Read Traveler of the Century Online
Authors: Andrés Neuman
Traveler of the Century (37 page)
If doors had voices, that afternoon Hans's seemed to have changed its tone; it didn't scream at him in the same way when he went to open it. Or so he would imagine later, after Sophie had left.
He played the clown in order not to show how nervous he was. Fräulein Gottlieb! he said stepping aside, what an honour, what a surprise! Bodenlieb, smiled Sophie, call me Bodenlieb. That's the name I gave the gentleman downstairs.
The moment Sophie set foot in the room, Hans saw the floor, the walls, the furniture from a different perspective, as though he were hanging from the rafters. I should have tidied up a little. Please excuse the mess, he said. Well, she said, glancing about, it's not bad for a bachelor.
They took turns stammering. They looked at one another anxiously, as if saying: Calm down.
Hans brought her a chair, took his time offering her tea, and tripped over twice. Sophie was curious about his trunk, leafed through a few books, admired the watercolour with the little mirror on the back, laughed at the tin bathtub. Although she didn't care about the trunk or the books or the picture or the bathtub.
They spoke of this and that, yet they still hadn't really said anything. At least, not until Sophie stood up and announced: Elsa will be waiting for me at seven o'clock in the market square. She's visiting a friend. Shall we make the most of our time? Or are we going to spend all afternoon chatting?
She let her hair down like a river breaking its banks. The water flowed over Hans. He swallowed hard. Without saying anything, he pulled the shutters to and lit some candles. Only then did they kiss, tasting the words in each other's mouth.
Sophie's slender hands read rather than caressed. She noticed Hans was trying not to be rough with her and was movedâshe didn't need this gentle treatment. He found her body looser than
he'd anticipated. He noticed how she led him on, how sophisticated and un-childlike her responses were. Sophie thought him supple without being strong. She guessed at rather than glimpsed the muscles beneath his slender frame. They began to undress, with all the awkwardness of people who are not performing. Their skins gave off a not altogether clean smell. Their desire opened like a valve.
he'd anticipated. He noticed how she led him on, how sophisticated and un-childlike her responses were. Sophie thought him supple without being strong. She guessed at rather than glimpsed the muscles beneath his slender frame. They began to undress, with all the awkwardness of people who are not performing. Their skins gave off a not altogether clean smell. Their desire opened like a valve.
Hans had perched on the edge of the bed. Sophie stood looking at him, hands behind her back, fumbling with the last laces. As he sat waiting, shoulders sloped, back hunched, a few unbecoming folds pushed their way in around his midriff. The insides of her thighs had a hollowed out droopiness to them. Hans's toes were rather stubby. Sophie had rough patches on her elbows. A few misplaced hairs sprouted from Hans's navel. As Sophie's dress loosened, it revealed slightly sagging breasts, veins that seemed to radiate from nipples scored with tiny stretch marks.
And every new imperfection they discovered in each other made them more real, more desirable to one another.
As she slipped off her petticoat, her stockings, her corset, Hans saw Sophie's flesh bared in the light of the flickering candles. He saw the light waver, bend over the wicks, quiver. The candle flames shone into the contours of her skin, then withdrew. Sophie was naked.
After so much waiting, so many distractions, Hans finally saw her whole body. And something strange happened to him. Instead of being able to dwell on every fold as he had dreamt of for a hundred nights, instead of patiently contemplating her body until he felt he had understood and assimilated it, Hans became blinded from an excess of looking. He was so anxious to take in every part of her, however much he cast his eyes over her skin he only managed to become confused, his eyes clogging up with shapes. He thought he had just made a discoveryâeyes
also have an appetite. And if they are too greedy, they become clouded. And so his eyes became clouded as they moved from her feet to her shoulders, her hips to her breasts, her smile to her pubis, without being able to unite the images in one single one, without being able to determine the whole. Like words without syntax, like children learning Latin, like when you jump from one painting to another and a riot of colours forms on the inside of your eyelids. Hans looked at Sophie's body and did not understand what he was seeing. His vision stammered and his lips blinked, his mouth clouded over and his eyes watered. And so he decided to touch everything he was unable to see. He moved closer, clasped hold of her and felt that his senses had reunited, that action had prevailed over mystery. Now that there was no distance between them, he was able to grasp the real and imagined essence of Sophie, who trembled without a trace of fear and sighed without a trace of romanticism.
