SOMBRE CHORDS

THROUGH THE WINDOWPANES, the sky resembled a piece of paper held up to a lamp. A tiresome drizzle persisted. For a few days now Hans and Sophie had said goodbye half-an-hour earlier—the days were growing shorter.

Leaving already? Hans asked, touching her nipple like someone pressing a bell. Sophie nodded and began hurriedly getting dressed. Wait a moment, he said, I want to tell you something. She turned, arched her eyebrows and went on dressing.

Look, said Hans, the publisher thinks, that is, he’s written to me to say it might be a good idea if we revised the French libertines a little, you remember, the poems by de Viau, Saint Amant? (If we revised them? Sophie asked, stopping in the middle of rolling up her stocking, a good idea? What do you mean?) Yes, I mean, or rather Brockhaus means, that because of the problems they’ve had in recent years, they suggest we. (Suggest or demand?) Well, that depends on how you look at it, they’re asking us to do our utmost to avoid alerting the censors. Apparently they were cautioned last month about one of the translations we sent. (What? Which one?) I’m not sure, they didn’t say exactly, you’ve read the libertines’ texts, but the fact is now it seems the publishers are worrying they might seize their book list, do you see? It’s just a question of, I don’t know, of toning them down a little, without relinquishing the. (Wait a moment, wait a moment, didn’t you say that by signing them with the authors’ pseudonyms the censors wouldn’t realise they were banned authors?) And they haven’t, my love, they haven’t realised, but apparently the censor raised an objection when approving the galleys, the publisher explained this wasn’t their usual man, who is on our side and who lets everything through, he was unwell and the idiot replacing him says there are at least fifteen pages that are unprintable unless we, do you follow? That’s what Brockhaus said, unless we’re artful enough to revise certain passages, and …

Sophie, by now fully dressed, stood with arms akimbo. Hans stared at the floor without finishing his sentence.

Listen, he ventured, I don’t like the idea any more than you, but if we want to see the libertines in print we have no choice but to (but then, she objected, they’d no longer be libertines), yes, yes they would, they’d be libertines published against the odds, as libertine as possible in times of censorship, it’s that or nothing, it would be worse to withdraw the whole translation (frankly, she sighed, I don’t know if it would be worse or more honourable), all right, all right. Do you know how many threats were issued to the magazine Ibis? And do you know what happened to the periodical Literarisches Morgenblatt? They stopped publication several times, Brockhaus changed its name, it was banned again, and it went on like that for years, the publisher ended up losing a huge amount of money and tens of thousands of sales, it’s only natural they should try to avoid problems, this is part of the world of literature, too, Sophie, it isn’t simply about visiting libraries, there’s also this other side, of fighting against the elements. (I see, then let’s refuse to make any changes and allow them to commission someone else to do the translation, that way we aren’t preventing the publishers from printing the book, nor are we colluding with the censors.) But we’ve almost finished the texts! How can we throw away so many hours of work! (I don’t like it either, but I’d rather sacrifice our work than our dignity.) My love, all I ask is that you look at it from another perspective, censorship is unavoidable but also stupid, if we rewrite the most sensitive verses we can say the same thing in a subtler way, we could even use this opportunity to improve the translation (I can’t believe you’re suggesting we comply with such a command), I don’t intend to comply with it, but to manipulate it at our whim. (Translation and manipulation are two different things wouldn’t you say?) You know perfectly well I detest this situation as much as you, but if we really believe in our. (But my love, it is precisely because I believe in it, in our translation, that I refuse to delete a single comma!) I agree, in an ideal world, but the reality is different, wouldn’t it be more courageous to accept that reality and fight it from within in order to publish as much of the original text as possible? (You talk to me about fighting! Why don’t we pick a real fight by refusing to be trampled on? Write to the publisher and tell him …) That’s not fighting, Sophie, it’s giving in, trust me, this has happened many times before. (What? You’ve done this before? Is that how you work? Hans, I don’t recognise you, I honestly don’t recognise you!) Yes, no! That is, occasionally, but in my own fashion, I’ve never made an author say anything he hasn’t already said or couldn’t have said, I swear to you, but, how can I explain, instead of getting angry and doing nothing, I’ve tried to find inventive ways around it, using ambiguity, do you understand? It’s a question of strategy (it’s a question of principles, retorted Sophie).

Hans fell into an irritated silence. He looked at Sophie who was gathering up her things to leave, and said: It’s very obvious you don’t earn a living by translating, nor Rudi, for that matter.

Hans saw Sophie’s fingers tighten around the door handle, her gentle knuckles tensing. Sophie released the handle. She slowly buttoned her gloves and responded, still facing the door: Do as you please, Hans. After all, as you’ve been kind enough to remind me, you’re the professional and I’m only an amateur. I wonder whether a professional needs the help of an amateur. Good day.

My love—I don’t know which of us was right. But I do know that this translation, like all the others, belongs to both of us. And although I may have given a different impression, yesterday’s discussion was my clumsy way of consulting you.

I have written to Brockhaus saying we won’t change the text, and if they wish to publish the book would they please find another translator.

Would you do me the honour of continuing to work with me, Fräulein Bodenlieb, and of making me a better translator?

Libertine bites from your

H

 

 

Dear professional libertine, I am not sure either which of us was right, although I am glad we agree on the main point—if we are working together the decision should be taken jointly.

I know how difficult it was for you to send that letter to your publisher. I see in it an act of love. And, since I have the honour of being your assistant translator, it would be unfair of me to interpret it any other way. Thank you.

Ah, what bites I have in store for you

S

Rudi’s shoulders, Hans reflected looking at them, had, so to speak, come back bearing a heavier load after the holidays. And the tone in which he spoke to Hans in the salon was not the same either—the words he used hadn’t changed, but there was a nasality about his voice, an air of restraint each time he turned to him and said for instance “Good night, how nice to see you again” or “Herr Hans, would you pass the sugar bowl?” How could he describe it, Hans kept thinking, it was as though Rudi were studying Hans’s every gesture, his every response, through a magnifying glass. He tried to ignore all these nuances and even attempted to appear more amiable, to wipe away any possible trace of guilt from his demeanour. Yet there Rudi was, every Friday, breathing down his neck, pressing his hand in an overly vigorous manner when he greeted him. Regardless of everything, with some difficulty, order reigned once more in the lives of both families—the Wilderhauses had reinstalled themselves in their sumptuous mansion on King’s Parade, Rudi had opened the hunting season and at the Gottlieb residence preparations had resumed for what would undoubtedly be the wedding of the year in Wandernburg.

From the frame on the desk, a pale-faced woman stared into the distance, beyond Herr Gottlieb’s watery eyes, which were contemplating the photograph as though hoping it would utter a word, a whisper, anything, as he held onto his sixth glass of brandy. As far as Bertold could tell from having spent the past few weeks posted outside his study door, Herr Gottlieb spent entire afternoons doing little else but opening and closing drawers. The previous evening, Bertold noticed that his master had suffered a curious memory lapse that was most unlike him—he had not wound the clock at ten o’clock sharp, but had left it until almost twenty minutes later. In addition, that same morning Herr Gottlieb had not risen bright and early, as was his custom, and at midday, had burst into the kitchen and yelled at Petra on account of something to do with black olives.

After eavesdropping for a few moments, Bertold rapped gently on the door. A grunt came from within. The servant entered, chin on chest. Sir, stammered Bertold, er, I came, well, to tell you you’re expected at the Grass residence, sir, and that yesterday they sent another polite reminder, that’s all sir, the carriage is ready whenever you are. (The Grass residence? Herr Gottlieb declared, lifting his head turtle-like. Those fools? And since when am I obliged to call on fools simply because they send me their pretentious visiting card? Is that what you came for, is that why you are bothering me?) Oh, no, sir, I didn’t mean to trouble you, it’s just that, if I may be so bold, sir, you haven’t been out of the house for days, and frankly, we are beginning be concerned for your health, sir, indeed, the other night you were imprudent enough to (imprudent? Herr Gottlieb flashed angrily. Who’s being imprudent, me or you!?) Er, I mean, you didn’t take the precaution of instructing me to accompany you on your evening stroll, exposing yourself to God knows what dangers, and I’m not sure whether you were even warmly enough dressed, sir, which is why I took the liberty this afternoon of preparing the carriage, and moreover (you may go, Bertold, thank you, Herr Gottlieb said, waving him away).

Bertold took two steps back, and, concealing his displeasure, lifted his chin in the air and said: There’s one other thing I came to tell you, sir. Bertold spoke in a calm, outwardly respectful voice while endowing his words with an insidious, almost reproachful tone, as though deep down, rather than doing Herr Gottlieb’s bidding, he were attempting to warn him that it was time he pulled himself together for both their sakes. One of the Wilderhauses’ servants, Bertold resumed, after a calculated pause, has just delivered a card announcing Herr Rudi’s arrival. What! Herr Gottlieb snapped, and you’re telling me this now! Why the devil didn’t you say so before? I was about to, sir, replied Bertold, when you. Bah, interrupted Herr Gottlieb, pushing aside the bottle and straightening his lapels as he sat up, stop wasting time, go and tell Petra to prepare something to eat and a tray of Indian tea, why the devil didn’t you tell me this before! When did his servant say he was coming? Within the hour, Bertold said, standing to attention. Then take this away, Herr Gottlieb ordered, gesturing towards the bottle, and help me get dressed.

The creak of patent leather stopped in front of the study. The sound of someone clearing his throat could clearly be heard. Rudi Wilderhaus’s right shoe rubbed against the left leg of his breeches as though it had paused suddenly in the middle of a procession. Dense, almost visible, the particles of his lemony perfume dispersed before the door. There followed three sharp raps—Rudi knew that one knock at a door betrays unease, two knocks sound obsequious, but that three always sound resolute.

On the other side of the door, Herr Gottlieb also cleared his throat, neither man aware that they were performing the same gesture. Herr Gottlieb was about to stand up and open the door when he instinctively realised that any remaining strength he possessed ought to be deployed there, in the centre of his own office, without stirring from his leather armchair. Yes, enter, he said in an overly high-pitched voice that failed to sound nonchalant. Rudi strode in with deliberate abruptness, rather like a husband arriving home earlier than expected and walking over garments strewn all over the floor. They hurried through the polite greetings, made a few of the usual noises and went straight to the point.

This is why I’m asking you, dear father-in-law, said Rudi, and for the moment let us refer to these as mere questions, how can you permit your daughter to go on working with that man, and to top it all, in that filthy inn! And why do you go on receiving him in this respectable home? Herr Gottlieb replied with as much aplomb as he could muster: This gentleman continues to visit my home, which you correctly refer to as respectable, because there is no valid reason why Herr Hans should not continue to attend my daughter’s salon. Were it otherwise, dear son-in-law, wouldn’t I have already taken the necessary steps? Wouldn’t I have categorically prohibited him from coming here? Wouldn’t I have punished Sophie? The fact that I have failed to take any such steps is precisely because they are unjustified. What I’m trying to say, my dear Rudi … Or do you have convincing reasons? Well, do you? You say you’ve heard rumours, rumours! Now tell me, do you doubt my daughter’s honour, the honour of your future wife? For, so long as her virtue is without blemish, no one will be prohibited from entering this house. Anything else would be tantamount to recognising these sinister slanders, which in the name of my own decency I refuse even to consider.

Rudi detected a mixture of severity and alarm in Herr Gottlieb’s eyes. Plunging a little deeper into his liquid gaze, which was struggling to defy him, swimming in his moist entreaties, he understood that Herr Gottlieb was not defending Hans, he was simply behaving like a true gentleman.

I, dear son-in-law, Herr Gottlieb resumed, tugging on his moustache as he might a bootlace, can vouch one hundred per cent for my daughter, her honour and her good name. However, in your place, if, as Sophie’s soon-to-be husband, I harboured the slightest doubt I would put a stop to it immediately. With the utmost discretion, naturally. I mean, if such were the case. Because, needless to say, it is not.

Rudi smiled tersely and replied: Of course not, my dear Herr Gottlieb, of course not. This is simply a question, how can I say, of the norms of acceptable behaviour. But you have set my mind at rest. God be with you.

 

The inn had been slowly emptying. The early morning sounds of doors opening and closing, of feet on the stairs, of noises in the corridor, had ceased. The creak of wooden floors was different, hollow. The windows seemed smaller, the light from them shrunken. Dawn had an insipid feel, and there was a brooding echo to Frau Zeit’s slow passage through the empty rooms, as if she were expecting the departed guests to somehow reappear. A pile of firewood had begun to form in the lean-to in the backyard, the tongs appeared gleaming in the hearth, the wool blankets had reappeared on the beds. The postman’s gallop scarcely slowed before the entrance, and the only packages he left were for the guest in room number seven. Silence had settled once more over the inn, and yet Hans, who had spent the whole summer lamenting the early morning noises disrupting his repose, was still unable to sleep properly. He would fall asleep for a few hours, then suddenly, inexplicably, he would begin to toss and turn, kept awake by the expectation of comings and goings that never materialised. Until that morning, after getting up and turning the watercolour round in order to shave, he looked at the dark shadows under his eyes, the stubble on his chin, and he understood the reason for his unrest. It wasn’t merely the deserted atmosphere of places once people had departed. It was above all the aftermath of that emptiness—with the arrival of autumn, he had stopped being an observer at the inn and had become a protagonist. He had become accustomed to studying the anonymous guests, to guessing at their lives from their faces, to imagining their futures. And now, all of a sudden, he was once more the focus of his own gaze. Hans closed the razor, ran his tongue behind his lips, checked the sides of his face and turned the mirror back to the wall.

Contrary to his nocturnal habits, Hans spent the morning translating. At noon, he went down and devoured a bowl of Frau Zeit’s thick vegetable stew. Afterwards, he went back up to his room to change his clothes and put on some scent—today was Friday. He left the inn winking at Lisa (who initially pretended to turn away) and walked towards Café Europa to have his fourth coffee of the day with Álvaro. As usual he arrived late, despite having left in good time—he had to circle Glass Alley half a dozen times, and swore to his friend he couldn’t for the life of him find the side street he usually took. The two men exchanged confidences, grumbled about the same things, and began strolling in the direction of Stag Street. As they stood in front of the doors to the Gottlieb residence, Hans remarked: Look, I’m sorry, this must seem stupid, but wasn’t the swallow door knocker on the right, and the lion’s head on the left? What? Álvaro said, surprised. The swallow on the? Hans, did you sleep all right? The fact is I didn’t, he replied.

As they entered from the icy corridor, they discovered Sophie sitting at the piano, and her father, Rudi and Professor Mietter all applauding. Hans thought she looked pale as she smiled at him, concerned. Would you give us latecomers the pleasure of an encore, dear friend? Hans said in greeting. As you already know, Rudi replied sharply, “Paganini non ripete”. Paganini, declared Álvaro, is a violinist. Rudi took offence: And what has that to do with anything, Herr Urquiho. Hans slipped over to the windows. The blue curtains seemed heavier. Through a gap in the shutters he glimpsed a misty corner of the market square and the question mark of the Tower of the Wind. Hans sensed Sophie’s eyes on his back, but he decided to be careful and carried on staring out of the window until the others arrived. In the meantime, Álvaro, Rudi and Professor Mietter discussed the aesthetic of the encore. Half-closing his eyes and listening carefully, Hans could distinguish Herr Gottlieb’s gruff, tutorly murmur addressing his daughter, whose voice was scarcely audible. It’s going to rain, thought Hans, and his observation was accompanied by one of Sophie’s distinctive sighs (well-timed, drawn out, with a hint of playful irony). Suddenly Frau Pietzine’s voice burst in, followed by that of Bertold, and a tinkle of cups and teaspoons rang out. When Hans turned round, he glimpsed Elsa’s raised eyebrows as Álvaro flashed her a sidelong smile.

More tense than usual, although employing her usual strategic methods, Sophie clung to her role as organiser—it was her way of defending herself against the despondency that was beginning to haunt her, and above all, of protecting those few hours of subtle independence for which she had fought so hard. She stood up to greet the Levins, who had just walked in with that forced, rather unconvincing display of cheerfulness couples have when they have been arguing minutes before arriving at a party. Well, my dear friends, Sophie announced, now that we’re all here, I’d like to propose that we keep the promise we made to Herr Urquixo last week of reading a few passages together from our beloved Calderón (marvellous, Álvaro beamed, marvellous), and I’ve taken the liberty of selecting a few scenes from Life Is a Dream, because I assumed everyone would be familiar with the work. (Rudi cleared his throat and helped himself to a pinch of snuff.) Is everyone agreed, then? There are, let me see, one, two, three, seven characters altogether, and we have two copies of Life Is a Dream here in the house, plus two more which I borrowed from the library. (Ah, Álvaro suddenly realised, we’ll be reading it in German, then.) Naturally, amigo! How else? (Of course, Álvaro nodded, disappointed, I understand, but, La vida es sueño in German, ay!) View it as an informative exercise, it’ll be as if you are hearing it for the first time (let’s look at the translation, may I see a copy? Hans asked), here you are, don’t get too professional about it now, Monsieur Hans! Well, if everyone is ready, we’ll assign the roles. Any volunteers?

