Thank goodness you came, said Hans. I had good reason to, Sophie replied, tilting her umbrella. They looked at one another strangely. He thought Sophie looked beautiful and a little tired, like an actress with dark shadows under her eyes. She thought Hans looked too thin and rather handsome with his dripping-wet hair. There was a moment’s silence, as though they had met simply in order to gaze at one another. It was Sophie, accustomed to being practical as a defence, who spoke first. Elsa, she explained, will wait for five minutes on that corner. I thought it best for us to see each other here because it is a craftsman’s quarter, a place friends of mine would never set foot in. Hans laughed and then immediately became serious. I’ve just sent my resignation to the publisher, he said in a hushed voice.
What about our European anthology? asked Sophie. I don’t know, replied Hans, perhaps one day. Perhaps, she whispered. I also wanted to tell you that I told Brockhaus about you, I sent them some of your translations and poems, don’t pull a face, they want to meet you. Hans, Sophie protested, who said you could? How many times have I—? Well, anyway, I’m grateful, I can’t think about those things now. At least think about it, he insisted. I can manage by myself, she said. Are you very annoyed with me? asked Hans. Not at all, said Sophie, I understand, you have your life. Now I have to think about mine. But, aren’t translating and writing part of your life, too? They are only my dreams, she replied.
On the corner of Grinder’s Alley, Elsa folded her arms and looked at Sophie, shaking her head. Sophie raised her hand to tell her she was on her way.
Listen, Hans said quickly, I can’t stay here any longer, I have to continue my journey, I need to move, to start again. I know, I know, she sighed, where will you go? To Dessau I suppose, he replied, you never know. I see, she said. Look at me, he said, please look at me—even though I know you can’t, I’d like you to come with me. Sophie remained silent. Hans’s eyes were flashing. Or can you? he insisted. We still have time! Would you come? With a sad but resolute look, Sophie replied: Don’t you think it’s better not to follow anyone? Hans shrugged his shoulders. Sophie smiled, tears in her eyes. Elsa crossed the street.
Farewells are so strange. There’s something terrifying, deadly, about them, and yet they awaken a desperate urge to live. Perhaps farewells create new territories, or they send us back to the only territory that truly belongs to us, that of solitude. It is as though we needed to go back there from time to time, to draw a line and say: I came from here, this was me, what sort of person am I? I used to believe love would provide me with the answers. Our love has filled me with doubt. What sort of person am I? I don’t know, I’ve never really known. I am alone with myself (I on the one side, she on the other) and in a sense this has been possible because of being with you. Oh, my love, I’m afraid I’m not explaining myself well! I hope you can hear me even though you don’t know what I’m saying. Wouldn’t that be a kind of greeting in the farewell? And more than anything a lot of pain, of course. I’m making your head spin! (Good, that way I shall xxx xxxx xxxx be able to steal a few kisses while you ponder my words.) Hans, will I see you once more before you leave, even if only for a few moments? If I managed to get away once I can get away twice. Do you know what my father said when he saw me come in with …
… for farewells, as you say. I think that living is above all about greeting things deservingly, and saying farewell to them with the appropriate gratitude. I suspect no one has this ability.
Sophie, I’m going to make a confession. Xxxx xxxx xxx xxx xxx In the past, when I would go back to a place and meet up with old friends, I was the one who ended up saying farewell to everyone. Now, I don’t know why, I feel as if it is the others who are saying farewell to me. I’m not sure if this is a good or a bad thing. We lose the fear of letting go of our baggage, but also the certainty that what is in them belongs to us.
My love (will I be able to keep calling you my love in the future?), of course we’ll meet. Even for a few moments. We’ll find a way. There are so many things I’d like to say to you. In that sense writing is like being in love—there’s never enough time to say what we want.