also have an appetite. And if they are too greedy, they become clouded. And so his eyes became clouded as they moved from her feet to her shoulders, her hips to her breasts, her smile to her pubis, without being able to unite the images in one single one, without being able to determine the whole. Like words without syntax, like children learning Latin, like when you jump from one painting to another and a riot of colours forms on the inside of your eyelids. Hans looked at Sophie's body and did not understand what he was seeing. His vision stammered and his lips blinked, his mouth clouded over and his eyes watered. And so he decided to touch everything he was unable to see. He moved closer, clasped hold of her and felt that his senses had reunited, that action had prevailed over mystery. Now that there was no distance between them, he was able to grasp the real and imagined essence of Sophie, who trembled without a trace of fear and sighed without a trace of romanticism.
What did Sophie see of him? Nothing, everything. She looked without looking. Focusing on any detail. She read his ribs to accumulate evidence. And she concentrated on smelling him, soaking him up, becoming one with him. At first she did not try, like Hans, to make a whole out of the partsâshe was content to assume he was there, undivided, she surrendered to the feeling that she was possessing him and therefore giving herself. She took in the immensity of Hans, all at once, encircling him. And, of course, she also touched him, part by part. But each part was a whole in itself, a place of arrival. She held him and let him go, took hold of him again, like learning to talk, or opening a map, like when light fills a space. It resembled a collapse. Accepting to be lost and discovering that she already knew this place, this well, this path. And so Sophie did not look at Hansâshe remembered him. And as she came to him and he came to her, she knew if she closed her eyes she would see him always.
From the first mutual frisson, they both knew that yes. Yes because yes.
As they swayed, not gently or cautiously now, Hans turned his head and discovered that Sophie had turned the watercolour round so the mirror was facing the room. He was fascinated to see that only part of them fitted within its tiny frame. He looked at his image sideways on, trying to recognise them in the fragmented figures in the mirror, astonished that the naked torso pressing against a hip was him, that the arched back, hands plunged into the mattress, was Sophie. At exactly the same moment she had noticed the play of shadows their bodies cast on the opposite wall in the distended light of the candlesâthe two of them mutating, thickening or diluting, growing or shrinking like ink on a blotter. She wondered if he, too, was contemplating their shapes. Hans in the meantime was wondering if she had noticed the scene in the mirror.
At the end of everything, or at the start of something new, a cadenced silence enveloped them. Wrapped around each other like scrawled handwriting, their bodies almost hanging half out of bed, Hans and Sophie were gripped by an intense feeling of imminence. They waited quietly, each certain the other would whisper the truth, some kind of truth. They hung there as if they were on a motionless swing. All they could hear was their own breathing and the sputter of candles. Hans felt torn yet strangely at easeâhe had the urge to talk and was brimming with silence. He felt at peace in this contradiction, as though opposing currents were pulling him by the arms, keeping him afloat. She said nothing either.
They looked at one another again before getting dressed. At last Sophie spoke: I love your knee, she said, leaning forward and running her tongue over it. Hans felt a flush of shame go up his leg and turn to joy when it reached his head. All of a sudden he noticed Sophie's thigh. The part of her thigh that
had an elongated blemish as if drawn by a pencil on it. And I love your mark, he replied. I hate my mark, she said, covering her leg. But Hans insisted: Your mark enhances you, you're lucky to have it.
had an elongated blemish as if drawn by a pencil on it. And I love your mark, he replied. I hate my mark, she said, covering her leg. But Hans insisted: Your mark enhances you, you're lucky to have it.
