A silence descended over the room, as though they had all been watching a soap bubble float to the floor.
At ten o’clock sharp, Herr Gottlieb heaved himself out of his chair. He went to wind up the clock and said goodnight to his guests.
In view of the rather gloomy atmosphere hanging over the gathering, Sophie suggested they devote the rest of the evening to music and performance, an idea warmly received by everyone, in particular Professor Mietter, who would occasionally accompany her in a Mozart or Haydn duet, and even the odd sonata by Boccherini (the even was Professor Mietter’s word). Sophie sat at the piano and Elsa fetched the professor’s cello case. Before the music began, Elsa was able to sit down for the first time since the beginning of the soirée, and for the first time, too, she appeared completely attentive. She ground a few crumbs into the carpet with the toe of her shoe—the crumbs turned to dust with the first stroke of Professor Mietter’s bow. Hans could not take his eyes off Sophie’s supple, tapping fingers.
The duet proceeded peacefully, disrupted only by abrupt nods from Professor Mietter, to which Sophie responded with discreet half smiles. When they had finished and been applauded by their fellow salon-goers, Sophie insisted Frau Pietzine come to the piano. Flattered by her entreaties, Frau Pietzine duly resisted, and then, just as Sophie appeared to back down, agreed, blushing theatrically. There was further applause—Frau Pietzine’s necklace came away from her bosom and swung in mid-air for a moment. Then she turned to the piano, and with a clatter of rings and bracelets began to sing excruciatingly.
What did you think? asked the flushed Frau Pietzine. With great astuteness, Sophie answered: Your playing was excellent. In an attempt to rouse Frau Levin from her stupor, Sophie suggested she and Frau Pietzine play a piece for four hands. Everyone declared this an excellent idea, and their implorings ended in a burst of applause when the flustered Frau Levin rose from her seat, glancing around her as though surprised to find herself on her feet. She made her timorous way towards the piano. Frau Pietzine’s generous hips slid along the stool. Backs straight, shoulders tensed, the two women tackled Beethoven with more ardour than was seemly. Contrary to Hans’s expectations, Frau Levin was an excellent pianist, disguising her companion’s mistakes and compensating for her missed notes. During the recital, Herr Levin’s eyes remained fixed on the piano stool, not quite on his wife’s skirts.
The soirée ended just before midnight with a selection of the classics. Frau Pietzine requested Molière, Álvaro suggested Calderón and Professor Mietter demanded Shakespeare. Herr Levin came up with Confucius, but there was no book by Confucius in the house. Hans asked for nothing and was content to study the down on Sophie’s arms, which changed shape, colour and (he assumed) taste according to the candlelight. Sophie was unanimously elected to recite the chosen passages. Hans was very curious to listen to her, because not only did it enable him to gaze at her with impunity, but he also had the idea that from listening to someone read aloud it was possible to read their erotic inflections. What Hans did not know was that Sophie shared his opinion. This was why Hans’s looks, digressions, slips of the tongue and hesitations made her uneasy, but more than that, if she were honest, they disturbed her.
Hans felt that, although Sophie’s voice was not beautiful, she modulated it perfectly, achieving a convincing tone without being strained, avoiding sounding on the one hand bland and on the other affected, maintaining a controlled delivery, her lips slightly pursed, deliberately threading together the inflections, lingering on the more emphatic ones and skimming over the softer ones, alternating between the long and the short sounds with a rocking movement, modifying the punctuation to suit her breathing rather than any grammatical requirements, savouring each pause without drawing it out. In short, being sensual, not in order to please her audience, but for her own enjoyment. Hans thought: This is terrible. He half-closed his eyes and in his imagination tried to enter Sophie’s throat, to float inside it, to be part of her air. The air undulating in her neck like warm liquid. She recites as though she were drinking tea, thought Hans. The comparison struck him as ludicrous, and his mouth felt suddenly dry. Moistening his lips with his tongue he realised he had become distracted from the texts again. Sophie must have partly been able to read Hans’s thoughts, for when she had finished the last but one paragraph, she fell silent, closed the book on her forefinger marking the page, passed it to Hans and said: My dear Monsieur, pray give us the pleasure of hearing you recite the final passage. With that, she smoothed the creases in her dress, daintily crossed her leg and settled back in her chair, gazing at Hans and smiling provocatively. Suddenly she fixed her eyes on the succulent bulge of Hans’s throat, a nest of words. Go ahead, said Sophie, savouring the thought, we’re listening.