Everyone decided Rudi should play the part of Prince Segismundo, at which Hans clapped his hands ironically. Sophie asked Professor Mietter to read the part of King Basilio, and the professor, flushing with pride, made as if to hesitate before accepting. Hans was given the part of Astolfo, also a prince, though with fewer lines than Segismundo. Frau Pietzine seemed happy to personify Lady Rosaura. They had difficulty convincing Frau Levin to take on the timid role of Princess Estrella. Álvaro declared he was incapable of reciting Calderón in German and preferred to listen, and so Bertold had no choice but to accept the part of Fife the jester. (Seeing as it’s only a play, thought Bertold, why the devil can’t I play a prince or a king?) Herr Gottlieb was equally displeased at being given the role of old Clotaldo, although he limited himself to twirling his whiskers in protest. Herr Levin, who wasn’t an admirer of Calderón, sat next to Álvaro to give the impression of an audience. Sophie acted as stage director, instructing everyone until at last the performance was ready to begin.

PROFESSOR MIETTER [with affected unease]:

What was that?

RUDI [in his element, looking at Hans, or perhaps not]:

It was nothing.
I threw a man who wearied me
From a balcony into the sea.

BERTOLD [nodding unenthusiastically, and without an ounce of charm]:

Be aware—he is the King.

Hans, who is not in the scene, stops listening and stares at Sophie—in profile, very alert, she looks like a melancholy statue.

 

PROFESSOR MIETTER [his wig all a-tremble and with such lofty indignation!]:

Greatly it grieves me, prince
That when I have come to see you
Thinking to find you restored,
Having freed yourself from fates and stars,
Instead I find you so severe
That you on this occasion have committed
A foul murder …

The professor’s earnestness and the stress he places on each inflection amuses Hans—the exceedingly Protestant professor has become quite Catholic. Álvaro catches his eye, they wink at one another:

… Whoever that has seen
The naked blade which
Struck a mortal wound
Can be without fear?

Elsa comes in with a tray of canapés halfway through the professor’s speech; she wonders whether to carry on or to stop in order not to distract him; she almost loses her balance, catches herself, steadies the tray, sighs angrily. Álvaro watches her affectionately.

 

RUDI [recalling suddenly, as he reads, a sad episode from his childhood]:

… that a father who against me
Can act so cruelly
And with such bitter spite
Cast me from his side …

Mortified by Rudi’s intonation, his insistence on leaving a long pause at the end of each verse thus breaking up the flow, Sophie gives up trying to direct him and instead her gaze rests on Hans’s reflection. She thinks he looks handsome and tousled. When she rouses herself, the scene is nearly over and she affects a look of concentration.

 

PROFESSOR MIETTER [very much at home, more admonishing than ever]:

… Although you know who you are,
And are now freed from deception
And find yourself in a place
Where you stand above all,
Heed this warning that I make—
Be humble and be gentle
Because perhaps this is a dream
Even though you see yourself awake.

With exemplary professionalism, Professor Mietter makes as if to exit, as indicated in the original text. Hans watches his gestures and thinks that, all in all, the professor isn’t a bad actor. He tries to imagine him in costume on a stage. He succeeds so well that for a moment his eyelids grow heavy. He startles himself in mid yawn.

 

RUDI:

… I know now
Who I am, and know I am
Half-man, half-beast.

The first to applaud is Lady Rosaura, that is, Frau Pietzine. Álvaro and Frau Levin politely follow suit. Sophie gives a relieved smile, declaring: “And there, dear friends, our little production ends, congratulations.”

As he kissed her, Hans realised there was tension in Sophie’s mouth—her lips were pursed, her tongue was rigid, her teeth seemed reticent. Is something the matter? Hans asked, withdrawing his lips. She smiled, lowered her head and embraced him. He did not ask her again.

Sophie sat at the desk and looked at Hans in silence, as if to say it was his turn. He went to open the trunk, took out a book and handed it to her. Do you remember our essay on German poetry? said Hans, attempting to sound cheerful. The one we did for the European Review? Well, before we send it off I’d like to add another poet, see what you think, it arrived yesterday from Hamburg, The Book of Songs by Heinrich Heine, only just published, apparently it’s a roaring success, I read a review of it in the magazine Hermes. Sophie opened the book and noticed its appearance. It didn’t look to her like a new copy, but she said nothing—she had grown accustomed to Hans’s bibliographical secrets. He seemed to notice her bewilderment and explained: The postal service is getting worse by the day, those clumsy postmen are so slapdash. So, what do you reckon? he asked. (I’m not sure, she replied, he sounds awkward, as if he were sabotaging the seriousness of his own poems on purpose.) Yes! That’s exactly what I like most about him. There’s a poem in there, perhaps you saw it, about two French soldiers who return home after having been kept prisoner in Russia. Traveling through Germany they learn of Napoleon’s defeat and begin to weep. The poem caught my attention because it dares to give the enemy a voice, and that is something we Germans would have appreciated in a French author when we were defeated. I believe that in today’s poetry there is no place for half measures—either you aspire to being a Novalis or a Hölderlin, or you turn your back on heaven and try to be a Heine. (Wait a minute, Sophie said, slipping her finger between two pages, is this the poem you were talking about? The Grenadiers?) Yes, that’s the one, shall we read it?

… the two soldiers weep together
At the fateful news:
“How they hurt!” says one,
“How my wounds sting!”

 

“I would like to die with you,”
Says the second, “this is the end;
But I have a wife and children,
Who cannot live without me.”

 

“Wife, children? What matter?
Something grieves me more;
Let them live on charity,
In chains lies my Emperor!”

Reading it through again, she commented, I’m not convinced the poem is Bonapartist. They feel bound to spill their blood for Napoleon and this allegiance is inhuman, like the first grenadier’s impassioned response when his companion fears for his family. You could be right, said Hans, I hadn’t thought of it that way. Perhaps the poem’s strength is the way it avoids condemning either of the grenadiers, it simply offers two different ways of understanding fate.

Her head leaning on Hans’s shoulder, Sophie observed the mineral response of her nipples—they were still hard, not out of excitement now, but from the cold. My love, said Sophie, isn’t it time you lit the fire? You’re right, said Hans sitting up, it has got colder. The summer is over, she whispered. Not yet, he whispered.

Listen, said Sophie, there’s something I want to tell you. (Hans handed her a shoe.) Oh, thank you, where was it? (Hans gestured towards the space between bed and wall.) Anyway, there’s something I want to tell you and I don’t know how. (He shrugged, and smiled forlornly.) It’s just that, my father is becoming more and more nervous, he never stops drinking, the Wilderhauses are growing impatient, and I’m doing my best to keep up a pretence, but I don’t see how I can keep them at bay any longer. Rudi had a talk with me yesterday, he was furious, we quarrelled, and I had difficulty calming him down, I don’t know how long for (and so? he said, closing his eyes), and so, I was thinking, it might be a good idea, at least for a while, to stop (to stop? he echoed), I mean, to stop translating for a while, don’t you think? Look at me, Hans! Just for a while, until things settle down a little. (Aha, he breathed very slowly, you mean that we should stop seeing each other completely.) No, of course not! My love, I’ve already worked that out. (Ah, how?) Look, it won’t be so very different, we’ll just have to be more careful that’s all, and perhaps see each other less, Elsa will go on helping me, we can meet at least once a week, when Elsa goes out on an errand I’ll go with her, I’ll come and see you and she’ll wait for me in the usual place at a reasonable time, I’ve worked out that we’ll have a couple of hours to ourselves (if there’s no other way). I don’t think there is, not for the moment.

Halfway through the door, she turned and said: Do you know what annoys me? Not being able to finish our European anthology! Hans stuck his head out and replied: We’ll finish it one day.

Lying open on the desk, a book reproduced some verses by Heine:

So much we felt for one another that
We reached a perfect harmony.
Often we played at being married
Without suffering mishaps or quarrels.
We played together, cried out for joy,
Exchanged sweet kisses as we caressed.
At length we decided, with childish pleasure,
To play hide-and-seek in woods and fields.
So well did we succeed in hiding
That never again did we find each other.

The pulp of the day was squeezed out over the countryside. From Bridge Walk Hans contemplated Wandernburg’s misty domes, its pointed spires. The earth exuded a muddy smell of rain. The River Nulte shimmered in the distance. An occasional carriage shattered the calm of the main road. Hans lingered absent-mindedly for a moment, until he looked down and clicked his tongue—he had left the organ grinder’s sheep’s cheese behind at the inn.

The cave was cold inside. The surface of the rocks had a slimy sheen. Franz greeted him, sniffing timidly at his hands, as though sensing they ought to be carrying something. The organ grinder and Lamberg were gathering furze branches, old newspapers and kindling. Can I help? said Hans rubbing his arms. Yes, please, the old man replied, do me a favour, sit down and tell me what you dreamt last night, Lamberg hasn’t dreamt anything for me for days. Hans scoured his memory and realised he couldn’t recall a single recent dream; he would just have to make one up like he’d done so many times. That, the old man sighed as he stacked the firewood, is what most amused me about Reichardt, he always had a new dream to tell. Have you heard nothing? asked Lamberg. The labourers say they haven’t seen him for a while. No, the old man said mournfully, nothing. Hans went over to help fan the flames. When the fire began to shine light on them, Hans noticed a circular blotch on Lamberg’s neck—a wound or a bite mark. Lamberg caught him looking and turned up the collars of his wool coat.

Lamberg left early. He explained that tomorrow would be hard work, they were late with the autumn orders and there was a rumour going round the factory about more people being laid off. The organ grinder wrapped a scarf round his neck and accompanied him outside. A few moments later, seeing he hadn’t come back, Hans wrapped up and went after him.

A fine drizzle was falling, next to nothing. He found the old man absorbed in watching the twilight. The clouds were trailing off, like burnt-out fireworks. This rain makes me nervous, said Hans standing next to him. It’s always the same at this time of year, said the organ grinder, this is a clever rain, it tells us winter is coming and it takes care of the flowers. What flowers? Hans said, puzzled, observing the bald grass. There, there, the old man replied, pointing to some specks of colour among the tree trunks, the last flowers of autumn are much more beautiful than those of spring. And they fell silent, in their different ways, watching the light snap like an umbilical cord.

 

Hans left the Café Europa and peered down the narrow passage that was Glass Alley—if he wasn’t mistaken, the third turning on the left should take him down to Potter’s Lane, and from there into Ducat Street, where the Bank of Wandernburg was situated, which would lead him straight into the market square. That was right, and it was the shortest route. But where the devil was Potter’s Lane? Was it the third on the left after Café Europa or before? If he was able to draw a mental map of the city centre from memory, why were his calculations so seldom correct? How could he …

Idiot! a coach driver screeched from his perch, where do you think you’re going? Hans leapt backwards like a cat, flattening himself against the wall, and repeated the question to himself: Indeed, where did I think I was going? The wheels sped past, clipping his boots. When the coach disappeared from sight, at the end of the street, Hans was surprised to recognise the cobblestones of the market square.

Glancing up at the Tower of the Wind, he was pleased to see he was still in time to say hello to the organ grinder. He felt like listening to him play for a moment and then inviting him for a beer. They hadn’t taken a stroll together for quite a while; lately they only met at the cave. At first he didn’t notice—he walked on without glancing at the organ grinder’s spot. And even when it was obvious he still carried on walking like he always did, as if he were listening to the music. Only when he was within yards of the edge of the square did he blink several times and stop in his tracks. For a moment he had the sensation that he was in the wrong place. Hans glanced up at the clock tower once more, he looked around bewildered—for the first time that year, the old man wasn’t at his post during work hours.

Hans entered the cave uneasily. He found the organ grinder curled up in a ball on his straw pallet. He tried to smile at Hans. Hans touched his face. His brow was burning, his lips cold. His shoulders trembled and he kept rubbing his feet. A sharp cough punctuated each of his sentences. My head hurts, but, you know, kof, it’s not my head, it’s inside, kof. But, it’s freezing in here, organ grinder, Hans said, breathing on his hands, why haven’t you lit the fire? Oh, this is nothing, replied the old man, kof, last year was much worse, wasn’t it Franz?

The bark and the cough rang out as one.

The following four mornings, Hans got up (moderately) early to bring the organ grinder breakfast and a few provisions. He forced him to drink broth, herbal infusions, and lemonade for his cold. He also brought him some warm clothes, which the old man only accepted on the condition that he would pay for them as soon as he could play again. As the old man sweated, his straw pallet grew limp, and his eyes lightened. It was impossible to convince him to see a doctor. Are you crazy? he had objected. With what they charge—kof—and with all their quackery? Hans had finally given up trying, in return for a promise he would obey all Hans’s instructions. The first two days, the organ grinder let him have his way without any objection. He complied cheerfully, ate everything Hans brought, and slept for hours on end so that occasionally Franz would lick his beard just to see his eyelids flutter. On the third day, he threatened to get up. Listen, my dear Hans, he said without coughing, I know best how I am feeling. I thank you for all your attention from the bottom of my heart, but I’m fine, really, in the end this has been a rest, do you see? Old as I am, I should allow myself a holiday, that was my mistake, and I promise I’ll dress warmly, I do, no, thanks, I’ve already had some, yes, it’s marvellous, I’m going out for a while, let go of me! I’m not a child, really? Then I’ll behave like one, it can’t be helped, won’t you let go? I don’t believe this? Franz, bite one of his boots! Heavens, we are a stubborn pair aren’t we, Hans?

Hans managed to keep him in bed until the fifth day. That morning, the colour having returned to his cheeks, the old man got up, pulled on his clothes, donned his bright-red, thick woollen beret and left the cave, calmly pushing his barrel organ. After Sunday Mass, Father Pigherzog was conversing with the mayor beneath the portico of St Nicholas’s Church. In order not to be overheard, the two men stood so close together that the mayor’s pointed nose was almost prodding the priest’s waxy chin. The mayor found this somewhat offensive, not simply on account of the priest’s breath, but because the difference in height between the two men became glaringly conspicuous. Suddenly, something distracted the priest, and he turned towards the group of parishioners leaving the church. Failing to connect with the priest’s ear, the word thalers slipped from beneath the mayor’s oily whiskers, lingering for a moment, before dissolving like vapour.

Sophie was walking arm in arm with Herr Gottlieb towards Archway. Father Pigherzog turned his head, cleared his throat, and called out to her a couple of times. It was Herr Gottlieb, not she, who responded to the call. They approached the priest, Herr Gottlieb beaming, Sophie more solemn, while Mayor Ratztrinker took his leave, saying: We’ll discuss this tomorrow. As he walked past Herr Gottlieb, the mayor doffed his hat. My child, the priest said, how glad I am to see you, you have been in my prayers of late. You’re most kind, Sophie retorted, am I to understand that you didn’t pray for me before? Good Father, Herr Gottlieb intervened, flustered, you know what a witty girl my daughter is. I certainly do, said Father Pigherzog, not to worry, not to worry, I’ve been praying for you my dear (the priest placed his hand on Sophie’s), and for the happiness of your marriage, you know how highly I esteem the Wilderhaus family, and how proud I am to see that curious, studious child, do you remember, Herr Gottlieb? Now a fine young woman about to wed such a God-fearing, honourable and principled man. I thank you, Father, with all my heart, she said, although there are still two months to go before. That is precisely, the priest cut in, what I wished to discuss with you: I have been reflecting about the details of the liturgy, the missa pro sponso et sponsa, the arrangements for the holy space, because, well, as one of the participants I consider it advisable to leave nothing to chance, in view of the repercussions of. Yes, yes, of course, Herr Gottlieb hurriedly declared, we would be most grateful to receive your advice on all necessary matters, and I can assure you here and now—in fact haven’t we already discussed this Sophie my dear?—I can assure you we never doubted for a moment about appointing you to officiate at the wedding, we were, how shall I put it, counting on it, indeed, we were about to ask you for a meeting in order to. Naturally, naturally, Father Pigherzog beamed, there is still plenty of time, I was merely reflecting, my child, that in order for the preparations to proceed smoothly, it might be a good idea if, for the time being, we resumed our old talks, what I mean is, although it is no longer your practice, since you are obliged to confess before taking the marriage oath, I would like you to know that I am willing to offer you guidance and prepare your soul for receiving this sacrament in peace. Mmm, thank you very much, Father, Sophie murmured glancing towards the street, I’ll bear that in mind. I am sure, intervened Herr Gottlieb, the opportunity will arise, these will be very busy days! Although naturally your offer is most. The talks, Sophie broke in, turning to her father, will be with me. I do not feel you are at peace, said Father Pigherzog, is something worrying you, my child? You may confide in me, is there some reason why you are anxious? Are you afraid of anything in particular? One is always afraid, Father, she sighed, to live is to fear. Quite so, said the priest, which is why our Father is here to help us when we are most in need, you must not torment yourself, none of us is free from sin, and our redemption is His everlasting gift, for as you know, man is born a sinner. Tell me, Father, replied Sophie, if man is born a sinner, how can he know when he is sinning? And what about us women, what are we to do in the meantime?

