After the end of the round, Sophie told them a fable she remembered reading as a child. What if the dreams of those who love one another are woven together as they sleep by silken threads, she said, threads that move the characters in their dreams from above like puppets, controlling their fantasies so that when they wake up they are thinking of one another? What rot! Reichardt barked. I believe it, Hans rallied. I don’t, said Lamberg. What if the threads get tangled and you wake up thinking about the wrong person, Álvaro jested. Elsa looked at him, disconcerted. The organ grinder, who had been nodding thoughtfully, declared suddenly: Like a great handle, you mean? The handle of dreams! Yes, Sophie smiled, that’s exactly it.

Hans had slipped away for a moment in order to relieve himself amid the pine trees, when he heard Sophie call his name. He stood waiting for her, kissing her neck as she arrived. Hans, my love, she said, breathless from running, your old man is wonderful, a real character! We must bring him to the salon so that everyone can see him. No, not to the salon, he said. Why? Sophie asked, are you ashamed of people meeting him? Of course not, Hans said earnestly, lying, but the organ grinder isn’t a fairground attraction. He’s my friend. He’s a wise old man. He likes a quiet life. Well, she said, returning his kiss, there’s no need to get annoyed, just promise me we’ll come here again. Elsa doesn’t like it, said Hans. I know, she nodded, she’s ill at ease, although I’m not sure that that’s due to the cave. You mean … Hans probed. Him, of course, Sophie replied laughing.

That night, the interminable wall Hans dreamt of was the same one Sophie saw herself scaling, daunted by how tall it was and surprised at being naked, without knowing what awaited her on the other side. Above the wall, the branch of a hollow tree trembled beneath Álvaro’s weight. He lay curled up in an awkward ball, balancing precariously. At the foot of the hollow tree, Elsa was burying a violin in the hole in which the organ grinder sat playing dice with a man with no face, swathed in black wool.

 

What are we translating today? Sophie asked as she came in. Realising she was in the mood for work, Hans struggled to ignore the erection in his breeches. This effort excited her, for she had arrived in a state of desire and felt like tormenting him a little. But Hans’s self-restraint was such that Sophie ended up thinking he preferred to work.

That afternoon they weren’t going to translate. At any rate not from one language into another—a certain Mr Walker had written to Hans on behalf of the European Review asking him for an essay on contemporary German poetry. The fee was good and they paid half up front, which was rare. Hans had accepted without a second thought. He suggested to Sophie that they write the essay together. Walker says he’d like us to include a woman poet, he explained. You can tell Herr Walker, she retorted, that our best poets will be included on their own merits, thank you very much.

Sophie began writing down a list of names: I would mention Jean Paul, Karoline von Günderrode, the Schlegel brothers, Dorothea, of course, and Madame Mereau. We could also talk about the lays of von Arnim—doesn’t he have a castle near here?—and those of Clemens Brentano. Not forgetting his sister Bettina’s delightful ones (I haven’t read any of them, confessed Hans), too bad, Monsieur, because there’s a most enlightening one by her which ends:

If your girl is faithful, who can tell?
Although she begs the Heavens
For your love to stay close by
If your girl is faithful, who can tell?

Included! Hans declared laughing. And what do you think of Brentano and von Arnim? she asked. To be honest, he sighed, they remind me of those students who go around with a guitar, a bandoleer and a German leather jacket, smelling flowers and singing about medieval exploits. And yet if you were a medieval princess, I wouldn’t even be able to speak to you. I’d be a commoner who obeys his liege lord and dies from the plague. That’s the reality of it. Reality, said Sophie, is many things at the same time. In poetry you can be here and there, in the present and in the past, in a castle or at a university. All right, said Hans, all I’m saying is that if we could see what the past was really like we would be speechless with horror. Another thing that irritates me about that idiot von Arnim, is his hatred of France—what are we to do, burn half the books in our libraries? But don’t you think it’s a good thing to rescue popular poetry? said Sophie. If there were anything popular about poetry, replied Hans, the people would be reading it in the street. Oh let me guess, the dear fellow wished to capture the essence of popular poetry without the people realising it! Isn’t that a French tradition? My dear, said Sophie, smiling, politics blinkers you, and you are being unfair on von Arnim. He’s one of Germany’s most underrated poets. If he is virtually unknown it isn’t simply because people don’t read poetry, it’s because he’s a more difficult poet than he appears, filled with death and darkness. In addition, he is detested by his Catholic friends for being a Protestant, and by the fanatical Protestants for having Catholic friends. You won’t find any cheap patriotism in The Youth’s Magic Horn. In the authors, perhaps, but not in the texts. You never know what the soldiers are fighting for in his war songs, only that they are scared, they die, they are in love and they long to go home. I used to love the sentry’s song when I was a girl:

No my boy, don’t be sad,
And let me await you
In the rose garden
Among the green clover …

 

I’ll not go to the green clover!
I’m obliged to stay here
In the garden of weapons,
Weighed down with halberds.

 

If you fight, may God help you! …
Everything always depends
On the will of God!
Who believes such a thing?

 

The one who does is far away,
He is the one giving battle!
He is a king! A king!
Halt! Who goes there? Stand back! …

 

Who was singing there? Who was it?
Only the poor sentinel
Singing at midnight.
Midnight! Sentinel!