Standing beside the door, neither was able to utter the last word. All the other guests had gone and both Sophie and Hans had bade them farewell one by one without moving, behaving as though they had already taken leave of one another yet postponing their goodbye indefinitely. A gentle breeze seemed to be blowing between them, making them quiver. For want of kissing her violently and putting a stop to the unbearable tension, Hans vented his frustration by being aggressive and referring to her at every opportunity as Frau. Fräulein, corrected Sophie, I am still Fräulein. But you’ll soon be married, protested Hans. Yes, she retorted, as you say, soon, but not yet.
They remained silent, almost touching, dismayed by their own aggressiveness, until Sophie added: Don’t be impatient, I will invite you to the wedding.
 
As the days slipped by, they continued to observe the same courtesies when addressing one another, each echoing the other’s formal tone, yet imbuing these identical utterances with a note of impatience that was increasingly playful and ambiguous. On the surface nothing was happening. Both kept their composure in their own particular way: Sophie disguised her hot flushes with displays of aloofness, while Hans repressed his desire with theoretical expositions and literary quotations. Sophie derived strength from the heat of the debates themselves, from the analytical distance she forced herself to assume when communicating with him. Hans succeeded in appearing calm when he focused on a theme, losing himself in his argument. On Fridays at midnight when the salon was over, the two of them would talk for a while in the corridor as though on the point of parting, without really parting. They sought to do this in full view of Elsa or Bertold, as if making it clear they had no need to hide everything they needed to hide. After the arrival of Sophie’s first letter, they began taking tea together at her house. On those afternoons, Herr Gottlieb would emerge from his study to sit with them and the three would converse amicably. Herr Gottlieb welcomed Hans as warmly as ever, although less effusively. Hans was his daughter’s friend now, and he was obliged to withdraw a little in order not to seem like an interfering father, and above all so as to be able to watch over her from a distance. Herr Gottlieb was only too aware of his daughter’s tempestuous nature. He knew that any opposition or outright prohibition was enough to make her persist in disobeying him with an obstinacy he sometimes found alarming. And so the most sensible thing to do was to let her have her own way and to stay alert.
Had Hans been capable of thinking about it objectively, he would have understood why Sophie’s behaviour towards him was so erratic. When they were face to face, gazing excitedly into each other’s eyes, she was confrontational. Yet when another guest criticised his point of view she would discreetly leap to his defence. But these signs remained relatively invisible to anyone else. In part because the language of gestures is not transparent like a piece of glass but reflective like a mirror. And in part because each had their own reasons for interpreting them in their own way.
Besides his habit of not taking part in any of the discussions, with the result that he didn’t feel they concerned him in the slightest, Rudi Wilderhaus felt too certain of his position, his status, his betrothal, to be at all concerned. Or rather he was obliged not to be concerned, for if he had been that would have meant lowering himself to the level of an unknown stranger with no social standing. Professor Mietter appeared to find nothing odd either in Sophie’s discreet and constant solidarity towards Hans, since (as he himself could testify from his first months at the salon) she was an attentive hostess, whose rule it was to indulge new members in order to make certain they stayed. For this reason the salon had begun with three or four regular members, and now boasted double that number. Moreover, in the professor’s view, Fräulein Gottlieb’s passionate and somewhat stormy nature was behind her tendency to enliven their debates by siding with whoever was in a minority. And it so happened that the outrageous Hans frequently found himself in a minority. In any event (the professor ended by reassuring himself) Sophie had continued to grant him preferential, even honorific treatment, confirming him as the incontestable authority in the salon and the starting point for any debate. Frau Pietzine might have suspected something amid her giggles and embroidery, yes. But she was far too enthralled by the arrival of this young guest, too amused by the novelty, to go against the tide. As for Herr Levin, who respected and feared Professor Mietter in almost equal measure, in some inadmissible part of his prudent self he was glad of Hans’s presence. Not because he agreed with his opinions, but because of the destabilising effect they had on the unshakeable self-assurance of the professor, who was so partial to criticising Herr Levin’s own contributions. Álvaro had sided with Hans from the start, and delayed the discussion of any differences they might have for the privacy of the Central Tavern. He did so not only out of loyalty but out of convenience—he had never met anyone as like-minded in Wandernburg, and had felt less lonely since Hans arrived. And Frau Levin? Frau Levin was silent, although she wrinkled her brow thinking who knew what.