What were you thinking! Herr Gottlieb hissed as they made their way towards Archway, how could you be so insolent! Why do you humiliate me like this? Have you taken leave of your senses? What’s the matter with you? (Sophie was about to reply, when she encountered a pair of bloodshot eyes and a vaguely familiar, haggard-looking face—Lamberg turned away, embarrassed, then was about to stop to say hello when he noticed she was looking the other way, and he carried on walking stiffly.) Did you hear what I said, child? Are you listening to me? (Yes, I am, said Sophie, I’m forever listening to you.) Good, then do me the favour of responding when I talk to you, do you realise the way you’re behaving towards him? (Who do you mean? she said uneasily.) Who do you think I mean? Rudi, of course, for heavens’ sake! Are you listening or not? (Ah, she responded, I’ve already explained to him that everything is fine, that it’s just nerves.) I don’t care if it’s nerves or whatever, but you mustn’t give him this impression just now, you must be more considerate, affectionate, obliging. (Are you trying to make me into a good wife or a good actress?) Sophie Gottlieb! Now listen to me! You know I’ve never been in favour of that kind of thing, but I warn you, you are asking for a good hiding! I’m only reminding you, and God knows I shouldn’t have to, that you cannot behave so coldly towards your fiancé and be so friendly towards that man, or do you imagine the guests at the salon haven’t noticed? (Forgive me, what are you insinuating?) Naturally I am not insinuating anything! I am simply telling you, no, I am ordering you from now on to devote all your energy and time to what really matters, to your forthcoming marriage. (Even more time than I do? Sophie said, raising her voice. Haven’t I already sacrificed what I most enjoyed doing? Haven’t I already stopped working with Herr Hans in order to please you? What more do you want from me? Do you want me to stop thinking?)

 

What I like doing, kof, the organ grinder protested, is going out to work, I can’t stay here all day thinking. What you can’t do, Hans chided him in earnest, is wander round outside in this condition. But I’ve only got a, kof, a cold! the old man insisted. His words sounded distant, as if the layers of blankets Hans had placed on top of him were muffling his voice.

Less than a week after his return to the square, the organ grinder had been obliged once more to take to his bed. The damp breeze and intermittent rain had given him a chill. His cough was persistent now, it had gone onto his chest. His temperature would not go down. His bones ached. Hans would wrap him in woolly layers, before helping him out his bed so he could urinate. A dark liquid dripped feebly from his shrivelled member, making a hole in the frost.

If Lamberg had entertained the possibility of stopping to greet Sophie in Archway, this was because she had been unexpectedly friendly on the two or three occasions when they had met. Lamberg had very clear ideas about Wandernburgers such as the Gottliebs—their good name and their appearance meant more to them than other people and their lives. He had always mistrusted Sophie, and yet the unaffected way in which she had behaved at the cave had made him reconsider. This was why it hurt him so much that when he plucked up the courage to smile and approach her she had walked straight past him. Would he tell Hans when he reached the cave? No, what was the point, he would only leap to her defence. What a fool I am, he said to himself, striding angrily down Bridge Walk, I never learn.

Lamberg thought the organ grinder looked less pale than the day before, but still poorly. When he saw Lamberg arrive, the old man put down his spoon and tried to get out of bed. Hans restrained him gently and pulled the covers back over him. Álvaro, who had just arrived, handed Lamberg a bottle of schnapps. Lamberg declined with a brusque gesture that startled Franz. Never say no to schnapps, my lad, the organ grinder said, even dogs know that! Lamberg allowed himself to smile for the second time that day, sat down on the edge of the straw pallet and raised the bottle.

The fire blazed. Cold air wafted in and out. Álvaro’s horse was gone. The schnapps was finished. And what about you? Lamberg asked, what did you dream about? This morning, the old man said, before I woke up, I dreamt of a lot of women standing in a row with their hands raised, and do you know the strangest thing? They were all wearing black, except one. Why do you think that was? Hans asked with interest. How should I know? the organ grinder replied, it was a dream!

 

Just as the poplars by the river had difficulty holding onto their leaves, and the waters of the Nulte began to ice over, and the streets became slippery, Sophie and Hans’s resolve began to falter, to lose its momentum. Meeting alone was becoming more and more complex. The rumours were no longer a possibility or something to guard against, but a fixed routine that dogged them in every street, on every corner, behind every shutter. Elsa and Sophie would circle the inn, gradually approach the doorway, and glance about before slipping inside. Their random encounters grew briefer—the days were shorter and she and Elsa had to be home before nightfall. Some afternoons, because of the timing or the hurry, Elsa was unable to visit Álvaro, and this affected her mood and her willingness to make excuses for Sophie when she went out. Sophie did not always manage to keep her temper with her father or to behave affectionately towards her fiancé. And Hans could not stop thinking of Dessau. They even argued now some afternoons.

I didn’t say I wanted to leave, replied Hans, tugging at the blankets. Before I met you I traveled all the time, and, well, I just wanted to know if, given the opportunity, you’d have the courage to follow me. Sophie sat up, pulled the blanket over to her side, and said: Given the opportunity? I must remind you I’m about to marry, and I can’t leave my father all alone, not to mention subject him to such a scandal. Don’t forget, I’ve told you many times—it’s not so easy to escape from here. In the end, given the opportunity, you could as easily stay in Wandernburg in order to be with me as I could leave here in order to be with you, don’t you think?

They said goodbye obliquely, without giving one another a last kiss, the way people do when they don’t know when they will see each other again. In the doorway, he offered to accompany her to the baroque fountain. Leave together? Are you crazy? she said. There’s already enough gossip, I’d better go alone as always. But it’s different now, he insisted, the streets are darker and emptier, I could pretend to be walking behind you, just for a few minutes, if we cover our faces properly no one will recognise us. Listen, my love, she said, pulling on her gloves and folding her cashmere shawl into three, it’s very kind of you, but I have to go.

Sophie peeps out into Old Cauldron Street. She looks to left and right, fastens her bonnet and sets off. The contrasting warmth of her cheeks and the chill air has the effect of slightly lowering her spirits. She imagines Elsa must be waiting for her, and quickens her pace. She can still feel a prickle of moisture between her legs. Although uncomfortable, the reminder makes her smile. A bitten moon climbs the sky.

Near the corner of Archway, installed in the shadows between the street lamps, the figure in the long coat hears a woman’s shoes approach. He narrows his eyes, judges the distance, puts on his mask. When Sophie passes the corner, he waits a few moments before moving away from the wall. He begins walking at a slow pace. He leaves Jesus Lane and follows her. He walks behind her at a steady distance. Sophie hears or senses something moving behind her. She holds her breath and listens hard—all she can hear are her own alarmed footsteps. She walks on, nervously. She glances behind her. She sees no one. Even so, she quickens her pace. The masked figure gradually shortens the distance between them, taking great care his feet strike the ground in tandem with his victim’s nervous steps. He estimates that twelve or fifteen strides will bring him close enough. Less than eight or ten, now. A few yards from the inescapable, Sophie has the happy idea of suddenly stopping in her tracks. Caught off guard, the masked figure cannot avoid taking a few more steps before coming to a halt. She clearly hears the echo of feet that aren’t hers. Then she reacts. She drops everything—her parasol, her shawl, her ridiculous bag. She takes off. She runs as fast as her legs will carry her, screaming at the top of her voice. For a moment the masked figure hesitates—usually his victims attempt to flee when he is closer to them. Flustered, he gives chase, calculating how long he has until the end of the alley. After covering half the distance separating them, he doubts he will catch her before they come perilously close to the next street, which is more brightly lit. Still chasing her, he slows down. Sophie reaches Potter’s Lane and turns into it, crying for help. The masked figure stops dead, turns round and runs off in the opposite direction, towards the darkness. Just then a nightwatchman blows his whistle and comes over brandishing his lamp.

The next morning, accompanied by Elsa, Sophie reported to the main police station in Wandernburg. A sleepy looking Hans arrived to offer moral support; he had just received her urgent message and had immediately made his way to the address on Spur Street. Amazingly, he had found it at the first attempt, following Sophie’s hastily drawn map. Outside the police station, Hans heard about the masked attacker’s unsuccessful assault, and it was all he could do to stop himself from uttering the reproach he could anyway see in Sophie’s startled expression. She had decided not to tell Rudi, and much less her father—it would have provided him with the necessary excuse to forbid her from leaving the house. When Sophie finished telling him about it, Hans embraced her recklessly, and she didn’t stop him. Elsa gave a meaningful cough and they stepped away from one another. Before entering the police station, Sophie glanced at Hans’s appearance and asked him to take off his beret. Didn’t someone steal it? she whispered in his ear. Yes, he said putting it away, but I had a spare one. Where do you get them from? she asked, puzzled. They’ve been banned for years!

In here! a voice on the other side of the door cried out. The policeman who had accompanied them stood aside to allow Sophie, Elsa and Hans to enter the Chief Superintendent’s office. The Chief Superintendent himself was a nondescript, flabby individual, utterly unremarkable except for one subtly terrifying trait—his teeth clacked as he spoke, as if his dentures lagged behind his words by a fraction of a second, or as if a voracious appetite caused him to devour what he was saying. He listened to Sophie’s stammering, raised an arm to interrupt her, and ordered her to be taken into the adjoining office. And, teeth rattling, summoned Lieutenant Gluck and Sub-lieutenant Gluck.

Removing his cap in front of his superior, the younger Lieutenant Gluck corrected him in a hushed voice: Lieutenant, Chief Superintendent, sir, I’m a lieutenant now. The Chief Superintendent clacked an “Ah” and addressed Lieutenant Gluck’s father: Lieutentant Gluck, you must be proud of Lieutenant Gluck. I am, Chief Superintendent, sir, his father nodded, I’m ever so proud of my so, of Sub, of Lieutenant Gluck, Chief Superintendent, sir, thank you, sir. Don’t mention it, Lieutenant, clacked the Chief Superintendent, I always take an interest in my men’s progress. Speaking of which, how is the investigation coming along? Have we any strong suspects? People are nervous, politicians are beginning to ask questions. The young Lieutenant Gluck stepped forward to give his reply: We have, Chief Superintendent, sir. Is that so, Sub-lieutenant? his superior asked with interest. Lieutenant, Chief Superintendent, Lieutenant, the young man corrected him. Well, his father spoke up, best not to count our chickens, given the public disquiet the case has caused, it would be impossible to put right any mistakes. On the contrary, on the contrary! clacked the Chief Superintendent. The sooner we give them a culprit the sooner we can all relax. And in my view this is probably the work of a Jew. Do you think so, Chief Superintendent, sir? said Lieutenant Gluck, taken aback. Remember we already had a Jewish rapist nine years ago, the Chief Superintendent explained, we can’t dismiss the possibility of this being another one. I see, Lieutenant Gluck said, that’s a good theory, Chief Superintendent, sir, we’ll bear it in mind. The Chief Superintendent gave one last clack: I hope you can wrap this up quickly, lieutenants, it has gone on long enough. You may go, Vorwärts!

No sooner had they left the main office than Lieutenant Gluck approached his son and told him: You mustn’t speak to the Chief Superintendent like that, a sub-lieutenant isn’t supposed to … A lieutenant, insisted Lieutenant Gluck. A lieutenant isn’t either, Lieutenant Gluck said, annoyed, and don’t be so hasty. Whatever you say, Father, said Lieutenant Gluck. Lieutenant, call me Lieutenant, his father corrected him.

Lieutenant Gluck was questioning Sophie. His father remained silent, gazing out of the tiny window at the back of the room. The office, much smaller than that of the Chief Superintendent, had a musty odour. The young lieutenant was standing taking notes, and each time Sophie paused, he circled the woodworm-riddled desk. Is that all you can remember? he asked, hurling his quill into the inkwell. (The ink sloshed around in it, threatened to spill over the edges, gradually settled.) Are you absolutely certain you didn’t notice anything else about your assailant? His hair? His skin colour? The size of his hands? Nothing? I already told you it was too dark, Sophie replied, and as you can imagine I was too busy running away to notice these things. What about smells, insisted the lieutenant, did you notice anything peculiar about the way he smelt, his breath, his sweat, anything? I wasn’t close enough to him, she said, lowering her eyes and shaking her head, believe me, gentlemen, I wish I could be of more help. It’s a pity, said the lieutenant. Pardon me, Hans interrupted, isn’t there more we could do? How about if we kept watch at night pretending we are out strolling? I imagine you have a shortage of police officers, and there aren’t many nightwatchmen around. My dear sir, replied the lieutenant, irritated, we’ve already organised numerous special patrols to no effect. Repeating the exercise now would be of little use, the masked attacker never strikes two days, or even two weeks in a row. He’s nothing if not patient. He attacks out of the blue, bides his time. He appears then disappears. As though into thin air. Sophie (separating two slender fingers she had been clasping together since the start of the interview, brushing them against the sleeves of her dress, running them along the edge of the desk) said with a lump in her throat: Well, I hope you catch him soon, gentlemen, I had a narrow escape last night, but perhaps next time I won’t be so lucky, a few more seconds and, good God, I dread to think! Very well, Fräulein, sighed the lieutenant, we appreciate your assistance. You can go home now. We suggest you take extra care, and we’re glad you’re so quick on your feet. Well, Sophie murmured, standing up, I’m not that quick, just well informed. We women do read newspapers.

On hearing her last words, Lieutenant Gluck senior (who had been gazing absent-mindedly out of the tiny window) swivelled round suddenly and said: Wait, wait, so when did you say you started running? Sophie almost jumped when she heard the other lieutenant’s voice: What do you mean? I’m asking you, he explained, when exactly you started running away. You just said you weren’t very quick. So why couldn’t the masked attacker catch up with you?

Sophie sat down again and described the chase once more, this time mentioning the brief halt that had allowed her to discover she was being followed. Apparently excited, Lieutenant Gluck senior wanted to know why she had left out that detail in her previous account. Sophie told him she hadn’t considered it important, and that anyway all the questions had referred to her would-be attacker, not to her. The lieutenant asked her to recall as precisely as she could their positions in the alleyway, and to calculate how far they were from one another when she dropped her things and began to run. After listening to her with his eyes closed, the lieutenant went on: Are you sure this was more or less the distance between you? And yet you say he couldn’t catch up with you before reaching the next corner? Sophie nodded, pale-faced. Lieutenant Gluck glanced at Lieutenant Gluck, let the weight of his years slump into a chair and declared: Excellent, excellent! We’ve got him now, son. Fräulein, you are wonderful.

 

Draped in corners, folded on shelves, spread out over her orange eiderdown, piled on top of the dresser, arranged in boxes and according to size, the wedding trousseau swamped Sophie’s bedroom. Elsa, whose task it had been for months to gather it together, was reading aloud from a list. Leaning against the doorjamb tugging the ends of his whiskers as though they were two pieces of string, Herr Gottlieb presided over the inventory. Sophie sat in a corner yawning discreetly.