All right, all right, said Hans, included!

Well, said Sophie, drawing a line under her list, those are my choices, what about yours? I’d start, replied Hans, with the Jena poets, of course. I admire their way of life as well as their work, isn’t that part of what poetry is? A way of living a different life. There are poets who seem sure of their roots, which may be a tradition, a genre, a country—no matter. I like the wandering poets, the ones who are not rooted anywhere. That’s where the younger of the Schlegel brothers and the poets of the Athenaeum come in, they wrote in a fragmented way, they weren’t looking for a system, or didn’t believe they’d ever find one, they were continually searching. I’d like to include Tieck, because he describes his library as though it were the world and he a wanderer. And Hölderlin, because, in spite of everything, his poetry shows us we can’t be gods, much less Greeks.

Hans felt another erection—this often happened when he indulged in an excess of literary criticism with Sophie.

Ah, he smiled, I’ve left the best until last—Novalis (your Novalis lived in a dream world, too, Sophie contended), true, except it wasn’t fantasy that interested him, but rather the unknown. His mysticism was, shall we say, practical. A mysticism through which to explore the present. (I understand, she said, but I’m surprised, wasn’t he a religious poet?) No, exactly, that’s the point! I think Novalis was like Hölderlin, his hymns describe the impossibility of overcoming the earthly condition, when he says “I feel in my depths, a divine weariness”, his weariness is worldly, his disillusionment is rational. (Yes, she said, but he also wrote: “Who, without the promise of the skies could bear the earth and all its lies?” How do you explain that? How can you understand Novalis without heaven?) You’re right, I disagree with him there. (Then why all the interest in Novalis, you, the atheist? Didn’t your poet compose canticles to the Holy Virgin and even write a treatise on Christianity?) Touché, touché, Novalis fascinates me because I don’t quite accept him, I have to struggle with him in order to admire him. And since I never quite succeed, I constantly go back to him. I don’t think anyone should completely agree with a poet of genius, unless he also believes himself a genius. Don’t laugh! The question is—why must spirituality be the exclusive preserve of believers? Why should we atheists relinquish the unknown? My ideal as a reader, for we all have one don’t we? Would be to read Novalis without the idea of God. (Do you really think he can exist if you take away his religiosity?) Novalis used religion as a lever (Hans, my love, you’re the strangest critic I’ve ever met. I think religiosity in art can be moving, look at sacred music), precisely, and why are we atheists stirred by religious music? Because we transcend it, or rather we bring it down to earth. And music makes this possible because it has no dogma, it takes the form of a passion, nothing more. One last thing and then I promise I’ll be quiet, bear in mind that Novalis wrote his best poems after he lost his love, who died very young. Who knows what wonderful earthly poems he might have composed to a love who was still alive. In contrast (in contrast? Sophie echoed, sitting astride him), er, in contrast I have you on top of me.

Hans and Sophie lay, half-undressed, gazing at the ceiling, at the gentle progress of the spiders’ webs. He was breathing noisily and rubbing the tips of his toes together. She smelt faintly of violet water, and the stronger, damper odour of another flower. Sophie sat up, kissed his foot, told him she had to leave, and got up to drink water from the jug. The semen Hans had spilt over her thighs began to trickle down her legs as she walked. When she stepped over their discarded clothes, a drop fell onto an open-mouthed shoe.

 

(Before he met Sophie, Hans hated his feet, or he thought he hated them—they were hopeless at dancing, rather stubby and the slightest touch made them recoil. He felt they were guilty, but of what he did not know. Guilty of being the way they were, averse to being shoeless, getting cold at night. That afternoon when Sophie bared his feet for the first time, she studied them at length and gave them her simple blessing: I like your feet, she said. And she planted a kiss on the tip of his big toe. Nothing more. It is the small things in life that change you, reflected Hans. A man who has walked as much as you shouldn’t be ashamed of his feet, it would be churlish. From that moment on, Hans began walking barefoot around the room.

Hans and Sophie had decided to go on an outing to the country rather than stay inside working. The day was too splendid, too fragrant. Elsa gladly agreed to the change of plan as it allowed her to go to the market square duly accompanied and without the risk of arousing suspicion. Even so, she asked to take a separate carriage in order to conceal her lover’s identity, which, in any event, Hans and Sophie had known for a while.

Half-an-hour before going out, as he did every afternoon when he was expecting Sophie, Hans bathed his feet in warm water, salts and essential oils. He soaked them in the tin tub. He stirred the water with his ankles, let it ripple through his splayed toes, he massaged them, perceiving, as though for the first time, that they were ticklish. As he explored the wet soles of his feet, he noticed himself becoming excited, and experienced a delicious feeling of urgency and calm. He sat for a moment in the tub, closed his eyes. He emerged naked and went to shave in the front of the painting. Over the washbasin, he rubbed his face, hands and forearms with water, pounce and soap. He didn’t dry himself immediately. He thought about masturbating but didn’t, partly so he wouldn’t be late and partly as a sweet form of punishment. He used a soft towel to dry his body and a new sponge for his face. He dressed, pulled on his shoes with a sense of regret.