That afternoon there were magnolias in the drawing room. After they had taken tea, instead of shutting himself in his study as usual, Herr Gottlieb had stayed on to talk with the two of them. After chatting for a while about nothing in particular, Sophie had suddenly retired to her room. She hadn’t done so because she was upset with Hans or annoyed at her father’s intrusiveness. Quite the contrary, she had understood that if she wanted Hans’s visits to continue unimpeded she must allow her father to keep up his friendship with him. Neither of the two men was able to fathom this simple strategy, and so her father chewed his pipe contentedly and stared at Hans, and Hans coughed disappointedly and stared at Herr Gottlieb.
During their hour-and-a-half-long conversation, accompanied by a bottle of brandy Bertold brought, Herr Gottlieb confided in Hans his concern about the forthcoming betrothal dinners. Luckily, he explained, the first of these would be held at the house of the bride to be. Imagine what a calamity it would have been for me, Herr Gottlieb told him, if the Wilderhauses—the Wilderhauses no less!—had received us first in their mansion, and then we—perish the thought!—had returned the honour here in this house. I tell you, I scarcely sleep a wink—scarcely a wink!—just thinking about the menu, what can one offer a Wilderhaus, you understand? Naturally we will be eating in the dining room rather than in here—a little more brandy my friend? Not even a drop?—Anyway, as I was saying, this week we will prepare the room, but will that be enough? I’ve already asked Petra—do you know Petra? And her daughter?—A fine woman, Petra, when we first employed her she was the best cook of her generation, why do I say was? No, yes, she still is, only things have changed, you know, we no longer entertain like we once did, times change, my friend! And this house, this house, well, anyway, there it is, but we’re all so nervous! No, Sophie isn’t, Sophie is never nervous, although I have to confess—are you sure you won’t have another drop?—I have to confess I find it difficult to stay calm, and what would you think of chicken consommé, noodles with cinnamon, a joint of roast meat, and to follow I don’t know, a compote, some meringues, what would you—and champagne, champagne to finish off obviously, but what about with the dinner?—Do you know what wines are served these days in Berlin, you’ll ask around? That’s good of you, I’d be most grateful. You know it’s a great relief talking to you. Don’t you think beef would be best?
And I swear, Hans told the organ grinder later on that same evening, it took a supreme effort for me to stay calm while he was talking to me about that accursed dinner. Sophie went to her room, and her father spent two hours telling me about the Wilderhaus family, could things be any worse? The organ grinder, who had been listening, his gaze wandering as he played with Franz’s muzzle, finally spoke, only to say something completely bewildering: And you say there were flowers? Yes, yes, Hans said wearily. What flowers were they? What does that matter? replied Hans, why should you care? What were they? the old man insisted. I think, Hans relented, they were magnolias. Magnolias! the old man brightened up, are you sure? I think so, said Hans, puzzled. Magnolias, said the organ grinder, signify perseverance, she’s telling you not to give up. And since when do they mean that? Since for ever, the old man smiled, where have you been living? In that case, said Hans, should I say something to her, declare my feelings? No, the old man said, you have to wait, don’t be hasty, she’s not asking you to do anything, she needs time. She needs time to consider, but knowing you are still there, do you see? She needs to decide the time of her love, you have no control over it. You must persevere but also wait. Do peasants twist their sunflowers to face the sun? Well. You can’t twist magnolias either.
The dawn mist floated in and out of the cave’s entrance. Hans and the organ grinder had stayed awake all night. They had just sat down side by side to look at the pinewoods, the river, the white earth. The fire warmed their backs. Hans was fascinated by the organ grinder’s silent attention as he contemplated the landscape, sometimes for hours. Hans looked at the old man out of the corner of his eye. The old man looked at the snow-covered scenery. The empty landscape observed itself.
