Traveler of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  Halfway through the afternoon, Hans noticed the logs burning in the marble fireplace—he thought there were too few for such a big room. Glancing around, it occurred to him the candles looked less white and gave off a more unpleasant smell, which led him to deduce that they were made from a cheaper wax than the usual ones. Rudi Wilderhaus’s patent-leather shoes creaked, his pointed shoulders tensed, and for a moment Hans imagined him as a two-branched candlestick. Only then did he hear Rudi’s words, which he had stopped listening to a while ago: A little over two months, Rudi declared. Two months? said Frau Pietzine excitedly. They will go by in a flash! Rudi, beaming with satisfaction, seized Sophie’s hand, which she gave up half-heartedly, and announced: We will spend our honeymoon in Paris. Oh, my dears, oh! Frau Pietzine declared, her excitement growing. Hans brushed against Álvaro’s elbow. Álvaro whispered in his ear: Coño, that’s original! Frau Pietzine perceived Hans’s sardonic expression and raised her voice: My dear girl, men will never understand how much the ceremony means to us. Entering the church in white as the organ plays. Led down the aisle amid a cloud of incense. Watching out of the corner of our eye our friends and family gathered for this one occasion, smiling through their tears. Men cannot imagine how intensely we long for this moment from a young age. Yet years later, my dear, believe me, this ends up being the most important memory of our lives, the one we will recall in the minutest detail—the flower mosaics, the lighted candles, the children’s choir singing, the priest’s voice, the ring on the anxious finger, the holy blessing and most of all, isn’t it so, Herr Gottlieb, the proud arm of our father. Hans tried to catch Sophie’s eye in the mirror. She looked away, a vacant smile on her face.

  Professor Mietter’s echoing voice called him back to the discussion. What about you, Herr Hans? Do you agree with Pascal? Not knowing whether he was being sarcastic, Hans decided to reply: If that’s what Pascal says, I have no objection. I believe Pascal also said almost no one knows how to live in the present. This applies equally to me, so please forgive my absent-mindedness. Sophie came to his aid: We were discussing whether or not Pascal was right in considering it dangerous to reveal the injustice of a law, given that people obey laws precisely because they believe them to be just. Ah, Hans thought on his feet, mmm, a profound idea, and a fallacious one perhaps, for many a just law has arisen as a result of people rebelling against unjust laws. Not necessarily, said Herr Levin, not necessarily. If you’ll allow me, Álvaro asserted, I’d like to quote an idea of Pascal’s which I find delightfully republican, “the power of kings is based on the folly of the people”, I think this explains the question of law. God help us! Professor Mietter groaned, straightening his wig. Pascal deserves more than mere demagoguery!