Although no longer high, the Nulte seemed satisfied with its slender line. Its blue-green waters flowed gently by. Hans and Sophie touched each other beneath their clothes; they spoke of everything, of nothing. In the shade of a poplar tree, they watched the light play over the cornfields. Sophie’s fingers grew longer, became entangled. Hans’s shoes were hot. The balmy air shimmered, circled through their arms. The poplars were good, steadfast. She felt a ball unravelling in her belly. He felt as if a branch were springing up from between his legs.

It’s a hiatus, isn’t it? Hans whispered, the summer, I mean. As if the rest of the year were the text and the summer were a separate clause, an additional comment. Yes, replied Sophie, pensive, and do you know what it says? “I am fleeting.” It’s curious, said Hans, I feel as if time has stopped, but at the same time I’m aware of how fast it is going. Is that what being in love is? she said, looking at him. I suppose so, he smiled. Sometimes, said Sophie, it feels strange not to think about the future, as though it were never going to happen. Don’t worry, said Hans, the future doesn’t think about us much either. But what about afterwards? she asked, when the summer is over?

The light was beginning to fade, casting a shadow on the meadow towards the east. Both had to go back to the city, but neither stirred. Evening was gradually closing in on them. And the light, in sympathy, lingered on.)

 

She was fastening her corset while Hans was opening his trunk. Today, he said, I’d like us to translate a young Russian poet I recommended to Brockhaus. But Hans, do you know any Russian, she asked? Me? he replied. Only the Cyrillic alphabet and a few dozen words. Well then? Sophie said, surprised. Ah, Hans chuckled, I told them you were fluent. We’ll translate using a third language, don’t worry. We have an original edition here—look: —a French translation, and an English one, and this nice Russian-German dictionary, what do you reckon?

They selected a few poems from the translations they had. They copied out the English and French versions, placing each stanza in a separate table. They checked each word in the dictionary in order to make sure they had understood the literal meaning of the original, then noted down the different meanings next to each table.

Do you know what? Sophie said playfully, this Pushkin’s adulterous loves are more believable than his spiritual ones. That’s typical of you, Bodenlieb! said Hans, looking over the draft they had just done:

Dorida’s long tresses hold me in thrall,
As does her blue-tinged gaze at the ball;
When yesterday I left, her charms
Enchanted me as I looked on her arms,
Every impulse leading me to more,
My desire sated as ne’er before.
But suddenly in the bitter gloom
Strange features filled the room;
A secret sadness made me start,
Another name was in my heart.

After Sophie had left, Hans reread the drafts of their translations. His head began to grow heavy, his muscles went slack and his cheek settled on the desk where it was warmed by the oil lamp. Before sitting up straight again, he had a strange fleeting nightmare—he dreamt he was going from one language to another like someone running through a line of sheets hung out to dry. Each time he encountered a language, his face became wet and he thought he had woken up in his mother tongue, until he got to the next sheet and realised his mistake. Still running, he began talking to himself, and could clearly visualise the language he was speaking—he was able to contemplate the words he was uttering, their structures, their inflexions, yet he always arrived too late. The moment he came close to understanding the language in which he was dreaming, he felt something slap him in the face, and he woke up in the next language. Hans ran like a madman, arriving once, a hundred times too late to perceive these languages, until suddenly he understood he had really woken up. Looming before his eyes he saw a huge oil lamp and a great mound of papers. He noticed, as he sat up, that one of his cheeks was burning. Then, with a sense of relief he began a train of thought, and for a moment he contemplated in amazement the logic of his own language, its familiar shape, its miraculous harmony.

 

Listen, the organ grinder implored, is this really necessary? Are you sure? (Hans looked at him reprovingly and nodded several times.) All right, all right, let’s do it.

Slowly, clumsily, as if with each garment he were peeling off a whole year, the old man finally took off his tattered shirt, his linen breeches and his worsted shoes. Just so you know, he added, as a last protest, I’m only doing this to please you. Separated from the organ grinder’s dry flaccid skin, the garments curled up into a stinking ball. The earth appeared to swallow them up.

Barefoot, his trousers rolled up to his knees, Hans took the old man by the arm in order to help him into the river. He watched as he immersed himself bit by bit—his paper-thin ankles, his unsteady legs, his sagging buttocks, his hunched back. At last all Hans could see was the organ grinder’s dishevelled white head as he turned and beamed at him, mouth wide open, and began swimming like a child, arms thrashing in the water. Hey, it’s not so cold! the old man shouted. Won’t you join me? Thanks, said Hans, but I take my bath when I get up in the morning! Every morning! Bah! cried the organ grinder. Old wives’ tales! Princes bathe in scented water and die young!

Hans watched with repulsion and fascination the ripples of grime dissolving around the organ grinder’s body. He splashed his arms about in them playfully: Look! the old man laughed, pointing at the grey and brown lumps. It’s attracted the fish! Yes, thought Hans, there was something repulsive and yet honest about such an attachment to dirt. There was an obscure integrity about the old man’s lack of hygiene, or rather his lack of shame, a kind of truth. Some time ago, the organ grinder had said something ridiculous and at the same time true—perfumes were a deception, they wanted to be something else. Perhaps. Although Hans loved perfumes.

