Traveler of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  Doctor Müller cleared his throat twice. Hans wheeled round with a start. Müller doffed his hat. I thought you were never coming, said Hans, more in a tone of entreaty than reproach. Unfortunately, said the doctor, I have many other patients to attend. Hans remained silent and moved away from the old man. Doctor Müller knelt down next to the straw pallet, listened to his chest, took his temperature, placed a pill between his lips. His temperature is quite high, Müller announced, but he seems comfortable. How can he be comfortable, Doctor? Hans demurred. He’s bathed in sweat and shivering. My dear sir, Doctor Müller said, rising to his feet, in my lifetime I’ve seen many men go through this, and I can assure you, rarely have I seen one who is suffering so little. Look. Take his wrist. His pulse is slow, remarkably slow considering how much difficulty he has breathing, it’s as if he were sleeping, you see, ah, well, he has fallen asleep! It’s the best thing for him. He needs rest, lots of rest. And now you must stop worrying, my good man, I’ve given him a sleeping pill. Get some rest yourself.

  The week went by slowly, the hours dragged like mud. Health has a slippery quality—its swift passage is imperceptible. Illness on the other hand lingers, it delays time, which ironically is the thing it extinguishes. Slowly, inexorably, illness coursed through the organ grinder’s body, anointing it with shadows. His limbs had grown emaciated. A translucent layer enfolded his bones. When his fever peaked, his hands shook even more, tracing indecipherable pictures in the air. And yet the old man seemed to be passing away with instinctive equanimity. When he was not exhausted after vomiting or drifting into unconsciousness, he would make an effort to sit up amid the filth of his straw pallet in order to gaze at something in the pinewood and beyond. At such times, Franz, who only left his side in order to scavenge for food or to defecate among the trees, pricked up his triangular ears and watched with him. Can you hear that, Franz? the organ grinder nodded, can you hear the wind?

  Hans went to the cave at noon every day. He brought the old man lunch, made sure he drank liquids and stayed with him until nightfall. Depending on how strong he felt, they would talk or remain silent. The organ grinder slept a lot and complained very little. Hans felt he was more afraid than the sick man. Franz was also nervous—he kept up a continuous watch, letting out vaporous breaths through his nose, and one afternoon he had tried to bite Lamberg when he called at the cave. Some nights Hans had fallen asleep by the old man’s bed, and had woken up shivering next to the embers. He would relight the fire before going back to the inn, crossing the bridge in darkness, as he had so many times that year. But those walks through the pitch-black countryside that had once seemed mysterious to him, with the flashes of excitement that come from wilfully exposing oneself to danger, now seemed long, tiring and reckless. As soon as he returned to his room, he pulled on as many layers of clothing as he could, collapsed onto his bed and fell into a deep sleep. He dragged himself out of bed at first light. Splashed his face with cold water, drank three cups of coffee in quick succession, wrote to Sophie and settled down to do some translation. He spent ages lost in thought, mumbling to himself as he pored over a book written in hostile, mysterious, unfathomable language.

  One day he was late leaving the inn. When he saw how full each passing coach was, and the long queue waiting in the market square, he resolved to walk. Instead of taking the usual route along River Way, he took a short cut along a track that crossed the open fields and came out on the path to the pinewood. He set off, his mind blank. The wintry rain had turned the path to slush. The breeze, like a torn sack, fluttered feebly in all directions. Far off, the furrowed cornfields to the south appeared and disappeared from sight. A mottled light blurred the contours of the landscape. This was a day (reflected Hans) for painters, not ramblers. When he attempted to estimate how far he was from the pinewood, he realised he had lost his way.

  He glimpsed the cornfields straight ahead of him and managed to get his bearings. He walked towards them in order to be sure of not straying. On the horizon he could see a row of farm labourers stooped over the ground. As he approached the edge of the field, Hans noticed the crooked figure of an elderly labourer. He stopped to look at him.