Let’s see, Elsa recapped, plain and patterned cotton and silk stockings, petticoats, under-corsets, so far so good, now for the accessories, cuffs, bonnets, camisoles with lace trim, I think three dozen is enough, don’t you, sir? What! replied Herr Gottlieb. Only three dozen? She should have at least four, what am I saying, make that six! (Father, Sophie broke in, don’t be ridiculous, why spend all this money?) My beloved child, we are not here to scrimp and save but to do things properly, you deserve all this and much more! And remember, once you are a Wilderhaus, you will no longer have to worry about economising, well, six dozen then, Elsa, go on. As you wish, sir, Elsa intoned. White silk peignoirs for summer and dark moiré ones for winter, assorted camisoles, satin slippers, yes, that’s right, brocade and damask sheets, organdy pillowcases (organdy for pillowcases? Why? declared Sophie), to give you sweet dreams, Miss, bedspreads, blankets, bath towels, hand towels, face towels, extra towels for guests, three, I mean six dozen, that’s enough isn’t it? We need each kind. (I tell you I don’t need half of this, Sophie protested, it’s absurd.) It pains me deeply, Herr Gottlieb chided, to hear you say such things when you know how many years your father has been saving up for this moment, and the hardships your mother endured, may God rest her soul, and how happy she would have been to see the luxury you will enjoy. All I want, my child, is to know you will never need for anything so that I may grow old peacefully in the sure knowledge that I have done my duty, is this so hard for you to understand? And your ingratitude, Sophie, is not the best way of repaying my efforts. Anything more, Elsa? (Thwarted, Sophie stopped protesting and fell silent.) Yes, Elsa resumed, three high-waisted jackets, an otter-skin coat, a sable stole, four new bonnets, two with feathers and two with flowers, is that enough, sir? I don’t know, probably not, make it four of each just in case. As you wish, sir, Elsa intoned, and should Miss Sophie’s name be stitched in white? Not stitched, embroidered, Herr Gottlieb corrected, everything embroidered! (But I’m no good at embroidery, Father, Sophie reminded him.) Then Elsa will do it, damn it, that’s what she is here for. Let’s stop now, the guests will be arriving soon.

Halfway through the afternoon, Hans noticed the logs burning in the marble fireplace—he thought there were too few for such a big room. Glancing around, it occurred to him the candles looked less white and gave off a more unpleasant smell, which led him to deduce that they were made from a cheaper wax than the usual ones. Rudi Wilderhaus’s patent-leather shoes creaked, his pointed shoulders tensed, and for a moment Hans imagined him as a two-branched candlestick. Only then did he hear Rudi’s words, which he had stopped listening to a while ago: A little over two months, Rudi declared. Two months? said Frau Pietzine excitedly. They will go by in a flash! Rudi, beaming with satisfaction, seized Sophie’s hand, which she gave up half-heartedly, and announced: We will spend our honeymoon in Paris. Oh, my dears, oh! Frau Pietzine declared, her excitement growing. Hans brushed against Álvaro’s elbow. Álvaro whispered in his ear: Coño, that’s original! Frau Pietzine perceived Hans’s sardonic expression and raised her voice: My dear girl, men will never understand how much the ceremony means to us. Entering the church in white as the organ plays. Led down the aisle amid a cloud of incense. Watching out of the corner of our eye our friends and family gathered for this one occasion, smiling through their tears. Men cannot imagine how intensely we long for this moment from a young age. Yet years later, my dear, believe me, this ends up being the most important memory of our lives, the one we will recall in the minutest detail—the flower mosaics, the lighted candles, the children’s choir singing, the priest’s voice, the ring on the anxious finger, the holy blessing and most of all, isn’t it so, Herr Gottlieb, the proud arm of our father. Hans tried to catch Sophie’s eye in the mirror. She looked away, a vacant smile on her face.

Professor Mietter’s echoing voice called him back to the discussion. What about you, Herr Hans? Do you agree with Pascal? Not knowing whether he was being sarcastic, Hans decided to reply: If that’s what Pascal says, I have no objection. I believe Pascal also said almost no one knows how to live in the present. This applies equally to me, so please forgive my absent-mindedness. Sophie came to his aid: We were discussing whether or not Pascal was right in considering it dangerous to reveal the injustice of a law, given that people obey laws precisely because they believe them to be just. Ah, Hans thought on his feet, mmm, a profound idea, and a fallacious one perhaps, for many a just law has arisen as a result of people rebelling against unjust laws. Not necessarily, said Herr Levin, not necessarily. If you’ll allow me, Álvaro asserted, I’d like to quote an idea of Pascal’s which I find delightfully republican, “the power of kings is based on the folly of the people”, I think this explains the question of law. God help us! Professor Mietter groaned, straightening his wig. Pascal deserves more than mere demagoguery!

Professor Mietter appeared hungry for debate, and exasperatingly dialectical. Imagine, Herr Urquiho, the professor said, only the other day I was looking through Tieck’s translation of Don Quixote, which, to be honest, I don’t think is much of an improvement on that of Bertuch (what? Hans countered. Bertuch even changed the title! Really? Álvaro was surprised, what did he call it? Life and Miracles of the Wise Landowner Don Quixote! replied Hans. Imagine how ghastly. And how mistaken, added Álvaro, because Alonso Quijano has no land to speak of, and he fails at almost every miracle he tries to create. The only miracle, Hans chuckled, was that Bertuch managed to teach himself Spanish by translating Quixote), perhaps, gentlemen, perhaps. In any event, you must admit it is amusing that a militant romantic such as Tieck should translate a book that mocks all his own ideals. In my view, Soltau’s is the most successful translation (too anachronistic, Hans disagreed), alles klar, my compliments on being more meticulous than me, but going back to what were we saying, while I was rereading Quixote the other day, I thought: Is Don Quixote not a conservative at the end of the day, a conservative in the best meaning of the word? Why is he considered a revolutionary hero when what he really wants is for history to stop and for the world to be the way it was before, when what he really longs for is a return to feudalism? (Ah, said Rudi, rousing himself and closing his snuffbox, not for nothing did they call him a wise man!) In contrast, gentlemen, I don’t know what you think, but in my opinion his most brilliant speech is the one about arms and letters. (My dear professor, Hans laughed, I hope you won’t be disappointed to hear that we very nearly agree.) Heavens, young man, what a welcome change! In this discourse, Don Quixote refutes a separation, which unfortunately still holds sway—physical strength on the one hand and intellectual prowess on the other. I would even venture to say that the thing has worsened, because today the humanities themselves have been divided into the arts on the one hand and the sciences on the other, further evidence of the decline of the West. How can feeling be separated from reason? And how can anyone deny that a lack of physical fitness is an obstacle to understanding? I for example read much better after doing physical exercise (surely, Hans argued, Don Quixote wasn’t referring to physical so much as military strength), you are wrong, he was referring to both, and moreover they are one and the same, war is as necessary to the peace of nations as physical strength is to the peace of the spirit. (You can’t be serious, said Hans, wars don’t happen in order to bring peace, and physical strength is seldom used to enhance the spirit. Well, Álvaro asserted, in this instance the professor is right, in his speech about arms and letters Don Quixote says as much, doesn’t he, “the aim of weapons is to bring peace, and this peace signals the true end to war”. That sounds like something the Holy Alliance would sign up to, Hans retorted.) Or Robespierre, Herr Hans, or Robespierre! (For your information, Professor, Hans replied angrily, I find Robespierre every bit as repellent as Metternich. What? exclaimed Álvaro, you can’t be serious?) Gentlemen, you cannot imagine the pleasure it gives me to see the pair of you at odds. (My dear friends, Sophie intervened, please let’s calm down, the whole purpose of these gatherings is to have different opinions, there would be no point to them otherwise. I beg you not to become agitated. As for this admirable speech, I’d like to remind you from my position of boundless ignorance that our hero from La Mancha, he who compares arms and letters, becomes a knight thanks to letters, not arms. And incidentally he does much more speaking than fighting, and wins arguments rather than battles. Elsa, my dear, would you bring the cakes?)

Ah, no, forgive me, the professor objected, when we speak of Calderón we speak of a poet rather than a playwright. It is enough to read the verse in his plays, which far outweighs the action. Furthermore, with all due respect, lieber Herr Gottlieb, for I am aware of your fondness for him, Calderón serves up his poetry with too liberal a sprinkling of holy allusions. Faith is one thing, religious zeal another. Good grief, Professor, declared Álvaro, how very Spanish you are this afternoon! As Spanish, retorted Professor Mietter, as the confusion to which I have just alluded. I shan’t deny it, smiled Álvaro, I shan’t deny it. My favourite of all the Catholic poets is Quevedo—he could be reactionary, but never overly pious. God! What sublime wickedness, if you’ll pardon the expression. What exasperates me about Calderón are his religious plays, rich and poor as one in death, kings and their subjects joined in the afterlife! What would Sancho Panza have said of The Great Theatre of the World? My dear friend, the professor said solemnly, if anything makes us equal it is death. That is an inescapable truth, and a powerful idea for theatre—hearing what the dead would say if they knew what awaited them. Only by politicising philosophy can one question such a thing. Look, replied Álvaro, if life is a play, then Calderón forgot to describe what goes on behind the scenes. All that interest in the afterlife disguises what’s going on here and now. Didn’t Cervantes do the exact opposite in Quixote? He moved us by showing up everyday inequalities, injustices and corruption. By contrast the death of his character, what happens afterwards, is almost irrelevant. How can you say that, protested the professor, when Quijano recants on his deathbed! Quijano recants, said Álvaro, but not Don Quixote.

How fascinating, Frau Pietzine declared, I adore Quixote! I haven’t read all of it, but some of the chapters are wonderful. And who do you prefer, as a Spanish reader, dear Monsieur Urquiho, Don Quixote or Sancho Panza? I hope I am not putting you on the spot! My dear lady, replied Álvaro, it is impossible to choose, the story needs them both, and neither character would make sense without the other. Don Quixote without Sancho would be an aimless old man who wouldn’t last a week, and without him Sancho would be a plump little conformist without his curiosity, which is his greatest asset. I agree completely, commented Hans, except in one respect—the key to Don Quixote is that he has no aim: “He continued on his way”—do you remember?—“taking nothing save his beloved horse, believing that therein lay the true spirit of adventure”. If there can be no knight without a squire bearer and vice versa, without Rocinante there would be no book. How fascinating, Frau Pietzine cooed, and what de-li-cious cakes! Sophie, my dear, my compliments to Petra. Ah, scoffed Rudi, a speck of snuff on the tip of his nose, a sensible remark at last!

 

After several days of running a temperature, coughing, and feeling nauseous, the organ grinder agreed to be seen by a doctor. Just so you know, kof, he had declared, I’m doing this to put yours and Franz’s minds at rest. Hans gave him a scrub down for the occasion. His muscles sagged like pieces of string.

Doctor Müller arrived by coach. Hans waited for him at the end of Bridge Walk. The doctor alighted nervously and approached in little leaps, as though his feet were tied together at the ankles. Haven’t we met before? asked the doctor. I don’t think so, answered Hans, but who knows. How odd, said Doctor Müller, your face looks familiar. And even though I say so myself, I seldom forget a face. The opposite happens with me, said Hans, leading him through the pinewood, I’m constantly muddling people up.

They entered the cave. Without batting an eyelash, the doctor made straight for the organ grinder’s straw pallet. He studied him with interest, nodded a couple of times, draped an enormous stethoscope round his neck (It’s French, he explained), listened to the patient’s chest and proclaimed: This old fellow is suffering from pemphigus. And what is that, doctor? Hans asked anxiously. Pemphigus, replied Müller, is a common ailment. Yes, but what is it? Hans insisted. Blisters, the doctor explained, skin blisters, in this case mostly on the hands. I imagine this fellow has worked a great deal with his hands, or so it seems to me at least. Quite so, said Hans, but what has that to do with his condition? You mean the fevers and the coughing? said Müller. Oh very little. Nothing, in fact. But as soon as I saw him I knew. Without a doubt. Pemphigus. But what about the other symptoms? Hans said impatiently. Doctor Müller digressed onto the subject of nervous ailments, boils, lingering colds, old age, bone disease. In brief, he concluded, nothing serious. Or perhaps it could be.

After examining the organ grinder more thoroughly, Doctor Müller prescribed aloe purgatives at eight-hour intervals. Six different chest ointments, one for every day except Sunday. Soothing morning enemas using a chicken’s gut for easy application. Poultices in the afternoon, mustard plasters after supper. Pomeranian vinegar to be taken with each meal. Fenugreek poultices to aid digestion. Five grams of shredded lemon balm to reduce the nausea. Ten grams of decoction of horehound to ease minor coughing. Four small cups of juniper berry at the first sign of a convulsive coughing fit, followed by four more infusions of arnica and maidenhair fern to help bring up the phlegm once the fever has subsided. Mandrake root with crushed peppercorns as a tonic. Optional doses of snakeweed root if the patient’s bowel movements become too frequent. And if he suffers any acute pains or thirst, a cocktail of lilies boiled in milk and schnapps. Finally, if all else should fail, vigorous rubbing with swallowwort leaves on the forehead and temples.

Isn’t that rather a lot, Hans asked, jotting it all down. Doctor Müller bridled: Tell me, do you know the Reil method? Carus’s experimental anatomy? Mesmer’s animal fluids? Well, in that case, kindly place your trust in science. Hans sighed: I’m doing my best. Is there anything else? No, I don’t think so, Doctor Müller replied wistfully, or perhaps there is, say a prayer or two for the patient, it’s a small gesture and it can do no harm. I’m afraid I can’t promise anything there, said Hans. I understand, the doctor smiled, don’t worry, I’m not a very religious man myself. The thing is patients sometimes feel more relief from prayer than from the treatment.

The old man appeared to be sound asleep. Doctor Müller folded his French stethoscope and straightened up brusquely. Franz let out two barks. Well, said Müller, giving Franz a wide berth, mission accomplished, wouldn’t you say? I’ll be on my way, that is … How much? asked Hans. For you, the doctor replied, five florins. The organ grinder opened one glassy eye, and, to their surprise, spoke up: Hans—kof!—don’t give him a pfennig more than three thalers, do you hear!

 

Lately, each time Sophie went out she noticed people staring at her. Scrutinising her gestures. Comparing what they saw with what they had heard. Staring at her waist, for example. Gazing intently at her dress and her stomach, examining her from the side just in case. To begin with she wasn’t sure. She found it hard to distinguish between outside speculation and her inner fears, between what others thought and her own doubts, and she tried to convince herself it wasn’t true. Until one morning, a distant acquaintance had greeted her in a peculiar way; after saying good morning, she had narrowed her heavily made-up eyes and said: My dear, you look, how can I put it, as healthy as a horse, don’t you agree? Fuller, more radiant, of course nowadays, as you know, they make women’s clothes in such a way …

Back home, alarmed, Sophie had hurriedly weighed herself on the scales. She discovered she had not only gained no weight but had lost several pounds since the summer.

One afternoon after lunch, Elsa and Sophie went out under the pretext of making a few final purchases to complete her trousseau. At the end of Old Cauldron Street they bumped into Frau Pietzine. Frau Pietzine was friendly, although she wore a concerned expression that made Sophie feel ill at ease. Before saying goodbye she beckoned to Sophie with a silken finger. Elsa took two steps back and began watching the passing coaches.

All I ask is that you reflect on it, whispered Frau Pietzine, you wouldn’t want to throw away something so full of promise, such a privileged future for a foolish passion. And don’t look at me like that, I beg you, I am your friend. Perhaps you don’t consider me a friend, but I am, and my advice as a friend is to try not to lose your head. My dear lady, Sophie replied coldly, you sound like your Father confessor. That’s unfair of you! Frau Pietzine replied with unusual insistence, let us be frank for once, a difficult thing in this damnable city. Yes, damnable, and I know perfectly well you feel the same. I sympathise, my dear friend, a girl like you! With your temperament! How could I not sympathise? I’m not talking of sin, but of time—we lose our time over love, do you know why? Because we invest everything we have in it, all that it has taken half a lifetime to build up, in exchange for a fleeting reward. But after this passion has died we have to go on living—do you understand?—we have to go on living! In the end, all a woman has left are the things she sometimes rejects—family, friends, neighbours. Nothing else lasts. Remember that Sophie, we aren’t young for ever. Everyone knows this, but we prefer not to think about it until it is too late. When we are young and happy we don’t want to accept that our happiness is a product of youth and not of the rash decisions we take. But, mark my words, the day will dawn when you realise you have become old. And there is nothing you can do. And what you possess that day will be all that you possess until the end of your days. I shan’t hold you up any longer, dear. Good afternoon.

Stretched out next to Hans, her brow wrinkled, a nipple poking above the blanket, Sophie broke the silence. Do you know what? she said. I bumped into Frau Pietzine on my way here, and she said some terrible things to me. The wretched woman is a busybody, replied Hans, don’t pay her any attention. I shouldn’t pay attention to most people, said Sophie, but it isn’t so easy. We can’t live as if no one else existed, Hans. Besides, I think Frau Pietzine meant well, I had the feeling she was trying to help me. She was misguided, but she wanted to help me. Yes, of course, he sighed, everyone wants to help you decide about your life, above all the Wilderhaus family with their son to the fore!