He helped the old man out of river and draped a towel around his bony shoulders. His knees were knocking, more from the shock of the water than from its temperature. As he rubbed himself down with the towel, the organ grinder began fiddling with his dripping testicles. Hans could not help glancing at them out of the corner of his eye, and at his tiny shrivelled penis. The organ grinder noticed this at once and he laughed good-naturedly. He was laughing at Hans, at himself, at his penis and at the river. Hey, he said, do you fiddle with yourself much? Hans looked the other way. Don’t be embarrassed, the old man said, I shan’t tell anyone. Do you fiddle with yourself much, then? No, yes, replied Hans, well, no more than is usual. You might find this strange, the organ grinder said, but from time to time—whoosh!—so do I! Do you know what I think about when I fiddle with myself? a I think about a woman with no clothes on, dancing a waltz. A young woman, who smiles at me. I think Franz knows, because every time—whoosh!—the scoundrel starts barking as if someone had come in.

They ate lunch together, talking then falling silent for a while. Hans spoke of Sophie and the dreaded end of the summer. Next month everything will change, he said. But, kof, kof, coughed the old man, everything is always changing, there’s nothing wrong with that. I know, sighed Hans, but sometimes things change for the worse. By the way, what’s that cough you have? Cough? said the organ grinder. What cough? Kof. That cough, said Hans. Is it from the water? No, the old man shrugged, it’s from before, don’t worry, maybe it’s the first sign of autumn, but, tell me, do you love her? Do you really love her? Yes, replied Hans. How can you be so sure so soon? the old man asked. Hans reflected for a moment then said: Because I admire her. Ah, well, the old man smiled. Kof.

 

Two sun-drenched days later, the organ grinder’s cough went away and he said he felt better than a brand-new organ string. Concerned about the old man’s diet and the state of his clothes, Hans resolved to find him work through Sophie’s friends. He remembered the old man saying that in the summer people always asked him to play at some dance or other, but he wasn’t aware that he had received any such commissions that year.

Lisa knocked at the door and handed him a violet note without looking him in the eye. Hans thanked her and reminded her that the following day they had a lesson. She said “Yes, I know”, and disappeared down the corridor. Hans stood watching her, reflecting about the unfairness of age, how it came too slowly for some and too fast for others. He forgot all about the matter as soon as he sat down to read the letter:

My love, good news—a close friend (well, not that close), Fräulein von Pogwisch, is having a ball on Saturday and I’ve convinced her how much more original it would be if she hired a “real” itinerant musician instead of the customary quartet. I know this may seem a rather silly argument, but if you knew Fräulein von Pogwisch you would understand perfectly. The reason I thought of her is because, although her family have a good income, they aren’t exactly wealthy, and her parents will be only too happy to save some money under the pretext of being original. Do you approve of the idea, my love? I feel happy. Did you notice how light it was this morning? Or were you fast asleep? I love you to pieces, your

S

The following Saturday, as agreed, Hans went to the end of Bridge Walk at six-thirty sharp to fetch the organ grinder. And Franz—the one condition the old man had insisted upon when accepting the job was that his dog be allowed to accompany them to the Pogwisch residence. Hans had hired a dogcart so Franz would feel at home. Hans’s face broke into a smile when he glimpsed the two of them walking down the path. Obeying his instructions, the old man had put on his only new shirt, a more or less presentable pair of breeches, and his best shoes. As he approached the cart, Hans saw that he had even combed his hair and trimmed his beard. Somewhat nervous, the organ grinder heaved himself into his seat, not allowing the driver to touch his barrel organ. I can manage, he said, I can manage. At that moment Franz gave two short barks, and Hans had the feeling he was repeating his master’s words. When the horses pulling the dogcart broke into a gallop, the organ grinder glanced about him, suddenly taken aback. How wonderful! he said. Do you know I can’t even remember the last time I rode in a carriage.

As I told you, my dear, Fräulein Kirchen was saying to Sophie, she’s always been such a good girl, what a terrible thing! And in the meantime the police do nothing, if they had their way, well, what do they care? Of course until something happens to the police chief’s daughter if you think they’re going to catch this masked attacker you’ve got another think coming! But, Sophie asked, when did this happen? Sometime yesterday afternoon, it seems, replied Fräulein Kirchen, near to … Good heavens! Do you see what I see, my dear? What on earth does Fanny think she’s wearing? She’s getting worse lately, has she lost her taste or her senses? Did I tell you what she said to Ottilie when they were having tea at …

Sophie heard a murmuring near the door and walked out into the hallway. She saw Fräulein von Pogwisch waving her arms about in front of Hans and behind him, at a slight distance, the old man and the dog waiting beside the barrel organ. What’s the matter, my dear? Sophie asked. Nothing really, replied Fräulein von Pogwisch, I was just telling the gentleman and the musician that if they expect to bring that mongrel in here, the least they could do is to give it a bath first. My dear young lady, the organ grinder said, doffing the hat Hans had forced him to put on, I assure you that my dog, which is far from being a mongrel and extremely well-behaved, will do what he’s told and stay by the door. In that case, replied Fräulein von Pogwisch, please tie him up. Believe me, the old man smiled, that really isn’t necessary—Franz only misbehaves when he’s tied up.

