fire, and heaved a sigh. Are you staying? the old man asked. It’s Saturday, Lamberg replied without opening his eyes. Reichardt got out his blanket before also settling down. Álvaro rose to his feet and announced he was going home. The gallop of his horse floated among the sound of the crickets. Hans and the organ grinder stayed awake talking in hushed tones, their whispering gradually becoming more sporadic, less coherent. Soon, only the fire’s crackle and the sound of snoring could be heard around the cave.

  Snores, crackles, crickets, birds. The stars look like sparkling dust. The organ grinder has fallen asleep with his mouth so wide open that a toad could seek shelter in it. Lamberg is breathing through his nose, jaw clenched like a vice. Franz has crawled under his master’s blanket and only the tip of his tail is poking out. Depending who you are, Hans thinks, sleeping under the stars makes you feel exposed or invulnerable. It is still early for him. Surrounded by slumbering people, he feels like an impostor and attempts to fall asleep himself. He has tried concentrating on his own breathing, counting the fire’s tiny explosions, making out the soughing sounds of the pinewood, watching the position of his companions, and even imagining what they’re dreaming about. But he doesn’t fall asleep. It is because of this, a quirk of fate he will later regret, that he is able quietly to spy on Reichardt’s actions. Reichardt’s blanket stirs, he sits up, pulls his shirt down, glances about several times (when his turn comes, Hans closes his eyes) and rises to his feet without a sound. His face is changed. In the light of the fire, his wrinkles harden and his lips set in a grimace of weariness, of loathing. Before taking a step forward, Reichardt makes sure the others are sleeping. He stares so intently at Franz’s tail, poking out from beneath the blanket, that Hans thinks he will do something to it. He collects his belongings, ties a knot in his blanket and begins to gather up everything he can lay his hands on—Lamberg’s sandals, the organ grinder’s hat and empty bottles, the remainder of the food, Hans’s unknotted scarf, the coins in his frock-coat pockets. When he feels Reichardt’s hand groping his ribs, he can’t help jerking slightly, enough to make Reichardt pause, withdraw his hand, and look up at Hans’s face. Then he discovers his watchful eyes. The two men fix each other’s gaze. Reichardt is holding the coins in the palm of his hand. Hans is unable to utter a word. Instead of moving away, Reichardt continues to stare at him, making no attempt to justify himself. Hans can’t work out whether this hesitation is a plea or a threat. At first he thinks he sees surprise on Reichardt’s face, then he thinks it is contempt. Finally he opens his eyes wide, focuses properly and decides it is a look of shame—Reichardt is capable of stealing from his friends, but perhaps not with one of them watching him.

  Embarrassed and more taken aback than Reichardt himself, Hans does something he had not intended, something that takes Reichardt by surprise and which relieves and saddens him in equal measure—he closes his eyes once more. With a mixture of shame, gratitude and resentment, Reichardt resumes what he was doing. He takes Hans’s cap, adds it to his spoils, and runs off down the path.

  SOMBRE CHORDS

  THROUGH THE WINDOWPANES, the sky resembled a piece of paper held up to a lamp. A tiresome drizzle persisted. For a few days now Hans and Sophie had said goodbye half-an-hour earlier—the days were growing shorter.

  Leaving already? Hans asked, touching her nipple like someone pressing a bell. Sophie nodded and began hurriedly getting dressed. Wait a moment, he said, I want to tell you something. She turned, arched her eyebrows and went on dressing.

  Look, said Hans, the publisher thinks, that is, he’s written to me to say it might be a good idea if we revised the French libertines a little, you remember, the poems by de Viau, Saint Amant? (If we revised them? Sophie asked, stopping in the middle of rolling up her stocking, a good idea? What do you mean?) Yes, I mean, or rather Brockhaus means, that because of the problems they’ve had in recent years, they suggest we. (Suggest or demand?) Well, that depends on how you look at it, they’re asking us to do our utmost to avoid alerting the censors. Apparently they were cautioned last month about one of the translations we sent. (What? Which one?) I’m not sure, they didn’t say exactly, you’ve read the libertines’ texts, but the fact is now it seems the publishers are worrying they might seize their book list, do you see? It’s just a question of, I don’t know, of toning them down a little, without relinquishing the. (Wait a moment, wait a moment, didn’t you say
that by signing them with the authors’ pseudonyms the censors wouldn’t realise they were banned authors?) And they haven’t, my love, they haven’t realised, but apparently the censor raised an objection when approving the galleys, the publisher explained this wasn’t their usual man, who is on our side and who lets everything through, he was unwell and the idiot replacing him says there are at least fifteen pages that are unprintable unless we, do you follow? That’s what Brockhaus said, unless we’re artful enough to revise certain passages, and …

  Sophie, by now fully dressed, stood with arms akimbo. Hans stared at the floor without finishing his sentence.

  Listen, he ventured, I don’t like the idea any more than you, but if we want to see the libertines in print we have no choice but to (but then, she objected, they’d no longer be libertines), yes, yes they would, they’d be libertines published against the odds, as libertine as possible in times of censorship, it’s that or nothing, it would be worse to withdraw the whole translation (frankly, she sighed, I don’t know if it would be worse or more honourable), all right, all right. Do you know how many threats were issued to the magazine Ibis? And do you know what happened to the periodical Literarisches Morgenblatt? They stopped publication several times, Brockhaus changed its name, it was banned again, and it went on like that for years, the publisher ended up losing a huge amount of money and tens of thousands of sales, it’s only natural they should try to avoid problems, this is part of the world of literature, too, Sophie, it isn’t simply about visiting libraries, there’s also this other side, of fighting against the elements. (I see, then let’s refuse to make any changes and allow them to commission someone else to do the translation, that way we aren’t preventing the publishers from printing the book, nor are we colluding with the censors.) But we’ve almost finished the texts! How can we throw away so many hours of work! (I don’t like it either, but I’d rather sacrifice our work than our dignity.) My love, all I ask is that you look at it from another perspective, censorship is unavoidable but also stupid, if we rewrite the most sensitive verses we can say the same thing in a subtler way, we could even use this opportunity to improve the translation (I can’t believe you’re suggesting we comply with such a command), I don’t intend to comply with it, but to manipulate it at our whim. (Translation and manipulation are two different things wouldn’t you say?) You know perfectly well I detest this situation as much as you, but if we really believe in our. (But my love, it is precisely because I believe in it, in our translation, that I refuse to delete a single comma!) I agree, in an ideal world, but the reality is different, wouldn’t it be more courageous to accept that reality and fight it from within in order to publish as much of the original text as possible? (You talk to me about fighting! Why don’t we pick a real fight by refusing to be trampled on? Write to the publisher and tell him …) That’s not fighting, Sophie, it’s giving in, trust me, this has happened many times before. (What? You’ve done this before? Is that how you work? Hans, I don’t recognise you, I honestly don’t recognise you!) Yes, no! That is, occasionally, but in my own fashion, I’ve never made an author say anything he hasn’t already said or couldn’t have said, I swear to you, but, how can I explain, instead of getting angry and doing nothing, I’ve tried to find inventive ways around it, using ambiguity, do you understand? It’s a question of strategy (it’s a question of principles, retorted Sophie).