  Professor Mietter appeared hungry for debate, and exasperatingly dialectical. Imagine, Herr Urquiho, the professor said, only the other day I was looking through Tieck’s translation of Don Quixote, which, to be honest, I don’t think is much of an improvement on that of Bertuch (what? Hans countered. Bertuch even changed the title! Really? Álvaro was surprised, what did he call it? Life and Miracles of the Wise Landowner Don Quixote! replied Hans. Imagine how ghastly. And how mistaken, added Álvaro, because Alonso Quijano has no land to speak of, and he fails at almost every miracle he tries to create. The only miracle, Hans chuckled, was that Bertuch managed to teach himself Spanish by translating Quixote), perhaps, gentlemen, perhaps. In any event, you must admit it is amusing that a militant romantic such as Tieck should translate a book that mocks all his own ideals. In my view, Soltau’s is the most successful translation (too anachronistic, Hans disagreed), alles klar, my compliments on being more meticulous than me, but going back to what were we saying, while I was rereading Quixote the other day, I thought: Is Don Quixote not a conservative at the end of the day, a conservative in the best meaning of the word? Why is he considered a revolutionary hero when what he really wants is for history to stop and for the world to be the way it was before, when what he really longs for is a return to feudalism? (Ah, said Rudi, rousing himself and closing his snuffbox, not for nothing did they call him a wise man!) In contrast, gentlemen, I don’t know what you think, but in my opinion his most brilliant speech is the one about arms and letters. (My dear professor, Hans laughed, I hope you won’t be disappointed to hear that we very nearly agree.) Heavens, young man, what a welcome change! In this discourse, Don Quixote refutes a separation, which unfortunately still holds sway—physical strength on the one hand and intellectual prowess on the other. I would even venture to say that the thing has worsened, because today the humanities themselves have been divided into the arts on the one hand and the sciences on the other, further evidence of the decline of the West. How can feeling be separated from reason? And how can anyone deny that a lack of physical fitness is an obstacle to understanding? I for example read much better after doing physical exercise (surely, Hans argued, Don Quixote wasn’t referring to physical so much as military strength), you are wrong, he was referring to both, and moreover they are one and the same, war is as necessary to the peace of nations as physical strength is to the peace of the spirit. (You can’t be serious, said Hans, wars don’t happen in order to bring peace, and physical strength is seldom used to enhance the spirit. Well, Álvaro asserted, in this instance the professor is right, in his speech about arms and letters Don Quixote says as much, doesn’t he, “the aim of weapons is to bring peace, and this peace signals the true end to war”. That sounds like something the Holy Alliance would sign up to, Hans retorted.) Or Robespierre, Herr Hans, or Robespierre! (For your information, Professor, Hans replied angrily, I find Robespierre every bit as repellent as Metternich. What? exclaimed Álvaro, you can’t be serious?) Gentlemen, you cannot imagine the pleasure it gives me to see the pair of you at odds. (My dear friends, Sophie intervened, please let’s calm down, the whole purpose of these gatherings is to have different opinions, there would be no point to them otherwise. I beg you not to become agitated. As for this admirable speech, I’d like to remind you from my position of boundless ignorance that our hero from La Mancha, he who compares arms and letters, becomes a knight thanks to letters, not arms. And incidentally he does much more speaking than fighting, and wins arguments rather than battles. Elsa, my dear, would you bring the cakes?)

  Ah, no, forgive me, the professor objected, when we speak of Calderón we speak of a poet rather than a playwright. It is enough to read the verse in his plays, which far outweighs the action. Furthermore, with all due respect, lieber Herr Gottlieb, for I am aware of your fondness for him, Calderón serves up his poetry with too liberal a sprinkling of holy allusions. Faith is one thing, religious zeal another. Good grief, Professor, declared Álvaro, how very Spanish you are this afternoon! As Spanish, retorted Professor Mietter, as the confusion to which I have just alluded. I shan’t deny it, smiled Álvaro, I shan’t deny it. My favourite of all the Catholic poets is Quevedo—he could be reactionary, but never overly pious. God! What sublime wickedness, if you’ll pardon the expression. What exasperates me about Calderón are his religious plays, rich and poor as one in death, kings and their subjects joined in the afterlife! What would Sancho Panza have said of The Great Theatre of the World? My dear friend, the professor said solemnly, if anything makes us equal it is death. That is an inescapable truth, and a powerful idea for theatre—hearing what the dead would say if they knew what awaited them. Only by politicising philosophy can one question such a thing. Look, replied Álvaro, if life is a play, then Calderón forgot to describe what goes on behind the scenes. All that interest in the afterlife disguises what’s going on here and now. Didn’t Cervantes do the exact opposite in Quixote? He moved us by showing up everyday inequalities, injustices and corruption. By contrast the death of his character, what happens afterwards, is almost irrelevant. How can you say that, protested the professor, when Quijano recants on his deathbed! Quijano recants, said Álvaro, but not Don Quixote.

  How fascinating, Frau Pietzine declared, I adore Quixote! I haven’t read
all of it, but some of the chapters are wonderful. And who do you prefer, as a Spanish reader, dear Monsieur Urquiho, Don Quixote or Sancho Panza? I hope I am not putting you on the spot! My dear lady, replied Álvaro, it is impossible to choose, the story needs them both, and neither character would make sense without the other. Don Quixote without Sancho would be an aimless old man who wouldn’t last a week, and without him Sancho would be a plump little conformist without his curiosity, which is his greatest asset. I agree completely, commented Hans, except in one respect—the key to Don Quixote is that he has no aim: “He continued on his way”—do you remember?—“taking nothing save his beloved horse, believing that therein lay the true spirit of adventure”. If there can be no knight without a squire bearer and vice versa, without Rocinante there would be no book. How fascinating, Frau Pietzine cooed, and what de-li-cious cakes! Sophie, my dear, my compliments to Petra. Ah, scoffed Rudi, a speck of snuff on the tip of his nose, a sensible remark at last!

