Read Traveler of the Century Online
Authors: Andrés Neuman
Traveler of the Century (71 page)
Rudi uttered these last words with the cold clarity of a doctor diagnosing his own illness. Sophie did not speak. For a moment the two of them listened to the silence, the sporadic burble of the fountain. Until Rudi added: Unless this is an even harder test. I am still in love with you. As much as or more than ever. Good God! Sophie Gottlieb, look at me, listen to what I'm saying. I'm willing to forgive you, to forget everything, do you understand? I, too, am crazy and I'm still willing. We'll both deny it, we'll deny everything until he's gone, until all this has been forgotten. What do you say? Just give me a sign, do you hear? One simple sign and things between us will be as they were. As if nothing had happened, do you understand? Nothing. Ask of me whatever you will. Just ask.
Unable to open her mouth, Sophie was aware then that she
had never felt so much respect for Rudi nor had she loved him less.
had never felt so much respect for Rudi nor had she loved him less.
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His eyelids grew as heavy as bags full of clothing. Up in the rafters, the cobwebs expanded. Unable to stop even in sleep, their drowsy eyes kept moving left and right, deciphering the darkness.
He dreamt the floor was spinning on an axis, his body was a clock, the bed was a water wheel. He was moving without getting anywhere, space spun in spirals, traced a bull's eye, circles within circles. In the middle of it all a plughole awaited. A hand emerged from the water and waved about asking for help. And Hans was going to but he didn't, the ground was a sticky web, his legs turned to jelly, and suddenly he only had one hand.
He woke up like someone falling backwards. It was cold. The room was enveloped in a white glare. The bed felt peculiar. When he realised he had woken up with his feet on the pillow and his head at the bottom of the bed, he knew the time had come. He leapt to his feet, pulled on a wool overcoat, sat down to write two letters.
Elsa leant out of the window to see who was there and instantly went downstairs before Bertold could get to the door. She was surprised to see Lisa there so earlyâHans's letters didn't usually arrive before breakfast. She concealed it down the front of her dress. She patted Lisa's head, gave her two aniseed balls, and closed the front door. Lisa walked to the market sucking one of them guiltilyâwhen would she stop accepting sweets as if she were a child?
Sophie locked herself in her bedroom to read Hans's letter. She was unable to have any thoughts. All she could feel was a spasm coursing through her body, an emptiness in her veins. She bit down hard on her lip. She tried to distract herself by
gazing out of the window. Then she rang for Elsa and told her to start inventing some excuse. That afternoon they were going out no matter what.
gazing out of the window. Then she rang for Elsa and told her to start inventing some excuse. That afternoon they were going out no matter what.
It was drizzling. It drizzled constantly now. Hans could scarcely believe that only a few months ago he was out walking in the dazzling sunshine. He was standing under one of the balconies. Waiting. His nose dripped as he counted the seconds. Reaching up to wipe it, he noticed a hazy blotch in the distance, and recognised Elsa's nervous walk among the umbrellas and horses. He thought of waving to her, but cautiously refrained. He was worried not to see Sophie. Suddenly Elsa gestured to him imperceptibly (a movement of her head, a click of her heels) before vanishing. Hans was alarmed, although Elsa instantly reappeared, as if nothing had happened, head held high, and a few yards behind Sophie appeared, unable to help staring at him intently. Elsa stopped, said something to Sophie and remained on the corner of Grinder's Alley. As Sophie approached him, hiding her face under her umbrella, Hans felt a hollow sensation in his gut. The same thing happened to Sophie as Hans's boots, frock coat and scarf loomed ever larger.
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.
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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 Iâ? 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 meâeven 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 â¦
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 â¦
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⦠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 loveâthere's never enough time to say what we want.
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 loveâthere'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 â¦
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⦠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 â¦
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⦠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 thinkâis that it? Is that all? And where was I in all this? â¦
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 oneâHerr 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.
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 Fridaysâhe 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 faceâhow old was he? They didn't greet each other immediately. 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 resentmentâwhat 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.
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 resentmentâwhat 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 conversationsâwith 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.
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