Sophie’s belly, against which Hans had his ear pressed, suddenly clenched. He heard her reply: How dare you criticise someone who goes on loving me despite all the rumours? You’re always talking about leaving, and yet you speak of the Wandernburgers as if they concerned you. Make up your mind! Are you here or aren’t you? I’m not criticising Rudi, said Hans, defending himself, I’m worried about you. You know perfectly well this marriage isn’t what a woman like you needs. How do you know? she said angrily. Or are you also going to tell me what I ought to do? Who told you what I need? You did! He shouted, you told me! Here in this room, in a thousand different ways! Hans, she sighed, I went as far as to postpone my wedding for you. Don’t talk to me as though I didn’t know my own feelings. Did you do it for me? he asked. Or was it for yourself, for your own happiness?

Sophie did not answer. There was a pause. Suddenly Hans heard himself say: Come with me to Dessau. What? she sat up. You heard me, come with me, he repeated, I’m begging you. But my love, said Sophie, I can’t just leave. You mean I’m not a good enough reason for you to leave, he said. I can’t understand why you expect so much of your lover and so little of your husband. That’s different, she said. I have no expectations of Rudi, but I have them of you, do you see? That’s why I’m asking you to do something, Hans, I’m asking you to stay. I’m terrified you might leave tomorrow. What terrifies you is not having the courage, he murmured. And what about you? Sophie shouted, are you incredibly free or an incredible coward? What right have you to preach to me? Be a woman for a moment, just for one moment, and you’ll see how different courage looks from here, you stupid man!

 

A folded piece of paper, papyrus-coloured rather than mauve, written in haste. Hans read:

Dear heart—this is a message of possibilities, for I am no longer sure of anything. Will I write to you again? Will you write to me? Will we see one another? Will we stop seeing one another? Will I think about what I write? Or will I think as I write?

Until a moment ago, I wanted our next meeting, if we are to meet again, to be up to you, I wanted you to ask to see me after these long and lonely days. The reason for this, if indeed I was capable of reasoning, was that if I had asked, you would have come at my behest (you would have, wouldn’t you?) and perhaps contrary to your misgivings, to our misgivings.

Yet it turns out this perfect reasoning has failed. Quite simply because between yesterday and today I realised that my desire to touch you, even if only for an hour, is stronger than everything else. To have you in the way that I want, however inappropriate or irresponsible. And I realised that if I kept my calm these past few days it was because deep down I believed you would come after me, that I wouldn’t need to chase you. It wounds my pride to admit it. And yet the proudest part of us is our intelligence and mine was insulted by keeping up this charade. It is not so much my feelings that have imposed themselves (my feelings are in tur moil) but the facts. Naive creature, how could I have been so sure of myself? Why didn’t I realise sooner that my treasured pride was also a token of my love for you? And how could I have assumed you would want to stay on here, unreservedly? I am comforted by the thought that my obstinacy in doing so was equal to yours when you assumed that, sooner or later, I would agree to follow you wherever you went.

Although I still believe in the intensity of things, in their fleetingness, it is only now, as the afternoon fades, that I have begun to assimilate the idea that you might be leaving. It isn’t that now I know (I have always known) but that I feel it. And the idea feels unbearable. There is nothing more unbearable than experiencing in the flesh the suffering you have gone over a thousand times in your head. Perhaps tomorrow I will receive a message similar to this, a few lines asking me to go and see you. Or perhaps you will change you mind after reading this. Or perhaps neither of these things will happen, and the days will simply go by. Or (I tremble at the thought) perhaps when you read these words you will already be somewhere else. It is possible. As I said, this is a letter of possibilities.

I have nothing more to say. Or I have many more things to say, but in another place, at another time. If love is a possibility, I kiss you here or there, now or on another day.

Mistress of myself all of a sudden, that is to say yours

S

At noon the following day, a brief, lightly perfumed mauve note arrived, Hans read:

Your reply cheered me up. Reading it was like a sip of water in the middle of a desert. I also forgive you. We’ll see each other at the inn from three o’clock until four-thirty. Not today. Better tomorrow, because the salon is the following day and it will be easier for me to find some excuse to go out on an errand. You are a naughty man. I shall reward you appropriately.—S

Sophie bit the air, ensconced on top of him, legs apart. More than making love, she was treading grapes. Each time her hips collided with Hans’s stomach, she would propel herself higher in order to crash down with more force. Underneath the storm, at once overwhelmed and moved, Hans was scarcely able to resist the current dragging him to somewhere that was beyond them both, away from there, inside himself.

The fire in the hearth crackled and sparked. For a while Hans had been staring intently into the embers. Sophie was still, she had sucked up all of him. Hans looked away from the fire, turned his head and gazed at her. Is anything the matter, my love? he asked. No, she replied, I don’t know whether I had an orgasm or a premonition.

Elsa had taken off all her clothes, Álvaro had not. Now he was fastening his belt, tucking his shirt into his breeches. She hurriedly finished dressing and tidied her hair. Álvaro had remained in a sluggish daze—his movements were dulled, even his speech. In contrast, Elsa seemed distracted, as though on the point of saying something. It made him uneasy to see her in this state after they made love, it cast a cloud over his satisfaction. Moreover he was aware that at these times she appeared more demanding about certain things and he was more obliging.

Listen, said Elsa, I’m going to try to speak plainly to you (Álvaro sighed, sat up straight on the sofa, made it clear he was paying attention), you claim, and I believe you, that before you went into business you were on the side of the working man (I was and still am, Álvaro clarified), yes, but you have money now (my fortunes have changed, not my ideals, he declared), well, whatever the case, you understand that better than I, but listen. In spite of what you say, I think you’d be a little ashamed if people saw us together. (What is this nonsense you are spouting?) Exactly what you are hearing, my precious. Out here in your country house we are equals, but back in the city I am what I am, and you are what you are. (Sorry, but you insult me. Have you still not realised that it’s my widowhood that troubles me, not our social positions? That’s what I am, a widower, is it so hard for you to grasp?) Oh Álvaro, of course not, but I don’t think the present can ever offend the past. Isn’t it time you forgot the past? I don’t mean her, but her death? (I need more time, Elsa.) We have time, my love, but not an eternity! (I know, I know.) When will you let me go to England with you, for instance? (Soon, soon.) Do you really mean soon? (You know I do, my darling.) How am I to know! (Do you speak English enough, princess?) You lost me after the word English, but I am making headway. (Nobody would deny it, my dear.) Precisely, nobody would whatever it was you said, so, when are you taking me to England? (Soon, soon …)

 

It’s as if I’d been exiled twice, Álvaro said, staring into his tankard, first when I arrived here and then when I stayed on. That’s how I feel, Hans, what more can I say? Prost! Y salud.

According to what Álvaro had just discovered, the Wandernburg authorities were trying to persuade Herr Gelding and his associates to consider changing their textile wholesaler. Herr Gelding had dismissed the idea, for the time being. Not out of loyalty to Álvaro, but because so long as their balance sheets continued to be extremely satisfactory, he saw no reason to alter their business arrangement. Apparently, an increasing number of voices within the town hall were, more or less overtly, beginning to make suggestions to anyone related to the textile mill. The more enthusiastic councillors referred to the initiative as “strategic action against ideological incompatibilities”. Mayor Ratztrinker called it the “restoration of managerial cordiality”. Herr Gelding preferred to call it “the boys getting in a strop”.

Why don’t you go back to London? asked Hans, clinking tankards with Álvaro. This is my home, replied Álvaro, and besides, I refuse to leave anywhere again because someone wishes to throw me out. But what if you went of your own accord, said Hans, wouldn’t you be better off over there? Probably, Álvaro sighed, who doesn’t want to live in London? The problem is this city, this damned city, I can’t explain. One day I’ll clear off.

It was past midnight. The chairs were resting upside down on the tables. At one half of the bar, a few locals drank up while a waiter wiped down the other half with a soiled cloth. Look at the paintings of the Congress of Vienna and what do you see? The same old thing! A group of stout gentlemen determining Europe’s fate! Bureaucratic buffoons convening in order to stuff themselves silly and fix a date for the next meeting! A legion of noblemen admiring each other’s rings while they sign in the name of their people! Crossing their flabby legs, buffing their shoes on the backs of their calves, and examining their neighbours’ bellies as they belch discreetly! Hey, Hans said, pealing with laughter, you’re worse than Goya. Amen! belched Álvaro.

Mark my words, said Álvaro, stumbling through the tavern door, something’s going to happen here, it has to happen. Here wh-where? Hans stammered. You mean in the tavern? No, of course not! replied Álvaro. Here in Europe! Look out for the door, Hans said, grabbing his arm. Look out, Europe! Álvaro shouted, charging into the street. Hey, I’m fa-falling, said Hans. Europe could fall! She should hold on, cojones! cried Álvaro. Co-come on, Hans gasped, it’s this way, Álvaro, you’re tw-twisting my arm. Where are you going? said Álvaro, confused. Let’s go and see the old man, Hans suggested. Now? said Álvaro, isn’t it a bit far? N-nonsense, replied Hans, places are neither near nor far, it’s all re-relative, if we st-start walking now we’ll be there in no time, come on, follow me, what are you doing? Don’t sit down, give me your arm, ge-get up.

Álvaro didn’t reply. His face was buried in his hands, his shoulders were rising and falling.

 

All Souls’ Day began on a harsh note, with gusts of wind that bent the branches of the trees as if to give them a fright. The sky was filled with leaden clouds. A smell of snow permeated the air. The cobbles were slippery underfoot, sprinkled with some murky substance. The horses whinnied more loudly than usual. The market square had filled up with shadows that passed one another in silence. At the top of the tower, the clock hands seemed weighed down by a pulley. The weathervane creaked erratically. The parishioners who had just left afternoon Mass walked along, backs to the square, heads lowered.

That afternoon Hans had gone out for a stroll, less for pleasure than because he felt restless—he had been trying to concentrate for hours, unable to translate a single sentence. His brain was a dicebox in which images, fears and the roots of words were being jiggled about. He was fretting over the difficulty of the text, the situation with Sophie and the organ grinder’s health. He followed the stream of people climbing the Hill of Sighs until he found himself opposite the railings of Wandernburg Cemetery—a place he had never visited. He contemplated the sea of black headscarves, the long flowing coats, the lowered veils, the felt hats pulled down, the dark armbands, the shoes submerged in their own blackness and the rebellious contrast of floral offerings. Where did all these people come from? Why were Wandernburg’s streets even more crowded on All Souls’ Day than they were in spring?

At the entrance, a shabby beggar sat slumped against the wall. As they passed, the visitors stretched out their arms and dropped a few coins into his lap before hurrying on. This was the only day in the year when the beggar didn’t need to speak to or look at his benefactors. He simply accepted their charity, eyelids half-closed, almost with indifference. Mourners are generous, reflected Hans—they hope to buy a little more time. Hans began rummaging through his pockets in front of the bundle of rags. It opened its eyes and grunted: How’s the patient? Who, me? Hans started, I’m in perfect health, thank you, how about you? No, the beggar replied shaking his head irritated, not you, the organ grinder, is he any better? Ah, Hans said, surprised, well, sort of. When you see him, the beggar said, tell him his friend Olaf is waiting for him, don’t forget, will you? Olaf from the square. Now move along, please, you’re getting in the way of my customers.

Hans noticed that no one, absolutely no one in the whole of Wandernburg Cemetery allowed a hint of a smile to cross their faces, not even when they greeted one another. He found such consensus incredible. In a place like that, wasn’t it as reasonable to weep or to laugh aloud out of pure astonishment, to laugh at the absurdity, the miracle of being alive? But those gathered there acted as if they were standing in front of mirrors rather than tombstones. Veils raised, the widows displayed their sorrow and practised the various overtures to falling into a faint. The men vigorously shook their umbrellas, flexed their shoulders, clenched their jaws. Fascinated by this spectacle, the children copied their parents as closely as they could. Each time a sob rang out, another louder one next to it ensued. Suddenly, amid the figures dressed in black, Hans made out Frau Pietzine’s puffy, painted face. Seeing her entranced, busy murmuring her laments and dabbing her eyes beneath her veil, he did not dare disturb her, and walked on by.

Farther along the path, he stumbled on a strange sight—on an isolated knoll a man was dancing silently, eyes closed, around a grave bedecked with chrysanthemums. The dance was serene, old-fashioned. The painful memories etched onto the man’s face were overlaid with an expression of profound gratitude. Hans walked away thinking his grief was perhaps the most genuine of all those he had witnessed.

Near the exit, as he was reading some of the names and dates on the tombstones, Hans almost tripped and fell onto a grave whose edges were concealed by weeds. A voice behind him cried out as if from nowhere: “Hey, careful with my lads.” It was the gravedigger. Hans wheeled round and gazed at him curiously. He was surprised by his youth (why do we imagine gravediggers to be old?) and relative cheerfulness. A lot of work? Hans said, just for something to say. Don’t you believe it, replied the gravedigger, it’s the living that give us all the work. My lads—as I like to call them on account of it makes me more attached to them, see?—they don’t give me much trouble, ha, ha! Forgive me for asking, said Hans. (No need to apologise, the gravedigger declared, am I that scary looking?) Of course, sorry, I mean, this is my first visit to the cemetery and I wondered whether many people come on normal days. Many, you say? the gravedigger laughed. No one comes! No one at all! People only come here once a year, on All Souls’ Day. Well, said Hans, clapping him on the back (an amazingly firm back, hard as wood), I must be going, it’s been a pleasure, good luck. Thanks, likewise, replied the gravedigger, if you ever need me you know where to find me. I hope I shan’t be needing you, said Hans, no offence. It’s only a question of time, ha, ha! The gravedigger raised his arm and waved goodbye.

The first thing Hans glimpsed through the railings was not Mayor Ratztrinker’s exaggeratedly large hat, nor his fine silk socks, nor his velvet frock coat, it was his beak-like nose as he climbed out of his carriage. While the mayor’s whiskers ventured into the open air, a servant folded back the hood. No sooner had His Excellency’s foot touched the ground than a second servant handed him a wreath; the mayor clasped onto it as he would a funereal life belt. The cortège advanced slowly, accepting peoples’ greetings. When they walked past Olaf, Mayor Ratztrinker gave one of the servants a sidelong glance, at which the servant showered the beggar with coins. Good afternoon, Your Excellency, Hans murmured as he passed him on the way out. The mayor stopped, handed the wreath to a servant, and doffed his hat, pausing a moment before returning the greeting. This struck Hans as suspicious. They exchanged pleasantries, remarked on the worsening weather, and before saying goodbye Mayor Ratztrinker took a step forward. He looked Hans up and down, gestured to his beret and said nonchalantly: Jacobins aren’t welcome in Wandernburg. Neither are adulterers. Imagine what we think of Jacobin adulterers? The police, quite naturally, are concerned. Good afternoon.

He arrived at the cave as night fell. The organ grinder was talking to Lamberg, who had brought him some supper. Hans sat down on a rock and patted Franz’s side. You’ve arrived, kof, just in time, I was telling Lamberg about my dream last night. (And how are you feeling? asked Hans.) Me?—kof—fine, just fine, you sound like a mother! But listen, I dreamt, kof, I was alone in the woods and I was very cold, like I hadn’t a stitch on, and then I began, kof, to shiver, and the more I shivered the more I sweated—funny, isn’t it?—only instead of droplets, kof, instead of droplets of sweat, my body gave off sounds, you know? Like notes, and the breeze carried them through the woods, kof, and they started to sound familiar, and I went on shivering and giving off sounds until, kof, I began to recognise the tune coming from my body, and at that moment I woke up (because of the dream? asked Lamberg), no, no, kof, because I was hungry!

Hans burst out laughing. Then he grew very serious. The organ grinder stretched out his bony arm, beckoning him to come near, and asked cheerily: How is Olaf?

 

No, child, no, Father Pigherzog whispered into her ear as the bell in the round tower rattled out the midday chimes with a clang like coins dropping into the collection plate, calm yourself, child, in spite of everything it is best you tell no one, nemo infirmitatis animi immunis, I sympathise, we spoke about this the other day, do you remember? Yet no matter how great your suffering only you can free yourself from it, that is what makes us worthy of the Lord, the power to transform evil into good, and to forgive, of course not, my child, I am not saying the Lord wishes you to suffer so much, but that He wants you to love once your suffering is over, so that your reward will be much greater. That is why, my child, you must tell no one about what happened to you.