It observed itself weighed down by hardened mud, the long-established frosts, the compacted snow. The submerged pinewoods. The snapped-off branches. The bare tree trunks. In spite of everything, the Nulte went on flowing beneath the crust of ice, went on being the river of Wandernburg. The stark poplars swayed.
Can you hear? said the organ grinder.
Hear what? said Hans.
The cracking sound, said the organ grinder, the cracking sound of the Nulte.
Honestly, said Hans, I don’t think so.
There, said the organ grinder, a bit farther down.
I don’t know, said Hans, well, a little. And is the river saying something?
It’s saying, the old man whispered, I’m on my way. I’m nearly here.
What’s nearly here? Hans asked.
Spring, the organ grinder replied, even though we can’t see it, even though it’s frozen, it is on its way. Stay another month. You can’t leave here without seeing Wandernburg in spring.
Don’t these frozen trees, this icy landscape, make you feel sad? Hans asked.
Sad? said the organ grinder, they give me hope. They’re like a promise.
 
To the slow, steady rhythm of the handle, the days turned and turned, and Herr Gottlieb’s long-awaited betrothal dinners took place. During the first of these, which was held in Stag Street beneath the chandelier that recalled better days in the dining room Hans had never seen, amid the cabinets filled with porcelain and Saxon china figurines, around the big, oblong table that had once seen many more guests, Rudi had presented Sophie with the engagement ring. Eight days later, on the eve of the second betrothal dinner, she had reciprocated by sending him her portrait enclosed in an oval-shaped silver medallion. The Wilderhaus family had behaved towards Herr Gottlieb in a correct if unenthusiastic manner, and were certainly willing to indulge their son Rudi if this wedding was really what he wanted. Neither Sophie nor her father had ever set foot inside Wilderhaus Hall, whose impressive facade they had only seen from King’s Parade. Herr Gottlieb’s first reaction as they walked around it was shock, followed by awe, then finally exhilaration. Sophie held her chin up and remained silent during most of the dinner. Herr Gottlieb left the mansion feeling profoundly relieved. At last everything seemed to be going smoothly—after the desserts had been served, contrary to his expectations, the Wilderhauses raised few objections to his conditions and had agreed to the sum of her dowry.
Since their first tentative letters, Hans and Sophie had begun writing to each other almost every day, and by now Hans had become a frequent caller at the Gottlieb residence. He had achieved what he thought would be the most difficult aim—becoming Sophie’s friend; and once he had, he felt disappointed. As had been their custom for some time, the two of them were taking tea in the drawing room. Herr Gottlieb had retired to his study and they were able to enjoy the luxury of gazing into each other’s eyes. As the carpet soaked up the afternoon light, Sophie described in detail the dinner at Wilderhaus Hall. Hans responded to her narrative with a sour smile. Why is she telling me all this? he thought. To show she trusts me? To see how I will react, or to put me off? Even as she spoke to him in a relaxed tone, Sophie could not help wondering: Why does he listen so happily to all this? To show his friendship? So that I make the first move? Or is he distancing himself? Yet the more Sophie shared her misgivings about the opulence of Wilderhaus Hall, the more Hans thought she was trying to bring Rudi into the conversation, and the more he smiled out of self-protection. And the more he smiled, the more Sophie thought he was deliberately showing his aloofness, and so the more she persisted in giving him details. And in their own way, during this exchange, they both felt an uncertain happiness.