A few moments later, Sophie was running towards the baroque fountain, where Elsa was waiting for her, worrying about Herr Gottlieb's strict timekeeping.
A
HONEYED LIGHT SPREAD OVER the countryside at rest. To the south of Wandernburg, fields of corn ripe for harvesting shimmered lazily. Each ear made its choice, catching hold of the wind that fluttered like a kite. Warm, sweet, expectant grain. A cloudless, limpid sky. Colours dripped onto the cornfield, dotting it with purple thistles and gaudy poppies. Melting under the unruly sun. The waters of the Nulte flowing between the poplars were scarcely deep enough now for washing clothes, for wading into or sustaining the green of its banks. In this blazing afternoon the labourers toiled. High above them all, as sharply defined as a dome, the sun beat down on the landscape, forging its shapes.
HONEYED LIGHT SPREAD OVER the countryside at rest. To the south of Wandernburg, fields of corn ripe for harvesting shimmered lazily. Each ear made its choice, catching hold of the wind that fluttered like a kite. Warm, sweet, expectant grain. A cloudless, limpid sky. Colours dripped onto the cornfield, dotting it with purple thistles and gaudy poppies. Melting under the unruly sun. The waters of the Nulte flowing between the poplars were scarcely deep enough now for washing clothes, for wading into or sustaining the green of its banks. In this blazing afternoon the labourers toiled. High above them all, as sharply defined as a dome, the sun beat down on the landscape, forging its shapes.
Lying at the cave mouth, Franz half-closed his eyes and sniffed the wind as it changed. Listened to the cicadas. Scratched his ear. Drooled thinking of a piece of meat â¦
(The meat his master and friends were roasting. The meat. Roasting. He was thirsty but didn't feel like getting up. Getting up to go and drink from the river. He wouldn't go now. He'd go after he'd eaten the meat. The meat. Would he go now? It was hot. Not as hot as before. Less. His ear itched. His master had raised his voice. What was going on? But his master had looked at him. Nothing was going on. No danger. They were all fine. His master and his friends. The one who always stroked him and the one who never stroked him and the one who had a strong smell and the one who came sometimes, on a horse. They were all fine. What a relief. It wasn't as hot. Less hot. It was getting dark. The one who never stroked him scared him
a little because he didn't stroke him and he looked straight at him as if he were going to kick him. But he didn't kick him. He was his master's friend. His ear. The river. And the meat? Wait. His master didn't like him to eat the food before it went on the fire. He would feed him bits of meat after. Not before. He didn't like it. That sudden voice? Who had shouted? The voice belonged to him. The one who came sometimes. The one who came on a horse.)
a little because he didn't stroke him and he looked straight at him as if he were going to kick him. But he didn't kick him. He was his master's friend. His ear. The river. And the meat? Wait. His master didn't like him to eat the food before it went on the fire. He would feed him bits of meat after. Not before. He didn't like it. That sudden voice? Who had shouted? The voice belonged to him. The one who came sometimes. The one who came on a horse.)
⦠Ãlvaro let out one of his loud guffaws. The organ grinder's ideas amused him in a certain way. He still didn't fully understand his friend Hans's fascination with the old man, who mostly kept quiet and seemed to confuse austerity with not bathing very often. Although, as Ãlvaro began to get to know him better, he had to admit that when the old man did open his mouth, that mouth with its matted whiskers and every other tooth missing, what he said made sense. He gave the impression of being half-asleep, or daydreaming, until suddenly he would say something that, besides the typical Wandernburg naivety, revealed a keen awareness and an astonishing memory. Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the organ grinder was the impression he gave of being completely at peace with the past, as though he had already known happiness and expected nothing more from life. Quite the opposite of Hans, who suffered from a feeling of perpetual anxiety, as though waiting for some news that never came. The organ grinder almost never said anything Ãlvaro was expecting, and Hans invariably greeted his utterances with a warm smile. For a moment it occurred to Ãlvaro he might be jealous of the old man in some way. But as soon as the thought popped into his head, the same way a counter drops into the palm of your hand, he dismissed the idea as absurd. Him, jealous! Of that penniless old man! And on top of that because of Hans! Hadn't he better go easy on the wine?