At the foot of the other tower, the pointed one, Frau Levin and Sophie were moving their lips, nodding their heads, shrugging their shoulders, warding off the cold wind and clutching their hats. A few yards away, Mayor Ratztrinker and Herr Gottlieb removed their hats, although in the gloomy afternoon daylight it might, from a distance, have seemed as if they were doing the opposite—taking off the heads of their respective hats. After the farewells, His Excellency’s last words hung thickly in the air, climbed the cracks in the tower, scaled the damp steps of autumn, edged between the flat clouds, dissolved little by little: “… and I’ll say it again, Fräulein, you look positively radiant, there’s nothing like a wedding to enhance a woman’s beauty!”

Although it had lasted a matter of seconds, Frau Levin felt positively exalted by the mayor’s greeting. The Gottliebs’ presence had no doubt been a determining factor. Even so, this was the first time the mayor had deigned to address her, to utter her name. To acknowledge her as a respectable citizen and to accept her, finally, as a good Christian. For this reason, she was more determined than ever to do what she was about to do. What a neighbour of hers, who was a policeman, had been urging her to do for some time. Frau Levin waited for a group of carriages to pass before crossing Archway. She must hurry. In an hour’s time she had to serve her husband lunch; he continued stubbornly to refuse to attend Mass, and she had been forced to lie to him in order to be able to go home later. Lying to her husband terrified her—she always had the impression he knew. But besides fear, that morning she felt the excitement of being useful, of really being useful to the authorities. Frau Levin glanced behind her, from side to side, making sure no one was watching her. She quickened her pace. She walked towards Spur Street. She was more determined now than ever.

Aha, the Chief Superintendent’s teeth clacked. Are you taking note, sergeant? Carry on.

The words began to spill from Frau Levin’s lips. She was scarcely able to pause, to emerge from her trance when the Chief Superintendent rearranged his denture ready to pose another question. Some questions were easy to answer: Herr Hans’s profession, Herr Hans’s political leanings, Herr Hans’s friends, arrival of books at Herr Hans’s lodgings, Herr Hans’s everyday habits, Herr Hans’s dubious patriotism. Others were a little more tricky or ambiguous. And yet Frau Levin answered them without hesitation, supplying a wealth of detail, embellishing what she knew and inventing what she did not. After all she wasn’t doing this only for herself—although he didn’t know it, she was also doing it for the sake of her husband. Perhaps one day His Excellency the mayor would greet him, too.

The Chief Superintendent nodded, clacked his teeth, and made sure his officer was keeping pace in his note-taking with the hastily delivered statement. From time to time he raised his hand, made the Jewish bitch shut up and waited for a few moments before moving on to the next question.

When he had gathered more than enough information, the Superintendent raised both hands, and, without looking at the Jewess, said: Thank you for coming.

 

Herr Gottlieb stood at his desk finishing the inventory of his daughter’s trousseau—family jewels, imported fans, kid gloves, fine-quality brushes, bottles of perfume, expensive sponges, ornate sweet dishes. As her father paused between items, Sophie would say “Yes” or “It’s here”, and he would murmur, “Correct” and resume going through the list.

As he closed the inventory book, Herr Gottlieb’s face grew suddenly solemn. He placed his smoking pipe on the table, tugged on his waistcoat and stood to attention like a general about to embark on an important mission. He offered his daughter his hand, and led her along the chilly corridor. If Sophie were not mistaken they were going to her father’s bedchamber—a room she had not set foot in for years.

A strip of light from the window reached across the room to the opposite wall—the rest was darkness. Herr Gottlieb walked slowly over to the vast mahogany wardrobe, pausing after each step. He turned the key twice, opened the heavy door and whispered his daughter’s name three times. Then he thrust his arms into the wardrobe’s depths and pulled out a trailing luminescence. Sophie recognised her deceased mother’s wedding gown. It was a strangely ethereal garment. It appeared to be made of light. She studied the gown as her father handed it to her—the smooth feel of the satin, the tiny band of organdy around the waist, the airy netting on the skirt. Placing the dress in his daughter’s arms as one passing an invisible ballerina, Herr Gottlieb said: This was your mother’s favourite shade of white, egg white, the purest white of all, that of innocent hearts. If only she were here to help us! My child, my child, will you make me a grandfather soon? It pains me that you barely knew your own grandparents. I don’t wish the same on my grandchildren. But go, child, try it on. I need to see how the dress suits you.

A quarter of an hour later, Sophie reappeared in her father’s bedchamber wearing the gown. As soon as she had stepped into it she knew it would fit her. The three pearl buttons were perhaps a little tight at the back. The gold ribbon on the neckline was perhaps a little lower than it should be. And yet it was undoubtedly her size. Elsa had helped her into the old-fashioned corset that sculpted her waist, pushed up her bust, rounding off her subtle décolletage. She had donned a pair of embroidered silk stockings and wore satin-lined slippers adorned with ribbons. Before stepping out into the corridor, she had studied her reflection in the glass and had felt a strange tingling sensation, like a needle running down her spine.

A quarter of an hour later, when Sophie reappeared in her father’s bedchamber wearing the gown, Herr Gottlieb said nothing. He said nothing at first and looked at her, he looked through her, squinting the way short-sighted people do, focusing like those who are sightless. He stood motionless, his mind elsewhere, until abruptly he opened his eyes, dilated his pupils, parted his lips and said at last: It is perfect, my love, perfect.

Sophie hadn’t heard her father call her my love for a long time, not since she was a child.

Then Herr Gottlieb said: Come here, my child, my precious, come closer, my love.

Sophie walked over to her father. She stopped two steps away from him. She stood motionless and let him embrace her.

You have your mother’s shoulders, her father said.

Sophie felt slightly faint. The room was airless. The wedding gown was pressing her stomach. As were her father’s arms.

You have your mother’s waist, her father said.

The whole length of the white dress was reflected in the wardrobe mirror.

And you have your mother’s skin, her father said.

The airlessness, the gown, the mirror.

As though emerging from a well, Sophie pushed herself away with her arms.

But I’m not like my mother, she said.

Herr Gottlieb’s lips disappeared behind his whiskers. His face fell. His pupils contracted.

How young you are, child, he said, how terribly young (don’t say that, Father, Sophie replied, don’t talk as though you were already old), oh, but I am (no, Father, she insisted), you see, it isn’t just about age, my child, it is also about loss, you have so much youth left in you because—how can I put this?—you still have the feeling of being whole, the unmistakable belief that this wholeness will never end. When you lose that, whatever age you are, you are old, do you understand? And I love you so very much.

Shortly afterwards Rudi’s servants knocked at the door. His berlin was waiting in Stag Street.

Is something the matter, my dear? Rudi asked, removing a speck of snuff from his velvet frock coat with one finger. No, replied Sophie, rousing herself, nothing, why do you ask? For no particular reason, Rudi said, giving off a whiff of lemon scent, or perhaps because I’ve spent ages trying to decide on the wedding menu with you and you’ve hardly said a word. Oh, she said, you know I’m not very bothered about that kind of thing, honestly, you decide. Not very bothered, he stipulated, or not bothered in the slightest? Well, she retorted, is there a difference? Driver! shouted Rudi, rapping three times on the roof. Stop here!

 

Don’t stop, she cried, or rather she thought. But Hans hesitated, as though he’d just remembered something. Something that removed him from the room, and, at the same time, allowed him to see it vividly. They were both there. He could see himself. She, too.

Lying across the bed, he on his side, legs hooked under hers, both were assailed by the same vision, the exact same one, without knowing it. They saw two L-shaped torsos submerged in water, as though they had discovered themselves fornicating with their own reflection, struggling to possess it and to be separate from it. As though, thrusting against each other, neither knew where one ended and the other began, and they were no longer sure if they were two or one. As though neither could decipher the other by contemplating him or her, by contemplating each other as they gave themselves to one another. When the frisson came and they cried out as one, the image disappeared. The water went still. The mirror dissolved. Their bodies grew cold.

 

After leaving the mansion for his daily coach ride, Rudi saw him, on the right-hand side of the pavement, a few yards from where King’s Parade meets Border Street, strolling along. He saw him strolling along in his rabble-rouser’s beret, his common frock coat, his sloppy cravat, walking with that irritatingly absent-minded yet insolent gait of his, partly nonchalant, partly self-conscious, much like his free-flowing hair, as though while behaving as he pleased he always knew he was being watched. Rudi saw him through the window, he felt his gorge rise and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself a little. He gave three short raps on the roof of the carriage, his body rocking with the rhythm of the braking vehicle, slid his buttocks along the length of velvet. He waited for the driver to open the coach door, gracefully thrust one hip forward and let his boot fall onto the folding steps. He descended them with a faint creak of patent leather, his bulky frame leaning back in order to compensate for the tilt of the carriage, and stepped onto the pavement without muddying his boots. He approached Hans from behind, marching in step with him for a few paces, took one long stride forward. He dug his pointed heel in the ground, steadied himself, and nimbly brought his ankles together. He stretched a gloved hand towards Hans, and prodded him on the shoulder. And when Hans wheeled round, without uttering a word, he gave him a resounding punch in the face.

Hans crumpled like a rag doll and lay sprawled over the pavement. He tried to get up. Rudi reached down, helped him to his feet and punched him again. Twice. Once with each fist. A fist for each cheek. Hans crashed to the ground once more. During this second fall, amid the shooting pain and the spray of blood from his face, he realised what was going on. As he lay on the ground he received six or seven swift, precise patent-leather kicks. He made no attempt to defend himself. It would have been futile in any case. Amid the hail of blows, he noticed Rudi wasn’t trying to break his bones—he was aiming at the soft parts, mainly his stomach, avoiding his ribs. The kicking was astonishingly forceful yet measured, as though he were drumming a signal. Hans’s response to the punishment was to try not to choke or to cry out. When the battering was over, besides a feeling of panic, a sour taste on his tongue and a ring of fire in his head, Hans experienced a humiliating pang of sympathy.

Somewhat agitated, Rudi examined his gloves to make sure they weren’t soiled. He congratulated himself on having avoided Hans’s nose and mouth—such blows turn the defeated opponent into a blatant victim, besides being unnecessarily messy. He steadied his hands, adjusted his sleeves so that they were even, raised his chin to its normal height. He realised he was missing his buckle hat, stooped to pick it up from the floor bending at the waist, blew on it gingerly. He placed it on his head, turned round, walked back to his carriage. He caught sight of a mounted policeman, waited for him to approach, signalled to his driver.

The Chief Superintendent looked at him with languid curiosity, as though the sight of Hans’s wounds had woken him from a nap. His jaw dropped and his lips formed into something resembling a smile. Before he began to speak, his teeth clacked, emitting a sound of toppling dominos. The policeman who had arrested Hans stood in the doorway gazing at the ceiling. On it he counted six cracks, four candle stubs and three spiders spinning.

You, here again? clacked the Chief Superintendent. That was quick, you like a bit of fun.

The Chief Superintendent questioned him for half-an-hour. Hans went from being addressed politely as “you” to being called “foreigner”. When he mentioned Rudi, Hans was told no charges would be pressed because he had been defending his honour. He, on the other hand, would remain in custody for a few hours in order to make a statement about the incident and about his relationship to the offended party. The offended party? Hans said in astonishment. The Chief Superintendent, realising he was refusing to collaborate, ordered the foreigner to be thrown into the cells for the night in order to help him to collect his thoughts.

The cell itself was innocuous—it was more ugly than intimidating. A simple square plunged into darkness. It was no filthier than the organ grinder’s den. It was, of course, cold. And above all damp, as if the walls had been smeared with a mixture of steam and urine. The pallet wasn’t the worst he’d slept on either, although to be on the safe side, Hans decided to remove the mattress. The jailer guarding his cell was given to belching and had a queer sense of humour. He didn’t seem concerned with the arrests or what went on in the police station. He only opened and closed the cell door. All the rest, he affirmed, was none of his business, nor did they pay him enough for him to worry about it. When Hans asked whether he might use the bucket as a seat, he replied shrugging his shoulders: Masturbate into it if you want. Then he added: That’s what most people use it for. Hans let go of the bucket instantaneously and crouched as best he could.

To begin with Hans was surprised that the jailer insisted on bringing him supper. He even found his cruel jokes amusing. (If a man’s to be condemned to death, he had said, it might as well be on a full stomach.) Hans wolfed down the salted bread, the slice of bacon and the sausage. Afterwards, he was surprised when the man diligently offered him a second loaf. He quickly understood the reason for all this generosity—the jailer had been ordered not to give him any water. Don’t take this personally, he said, and don’t complain, it could be worse. Did you really think we’d tie you up? Beat you? Hang you upside down by your feet? Don’t be a fool. We save our strength here. Go thirsty for a day. Or sign the declaration and leave.

At midnight a bailiff woke him up tapping on the bars with a truncheon. In between gulps of water, which he made a point of spilling on purpose, the bailiff tried to persuade Hans to sign a declaration admitting to provocation and disturbing the peace in exchange for his immediate release. Each time Hans refused, the bailiff turned to the jailer and exclaimed: “Will you listen to that?”; “Well I never!”; “What’s to be done?” To which the jailer replied: “They say he studied at Jena”; “A real scholar”, and other such remarks. If Hans invoked justice or demanded a lawyer, the bailiff would guffaw: “A lawyer!” and the jailer would add: “Whatever next!”

Before leaving, annoyed at the stubbornness of the prisoner (who, deep down, was beginning to lose his nerve), the bailiff said: The law, you talk to me about justice? Let me remind you how justice works. Fritz Reuter spent two years in prison for waving a black, red and yellow flag. Arnold Ruge was sentenced to fifteen years on suspicion of belonging to subversive organisations. Several of your comrades took their own lives in prison. Others ask to do hard labour just so they can drink water or see the sun. In the Harz region mutilation is legal. It isn’t the only place. And for your information, in this principality, the death penalty can be carried out with an axe. Peasants who steal are beheaded. People pay eight groats to watch. They’re right. Some things are educational. Have I made myself understood? There’s justice for you. Real justice, you son of a bitch. Have a good night.

The next morning, when he went to wake him, the jailer found Hans with his eyes wide open. A viscous light poured through the bars, like oily gravy. A very young sergeant took him to the Chief Superintendent, who hadn’t changed his clothes, or was wearing similar ones. Have you calmed down, foreigner? the Chief Superintendent greeted him. Have you had time to think things over? Are you ready to sign? Nervous, battling with the fears that assailed him, Hans refused once more to sign the statement. The Chief Superintendent ordered him to be locked up again. Back in his cell, Hans sobbed in silence. Moments later, the jailer opened the bars and he was a free man.

Hans left the police station bewildered. Álvaro was waiting for him on the corner of Spur Street. About time! he said. I was getting anxious. How did you persuade them to let me go? asked Hans. Simple, replied Álvaro, I paid your bail. Oh, said Hans, surprised, I had bail? It wasn’t very much, said Álvaro, didn’t they tell you? Three guesses! Hans sighed. Never mind, what did they say? I came here first thing, explained Álvaro, and they told me I had to wait because you were signing a statement.

They made their way dolefully down Potter’s Lane, zigzagging towards Café Europa. Well, Álvaro said, patting him on the back, how do you feel? Fresh as a rose, hombre! declared Hans. They only wanted to frighten me. And did they succeed? Álvaro grinned. They did rather, replied Hans.

After his second coffee, Hans’s sleepiness gave way to the keen alertness that overcomes anyone who hasn’t slept all night. He told his friend about the beating on King’s Parade, the Chief Superintendent’s interrogation, his detention in the cell, what the bailiff had said. Does it hurt? Álvaro asked, pointing to his puffy cheek and red nose. Hans was about to reply when he caught sight of one of the billiard players on the tables at the back—over the sound of colliding balls, Rudi was smiling disdainfully at him. Look who’s here, Hans whispered, glancing away and realising he did so with fear. Herr Imbecile, growled Álvaro, I’m going to tell him I’ll be waiting for him at eight o’clock on the bridge, I’ll give him honour! Don’t play the hero, said Hans, have a herbal tea instead. Álvaro insisted: I’m going to challenge him, I tell you, and you … Let go of my arm! Let go! Hans managed to calm his friend down. It wasn’t very difficult—the last thing Álvaro needed was a feud with the Wilderhaus family. When they stood up to go, the waiter informed them Herr Wilderhaus had paid their bill.

As soon as Hans walked in, the innkeeper leapt with unaccustomed agility from behind the reception desk. It’s Thursday already! he said with a look of consternation. Clasping his belly as though he were lifting up a sack of potatoes, he added: A couple of policemen went up to your room this morning. (What? Hans said, alarmed. And you didn’t stop them?) Listen, they had bayonets! I tried my best, but they insisted on searching your belongings (damn! Hans cried, raising his hands to his head), but I managed to ask Lisa to hide your trunk in number five, which is empty. No, there’s no need to thank me, sir. You’ve always paid. And a guest is a guest.