Seeing the organ grinder enter the room, everyone present turned as one to look at him. The old man paused, bobbed his head and walked on pushing his little cart. Hans and Sophie accompanied him to the corner of the room Fräulein von Pogwisch had set aside for him, and offered him a glass of wine before he began. Thank you, my dears, the old man said earnestly, but I never drink when I’m working otherwise I lose my rhythm. Very professional! Sophie said, winking at Hans as she went over to greet a friend.

At eight o’clock sharp, most of the guests had arrived and were keen for the dance to begin. The lady of the house signalled to Sophie. She in turn signalled to Hans, Hans looked at the organ grinder, and the old man lowered his head, inhaled, closed his eyes and slowly began to turn the handle.

Despite the suspicious glances the guests gave the old man as they passed close to him, the first two or three dances went down well. Above all the first, a popular polonaise which the old man had been canny enough to play at a faster pace than usual on account of the guests’ youthful exuberance. The rows of couples began dancing around the room, laughing as they changed places. Hans heaved a sigh of relief, and for a moment he thought everything would go smoothly. Little by little, however, the dance began to lose steam. By the third tune, several couples began to leave the dance floor muttering. In the two that followed, the complaints became audible. At the sixth or seventh, the dance floor was all but deserted. Before the organ grinder could start up with his next tune, Fräulein von Pogwisch marched over crossly and ordered him to stop. The instrument quivered like an animal suffering from cold.

Hans and Sophie did their best to calm Fräulein von Pogwisch and the more irate among the guests. I say, what’s going on! one of them piped up. Whose idea was it to play minuets, anyway? What about some waltzes? another one demanded indignantly. Where are the waltzes! Well, added another, if the idea was to send us to sleep it’s been a great success! Which century does that thing belong to? cried another. Which century! We should invite my great-grandmother! Another one declared: My great-grandmother! Tell me, a voice rang out from the back of the room, where did you find this clown? Which poorhouse did you drag him out of ?

Hans pushed his way through and found the organ grinder backed into his corner clutching his barrel organ, unable to move.

They crossed the room amid disdainful whispers, mocking laughter and jeers. The organ grinder followed behind with that detached air that made him seem at once fragile and unassailable. As they were reaching the hallway, they heard a voice from inside shout: What a relief! Here’s a pianoforte! Come here, Ralph! Ralph! Come and play us a lively tune!

Walking through the door was like plunging into a fountain of cool water. Night had fallen and the air was laced with the sound of crickets. Seeing them emerge, Franz pricked up his ears, lowered his tail and frowned. A moment later, Sophie appeared. She stopped Hans, clasping his hands and bringing them up to her cheeks. She closed her eyes in a gesture of deep regret and sighed: I don’t think it was a good idea to choose this house, it’s my fault. No, Hans replied stroking one of her ringlets, it wasn’t your fault and it wasn’t your idea either. Sophie went over to the organ grinder, gave him a long embrace and told him she was sorry. I’m the one who is sorry for playing your friends tunes from thirty years ago, replied the old man. I think I’m no longer …

At that moment, Fräulein von Pogwisch appeared in the doorway. She contemplated Hans sharply, looked scornfully at Sophie, and finally her gaze settled on the organ grinder as one encountering a peculiar rock in her path. I’ve come to pay you for your concert, announced Fräulein von Pogwisch. She placed a few coins on top of the barrel organ and made as if to leave. I should think so, Hans said angrily, especially as you were the one who cut it short. I wouldn’t dream of taking your money, Madame, said the organ grinder (the only trace of irony Hans was able to detect in his words was his use of Madame—the hostess was still a young woman), I couldn’t accept payment because I haven’t done my job, people pay me for playing, but I have never charged anything for not playing. Good evening, Madame, I apologise for the inconvenience.

Will you please explain why you didn’t accept? Hans rebuked him on the way back, that money was yours, you earned it! You did the best you could! Dignity is one thing, pride another. You, Franz, and the barrel organ all need the money and you weren’t stealing it from anyone. Now it turns out you went through all that for nothing. Ah, no, replied the organ grinder, forgive me, but you’re wrong, it wasn’t for nothing—it was lovely riding in this elegant carriage.

 

(Whenever I am menstruating, Sophie had reflected as she climbed the stairs at the inn, a strange thing happens to me. On the one hand I feel, or in theory I know, I’m more of a woman than ever. Yet on the other hand it stops me, limits my fulfilment. For example, I imagine Hans will want to make love as soon as I get upstairs, or that’s what I like to imagine. And I know I will, too, and I won’t stop feeling awkward, like an intruder in my own body. In any event I’ll end up feeling guilty, which I detest. Guilty about what? It’s hard to be open when nature dictates one thing and one’s conscience another. But is it really a dictate? Or is it a wonderful possibility, which I’m free to refuse? The fact is today I have cramps, I feel sick, I have a pain shooting down from my waist, and I haven’t felt like eating all day. I’d like to tell Hans all this, but I’m not sure he’d understand or that I’d be able to explain it to him even …)

Lying face up, clasping his back between her calves, Sophie said: Don’t pull out this time, then.