  Across the fence, a man looked up, trying to work out why the devil the fellow with his hair flying in the wind was staring so intently. For a split second (he convinced himself it wasn’t true) he thought the man was staring at him. The labourer spat (it was all right for some, did the young dandy have nothing better to do?) and bent down once more. (He had to work fast. It was no joke. The Rumenigge’s overseer was foaming at the mouth. He had bawled at them for being two days late with the ploughing. Had complained that some of the furrows were as crooked as snakes. And had told them that as of the next day their wage would be halved unless they made up the lost time. The overseer was right, but if they ploughed more quickly it would only make matters worse. And if they sowed the seed any old how, the seedlings wouldn’t have enough cover. How long was it since the overseer had planted seed? If they hurried they would sow badly. But if they didn’t they’d be paid less. That was the way things were today. Anyone who didn’t work fast was never hired again, like Reichardt. And why did the long-haired idiot insist on staring?) Hiking up the sack once more and clutching it under his left arm, the farm labourer thrust his hand inside, scattering another handful of seed, trying to trace a complete circle with his wrist (and how the devil was he supposed to sow quickly when the wind was changing all the time, making it impossible to scatter the seed?)

  Hans moved away from the edge of the field still staring at the line of peasants combing the ground with their hoes, dibbers and mattocks. While he strolled along, he tried to think of how to say hoe, dibber and mattock in the languages he thought he knew. And he wondered why his translations were so bad of late?

  Once he found the path again, he quickened his pace, his mind on the medicines he had to administer to the organ grinder. Now that the old man’s strength was waning, Hans fully realised how fragile his journey, his love, his stay in the city, his certainties were. And he knew, or he accepted, that he was not looking after his friend only out of loyalty—he was doing it above all for himself, so as not to take to the road once more, to cling to Wandernburg, to Sophie, to the happy days he had spent at the cave, to delay the moment when he would leave, as he had always left every place, every city, every country he had traveled through.

  Near the bridge a flock of crows sailed across the grey clouds, fanning out among the branches of the trees, waiting for the seeds in the cornfields to be left unattended. One of the crows plummeted in such a straight line it looked as though someone had dropped a stone from one of the branches. Others followed, cawing noisily. Amid the riot of beaks Hans could see the purple entrails spilling from a sheep’s open belly, a swirl of flies.

  As he crouched beside the organ grinder, the old man opened his eyes and tried hard to smile. You’ve walked a long way, he said, stifling a cough, where did you go? How did you know? Hans said, surprised. You’re a witch! Don’t be silly, the old man said, your boots are muddy, very muddy. Ah, of course, grinned Hans, I took a short cut and got lost. I’m going to let you into a secret, said the organ grinder, kof, listen—do you know what you have to do in order not to get lost in Wandernburg? Always take the longest route.

  Hans heard the sound of someone dismounting, and looked outside to see who it was. The air had congealed, the sun was drawing away from things. I thought I’d find you here, Álvaro said, embracing him. Hans could smell a mixture of horse’s mane and women’s perfume on his shirt. How is he? asked Álvaro. (Hans shrugged.) And your publisher? (Not terribly pleased with me, said Hans, I’m late with all my work.) And Sophie? (I wish I knew, said Hans.) Suddenly, the organ grinder gave a cry and they went inside the cave. They found him talking in his sleep. Is he often delirious? asked Álvaro. Sometimes, answered Hans, dabbing the old man’s face, it depends, these past days his temperature has gone up. Yesterday, he was so feverish he wasn’t himself at all. I thi
nk he’s slightly better today.

  Seeing his master was being looked after, Franz went out to scavenge for food. His eyes filled with sky. The horizon raced. The light scattered the clouds, like a torch spreading panic.

  The fever raged and calmed, flared up and went cold, it climbed the organ grinder’s brow then yielded a little, letting him rest. Hans was sleeping four hours a night and had asked his publisher for a week’s grace.

  Hey, Hans, the old man spluttered. Ah, Hans turned round, you’re awake? I’m always awake, replied the old man, kof, especially when I’m asleep. Hans wasn’t sure if this was the fever talking or if he was serious. Hey, guess what I dreamt about? the organ grinder said. Something amazing, kof, I always say that, but this is special, see what you think, I dreamt about a man who had two backs. Hans stared at him with a mixture of surprise and alarm. He tried to imagine the man with two backs, to form a clear image of such a creature, until it made him shudder. The man with two backs would spend his life looking in two directions, leaving everywhere twice, or arriving and leaving everywhere he went at the same time.

