Traveler of the Century (72 page)

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Authors: Andrés Neuman

BOOK: Traveler of the Century
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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.
Lisa took the envelope with a solemn air, tucked it between her skirt and blouse, sighed, and threw herself into Hans's arms. He managed to catch her in time to prevent her from falling flat on her face. Lisa considered herself embraced—she kissed the corner of Hans's mouth and declared: I'll tell my mother Thomas has left one of his schoolbooks behind and can't finish his homework without it. But what if Thomas finds out? Hans frowned, what if he tells your mother it's a lie? She gave the laugh of a heroine and retorted: And what do you suppose I'm going to steal from his room? You'll go far, he said, astonished. We'll see, Lisa said moving towards the door. Ah, and it might be a good thing if you kept the little scallywag amused for a while. He's playing in the corridor. Wish me luck.
Hans went to find Thomas, who was scrupulously dismembering and scrutinising a toy cart made of wood. What's that game you're playing? Hans asked. The boy held out a twisted axle and a torn-off wheel. Dear little Thomas, Hans said, kneeling
down, you know I'm leaving tomorrow. What's that to me? the boy said, pinching his leg.
Lisa had scurried off towards Stag Street. She was clutching the envelope in one hand, and holding onto her hat with the other. She was reflecting on the importance of her mission, and how handsome Hans was, and how much he had always trusted her. Halfway there, however, something began to niggle away at her, then to upset her and finally to enrage her. She slowed her pace. She came to a sudden halt. She stared at the envelope. At Hans's flowing, expert writing. At the stupid name, Sophie, which she could now read with loathing. She looked for a lighted doorway. She sat down on the step, and without hesitating, opened the envelope, doing her best not to tear it. She read stumblingly the first few paragraphs. The sentences were terribly long and the writing difficult to decipher. She made out the odd sentence, a word here and there. She recognised many of the verbs and some of the nouns. She was unable to understand its content, but it was obviously a love letter to that stuck-up woman. A love letter from Hans, which she couldn't even read. Lisa leapt angrily to her feet. What was she doing? How could she have been such a fool? She ran back in the direction she had come. She reached Highgate. As soon as she glimpsed the water flowing beneath Bridge Walk, she tore the letter into little pieces and scattered them on the River Nulte.
 
Álvaro and Hans met at the Central Tavern to say their farewells. Neither spoke much—they looked at one another, smiled awkwardly, clinked tankards. A cold draught seeped through every crack in the walls, cancelling out the effect of the wood stoves. Outside, along the sides of the market square, the vendors were staying up to arrange their Christmas stalls with rattles, pumpernickel bread, stars, sugar sweets, baubles, flagons of wine, coloured candlesticks, marzipan, wreaths.
I shouldn't have come, Álvaro grumbled, last evenings are always terrible. Shall I get you another beer, you poor martyr? said Hans, clapping him on the back. Is this it, then? Álvaro insisted, you're really leaving? Yes, yes, replied Hans, why are you so surprised? I don't know, Álvaro shrugged, well, I am a little, I suppose I was hoping something might happen, I'm not sure what, anything, and that you'd end up staying.
Amigo mío
, Hans raised his tankard, I have to continue on my way. And, said Álvaro, raising his tankard in turn, you have to work on your Spanish accent. If you like, retorted Hans, we could discuss your German accent. Their brief burst of laughter ends abruptly. Anyway, sighed Álvaro, I've never seen anybody leave Wandernburg before. Not wishing to quibble, said Hans, but I'm still here, aren't I? Nobody, said Álvaro, astonished. Maybe, said Hans, I just loathe Christmas. And I loathe farewells, replied Álvaro, so, if you don't mind, I'd prefer not to be there tomorrow when your coach leaves.
They quit the tavern. They walked along, trying to talk about something else, anything else, until they reached the corner of Old Cauldron Street. Their eyes met. They took a deep breath. They nodded as one. They promised to write to one another. They took another deep breath. Hans stepped forward, arms outstretched, Álvaro withdrew. No, he said, I'd rather not. I mean it, I can't. It's bad enough having to go back to that accursed tavern tomorrow on my own. Let's pretend we're meeting tomorrow as usual. Really. Not another word. I'm going home. Goodnight.
Que descanses, hermano
.
Álvaro raised an arm, wheeled round, and hurried off along the street.
 
Hans splashed icy water on his face, making himself start. He shaved in front of the broken mirror on the back of the watercolour. He cut himself twice. He wanted to believe he had
slept a little, even though he had the impression of having lain awake all night talking to himself in whispers.
He squashed in clothes, crammed in books, folded papers. He managed to close his luggage. He glanced about the room to make sure he had left nothing behind. Under the bed, covered in fluff, he made out a mass of fine fabric, which he assumed at first was a sock, but which turned out to be something completely unexpected—Lisa's nightdress. He placed the chairs in the corners of the room, lined up the candleholders, pushed the shutters to—the steamy windowpanes distorted the neighbouring rooftops. Hans took hold of his valise, the handles of his trunk and the rest of his belongings. The trunk seemed heavier than when he arrived. He didn't glance back to take a last look at the empty room. He walked out into the corridor, closing the door behind him.

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