The smell of blood hindered them at first and then finally made them lose all inhibition—they shared its stains, soiling themselves in the act of lovemaking.

She was embarrassed at him seeing her bleed onto his sheets, but she felt this sight united them or obliterated a secret. Suddenly it seemed natural and profoundly true—now, when he spilt his seed inside her, they would be brought together by a common desire not to conceive, to unleash together a pleasure that began and ended completely with itself. If the past is like a father, its true offspring would be this absolute present, not the future. (This idea struck her as she reached the edges of orgasm, interrupting her thoughts.)

They spoke in hushed voices, naked. Sophie’s loins were soaked in blood and Hans’s pubic hairs were matted, solidified. Their features expressed the intensity and repose of those still in the aftermath of pleasure. They listened to one another breathing, wiggled their feet, stretched their limbs. How delicious, he said, not having to pull out. Mmm, she said. Or did you not enjoy it? he asked, concerned. No, it isn’t that, she replied, I don’t know how to describe it, I loved it and at the same it scared me, do you understand? I’m not sure, he said, turning to look at her. You see, Sophie said sitting up, I’ve always been afraid of being a mother. Don’t get me wrong, I want to have children. I just don’t want to be a mother. Is it possible to be both a selfish girl and a doting mother? What can you do when you want to be both things? Oh, my love, so many stupid things go through my head, the discomforts of pregnancy, gaining weight, my skin losing its smoothness, physical pain. I suppose I don’t know how to be a strong woman. On the contrary, Hans said, embracing her, only a strong woman admits these things.

Sophie spoke of her need for independence, of Rudi’s plans to have a family, of what her fiancé’s buttocks felt like through his breeches, of what she imagined her sex life with him would be like, of the most curved penises she’d seen, of her curiosity about semen, of her monthly curse. And then in the same breath, incongruously, she began talking about Kant. According to Kant, Sophie said, killing an illegitimate child is less of a crime than being unfaithful. Pure reason, my eye! He says it would be better not to know of the existence of such a child, because legally he should never have existed. An adulterous relationship is a fictitious love. An illegitimate child is a non-existent being and therefore ending its life shouldn’t be a problem. This is what Kant says. And so our morality, Herr pretty bottom, becomes a negation of life. The morality we are taught is aimed at restricting life not helping us to understand it.

Kant and menstruation, Hans reflected, why ever not?

 

“The drama of this most recent and shocking attack,” Lieutenant Gluck was reading from the third edition of the Thunderer, “is thought to have taken place on Friday in close proximity to the area where the assailant usually operates; that is, as our well-informed readers will already be aware, in the narrow pedestrian streets leading from the above-mentioned Wool Alley as far as Archway. Although the identity of the latest victim has not been officially revealed, reliable sources have informed this newspaper that the young woman’s initials are A I S, that she is twenty-eight, and that she is a native of Wandernburg. As before, the lack of any eyewitnesses precludes the elaboration of any new theories over and above those already mentioned in previous cases. We would like to believe that the local police force and the special constabulary might be roused from their baffling inactivity and shameless ineptitude. At least this is the hope in the hearts of Wandernburg’s imperilled young women, whose fears we have tirelessly reported in these pages. Lest the sole clues on the files of the above-mentioned forces of order be those already in the public domain, this newspaper is in a position to confirm with near certainty that the masked culprit is a relatively tall, stocky man, thirty to forty years of age. It only remains for us to wait with resigned impatience for …”

This is shameful! Lieutenant Gluck protested, hurling the newspaper onto the office desk. Reliable sources, for Heaven’s sake! Those fools have no idea what they’re talking about, and to crown it all they have the nerve to try to teach us how to do our job! Don’t upset yourself, son, Lieutenant Gluck remarked impassively, as a matter of fact these articles suit our purposes—if the culprit reads them he’ll feel safer, and that’s better for us. I prefer him not to know that we’re almost on to him. Now, forget about the press and tell me, did you copy out the draft report? Good, excellent, and the marks on the wrist were identical? Identical, replied Lieutenant Gluck, he definitely prefers to use fine cord, which indicates that he’s not a particularly strong man. And what did the latest victim say about the smell? his father asked. She seems adamant that it was lard, said Lieutenant Gluck. Yes, but what sort of lard? She isn’t sure, his son explained, she said she was in no position to notice that sort of detail at a time like that, but she thinks it could have been bear fat. And does the victim cook? Asked Lieutenant Gluck. I beg your pardon, Father? said Lieutenant Gluck, puzzled. I asked you, his father said, whether the victim is in the habit of cooking or whether she has servants who cook for her. As you’ll appreciate, said his son, the woman’s domestic arrangements didn’t enter into the interrogation. This isn’t a matter of domestic arrangements, Lieutenant Gluck corrected him, on the contrary, it is of vital importance—if the girl is in the habit of frying, she’ll know the difference between pig lard and bear fat, for example. And if she confirms this detail, then we are down to two suspects. So, go and ask for her to be summoned to make another statement, please. And while you’re doing that, I’ll go to the Central Tavern and reserve a table. You know how busy it gets at this time of day.