  After several days of running a temperature, coughing, and feeling nauseous, the organ grinder agreed to be seen by a doctor. Just so you know, kof, he had declared, I’m doing this to put yours and Franz’s minds at rest. Hans gave him a scrub down for the occasion. His muscles sagged like pieces of string.

  Doctor Müller arrived by coach. Hans waited for him at the end of Bridge Walk. The doctor alighted nervously and approached in little leaps, as though his feet were tied together at the ankles. Haven’t we met before? asked the doctor. I don’t think so, answered Hans, but who knows. How odd, said Doctor Müller, your face looks familiar. And even though I say so myself, I seldom forget a face. The opposite happens with me, said Hans, leading him through the pinewood, I’m constantly muddling people up.

  They entered the cave. Without batting an eyelash, the doctor made straight for the organ grinder’s straw pallet. He studied him with interest, nodded a couple of times, draped an enormous stethoscope round his neck (It’s French, he explained), listened to the patient’s chest and proclaimed: This old fellow is suffering from pemphigus. And what is that, doctor? Hans asked anxiously. Pemphigus, replied Müller, is a common ailment. Yes, but what is it? Hans insisted. Blisters, the doctor explained, skin blisters, in this case mostly on the hands. I imagine this fellow has worked a great deal with his hands, or so it seems to me at least. Quite so, said Hans, but what has that to do with his condition? You mean the fevers and the coughing? said Müller. Oh very little. Nothing, in fact. But as soon as I saw him I knew. Without a doubt. Pemphigus. But what about the other symptoms? Hans said impatiently. Doctor Müller digressed onto the subject of nervous ailments, boils, lingering colds, old age, bone disease. In brief, he concluded, nothing serious. Or perhaps it could be.

  After examining the organ grinder more thoroughly, Doctor Müller prescribed aloe purgatives at eight-hour intervals. Six different chest ointments, one for every day except Sunday. Soothing morning enemas using a chicken’s gut for easy application. Poultices in the afternoon, mustard plasters after supper. Pomeranian vinegar to be taken with each meal. Fenugreek poultices to aid digestion. Five grams of shredded lemon balm to reduce the nausea. Ten grams of decoction of horehound to ease minor coughing. Four small cups of juniper berry at the first sign of a convulsive coughing fit, followed by four more infusions of arnica and maidenhair fern to help bring up the phlegm once the fever has subsided. Mandrake root with crushed peppercorns as a tonic. Optional doses of snakeweed root if the patient’s bowel movements become too frequent. And if he suffers any acute pains or thirst, a cocktail of lilies boiled in milk and schnapps. Finally, if all else should fail, vigorous rubbing with swallowwort leaves on the forehead and temples.

  Isn’t that rather a lot, Hans asked, jotting it all down. Doctor Müller bridled: Tell me, do you know the Reil method? Carus’s experimental anatomy? Mesmer’s animal fluids? Well, in that case, kindly place your trust in science. Hans sighed: I’m doing my best. Is there anything else? No, I don’t think so, Doctor Müller replied wistfully, or perhaps there is, say a prayer or two for the patient, it’s a small gesture and it can do no harm. I’m afraid I can’t promise anything there, said Hans. I understand, the doctor smiled, don’t worry, I’m not a very religious man myself. The thing is patients sometimes feel more relief from prayer than from the treatment.

  The old man appeared to be sound asleep. Doctor Müller folded his French stethoscope and straightened up brusquely. Franz let out two barks. Well, said Müller, giving Franz a wide berth, mission accomplished, wouldn’t you say? I’ll be on my way, that is … How much? asked Hans. For you, the doctor replied, five florins. The organ grinder opened one glassy eye, and, to their surprise, spoke up: Hans—kof!—don’t give him a pfennig more than three thalers, do you hear!