Hans pelted up the stairs. On one of the landings he bumped into Thomas, who crouched like a cat, slipped between his legs, tugged at his breeches and took off down the stairs.

He walked into his room and glanced about. The chairs were upturned, the mattress half on the floor, his valise open and his clothes strewn everywhere, the bathtub had been moved, the papers on his desk rifled through, the logs pulled from the fire. He searched everything carefully, and discovered the policemen had taken nothing of any importance except for some money he had hidden in a sock inside his suitcase. The only real casualty was the watercolour, which he picked up off the floor, its mirror smashed to pieces. He went out into the corridor, made sure no one was there and slipped into the adjoining room—he was relieved to find his trunk under the bed behind some brooms and wash bowls Lisa had placed there as camouflage.

Later on, after a long bath, some lunch and a nap, Hans went out to hail a coach and make his way to the cave. Franz, who had spent the whole day skulking around the bed, greeted him with the enthusiasm of a sentry who sees the relief guard arrive. Hans found the organ grinder in a rather frail state. He had a temperature and his eyes looked sunken. My eyes hurt, the old man said, kof, and I feel dizzy, kof, like my ears are being pulled and I’m floating. Have you been on your own long? asked Hans. I’m not on my own, the organ grinder said, Franz looks after me, kof, and Lamberg’s been here, kof, he brought me some food. And do you feel any better? asked Hans. Come over here, the old man replied, kof, sit beside me for a while.

 

On Thursday afternoon Hans received a note on papyrus-brown paper. The message was succinct and the writing a little stiff for Sophie’s hand. This, he reflected, meant she had written it against her will, or at least that she had forced herself to write what it said—that it was best if he didn’t come to the salon the following day.

Before she signed off, however, Hans read the word love. And below her signature, a postscript:

PS I think I understand why there was no sequel to Lucinde.

Hans crumpled up the note and dressed to go out. He put on his beret, paused, took it off, put it on again, paused once more then finally flung it at the fireplace, cursing.

Bertold’s scar spread incongruously, as though his lip were producing two separate smiles—a polite one and a scornful one. I’m sorry, she’s not at home, Bertold announced, Fräulein Sophie is taking tea at the Wilderhaus residence, do you wish to leave a message? I wish to pay my respects to Herr Gottlieb, Hans replied almost without thinking.

Herr Gottlieb and Hans scrutinised one another. The one attempting to deduce the true reason for this surprise visit, the other to discover whether news of his arrest and the incident with Rudi had been made known. Neither managed to come to any definite conclusion, although both men were aware of a change—the normally hospitable Herr Gottlieb was offhand and irritable, while Hans appeared ill at ease, less elegant than usual. And those cuts on your cheek, Herr Hans? Herr Gottlieb asked, without giving away the faintest glimpse of a clue behind his whiskers. Cats, said Hans, my inn is full of cats. Yes, said Herr Gottlieb, cats are unpredictable creatures. Rather like men, said Hans. You are right there, sir, Herr Gottlieb nodded solemnly, you are certainly right there.

At no point was Hans requested to leave, yet he was offered no tea either. Hans began to take his leave, and Herr Gottlieb asked him to wait for a moment, went to his study and handed him a folded card embossed with sumptuous arabesques. We were obliged to personalise the invitations, said Herr Gottlieb, chewing his pipe, because of the number of guests. Hans read the names of the betrothed couple and felt a pang. As he walked through the corridor towards the hall, he noticed the jug Sophie used as a flower vase—it contained violets.

Hans left Stag Street and queued for a coach opposite the market square. While he was waiting he saw Herr Zeit walk past, belly atremble.

The innkeeper was scurrying along with difficulty—he was late fetching Thomas from Bible class. The sacristan greeted him from the steps. His son was cavorting in the doorway. As Herr Zeit began climbing the stair, the sacristan disappeared inside the gloomy sanctuary. Almost at once, Father Pigherzog reappeared in his place.

Good afternoon, may God be with you, said the priest, how is your wife? Good afternoon, Father, said Herr Zeit, in perfect health, thank you. I am glad, my son, I am glad, Father Pigherzog beamed, a healthy family is a blessing indeed. And now that you are here, I would like you to tell me about that guest of yours. Who? Him? Very well, replied the innkeeper, but there isn’t much to tell. He goes to bed late and gets up at noon. He spends hours in his room reading. He’s very quiet. Don’t you know he is an unbeliever? said the priest. I don’t know much, Father, Herr Zeit shrugged, and I’m getting old. All I know are thalers and groats, if you follow me? Because I can hold them in my hand. I don’t know whether Herr Hans is a heretic. If you say so, Father, then who am I to doubt your word? But no one can deny he pays on time.

The organ grinder had not sat up all day. His forehead was bathed in sweat. He had no appetite. When Hans arrived he perked up a little. Seeing his master move, Franz ran over to lick his beard. Violets, you say?—kof, the old man asked. A huge bunch, Hans confirmed. In that case, said the organ grinder, resting his head again, you needn’t worry about her, kof, violets are the choice of a heart at peace with itself, do you know what I dreamt last night? It was a bit strange, kof, there was a crowd of men with no hands. And what were they doing? Hans asked, wiping the old man’s brow. That’s the strange part, he replied, they were waving at me!

 

The figure in the black-brimmed hat takes his long overcoat off the stand. He holds it up by the lapels for a moment, like a hunter examining his kill. He feels a vague unease, a sense of foreboding in his guts. He replaces the coat on the stand. As is his custom before going out, he stretches, flexing his arms and legs. Slow. Quick. Slow. Quick. He feels an erection stirring in his trousers. He takes off his hat. He looks around the darkened room for a cotton handkerchief. He has difficulty locating it—without his spectacles, which get in the way when he wears the mask, his vision is increasingly blurred. He discovers the handkerchief amongst the manuscripts of his latest poems. He unbuttons his breeches. He slips his hand inside his undergarments. He pulls out his member. He masturbates mechanically, his mind elsewhere. This is simply something he must do in order to remain calm and collected while he is waiting. It also avoids him wetting his sheets the next morning, which he finds deeply distasteful. He spills his seed into the centre of the handkerchief. He folds it meticulously. He dabs the tip of his member with the clean part. He buttons up his breeches. He drops the handkerchief into the laundry basket. He washes his hands using plenty of soap. He takes the opportunity to clip his fingernails. He refreshes his face with cold water to stimulate his reflexes. He perceives with disgust the faint aroma of bear fat emanating from his scalp. He applies scent to his bald pate. He gobbles up three tomato halves open on a plate. The invigorating effect of the tomatoes is considerable. He swills his mouth out. He washes his hands again. He goes back over to the coat stand. He ties his scarf. He puts on his hat again. He pulls on his coat. He checks the content of his pockets—the knife, the mask, the rope, the gloves. He exhales. He thinks of Fichte. He rubs his eyes. And he leaves the house paying no attention to the burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. As the door closes, a curly white wig rocks gently on one of the arms of the coat stand.

 

Herein! the Chief Superintendent clacked, opening the dispatch box and taking out an urgent communication a mounted policeman had just brought him.

Following a calculated pause of a few moments, as though their intention were to make the Chief Superintendent anxious, Lieutenants Gluck and Gluck entered his office. They walked slowly, thrilled to know that all eyes were upon them. They were escorted by two officers more heavily armed than usual. Between the two lieutenants and the two policemen, hands cuffed behind his back, pale and indifferent, was Professor Mietter.

Professor Mietter listened for half-an-hour to the two lieutenants’ detailed report and the charges being brought against him. He responded to the Chief Superintendent’s questions in monosyllables, scarcely batting an eyelid. His lips seemed to tremble as if he were on the point of laughing. He followed what his captors were saying as though in a trance. He heard the young lieutenant say that at the prisoner’s dwelling (it took the professor a few moments to realise they were talking about him, and their vulgar bureaucratic jargon amused him—the prisoner) they had proceeded to confiscate, among other incriminating items (Items! the professor scoffed. How absurd!), a collection of Venetian masks and a set of Prussian steel knives. He heard the older lieutenant (who, as the professor noticed, spoke somewhat more correctly, adhering to everyday speech and avoiding the excesses of bureaucratic rhetoric) give a fairly precise account of his modus operandi (although the officer hadn’t used the phrase modus operandi, and it was unlikely that Latin was one of his aptitudes). He heard the young lieutenant enumerate (or rather justify in a roundabout way) the difficulties that had slowed down the elimination of the remaining suspects, the prisoner’s continual ruses and attempts to throw them off the scent (the professor flashed his eyes ironically—some of the ruses mentioned had never occurred to him). And he heard him explain that, after a close comparison of the different attacks, they had noticed none had taken place on a Friday, except on one occasion in August. And it was this fact that had finally led them to the prisoner, whose habits they had already begun studying, including his attendance at the Gottlieb salon, which only stopped during the summer holidays (yes, but wouldn’t it have been even more suspicious if I’d missed the odd Friday at the salon in order to commit an assault? Mietter protested in silence). He heard the older lieutenant assert that one reason why they had doubted the professor’s guilt was the masked man’s agility over the short distances, an agility that appeared in principle to point to a younger man (I shall take this conundrum as a compliment, the professor laughed sneeringly to himself). He heard the young lieutenant remark on how the excellent physical condition of the aforementioned (The aforementioned! God help us!) had indeed surprised them, and how they had finally found out about his exercise regime and healthy eating habits. He heard the older lieutenant add that, as the investigation made headway, one small detail had proved decisive—the smell of grease, bear fat to be exact, which at least two of his victims had claimed to detect beneath their attacker’s strong cologne. Up until that moment, the lieutenant went on, there had been various suspects. When we confirmed the use of bear grease, which is a remedy for baldness, we knew we were looking for a man who was unhappy about his baldness. (What a stupid tautology, the professor reasoned, what bald man is happy with his baldness?) And this man, Chief Superintendent, sir, never goes out without his wig. And so you could say, his vanity gave him away.

On hearing these last words, G L Mietter, Doctor of Philology, Honorary Member of the Berlin Society of the German Language and the Berlin Academy of Science, Emeritus Professor of the University of Berlin, tireless collaborator on the Gottingen Almanac of the Muses and chief literary critic on the Thunderer, did what no one, not even he, would have thought—he began sobbing uncontrollably.

Gentlemen, we’ve done an excellent job, declared the Chief Superintendent.

Congratulations, sir, said Gluck the younger, ironically.

The following day at noon, the other members of the Gottlieb salon were sent brief notes informing them the Friday meetings were suspended until further notice.

As he gobbled down a late breakfast at the Café Europa, Hans read with sleep-filled eyes a fervent article on the first page of the Thunderer that ended:

… of this shady individual whose Lutheran tendencies had on more than one occasion sown the seeds of suspicion among the local authorities, not least because of his suspected association with Anabaptist sects. Even his writings seemed to have fallen off in comparison to his earlier work, and while his previous merits remain unquestioned, the quality of his contributions—as our observant readers will have noticed—had become noticeably inferior. Given the deplorable circumstances, we now feel at liberty to reveal that for this and other reasons, our newspaper had long been considering relieving the professor of his Sunday column with the—as we see it—worthy intention of allowing fresh young voices to be heard, which is what our public deserves, and what our newspaper has always prided itself on providing. Yesterday’s appalling turn of events has merely brought forward this imminent change fortuitously—wisdom would decree, there are times when the fate of scoundrels appears to be carved in stone. As newspapermen and as fathers, we welcome wholeheartedly this unexpected arrest. It is precisely what we have been demanding both actively and passively from this very tribune. By the same token we now have a duty to ask ourselves—is this case absolutely and unquestionably closed? Was the wretched culprit really acting alone? Is he, without a shadow of a doubt, the sole perpetrator of each of these attacks? Or could this be an official version designed to allay the population’s fears? For such fears are indeed legitimate, and only when they have been properly laid to rest will we feel safe in our own homes. And moreover we are convinced that at this very moment our readers are mulling over similar concerns. We will provide a more in-depth analysis of the matter in tomorrow’s edition.

November was growing cold, the organ grinder was burning up. Towards the middle of the month, Doctor Müller admitted that his patient was deteriorating—his bronchioles were closing up, his fevers were worse, and in the past few days he had suffered momentary losses of consciousness. Occasionally he would come round, utter three or four intelligible words, and close his eyes before plunging into a fitful sleep. Doctor Müller continued prescribing him with purges, balms, infusions, cataplasms and enemas. Yet he did so with less conviction (or at least so Hans thought), as one might read out a list of minerals. Faith is as powerful as any remedy, my friend, the doctor had assured him on his last visit. Do you believe that, doctor? Hans had said, removing the bedpan from between the old man’s wizened legs. Absolutely, Müller had replied, science comes from the spirit. Be patient and have faith, your friend may still get better. And what if he goes on getting worse? Hans had asked. Doctor Müller had smiled, shrugged and folded his stethoscope.

The organ grinder’s eyelids wriggled like a pair of caterpillars. They creased, puffed up, their crusty edges opening to reveal two eyeballs floating in liquid. For a moment his eyes turned in circles and were lost between blinks, until gradually he was able to focus. Franz gave his brow a cooling lick. Behind, at the back, far away, Hans greeted him with a wave of his hand. Hans stooped, crossed the pool of light and shadow separating them, and spoke into his ear. The doctor is coming, he whispered. What a shame, the old man gasped, I was thinking of going shopping. Then he remained silent, supine.

Hans watched him, not daring to touch him, breathing with him, following the air going in and out of his lungs, watching him give and receive light, suspended between each breath. He knelt down next to the old man, held him gently by the shoulders and said: Don’t go.

The organ grinder opened his eyelids once more and replied slowly, without coughing: My dear Hans, I’m not going anywhere, on the contrary, I shall soon be everywhere. Look at the countryside. Look at the leaves on the birch trees.

At which, he was wracked by a prolonged yet strangely calm coughing fit.

Hans gave him a handkerchief and turned to look at the leaves. From inside the cave he could see only one birch tree, almost leafless. He gazed intently at its branches, at the dark fluttering leaves.

Hans, the old man called out. What? he replied. I’m going to ask you a favour, the old man said. I’m listening, Hans nodded. Kof, please speak to me using the familiar form of you, said the old man. All right, Hans grinned, carry on, I’m listening. That was all, thanks, the old man said. What? That was all, the old man repeated, kof, I just wanted you to address me informally. Hush, don’t talk, whispered Hans, don’t talk so much, be patient, you’re going to get better. Yes, breathed the old man, just like that birch tree.

The wind outside whistled along the river. The branches in the pinewood were rattling. The air inside the organ grinder’s lungs also crackled, it climbed up his trunk, sprouting branches. The pine trees pierced the mist. His chest scaled the branches.

Having overcome his sense of shame, or perhaps because he wanted to be as close to the old man as possible, Hans became curious. How does it feel? he whispered in his ear. The organ grinder seemed to like the question. You feel it, he said, smell it, touch it. And above all, kof, you hear it. You make your way in little by little, it’s like swapping something with someone. But everything happens slowly, kof, ever so slowly, you start to recognise it, you see? It comes towards you, and you can hear it, as if dying were a, kof, I don’t know, a sombre chord, it has high notes and low notes, you can hear them quite clearly, some rise, others fall, kof, they rise and fall, can’t you hear them? Can’t you hear them? Can’t you? …

Doctor Müller cleared his throat twice. Hans wheeled round with a start. Müller doffed his hat. I thought you were never coming, said Hans, more in a tone of entreaty than reproach. Unfortunately, said the doctor, I have many other patients to attend. Hans remained silent and moved away from the old man. Doctor Müller knelt down next to the straw pallet, listened to his chest, took his temperature, placed a pill between his lips. His temperature is quite high, Müller announced, but he seems comfortable. How can he be comfortable, Doctor? Hans demurred. He’s bathed in sweat and shivering. My dear sir, Doctor Müller said, rising to his feet, in my lifetime I’ve seen many men go through this, and I can assure you, rarely have I seen one who is suffering so little. Look. Take his wrist. His pulse is slow, remarkably slow considering how much difficulty he has breathing, it’s as if he were sleeping, you see, ah, well, he has fallen asleep! It’s the best thing for him. He needs rest, lots of rest. And now you must stop worrying, my good man, I’ve given him a sleeping pill. Get some rest yourself.