  So, kof, tell me, said the organ grinder, do you think dreams speak the truth? Who knows, said Hans trying to stop thinking about the man with two backs, although Novalis said dreams occur somewhere between the body and the soul, or at a moment when body and soul are chemically joined. (I see, kof, said the old man, and does that mean dreams speak the truth?) Well, more or less. (Just as I thought, said the organ grinder, closing his eyes.)

  Hey, Hans, said the organ grinder, opening his eyes, are you still there? (I am, I am, he replied, dabbing his brow with a damp cloth.) I’m bored, Hans, I haven’t, kof, played my barrel organ for days, kof, how long has it been? If I can’t, kof, if I can’t play it I become bored, and so does he (Hans glanced at the back of the cave and couldn’t help feeling a pang when he saw the bulky instrument a blanket draped over it), kof, that’s what I regret most, Franz and I have no music, kof, we spend hours listening to the wind.

  Kof, Hans, hey Hans, the old man woke up again, talk to me about something (what, for instance? asked Hans), anything, whatever comes into your head, you talk about lots of things (I don’t know, he hesitated, you’ve caught me unprepared, let me see, I can’t think of anything, actually I can), kof, I thought so! (I’ll go on telling you about Novalis, the fellow I just mentioned, do you remember?) Kof, of course I do, I’m dying, not suffering from amnesia (you’re not dying), yes, yes I am, go on. (Well, I’ve just remembered something he said about your favourite subject.) Barrel organs, kof? (No, no, dreams.) Ah, excellent. (I think he said that while we sleep the body digests the soul’s perceptions, that is, a dream is like the stomach of the soul, do you see? Hey, organ grinder, are you awake?) Yes, kof, I’m thinking.

  Hey, Hans, listen. (You’re awake already, are you thirsty?) Yes, thanks, but tell me, so, kof, let’s see if I’ve understood this properly, when the body has digested what the soul has eaten, yes? Kof, when there are no more dreams to digest we wake up hungry?

  Kof, Hans, hey … (Yes?) I’m … (Thirsty? Do you want more water?) No thanks, no, not thirsty, kof, I’m afraid. (Afraid of dying?) No, not of dying, you die, and then it’s over, kof, in a flash, I don’t know if it’s painful, kof, but I’m accustomed to physical pain, you see? No, I’m afraid for my barrel organ, Hans, my barrel organ, kof, kof, who will play the tunes? Come here, come closer. (What is it? What is it?) I want you to do something for me (anything you ask), kof, I want you to find out how to say barrel organ in as many different languages as you can, I’d like it very much if you could tell me the names, kof, I need to hear them, will you do that for me, Hans, will you do that for me?

  Light seeped from the afternoons like milk from a broken jug. The first snows had come, settling on the branches. An icy wind whipped the countryside. The old man’s coughing fits had given way to something altogether denser, deeper, inside his chest cavity. Hans had to sit right next to him in order to hear what he was saying. The lilt had gone from his voice, the air escaped from his lungs. He didn’t speak so much as gasp. As soon as he saw Hans come in, he struggled to sit up. Do you have them? he breathed. Did you bring the names? Hans pushed aside the stale knot of sheets, straw, woollen covers. He sat down on the pallet. He clasped the old man’s fleshless hand and fished his notebook out of his pocket.

  You already know that as well as Leierkasten, Hans said, still holding his hand, we also call it a Drehorgel. (I’ve never liked that name, the organ grinder whispered, I prefer Leierkasten, that’s what I’ve always called it.) And apart from that, where shall we begin? Let me see, well, for instance in Italian they call it organetto di Barberia (the name has humour, don’t you think? said the organ grinder. It’s a festive name), and it’s very similar in French—orgue de barbarie (those Frenchmen! chuckled the organ grinder as Hans pronounced the words), the Dutch have lots of names for it, there’s one similar to the one you don’t like, I’d best leave that out, but there’s another very simple one—straatorgel. (Excellent, yes, sir, the organ grinder said approvingly, that’s exactly what it is, did you know the barrel organ originated there, in Holland?) No, I didn’t, I thought we’d invented it, what others, lirekasse in Danish. (That’s a good one, very good, it sounds like they copied it from us, doesn’t it?) Possibly, or maybe we copied it from the Danes (impossible, impossible, the German barrel organs are older), well, shall I go on? In Swedish they say positiv (excellent, excellent), the Norwegians call it fataorgan (that sounds like a name for a bigger instrument), the Portuguese say realejo (unusual, but pretty), in Polish it’s katarynka (wonderful! This one has a tinkle), and after that, well, the English have various names for it, according to its size and what it’s used for, you know? (That’s logical, the English are so pragmatic.) Let’s see, for instance they call it a barrel organ (aha), also a fair organ (quite right), then there’s another, street organ (good, good), and here’s my favourite—hurdy-gurdy (oh yes! For children!) …