Besides, Hans was saying, they've just inaugurated a new railway line at Saint-Ãtienne. Where's that? belched Reichardt. In France, said Hans, about two hundred miles from Marseille, an interesting place, have you been to France? No, and I haven't been to your fat aunt's house either, replied Reichardt. Marseille, you say? Lamberg added. I'd like to go there, to see the sea. There's no need to go to bloody France to see the sea, lad! said Reichardt. Or did the French invent the sea too! They didn't invent it, grinned Hans, but they call it
mer
, which you can't deny sounds a lot better than
Meer
. It sounds the same, exactly the same! Reichardt protested. Don't split hairs, Hans, said Ãlvaro, it sounds very similar. No, no, Hans insisted, say it, listen, carefully, the Spanish
mar
isn't bad either. For all I care the French can take their
mer
, growled Reichardt, and piss it into the mouths of their
mères
! The four others laughed, and Reichardt, pleased with his retort, went over to the organ grinder to see how the meat was cooking. Well, said Lamberg, pensively, what does it matter how it sounds, it's the same word, isn't it? It means the same, it refers to the same thing. But if it sounds different, insisted Hans, then the meaning changes, doesn't it organ grinder? Hair-splitting, I say, simple hair-splitting! Ãlvaro repeated, clapping him on the back. What's more, Hans went on, words refer to things, but they also create them, which is why every language not only has its own sounds but its own things. You're quite right, Ãlvaro conceded. All right, but what about the train? Lamberg said impatiently. Ah, Hans resumed, the Saint-Ãtienne line. Who has traveled by train? asked Lamberg. Ãlvaro and Hans were alone in raising their hands. And where did you go? he said, pointing at Ãlvaro. It was in England, replied Ãlvaro, where there are lots of trains: Darlington, Liverpool, Stockton, Manchester. And what's it like? Lamberg asked, agog. Like riding a horse! Reichardt exclaimed from over by the fire. Except softer on the arse! I don't know, said Ãlvaro, noisy. And
enjoyable? Lamberg insisted. I suppose so, replied Ãlvaro, I was there on business. Lamberg, said Hans, do you know the most enjoyable thing about traveling by train? Not the places you see, but the people you meet, because there are so many of them, it's, imagine a hundred stagecoaches end to end filled with different people (rich people, only rich people travel! said Reichardt), and because trains can cross long distances, people come from many different places, even from other countries, that's the thing I most enjoy about trains, it's like being in a lot of different countries at the same time, do you see? As if the countries themselves were moving.