You asked me whether I think about the old man. I think about him every day. And also (don’t laugh) I worry about Franz. His dog, Franz, do you remember? I don’t know where he is. I’ve looked everywhere, but I can’t …
… convinced that people who stay in one place are more nostalgic than people who travel. What do you think? For those who are sedentary, time moves more slowly, leaving a trail, like that of a snail on the pages of a calendar. I think memory feeds on stillness. Those of us who stay feel nostalgia, and I know what I’m talking about. Nothing leaves me more wistful than going to see someone off, watching the carriage grow smaller until it vanishes. Then I turn around, and I feel like a stranger in my own city. I can’t stop thinking about how I’ll feel on my way to say farewell to you, my love, and I swear I don’t think I am able. I don’t even want to think about how I would see the things around me, how everything would look to me, when your carriage …
… because I can’t bear it either. I prefer it that way, too.
You’re right, people who travel are fleeing nostalgia. There’s no time for memories when you are traveling. Your eyes brim. Your muscles ache. You haven’t the strength or the attention for anything except keeping moving. Packing a bag doesn’t make you more aware of changes, rather it compels you to postpone the past, and the present is taken up with concerns about the immediate. Time slides over the traveler’s skin. (How is your skin? What does it smell of today? What colour stockings you are wearing?)
Yes, time slides over us. After a long journey, as though abundance produced amnesia, you think—is that it? Is that all? And where was I in all this? …
He had imagined every possibility. That no one had read his note. That no one would open the door to him. That they would call the police. Insults would be hurled at him. He would be kicked down the steps. He had imagined every possibility, except this one—Herr Gottlieb would receive him without putting up any resistance.
Hans had resolved not to leave Wandernburg without saying goodbye to Herr Gottlieb, or without at least trying to. He felt, on the one hand, indebted to Sophie’s father for all the hospitality and kindness he had shown him when he first arrived. And on the other, that sneaking out of the city like a fugitive would have been an admission of guilt that he refused to accept. Overcoming his awkwardness at the situation, his anger at Herr Gottlieb’s tyrannical behaviour towards his daughter, and perhaps a secret sense of shame, he had sent a note asking to pay a visit to the house he had not set foot in for over a month, and had made his way towards Stag Street for the very last time. And yet now that he was in front of the door, staring at the swallow and lion’s-head door knockers, everything looked different. What the devil was he doing there? Why should he endorse anyone’s authority? How far could his visit be construed as an apology? And in the end, wasn’t it an accursed apology? Just then, the door on the right swung open. Bertold reluctantly let him in and began mounting the stairs without waiting. Hans was almost compelled to run after him. Once in the hallway, Bertold avoided his eyes, and told him in a hushed voice that Herr Gottlieb was in his study. Hans ventured to ask whether Fräulein Gottlieb was at home. She’s gone out, Bertold replied, turning on his heel.
Once more Hans experienced the dizziness of the corridor, its murky ceiling, its icy passage. Before stopping outside the study, he couldn’t resist peering into the drawing room where he had spent so many Fridays—he saw the furniture lined up as in a museum, armchairs with their dust sheets, flowerless vases. The curtains blocked off the windows. The clock on the wall gave the wrong hour. The round mirror warped the empty hearth.
The study reeked of tobacco, sweat and brandy. Herr Gottlieb didn’t appear hidden in the gloom so much as fused to it, a flattened image. When he moved the lamp to the middle of his desk, Hans noticed the maze of furrows on his face—how old was he? They didn’t greet each other i
mmediately. The dense silence exuded alcohol. The carpet exhaled dust. Hans waited for the first reproach, an angry gesture, a raised voice. But the head of the house didn’t appear to be looking at him with genuine resentment—what most showed in his eyes, what they exuded, was dismay. Have a seat, he said at last. Hans positioned himself in the leather armchair opposite. Herr Gottlieb gestured to the bottle, Hans served himself a small brandy. More! Herr Gottlieb ordered. Hans poured out a little more, raised his glass, not knowing what to toast.
The conversation began like all decisive conversations—with something else. They commented on the awful news about Professor Mietter. Hans made an effort to look aggrieved. Herr Gottlieb expressed his astonishment and even the hope that this was a result of some dreadful calumny or of police bungling. He said this with such conviction that Hans realised this defeated host would never accept the idea that he had invited a rapist as well as an adulterer into his home. They discussed the cold spell. The merits of French brandy. How pretty sleighs were. Afterwards they fell silent. Then the real conversation began.