 

The week went by slowly, the hours dragged like mud. Health has a slippery quality—its swift passage is imperceptible. Illness on the other hand lingers, it delays time, which ironically is the thing it extinguishes. Slowly, inexorably, illness coursed through the organ grinder’s body, anointing it with shadows. His limbs had grown emaciated. A translucent layer enfolded his bones. When his fever peaked, his hands shook even more, tracing indecipherable pictures in the air. And yet the old man seemed to be passing away with instinctive equanimity. When he was not exhausted after vomiting or drifting into unconsciousness, he would make an effort to sit up amid the filth of his straw pallet in order to gaze at something in the pinewood and beyond. At such times, Franz, who only left his side in order to scavenge for food or to defecate among the trees, pricked up his triangular ears and watched with him. Can you hear that, Franz? the organ grinder nodded, can you hear the wind?

Hans went to the cave at noon every day. He brought the old man lunch, made sure he drank liquids and stayed with him until nightfall. Depending on how strong he felt, they would talk or remain silent. The organ grinder slept a lot and complained very little. Hans felt he was more afraid than the sick man. Franz was also nervous—he kept up a continuous watch, letting out vaporous breaths through his nose, and one afternoon he had tried to bite Lamberg when he called at the cave. Some nights Hans had fallen asleep by the old man’s bed, and had woken up shivering next to the embers. He would relight the fire before going back to the inn, crossing the bridge in darkness, as he had so many times that year. But those walks through the pitch-black countryside that had once seemed mysterious to him, with the flashes of excitement that come from wilfully exposing oneself to danger, now seemed long, tiring and reckless. As soon as he returned to his room, he pulled on as many layers of clothing as he could, collapsed onto his bed and fell into a deep sleep. He dragged himself out of bed at first light. Splashed his face with cold water, drank three cups of coffee in quick succession, wrote to Sophie and settled down to do some translation. He spent ages lost in thought, mumbling to himself as he pored over a book written in hostile, mysterious, unfathomable language.

One day he was late leaving the inn. When he saw how full each passing coach was, and the long queue waiting in the market square, he resolved to walk. Instead of taking the usual route along River Way, he took a short cut along a track that crossed the open fields and came out on the path to the pinewood. He set off, his mind blank. The wintry rain had turned the path to slush. The breeze, like a torn sack, fluttered feebly in all directions. Far off, the furrowed cornfields to the south appeared and disappeared from sight. A mottled light blurred the contours of the landscape. This was a day (reflected Hans) for painters, not ramblers. When he attempted to estimate how far he was from the pinewood, he realised he had lost his way.

He glimpsed the cornfields straight ahead of him and managed to get his bearings. He walked towards them in order to be sure of not straying. On the horizon he could see a row of farm labourers stooped over the ground. As he approached the edge of the field, Hans noticed the crooked figure of an elderly labourer. He stopped to look at him.

Across the fence, a man looked up, trying to work out why the devil the fellow with his hair flying in the wind was staring so intently. For a split second (he convinced himself it wasn’t true) he thought the man was staring at him. The labourer spat (it was all right for some, did the young dandy have nothing better to do?) and bent down once more. (He had to work fast. It was no joke. The Rumenigge’s overseer was foaming at the mouth. He had bawled at them for being two days late with the ploughing. Had complained that some of the furrows were as crooked as snakes. And had told them that as of the next day their wage would be halved unless they made up the lost time. The overseer was right, but if they ploughed more quickly it would only make matters worse. And if they sowed the seed any old how, the seedlings wouldn’t have enough cover. How long was it since the overseer had planted seed? If they hurried they would sow badly. But if they didn’t they’d be paid less. That was the way things were today. Anyone who didn’t work fast was never hired again, like Reichardt. And why did the long-haired idiot insist on staring?) Hiking up the sack once more and clutching it under his left arm, the farm labourer thrust his hand inside, scattering another handful of seed, trying to trace a complete circle with his wrist (and how the devil was he supposed to sow quickly when the wind was changing all the time, making it impossible to scatter the seed?)

Hans moved away from the edge of the field still staring at the line of peasants combing the ground with their hoes, dibbers and mattocks. While he strolled along, he tried to think of how to say hoe, dibber and mattock in the languages he thought he knew. And he wondered why his translations were so bad of late?

Once he found the path again, he quickened his pace, his mind on the medicines he had to administer to the organ grinder. Now that the old man’s strength was waning, Hans fully realised how fragile his journey, his love, his stay in the city, his certainties were. And he knew, or he accepted, that he was not looking after his friend only out of loyalty—he was doing it above all for himself, so as not to take to the road once more, to cling to Wandernburg, to Sophie, to the happy days he had spent at the cave, to delay the moment when he would leave, as he had always left every place, every city, every country he had traveled through.

Near the bridge a flock of crows sailed across the grey clouds, fanning out among the branches of the trees, waiting for the seeds in the cornfields to be left unattended. One of the crows plummeted in such a straight line it looked as though someone had dropped a stone from one of the branches. Others followed, cawing noisily. Amid the riot of beaks Hans could see the purple entrails spilling from a sheep’s open belly, a swirl of flies.

As he crouched beside the organ grinder, the old man opened his eyes and tried hard to smile. You’ve walked a long way, he said, stifling a cough, where did you go? How did you know? Hans said, surprised. You’re a witch! Don’t be silly, the old man said, your boots are muddy, very muddy. Ah, of course, grinned Hans, I took a short cut and got lost. I’m going to let you into a secret, said the organ grinder, kof, listen—do you know what you have to do in order not to get lost in Wandernburg? Always take the longest route.

Hans heard the sound of someone dismounting, and looked outside to see who it was. The air had congealed, the sun was drawing away from things. I thought I’d find you here, Álvaro said, embracing him. Hans could smell a mixture of horse’s mane and women’s perfume on his shirt. How is he? asked Álvaro. (Hans shrugged.) And your publisher? (Not terribly pleased with me, said Hans, I’m late with all my work.) And Sophie? (I wish I knew, said Hans.) Suddenly, the organ grinder gave a cry and they went inside the cave. They found him talking in his sleep. Is he often delirious? asked Álvaro. Sometimes, answered Hans, dabbing the old man’s face, it depends, these past days his temperature has gone up. Yesterday, he was so feverish he wasn’t himself at all. I think he’s slightly better today.

Seeing his master was being looked after, Franz went out to scavenge for food. His eyes filled with sky. The horizon raced. The light scattered the clouds, like a torch spreading panic.

 

The fever raged and calmed, flared up and went cold, it climbed the organ grinder’s brow then yielded a little, letting him rest. Hans was sleeping four hours a night and had asked his publisher for a week’s grace.

Hey, Hans, the old man spluttered. Ah, Hans turned round, you’re awake? I’m always awake, replied the old man, kof, especially when I’m asleep. Hans wasn’t sure if this was the fever talking or if he was serious. Hey, guess what I dreamt about? the organ grinder said. Something amazing, kof, I always say that, but this is special, see what you think, I dreamt about a man who had two backs. Hans stared at him with a mixture of surprise and alarm. He tried to imagine the man with two backs, to form a clear image of such a creature, until it made him shudder. The man with two backs would spend his life looking in two directions, leaving everywhere twice, or arriving and leaving everywhere he went at the same time.

So, kof, tell me, said the organ grinder, do you think dreams speak the truth? Who knows, said Hans trying to stop thinking about the man with two backs, although Novalis said dreams occur somewhere between the body and the soul, or at a moment when body and soul are chemically joined. (I see, kof, said the old man, and does that mean dreams speak the truth?) Well, more or less. (Just as I thought, said the organ grinder, closing his eyes.)

Hey, Hans, said the organ grinder, opening his eyes, are you still there? (I am, I am, he replied, dabbing his brow with a damp cloth.) I’m bored, Hans, I haven’t, kof, played my barrel organ for days, kof, how long has it been? If I can’t, kof, if I can’t play it I become bored, and so does he (Hans glanced at the back of the cave and couldn’t help feeling a pang when he saw the bulky instrument a blanket draped over it), kof, that’s what I regret most, Franz and I have no music, kof, we spend hours listening to the wind.

Kof, Hans, hey Hans, the old man woke up again, talk to me about something (what, for instance? asked Hans), anything, whatever comes into your head, you talk about lots of things (I don’t know, he hesitated, you’ve caught me unprepared, let me see, I can’t think of anything, actually I can), kof, I thought so! (I’ll go on telling you about Novalis, the fellow I just mentioned, do you remember?) Kof, of course I do, I’m dying, not suffering from amnesia (you’re not dying), yes, yes I am, go on. (Well, I’ve just remembered something he said about your favourite subject.) Barrel organs, kof? (No, no, dreams.) Ah, excellent. (I think he said that while we sleep the body digests the soul’s perceptions, that is, a dream is like the stomach of the soul, do you see? Hey, organ grinder, are you awake?) Yes, kof, I’m thinking.

Hey, Hans, listen. (You’re awake already, are you thirsty?) Yes, thanks, but tell me, so, kof, let’s see if I’ve understood this properly, when the body has digested what the soul has eaten, yes? Kof, when there are no more dreams to digest we wake up hungry?

Kof, Hans, hey … (Yes?) I’m … (Thirsty? Do you want more water?) No thanks, no, not thirsty, kof, I’m afraid. (Afraid of dying?) No, not of dying, you die, and then it’s over, kof, in a flash, I don’t know if it’s painful, kof, but I’m accustomed to physical pain, you see? No, I’m afraid for my barrel organ, Hans, my barrel organ, kof, kof, who will play the tunes? Come here, come closer. (What is it? What is it?) I want you to do something for me (anything you ask), kof, I want you to find out how to say barrel organ in as many different languages as you can, I’d like it very much if you could tell me the names, kof, I need to hear them, will you do that for me, Hans, will you do that for me?

 

Light seeped from the afternoons like milk from a broken jug. The first snows had come, settling on the branches. An icy wind whipped the countryside. The old man’s coughing fits had given way to something altogether denser, deeper, inside his chest cavity. Hans had to sit right next to him in order to hear what he was saying. The lilt had gone from his voice, the air escaped from his lungs. He didn’t speak so much as gasp. As soon as he saw Hans come in, he struggled to sit up. Do you have them? he breathed. Did you bring the names? Hans pushed aside the stale knot of sheets, straw, woollen covers. He sat down on the pallet. He clasped the old man’s fleshless hand and fished his notebook out of his pocket.

You already know that as well as Leierkasten, Hans said, still holding his hand, we also call it a Drehorgel. (I’ve never liked that name, the organ grinder whispered, I prefer Leierkasten, that’s what I’ve always called it.) And apart from that, where shall we begin? Let me see, well, for instance in Italian they call it organetto di Barberia (the name has humour, don’t you think? said the organ grinder. It’s a festive name), and it’s very similar in French—orgue de barbarie (those Frenchmen! chuckled the organ grinder as Hans pronounced the words), the Dutch have lots of names for it, there’s one similar to the one you don’t like, I’d best leave that out, but there’s another very simple one—straatorgel. (Excellent, yes, sir, the organ grinder said approvingly, that’s exactly what it is, did you know the barrel organ originated there, in Holland?) No, I didn’t, I thought we’d invented it, what others, lirekasse in Danish. (That’s a good one, very good, it sounds like they copied it from us, doesn’t it?) Possibly, or maybe we copied it from the Danes (impossible, impossible, the German barrel organs are older), well, shall I go on? In Swedish they say positiv (excellent, excellent), the Norwegians call it fataorgan (that sounds like a name for a bigger instrument), the Portuguese say realejo (unusual, but pretty), in Polish it’s katarynka (wonderful! This one has a tinkle), and after that, well, the English have various names for it, according to its size and what it’s used for, you know? (That’s logical, the English are so pragmatic.) Let’s see, for instance they call it a barrel organ (aha), also a fair organ (quite right), then there’s another, street organ (good, good), and here’s my favourite—hurdy-gurdy (oh yes! For children!) …

When Hans had finished telling him the names, the organ grinder remained lost in thought. Pretty, he nodded at last with a smile that grew weaker, they’re very pretty, thank you, I feel much better now. A fleeting sense of relief seemed to relax his face. Almost immediately, the spasms made it tense up again.

 

He’s stopped coughing, said Hans, is that a good sign? I’d say it was inevitable, replied Doctor Müller.

The organ grinder would gaze for hours glassy-eyed at the roof of the cave, or whimper in his sleep, before waking abruptly. Breathing appeared painful, as though instead of air he were inhaling a thick liquid. His ghostly voice was almost lost in his beard. It was difficult helping him to relieve himself. Washing half his body was an achievement. His limbs were greasy, his hair a matted lump, his skin covered in bites from bedbugs. He looked repulsive, beautiful in his own way, deserving of infinite love.

Kitted out with blankets and clothes from the inn, Hans had slept several nights at the cave—he had resolved to stay there until the end. Álvaro brought them a daily hamper of food. That morning Hans had also asked him to bring a book by Novalis. I need to commune with him, Hans had said. When his friend handed him the volume, Hans started—this wasn’t the volume he’d asked for, which he had told him was lying on the desk, it was another he kept in the trunk (or at least so he thought). Had Álvaro discovered the key to his trunk? Had he rifled through its contents? What else had he seen? Hans looked straight at him. He couldn’t tell. Nor did he ask.

Towards nightfall, against a backdrop of watery snow, Hans felt his eyelids begin to close. Soon afterwards, in the dark, he was awoken by a sound like a branch breaking. The snow had stopped. He fanned the flames, turned to the old man and discovered the source of the noise. It wasn’t branches breaking, it was his lungs. He was groaning, his face straining. The cold air blew in through the mouth of the cave, yet it scarcely left the old man’s mouth. What’s the matter? Hans drew closer. What is it? Nothing, said the organ grinder, I’m nothing now, it feels like someone else is going.

Hey, organ grinder, Hans called out, are you still there? I don’t know, the old man replied. What a fright! said Hans. For a moment I thought … Soon, soon, groaned the organ grinder. Listen, Hans drew closer, there’s something I want to ask you, that is, I don’t want to, I have to, I’m sorry, but, where do you want to be buried? Me? replied the old man. Leave me here, please. What do you mean here? Where? Here, anywhere, replied the old man, spread out on the ground. What do you mean on the ground! Hans protested, don’t you at least want a respectable burial! There’s no need, thanks, said the old man, if you leave me on the ground the crows and vultures will eat my corpse, and if they bury me it’ll be the maggots and the ants. What’s the difference?

Hey, Hans, hey, whispered the organ grinder, are you asleep? No, no, Hans yawned, do you need anything? No, said the old man, I just wanted to ask you to tidy up the cave a bit when it happens.

 

The organ grinder had not spoken all day. He had stopped turning in his bed. He no longer groaned. He was silent and wide-awake. His features looked as if they were etched in charcoal. His expression was one of pain and apathy, like someone who prefers not to know what he knows. Next to him, alert, in darkness, Hans felt that this waiting was at once the ultimate loneliness and the closest companionship.

Suddenly, the old man began to pray softly. Hans looked at him, alarmed. That very morning, he had offered to fetch a priest, but the old man had refused. Without really knowing what to do, he kissed his grubby beard. He placed his mouth close to his ear and asked if he wanted a ceremony. The old man opened his stiff lips slightly, squeezed his wrist and said: This is the ceremony.

Franz came over and licked his master’s fingers. Hans instinctively glanced towards the cave entrance, even though he knew no one would come: Álvaro had already been by with the hamper, Lamberg was at the factory, and he wasn’t expecting Doctor Müller. The brutal simplicity of the moment took him by surprise. They were together, alone, and there would be nothing more. Not even a great pronouncement. The organ grinder had spoken many words of wisdom during his illness, and now, at the end, he was silent. He only looked at Hans, a brittle smile on his lips, clutching his hand, like a child about to make a courageous leap. Unable to bear the silence, Hans asked: A little more water, some wine, what would you like? The organ grinder moved his head almost imperceptibly and said: I’d like to breathe. Then he closed his eyelids, inhaled, and that was all.

Hans stared at him, incredulous. He did not weep yet. He remained motionless for a few moments, like someone who has broken a glass and dares not open his hand. Then, slowly, he stood up, forcing himself to be aware of every movement. He resolved not to look at the bed, not to break down completely until he had kept his promise. He went round the cave, tidying up, gathering the tools, picking things up from the floor. When he reached the barrel organ, he went weak at the knees. He paused, stepped away, approached once more and pulled off the blanket covering it. On the lid of the barrel organ he found a note weighted with a stone. The note was a scrawl that said: “Hans”.

Franz poked his head out of the cave and barked. The wind had begun to blow hard.