mer
, which you can't deny sounds a lot better than
Meer
. It sounds the same, exactly the same! Reichardt protested. Don't split hairs, Hans, said Ãlvaro, it sounds very similar. No, no, Hans insisted, say it, listen, carefully, the Spanish
mar
isn't bad either. For all I care the French can take their
mer
, growled Reichardt, and piss it into the mouths of their
mères
! The four others laughed, and Reichardt, pleased with his retort, went over to the organ grinder to see how the meat was cooking. Well, said Lamberg, pensively, what does it matter how it sounds, it's the same word, isn't it? It means the same, it refers to the same thing. But if it sounds different, insisted Hans, then the meaning changes, doesn't it organ grinder? Hair-splitting, I say, simple hair-splitting! Ãlvaro repeated, clapping him on the back. What's more, Hans went on, words refer to things, but they also create them, which is why every language not only has its own sounds but its own things. You're quite right, Ãlvaro conceded. All right, but what about the train? Lamberg said impatiently. Ah, Hans resumed, the Saint-Ãtienne line. Who has traveled by train? asked Lamberg. Ãlvaro and Hans were alone in raising their hands. And where did you go? he said, pointing at Ãlvaro. It was in England, replied Ãlvaro, where there are lots of trains: Darlington, Liverpool, Stockton, Manchester. And what's it like? Lamberg asked, agog. Like riding a horse! Reichardt exclaimed from over by the fire. Except softer on the arse! I don't know, said Ãlvaro, noisy. And
enjoyable? Lamberg insisted. I suppose so, replied Ãlvaro, I was there on business. Lamberg, said Hans, do you know the most enjoyable thing about traveling by train? Not the places you see, but the people you meet, because there are so many of them, it's, imagine a hundred stagecoaches end to end filled with different people (rich people, only rich people travel! said Reichardt), and because trains can cross long distances, people come from many different places, even from other countries, that's the thing I most enjoy about trains, it's like being in a lot of different countries at the same time, do you see? As if the countries themselves were moving.
Well, in Spain, Ãlvaro said, munching on a chicken leg, we always like using the last but one invention, so we'll have to wait until they come up with something new, like diving on wheels or taking to the air with pedals, before we get the train. What about boats? asked Lamberg. Has anyone been on a steamboat? What about farts? said Reichardt. Has anyone gone home propelled by their own farts? Listen, why do you want to know about these things? You're not going anywhere, just like the rest of us. You don't know that, replied Lamberg. You do, declared Reichardt, you know it as well as I do. Steamboats, my friend, are marvellous things, said Hans, traveling on them is like, I don't know, like traveling by land and sea at the same time, like moving across water on a train, and the water behind you forms into two furrows, like two train tracks, but they immediately vanish and the water becomes smooth and you look at it and wonder: Which way did we come? And when you go up on deck, Lamberg, you feel as if you're flying, your hair gets messed up, your clothes balloon out, I hope you manage to go on one. (Ha! belched Reichardt, you'll be lucky!) I don't see why not, if you save up some money you could take a trip (do you really think so? said Lamberg sceptically), there's a steamer from Berlin to Charlottenburg which isn't very expensive, and
another to Potsdam, which isn't very far either, in fact they have them all along the Rhine, and the Danube and the Elbe. Actually, I was thinking of traveling to Dessau by boat myself, you know, but I changed my mind at the last moment and, well, here I am. And here you'll stay, said Reichardt, no one ever leaves here, whether by their own farts or by steamer, do they old man? I don't know, the organ grinder said, feeding the last scraps of chicken to Franz, everything goes so fast these days. No one used to consider traveling more than twenty miles in one day. Maybe that's why young people are less attached to places, because it's too easy to leave them. They want to see the world. It stands to reason. In the end, Reichardt, it's not that you and I are unable to go anywhere, is it? It's that we don't want to. We like where we are, we're lucky.
another to Potsdam, which isn't very far either, in fact they have them all along the Rhine, and the Danube and the Elbe. Actually, I was thinking of traveling to Dessau by boat myself, you know, but I changed my mind at the last moment and, well, here I am. And here you'll stay, said Reichardt, no one ever leaves here, whether by their own farts or by steamer, do they old man? I don't know, the organ grinder said, feeding the last scraps of chicken to Franz, everything goes so fast these days. No one used to consider traveling more than twenty miles in one day. Maybe that's why young people are less attached to places, because it's too easy to leave them. They want to see the world. It stands to reason. In the end, Reichardt, it's not that you and I are unable to go anywhere, is it? It's that we don't want to. We like where we are, we're lucky.