 

With no pressing assignments from the publisher, with September closing in and the days growing shorter, that afternoon Hans and Sophie decided to go for a walk. They strolled as far as the banks of the Nulte, avoiding the main pathway and taking a narrower trail that led from the south-eastern edge of Wandernburg out into the countryside. They sat down beside the river. They kissed each other with longing but didn’t make love. Then they fell quiet, reading the waves.

Suddenly there was a sound of splashing and the lines of water were erased. They looked up and saw some swans flying past in formation. Hans watched them with delight—their harmonious whiteness felt like a small gift to him. Sophie, however, contemplated them with a feeling of unease—on the shifting surface of the water, the swans looked deformed, broken. A wing there, a whorl of water here, farther away half a head. A detached beak, a patch of sunlight, two ridiculous webbed feet. How easily and swiftly beauty can be undone, Sophie thought.

Sophie stood up and the afternoon appeared to teeter. The sun had begun to melt behind the vast landscape, its bright light eclipsing the outline of the poplar trees. Seen from the ground where Hans was still sitting, five-sixths of the day was sky. Sophie’s back looked bigger, it had a slippery, zest-like sheen. She was surveying the horizon, and as she moved her arms, the rays of light traversed her sleeves. The two of them found it hard to look at one another—both were thinking more or less the same thing.

Isn’t it beautiful? Sophie said, her back to him, pointing at the blazing grass. Yes, beautiful, replied Hans. Don’t you think this light is special? she asked. That too, he answered. And the hill, she said, have you noticed the way the hill glows? I have, he nodded. Rudi wrote to me, Sophie announced without changing the tone of her voice, he says he’s coming back soon. And the cornfields, said Hans, have you seen them? Of course, replied Sophie, they’re the same colour as my eiderdown! I’ve never seen your eiderdown, said Hans, is it really that colour? Yes, well, almost, she shrugged, it’s a little darker. And when is Rudi coming back? he asked. A little darker, said Sophie, yet somehow brighter. Ah, that’s better, said Hans. In a couple of weeks, Sophie sighed, I don’t think he’ll stay away longer than that. That shade of orange, he resumed, only looks good in big rooms, is your room big? Neither big nor small, she replied, cosy. Couldn’t he stay longer in that accursed country house of his? asked Hans. Can’t you convince him, make up some story, delay him a while? Sophie wheeled round, gazed at him with trembling eyes, and exclaimed: What the devil do you want me to say to him? An orange eiderdown, said Hans, tracing circles with a dry twig, it’s a little bold, to be honest, if the room isn’t all that spacious or there’s no adjacent window.

 

Auntie, said little Wilhemine, what are spiders’ webs for? Sophie looked round at her niece, puzzled. Elsa and Hans laughed.

Little Wilhemine had come to spend a few days in Wandernburg with her grandfather and her aunt. Much to Herr Gottlieb’s dismay, her father had not come with her, and had sent a servant instead. While the little girl scampered in the field, closely monitored by the servant, Hans and Sophie moved a few yards away in order to talk in private.

Do you know Dresden? he asked. I’ve been there a few times to see my brother, she replied. And do you like it? he said. It’s an improvement on Wandernburg, she sighed, although it has a rather neglected air. Like all Napoleonic cities, said Hans. The best thing is the Elbe, said Sophie, observing the Nulte, a real river, and those bridges, those arches! It needs a bigger theatre, Hans asserted. Don’t tell me you’ve been to Dresden as well? she said, surprised.

Auntie, auntie, Wilhemine insisted, running towards to them, what are spiders’ webs for? Why do you ask, my love? asked Sophie, stroking her hair. There’s a butterfly in that tree, the girl said, pointing, it’s caught in a cobweb and can’t get free. Ah, smiled Sophie, now I understand, poor butterfly! It’s very pretty, and it’s trapped, repeated the child. Shall we rescue it? Sophie proposed, approaching the tree. Yes, the child replied solemnly. That’s my girl! her aunt said approvingly, lifting her up. Let go of it, nasty spider!

Forgive me for asking, Hans whispered as Wilhemine strained to reach the spider’s web with a twig, but why didn’t you tell her? Tell her what? Sophie turned to him, without letting go of her niece. I’m asking you why you didn’t tell her the truth. And what is the truth, may I ask? said Sophie. That however ugly the spider’s appearance, he replied, it isn’t bad, it’s simply trying to survive. And it does this by spinning webs. That everything follows a cycle, even the beautiful butterfly. It’s another law of nature. If she were my niece, I would have explained that to her. But she isn’t your niece, Sophie bridled, and besides, teaching her to protect what is beautiful, however fragile or ephemeral, is also part of learning. That’s another law of nature, Herr know-it-all. And I don’t see why scepticism will teach her more wisdom than compassion. All right, all right, Hans backed down, don’t get angry. I’m not angry, said Sophie, it makes me sad.

At that moment the child’s twig pierced the spider’s web and hit the tree trunk, causing the spider to fall and crushing the butterfly.