I came here, sir, Hans coughed, to say goodbye. I know, replied Herr Gottlieb, my daughter told me you were leaving. It is the only reason I agreed to see you. You see, Hans tried to explain, I blame myself for the problems my friendship with your daughter might have caused (no, no, Herr Gottlieb interrupted calmly, I don’t think you do), believe me, it was never my intention, but when feelings, when feelings emerge, sometimes it’s impossible, even inhuman, to foresee how far … Don’t even try it, Herr Gottlieb sighed, things happened the way they did. And I can’t say I’m surprised.
Herr Gottlieb tried to relight his pipe. The cold, dry tobacco wouldn’t catch. He didn’t speak or look up until he had succeeded. With the smoke in his eyes once more, he resumed talking. His whiskers had an air of a bedraggled bird about them.
I feared this, Herr Gottlieb went on, I feared it from the beginning. The moment I saw the pair of you, my daughter and you, talking. I saw the disaster unfolding. There it was. And I could do nothing about it. I saw you talking and it was terrible. Sophie’s face lit up. Her face lit up, and I felt a mixture of tenderness and pain. I fought it to the end, of course. To the bitter end, damn it. As a loving father and as a man of honour. But I already suspected it would do no good. I know my daughter well. She’s, she’s (Hans ventured: Fascinating and strong-willed), dear God, she certainly is! Much too strong-willed. At first I considered forbidding you to come to the house. Yes, don’t be surprised. And I thought I’d do all I could to prevent you from meeting outside it. However, knowing my daughter, I told myself it would make matters worse. She would resist, quarrel with me, with the Wilderhauses, with everyone. And so I decided to cross my fingers and trust her to act sensibly. I thought that that way, without trying to force her, she would see reason and end up losing her infatuation with you. I knew that the more I stepped in the more she would turn it into some heroic passion. What I failed to predict was that the two of you would take it so far. Or that you would begin writing together, what a bright idea. Wait a moment, let me finish. And I had to grin and bear it. To keep up appearances. In front of my daughter, in front of Rudi, even in front of you. To act the fool. Those were agonising months. I can’t tell you what thoughts went through my head, but believe me they were many and various. Then it occurred to me to make some enquiries about you.
Hans’s blood went cold. It was as much as he could do not to spill his brandy. What sort of enquiries? he asked in the strange voice of someone straining to sound normal.
In Jena, Herr Gottlieb replied, gazing into the glistening circles of his drink. A few months ago, while we were making preparations for the wedding. When things had already started getting out of control, it occurred to me to write to Jena University to ask for your references. (And? was all Hans could say.) And the upshot of it was, of course, as you imagine—they had no record of anyone with your name studying there or obtaining a degree. That was all the information I needed (Herr Gottlieb, if I could just explain), you needn’t, what difference does it make? (And why didn’t you say anything to Sophie?) Well, actually I did. (What do you mean you told her? Hans was alarmed. And what did she say?) She said it was irrelevant. Irrelevant! And so we never mentioned the subject again. And now I see she didn’t discuss it with you either. Sophie is a very headstrong girl. What more could I do? I sat here and waited. What followed, as you can see, has been a catastrophe. A complete catastrophe. (All I can say is how truly sorry I am.) No doubt you are. No doubt you are.
Herr Gottlieb stood up with difficulty. Hans was beginning to feel light-headed. Herr Gottlieb walked a few paces then paused beside the door—he had no intention of going into the corridor to see him out. Hans wasn’t sure whether to improvise a few words of farewell or leave as quickly as possible. Herr Gottlieb decided for him. He placed a weary, darkened hand on Hans’s shoulder, and, looking at him resentfully, he said: You’re leaving my daughter on her own. I’m not sure I heard what you said, replied Hans. I said, Herr Gottlieb repeated, you’re leaving my daughter all alone, you wretched impostor.
On his last afternoon in Wandernburg, Hans arranged to meet Sophie at the Café Europa. They sat at a table at the back and ordered hot chocolate. Elsa sat at a neighbouring table, jiggling her leg.