  When Hans had finished telling him the names, the organ grinder remained lost in thought. Pretty, he nodded at last with a smile that grew weaker, they’re very pretty, thank you, I feel much better now. A fleeting sense of relief seemed to relax his face. Almost immediately, the spasms made it tense up again.

  He’s stopped coughing, said Hans, is that a good sign? I’d say it was inevitable, replied Doctor Müller.

  The organ grinder would gaze for hours glassy-eyed at the roof of the cave, or whimper in his sleep, before waking abruptly. Breathing appeared painful, as though instead of air he were inhaling a thick liquid. His ghostly voice was almost lost in his beard. It was difficult helping him to relieve himself. Washing half his body was an achievement. His limbs were greasy, his hair a matted lump, his skin covered in bites from bedbugs. He looked repulsive, beautiful in his own way, deserving of infinite love.

  Kitted out with blankets and clothes from the inn, Hans had slept several nights at the cave—he had resolved to stay there until the end. Álvaro brought them a daily hamper of food. That morning Hans had also asked him to bring a book by Novalis. I need to commune with him, Hans had said. When his friend handed him the volume, Hans started—this wasn’t the volume he’d asked for, which he had told him was lying on the desk, it was another he kept in the trunk (or at least so he thought). Had Álvaro discovered the key to his trunk? Had he rifled through its contents? What else had he seen? Hans looked straight at him. He couldn’t tell. Nor did he ask.

  Towards nightfall, against a backdrop of watery snow, Hans felt his eyelids begin to close. Soon afterwards, in the dark, he was awoken by a sound like a branch breaking. The snow had stopped. He fanned the flames, turned to the old man and discovered the source of the noise. It wasn’t branches breaking, it was his lungs. He was groaning, his face straining. The cold air blew in through the mouth of the cave, yet it scarcely left the old man’s mouth. What’s the matter? Hans drew closer. What is it? Nothing, said the organ grinder, I’m nothing now, it feels like someone
else is going.

  Hey, organ grinder, Hans called out, are you still there? I don’t know, the old man replied. What a fright! said Hans. For a moment I thought … Soon, soon, groaned the organ grinder. Listen, Hans drew closer, there’s something I want to ask you, that is, I don’t want to, I have to, I’m sorry, but, where do you want to be buried? Me? replied the old man. Leave me here, please. What do you mean here? Where? Here, anywhere, replied the old man, spread out on the ground. What do you mean on the ground! Hans protested, don’t you at least want a respectable burial! There’s no need, thanks, said the old man, if you leave me on the ground the crows and vultures will eat my corpse, and if they bury me it’ll be the maggots and the ants. What’s the difference?

  Hey, Hans, hey, whispered the organ grinder, are you asleep? No, no, Hans yawned, do you need anything? No, said the old man, I just wanted to ask you to tidy up the cave a bit when it happens.

  The organ grinder had not spoken all day. He had stopped turning in his bed. He no longer groaned. He was silent and wide-awake. His features looked as if they were etched in charcoal. His expression was one of pain and apathy, like someone who prefers not to know what he knows. Next to him, alert, in darkness, Hans felt that this waiting was at once the ultimate loneliness and the closest companionship.

  Suddenly, the old man began to pray softly. Hans looked at him, alarmed. That very morning, he had offered to fetch a priest, but the old man had refused. Without really knowing what to do, he kissed his grubby beard. He placed his mouth close to his ear and asked if he wanted a ceremony. The old man opened his stiff lips slightly, squeezed his wrist and said: This is the ceremony.