Night tightened around the pinewood. Franz was playing with the empty bottles, pushing them along with his noseâthe moon's reflection shimmered inside them like a tiny ship. The fire had gone out, but they hadn't noticed, the cheap wine warming their bellies. Except for the dog, each was drunk in his own way. Ãlvaro had just burst into tears all of a sudden. Hans, taken aback, crawled over to him. Ãlvaro, who usually avoided embraces, and always maintained the self-assured look other men admired him so much for, laid his head on Hans's shoulder. In garbled German mixed with slurred Spanish, Ãlvaro spoke of Ulrike, the train journeys they had taken together, the damp Wandernburg weather that had killed her, the terrible German winters, how much better the weather was in Andalusia, the dry climate in Granada that would have cured her, how every night before he fell asleep he could hear her faint voice, how mourning never ever ended.
Ãlvaro went quiet. He tried to smile. He straightened his hair and clothes, rising to his feet as though nothing had happened. Gentlemen, he said, if you'll excuse me, I think it's time I left.
Lamberg asked him if he could drop him off at the mill on the way, as it was a long walk. Ãlvaro said he would and saddled his horse. The sound of hooves vanished into the night.
Lamberg asked him if he could drop him off at the mill on the way, as it was a long walk. Ãlvaro said he would and saddled his horse. The sound of hooves vanished into the night.
Â
Was Wandernburg the same? Or besides shifting furtively did it change appearance? Did it have a definitive shape or was it a blank space, a kind of map that hadn't been filled in? Could these wide, busy, light-filled streets be the same silent, cold and gloomy ones of a month or two ago? As he walked down Old Cauldron Street, Hans gazed in amazement at the gardens filled with barefoot children, at the flowering window boxes, the traveling musicians, the sweaty faces of the water-sellers hawking their cool water, sun-filled terraces where the pitchers seemed about to brim over with light. Sitting at one of the tables drinking a glass of iced lemonade was Lisa Zeit, who, when she saw Hans, moistened her lips, sat up straight and shrugged a shoulder in greeting, a gesture Hans found as exaggerated as it was heart-warming. Or that is what he thought, then said to himself he should have thoughtâsimply heart-warming. Slumped opposite Lisa, Thomas was wolfing down a fruit sorbet. Hans waved to them and continued on his way. He crossed the sun-baked market square, walked through the impatient crowd gathered round the baroque fountain to fill their pots, winked knowingly at the organ grinder, and turned into Stag Street. Today, Hans thought, glancing about in a surprised manner, the streets seem just as I remembered them.
The last two Fridays, the salon at the Gottlieb residence had migrated to the courtyard, where the shade brought a pleasant breeze and a fountain burbled. The salon-goers sat in garden chairs around a table laden with food, polished fruit and ice-cold drinks. Although everyone had applauded the move outside, neither Elsa nor Bertold seemed very happy with the new arrangement, and spent all their time running up and down the
steps to the house fetching and carrying trays, cups, jugs and cutlery. As was her custom, Elsa masked her displeasure by wearing a serious expression all the guests admired, mistaking it for conscientiousness. Bertold adopted two different faces, like the two halves of his harelip. Inside the confines of the yard, his mouth broke into a broad smile and his eyes twinkled good-naturedly; as soon as he stepped through the arch leading from the patio to the passage, he grimaced and began making sarcastic remarks and mimicking the speech of his master and his guests under his breath. Of everyone except Rudi Wilderhaus, whom he only dared mock when alone in his room.
steps to the house fetching and carrying trays, cups, jugs and cutlery. As was her custom, Elsa masked her displeasure by wearing a serious expression all the guests admired, mistaking it for conscientiousness. Bertold adopted two different faces, like the two halves of his harelip. Inside the confines of the yard, his mouth broke into a broad smile and his eyes twinkled good-naturedly; as soon as he stepped through the arch leading from the patio to the passage, he grimaced and began making sarcastic remarks and mimicking the speech of his master and his guests under his breath. Of everyone except Rudi Wilderhaus, whom he only dared mock when alone in his room.