 

A sharp shower crumpled the grass, its needles pricking the grateful earth. They sat in silence watching from inside the cave, as though the storm were a monologue or a guest who dared not venture inside. Álvaro and Hans were sharing a bottle of wine. Lamberg and Reichardt were vying over a piece of cheese. At the back of the cave, surrounded by candles, bending over the open barrel organ and squinting in concentration, the organ grinder was adjusting the workings with a spanner. How goes it, organ grinder? Hans asked. Better, replied the old man, raising his head, much better, some of the strings are worn out, I’m thinking of dropping in at Herr Ricordi’s store to buy some new ones. The other day at the dance, you know, I thought some of the low notes sounded off-key, do you think perhaps that’s why they didn’t like my music? Young people today have a good ear, they go to the conservatoire, they study piano, don’t they? That could explain it.

Even as the organ grinder closed the lid of his instrument, the storm outside began to subside, the rain fell more slowly, lost its fury. The pinewood hung there, trickling green. The grass shook itself off, blowing hard. Excellent! the organ grinder said joyously. If it doesn’t get cold, we can make a campfire tonight and sleep in the open air. Good idea, Reichardt agreed spitting out a plum stone, I’ve brought my blanket, and besides there’s plenty more wine.

The clouds floated away to the east like washed linen hung out on a line. A ribbon of light fell through the cave entrance. Heavy with the last breath of summer, the afternoon had an overpowering smell. Just as well I didn’t bring an umbrella, said Álvaro. It’s hot all of a sudden, isn’t it? said Hans. What peculiar weather. Lamberg frowned, blinked hard then murmured: I don’t like it when the weather’s good, I prefer storms. What nonsense is this, lad? Reichardt asked. It’s true, said Lamberg, I don’t like it, people think they have to be cheerful when the weather’s good, as soon as the sun comes out they behave like idiots.

The night was warm. Lamberg lit the fire, staring intently at the flames—each time he moved, Franz would put his tail between his legs. They roasted a few sardines and finished off the bottles. They sang songs, spoke ramblingly, confided their secrets to one another, told a few white lies. Álvaro confessed he was in a state over Elsa, and Hans pretended to be surprised as he listened to the details. Later on, the organ grinder allotted them all turns and they each recounted a dream. Álvaro suspected Hans had made his up. The organ grinder said he liked Lamberg’s so much he would try to have the same dream himself that night. Lamberg took off his shoes, placed his feet closer to the fire, and heaved a sigh. Are you staying? the old man asked. It’s Saturday, Lamberg replied without opening his eyes. Reichardt got out his blanket before also settling down. Álvaro rose to his feet and announced he was going home. The gallop of his horse floated among the sound of the crickets. Hans and the organ grinder stayed awake talking in hushed tones, their whispering gradually becoming more sporadic, less coherent. Soon, only the fire’s crackle and the sound of snoring could be heard around the cave.

Snores, crackles, crickets, birds. The stars look like sparkling dust. The organ grinder has fallen asleep with his mouth so wide open that a toad could seek shelter in it. Lamberg is breathing through his nose, jaw clenched like a vice. Franz has crawled under his master’s blanket and only the tip of his tail is poking out. Depending who you are, Hans thinks, sleeping under the stars makes you feel exposed or invulnerable. It is still early for him. Surrounded by slumbering people, he feels like an impostor and attempts to fall asleep himself. He has tried concentrating on his own breathing, counting the fire’s tiny explosions, making out the soughing sounds of the pinewood, watching the position of his companions, and even imagining what they’re dreaming about. But he doesn’t fall asleep. It is because of this, a quirk of fate he will later regret, that he is able quietly to spy on Reichardt’s actions. Reichardt’s blanket stirs, he sits up, pulls his shirt down, glances about several times (when his turn comes, Hans closes his eyes) and rises to his feet without a sound. His face is changed. In the light of the fire, his wrinkles harden and his lips set in a grimace of weariness, of loathing. Before taking a step forward, Reichardt makes sure the others are sleeping. He stares so intently at Franz’s tail, poking out from beneath the blanket, that Hans thinks he will do something to it. He collects his belongings, ties a knot in his blanket and begins to gather up everything he can lay his hands on—Lamberg’s sandals, the organ grinder’s hat and empty bottles, the remainder of the food, Hans’s unknotted scarf, the coins in his frock-coat pockets. When he feels Reichardt’s hand groping his ribs, he can’t help jerking slightly, enough to make Reichardt pause, withdraw his hand, and look up at Hans’s face. Then he discovers his watchful eyes. The two men fix each other’s gaze. Reichardt is holding the coins in the palm of his hand. Hans is unable to utter a word. Instead of moving away, Reichardt continues to stare at him, making no attempt to justify himself. Hans can’t work out whether this hesitation is a plea or a threat. At first he thinks he sees surprise on Reichardt’s face, then he thinks it is contempt. Finally he opens his eyes wide, focuses properly and decides it is a look of shame—Reichardt is capable of stealing from his friends, but perhaps not with one of them watching him.

Embarrassed and more taken aback than Reichardt himself, Hans does something he had not intended, something that takes Reichardt by surprise and which relieves and saddens him in equal measure—he closes his eyes once more. With a mixture of shame, gratitude and resentment, Reichardt resumes what he was doing. He takes Hans’s cap, adds it to his spoils, and runs off down the path.