  Lately, each time Sophie went out she noticed people staring at her. Scrutinising her gestures. Comparing what they saw with what they had heard. Staring at her waist, for example. Gazing intently at her dress and her stomach, examining her from the side just in case. To begin with she wasn’t sure. She found it hard to distinguish between outside speculation and her inner fears, between what others thought and her own doubts, and she tried to convince herself it wasn’t true. Until one morning, a distant acquaintance had greeted her in a peculiar way; after saying good morning, she had narrowed her heavily made-up eyes and said: My dear, you look, how can I put it, as healthy as a horse, don’t you agree? Fuller, more radiant, of course nowadays, as you know, they make women’s clothes in such a way …

  Back home, alarmed, Sophie had hurriedly weighed herself on the scales. She discovered she had not only gained no weight but had lost several pounds since the summer.

  One afternoon after lunch, Elsa and Sophie went out under the pretext of making a few final purchases to complete her trousseau. At the end of Old Cauldron Street they bumped into Frau Pietzine. Frau Pietzine was friendly, although she wore a concerned expression that made Sophie feel ill at ease. Before saying goodbye she beckoned to Sophie with a silken finger. Elsa took two steps back and began watching the passing coaches.

  All I ask is that you reflect on it, whispered Frau Pietzine, you wouldn’t want to throw away something so full of promise, such a privileged future for a foolish passion. And don’t look at me like that, I beg you, I am your friend. Perhaps you don’t consider me a friend, but I am, and my advice as a friend is to try not to lose your head. My dear lady, Sophie replied coldly, you sound like your Father confessor. That’s unfair of you! Frau Pietzine replied with unusual insistence, let us be frank for once, a difficult thing in this damnable city. Yes, damnable, and I know perfectly well you feel the same. I sympathise, my dear friend, a girl like you! With your temperament! How could I not sympathise? I’m not talking of sin, but of time—we lose our time over love, do you know why? Because we invest everything we have in it, all that it has taken half a lifetime to build up, in exchange for a fleeting reward. But after this passion has died we have to go on living—do you understand?—we have to go on living! In the end, all a woman has left are the things she sometimes rejects—family, friends, neighbours. Nothing else lasts. Remember that Sophie, we aren’t young for ever. Everyone knows this, but we prefer not to think about it until it is too late. When we are young and happy we don’t want to accept that our happiness is a product of youth and not of the rash decisions we take. But, mark my words, the day will dawn when you realise you have become old. And there is nothing you can do. And what you possess that day will be all that you possess until the end of your days. I shan’t hold you up any longer, dear. Good afternoon.

  Stretched out next to Hans, her brow wrinkled, a nipple poking above the blanket, Sophie broke the silence. Do you know what? she said. I bumped into Frau Pietzine on my way here, and she said some terrible things to me. The wretched woman is a busybody, replied Hans, don’t pay her any attention. I shouldn’t pay attention to most people, said Sophie, but it isn’t so easy. We can’t live as if no one else existed, Hans. Besides, I think Frau Pietzine meant wel
l, I had the feeling she was trying to help me. She was misguided, but she wanted to help me. Yes, of course, he sighed, everyone wants to help you decide about your life, above all the Wilderhaus family with their son to the fore!

  Sophie’s belly, against which Hans had his ear pressed, suddenly clenched. He heard her reply: How dare you criticise someone who goes on loving me despite all the rumours? You’re always talking about leaving, and yet you speak of the Wandernburgers as if they concerned you. Make up your mind! Are you here or aren’t you? I’m not criticising Rudi, said Hans, defending himself, I’m worried about you. You know perfectly well this marriage isn’t what a woman like you needs. How do you know? she said angrily. Or are you also going to tell me what I ought to do? Who told you what I need? You did! He shouted, you told me! Here in this room, in a thousand different ways! Hans, she sighed, I went as far as to postpone my wedding for you. Don’t talk to me as though I didn’t know my own feelings. Did you do it for me? he asked. Or was it for yourself, for your own happiness?