That Friday, the Levins had been unable to attend the gathering because of a family engagement. And, as usually happens with those absent, they became the main focus of conversation. Although Sophie made polite efforts to change the subject, Frau Pietzine and Professor Mietter formed a rare alliance and, each in their own way, refused to move on to another topic. But don't you think she suffers? Frau Pietzine insisted, waving her fan more vigorously, isn't he a cold, aloof sort of husband? (My dear, Sophie said softly, slowing her own fan, there are many different types of marriage, and theirs â¦) Yes, yes, of course, I don't deny that, and naturally it is her affair! But a good husband, my dear girlâas our esteemed Herr Wilderhaus well knows!âshould show affection towards his wife, be attentive at all times, make her feel (safe? Sophie smiled, brushing her fan against her lips), yes, precisely, my dear, you took the words right out of my mouth! Hans cleared his throat sarcastically and shot Sophie a sidelong glance. Rudi shot them both a sidelong glance, and cleared his own throat much more forcefully, at which Hans and Sophie immediately looked away. But Monsieur Levin, said Ãlvaro, seems like a respectful man to me, and you can't deny he is an excellent contributor to the salon. In a way, yes, Professor Mietter acknowledged, sucking
a grape, Monsieur Levin is a good listener and his views, well, they are somewhat original shall we say. I understand he is a commercial broker and a mathematician, which is commendable. Unfortunately, despite being a self-taught and doubtless tireless reader, he lacks academic guidance. I agree that he is an interesting man, beyond his Judaism. Professor, Sophie said, folding her fan, at times your sense of humour is overwhelming. Frau Pietzine gave a nervous titter. A little more jelly, if you please, Mademoiselle, Professor Mietter said, pushing his plate forward with two fingers.
a grape, Monsieur Levin is a good listener and his views, well, they are somewhat original shall we say. I understand he is a commercial broker and a mathematician, which is commendable. Unfortunately, despite being a self-taught and doubtless tireless reader, he lacks academic guidance. I agree that he is an interesting man, beyond his Judaism. Professor, Sophie said, folding her fan, at times your sense of humour is overwhelming. Frau Pietzine gave a nervous titter. A little more jelly, if you please, Mademoiselle, Professor Mietter said, pushing his plate forward with two fingers.
In order to change the subject, or to give Rudi the opportunity to shine, Herr Gottlieb asked his future son-in-law aloud about the state of the family lands. Grasping Herr Gottlieb's intentions, Rudi instantly put on a perfectly reluctant expression, as though the subject were loathsome to him. He waved his hands about, minimising the importance of his affairs and casually scaring off a couple of flies. He mentioned new crop fields, meadows and woods, cattle, sugar mills, breweries, distilleries and manufacturing plants. At one point in his inventory, he commented that the peasants were losing their traditional skills. They behave more and more like mercenaries, he said, as if they are working for you but they could be working anywhere. And couldn't they indeed be working anywhere, Herr Wilderhaus? declared Hans. Unfortunately for them, Rudi shrugged, I suppose they could, believe me when I tell you the old corporations were much more effective, they may have been stricter but they provided the day labourers with a home, whereas now they fill their mouths with talk of rights, roam up and down the country and end up in the big cities, lost and defenceless. Don't worry too much about them, said Ãlvaro sarcastically, I think they'd be happy if someone paid them a decent wage. Dignity, said Rudi, does not depend on pay. Until recently the peasants knew where they stood, and that they could trust
the landowners. And that, Monsieur
Urquiho
, can be worth its weight in gold. Don't you think, dearest? I think, Sophie said, biting her lip, that my opinion on the subject is neither here nor there, business doesn't concern me. Quite, quite! said Herr Gottlieb, smiling with relief.
the landowners. And that, Monsieur
Urquiho
, can be worth its weight in gold. Don't you think, dearest? I think, Sophie said, biting her lip, that my opinion on the subject is neither here nor there, business doesn't concern me. Quite, quite! said Herr Gottlieb, smiling with relief.
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