Imagine our amazement, Hans, Sophie went on, when half a dozen liveried footmen kept serving ice cream throughout the meal and offering us tea every fifteen minutes, then brought champagne, Scotch whisky and bottles of Riesling after dinner. (I can imagine, Hans replied, how upsetting!) I swear I didn’t know whom to greet first or how to address them, there must have been at least two uniformed coachmen, half a dozen servants, goodness knows how many chambermaids, and a kitchen staff the size of a small village (my, what indigestion! exclaimed Hans), seriously, I’m not used to so much etiquette, I wonder how anyone can feel truly at ease surrounded by so many people (oh well, said Hans, as with most things, you grow accustomed to it, you know), the only place where there’s any privacy is in the gardens (the gardens, he said, surprised), well, yes, there are two, one at the front and one at the back (of course, of course, Hans nodded), they were pretty, yes, but it sent a shiver up my spine when I realised one of them was full of graves, I’ll wager you can’t guess whose they were? (You have me on tenterhooks, he said.) The dogs’! Yes, you heard me, eleven dogs are buried there, the family’s hunting dogs, and each has a headstone with its name inscribed (how very commendable, Hans said, to extend such treatment to their poor animals), I don’t know, it all seems rather excessive to me, why would anyone need four billiard tables? (They certainly know how to keep themselves entertained! Hans said approvingly.) If they even play, because everything in that house looks unused, including the library, which incidentally is vast. I was able to leaf through a few old French volumes which I suspect no one has ever so much as glanced at. (And what about paintings? said Hans. Do they own many paintings, I imagine they must glance at them?) You seem in excellent spirits this afternoon, my friend, I’m delighted you are keen to know so much about my fiancé (I’m burning with curiosity, Fräulein, positively burning! said Hans, shifting in his seat), yes, indeed, they own many paintings, a large collection of Italian, French and Flemish masters they have acquired over the years from local convents. (What a magnificent investment! Hans exclaimed. And do they have a music room?) I’m afraid they do, a beautiful little room with gas lamps, and another marble-lined banqueting hall (yes, said Hans, marble is always best for banquets). May I offer you a herbal tea, Herr Hans, you seem a little on edge. Elsa dear, come here will you? I wasn’t aware you knew so much about architecture, indeed, I was going to tell you about the English taps and drainpipes, but I’m not sure I should.
Hans arrived at the inn with a hunger on his skin and a hollow feeling in his chest. He had no inclination to go out, preferring to remain slumped on the old settee mulling over his conversation with Sophie. Lisa, who was still up, hastened to serve him what remained of the family’s dinner. When he saw her approach with a plate and bowl in her hands, he was suddenly touched. Thank you Lisa, he said, you shouldn’t have taken the trouble. There’s no need to thank me, she replied, trying to look as if she couldn’t care less, I’m only doing my duty. But the pinkish tinge to her cheeks suggested otherwise. In that case I’d like to thank you for doing your duty so well. Thank you, Lisa replied, without thinking. And, after she realised what she had said, she could not help smiling brightly.
Within minutes she was next to him on the sofa, sitting with her feet tucked under her. Where’s your father? Hans asked. Asleep, Lisa replied. And your mother? Trying to put Thomas to bed, she said. And you? asked Hans. Aren’t you sleepy? Not really, Lisa said, shaking her head. Then she added: What about you? Me? Hans replied, surprised. No, well, a little. Are you going up to your room, then? she asked. I think I will, he said. Do you need some more candles? Lisa said. I don’t think so, replied Hans. Lisa stared at him with an intensity that was only possible from someone truly innocent or extremely artful. But Hans knew Lisa was still too young to be that artful. Good night then, Lisa said. Good night Lisa, said Hans. He stood up. She lowered her eyes and began picking at a hangnail.
When Hans was already on the stairs, Lisa’s voice called him back. Aren’t you going to tell me what you keep in your trunk? she asked, making patterns with her foot. Hans turned around, smiling. The whole world, he said.
 
Silence radiates, like concentric rings, from the centre of the market square towards the yellowish gloomy alleyways, from the capricious tip of the Tower of the Wind to the sloping contours of St Nicholas’s Church, from the high doors to the railings round the graveyard, from the worn cobblestones to the dormant stench of the fields manured for spring, and beyond.
When the nightwatchman turns the corner of Wool Alley and enters narrow Prayer Street, when his cries dissolve into echoes … to go home, everyone! … bell has chimed eight! … your fire and your lamps … to God! All praise! … and when his pole with the lantern at its tip is swallowed up by the night, then, as on other nights, a figure emerges from a narrow strip of shadow, the black brim of his hat poking out. His arms are thrust into the pockets of his long overcoat, his hands snug in a pair of thin gloves, his expectant fingers clasping a knife, a mask, a length of rope.
Opposite, there is the sound of light feet, of brisk heels coming down the alleyway. The gloves tense inside the overcoat, the brim of the hat tilts, the mask slips over the face, and the shadowy figure begins to move forward.
In Wandernburg a sandy moon turns full, a moon caught unawares, a moon with nowhere.