Hans spoke slowly but she noticed his voice was strangled, as if he were holding his nose. Sophie appeared calm, apart from her coral necklace, which Hans could see shaking above her neckline. He kept running his fingers through his hair. She fondled the cup, the saucer, the spoon.
So you’ve cancelled the wedding, said Hans. Sophie shrugged, her gaze wandering towards the ceiling. And your father? he asked. He must be furious. She nodded feebly, tried to smile and her mouth set in a fold. Everything is so strange, said Hans. Very strange, whispered Sophie.
A waiter walked between the tables holding a flaming taper. The candles inside the lamps lit up like cages that have reclaimed their birds. What time is it? asked Sophie. Hans felt his pockets. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. She looked back at Hans, blinked quickly, pursed her lips. She began to stand up. Elsa closed her book. Hans felt the weight of all the words he had not uttered. He listened very quickly in his mind to all the explanations he could have given her, the reasons why he had to go away. He imagined hurling himself at her. Kissing her in front of everybody. Dramatically knocking over the marble-topped table. Tearing her clothes off. He sat motionless. Sophie was leaving. Hans left a few coins beside their empty cups, stood up and followed her. The three of them filed towards the door. As Sophie crossed the threshold, Hans held her back by the arm. They stood facing one another on the far side of the doorway. A customer sitting by the window might have observed how Elsa, when she saw Hans’s gesture, went on walking slowly without glancing back, book in hand, hair billowing beneath her scarf.
Hans and Sophie watched her go.
Sophie, he stammered, buttoning up his frock coat, I, you do understand that after all that has happened here I can’t, that is, I couldn’t. Shh, she replied, tying her shawl, it’s all right. It’s the best thing for us both. And it was worth it. Meeting you, said Hans, has been like a miracle for me. Hush, said Sophie kissing her forefinger, go. Miracles don’t exist. You, too.
As they finished wrapping themselves in silence, like a pair of knights donning their armour, Sophie saw Hans weep openly for her. She doubted and was sure, she knew she was doing the most difficult thing, the right thing. What a stealthy man you are, she said, trying to make a joke of it, leaving exactly as you came. Yes, he said, catching hold of himself. No. I’m not leaving exactly as I came.
When Hans took his first step away from her, Sophie cried out: Wait. He wheeled round.
“Thank you.”
“I was thinking of saying the same to you. Thank you.”
Hans walked down Glass Alley. His shadow glided from one window to the next. Sophie stood watching him and her eyes felt cold. She was still aware of the pang in her gut
she had been feeling since she arrived at the café, yet she felt strangely content.
She hurried down two streets until she caught up with Elsa. He strode towards the market square. Looked at from above, from a high balcony or a slit window in the Tower of the Wind, they might have seemed like two insignificant creatures, two flecks on the snow. Looked at from the ground, they were two people weighed down by life.
Hans walked into the inn, went upstairs and opened his trunk. He rummaged through his belongings in search of a long letter he had written the morning he decided to leave Wandernburg. He read through it, crossed out many words, added others. He thought of giving it to Álvaro, but was afraid he might read it. He slipped the letter into an envelope and went downstairs to look for Lisa.
He found her in the dining room, on her knees stoking the fire. She leapt up with a start, shook the hem of her skirt, and looked mournfully at Hans. Are you really leaving tomorrow? she asked. Yes, I am, he replied, stifling the urge to caress her. You can’t be, she said shaking her head. Yes, I can, he smiled. Then he added: Will you do one last thing for me? Anything you want, said Lisa. I need you, Hans explained, to deliver this envelope to the Gottlieb residence today. Is it very late, or do you still have time to go out? Lisa stuck her head into the yard to gauge the brightness of the afternoon, and replied proudly: Since it’s today, I can. Excellent, said Hans, in that case listen to me. You must give this letter to the maid as usual. But it’s very, very important that you tell her not to deliver it until after breakfast. That means she must keep it with her tonight and make sure no one sees it, is that clear? I’d be very grateful if you could go as soon as possible. I’m leaving tomorrow at dawn, and I may not see you again. You’ve no idea how important that envelope is to me, and how much I appreciate your help, dear Lisa.
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