(Pass the meatballs, said Hans. And did you never return to Spain?) No, yes, well, I went back after the 1818 amnesty. To
see what things were like, I suppose. But I found the atmosphere disturbing, so I went straight back to London. That was when I met Ulrike, on a business trip to Germany. It was so, so ⦠It was like a, a revelation. Unique. (Here, have a drink, said Hans.) She was from this part of the world, she was longing to come back here, so we moved to Wandernburg. One of the things that most pains me is the thought that Ulrike never got to know Spain, I was never able to show her the places I grew up in. No. We had plans to go there, we would often talk about it, we always used to say: “One of these days”, “This summer at the very latest”, you know the kind of thing. And then the Hundred Thousand Sons of Saint Louis arrived, and the Holy Alliance, may the devil take it, which made it impossible to go anywhere, and politics, the constitution and my relatives all went to hell. That was when the remaining members of my family went into exile in England. You and I come from wretched countries, Hans. Both were invaded by Napoleon and ruled by his brother, both fought for their freedom and regressed once they had attained it. Spain is my home, but not today's Spain, the Spain of my dreams. A republican, cosmopolitan Spain. The more Spain asserts its Spanishness, the less Spanish it becomes. I suppose all countries are like that, aren't they? Vague entities that guide us (I don't know, Hans said, I don't think countries guide us, I think we move around because of people, and they can be from anywhere), yes, but many of the people we love we meet in our own country, not another one. (We move around because of languages, Hans went on, which we learn, or, like you said, because of memories. But what if memories move around, too? What if your memories all come from different times and places? Which are truly yours? That's my problem, that's what my problem is.) Hey, are you feeling all right?
Their shoulders began to fold like umbrellas. The Central Tavern had been filling up with other customers, the smoke
and the smell of fried food floated up to the ceiling, mouths munched, laughed and drank. Having lost the relative privacy they had been enjoying at the bar, Ãlvaro and Hans began to feel a little out of placeâthe surrounding merriment seemed to mock their solemnity. What are they all laughing at? said Ãlvaro. Nothing in particular, replied Hans, people are the same everywhereâthey laugh because they're eating. Aren't we simply a couple of sad sacks? Ãlvaro suggested. That's another way of putting it, said Hans. They both burst out laughing, and in doing so their talkativeness came back. They spoke of the Wandernburgers' strange manners, which combined surliness with an almost fanatical observance of etiquette. When I first arrived in Wandernburg, Hans told him, I didn't have a clue how to behave. People here scarcely smile at you or lend you a hand, yet they have half a dozen ways of bowing and a limitless repertoire of greetings. That is, of course, assuming they manage to recognise one another through the accursed fog. How do they manage to flirt when they can't even see one another? How do they reproduce? I suspect, said Ãlvaro, that they only couple during the summer months. Here, Hans went on, a man can hold on to his hat for a whole hour if his host doesn't invite him to put it down. The ladies keep theirs on so as not to have to ask permission to go to the water closet to tidy their hair. You never know whether to sit down, bob your head, bow or tuck in your backside. In short, concluded Ãlvaro, they insist on manners because they are so uncouth.
Hans saw five unusually well-dressed, or prodigiously badly dressed, men enter the tavern. What most struck him was that despite the place being packed to the rafters, a waiter elbowed his way across the room and turfed a group of young people from a table. Once it had been cleared and given a good wipe, the five men ceremoniously ensconced themselves, as though they had just walked into an assembly hall rather than a tavern
reeking of smoked sausage. Three of them crammed shiny fat cigars into their mouths. The waiter brought over five tankards of stout and a bowl of strawberries. Ãlvaro explained to Hans that these men were Herr Gelding and his associates, owners of the Wandernburg textile mill. That's where Lamberg works, Hans remarked. Is that the fellow your organ grinder introduced me to the other day? said Ãlvaro. I don't envy him working for them. And there's no avoiding them, because all the businessmen, industrialists, contractors, brokers and bankers in this city are related to one another. They stick close together. Intermarry. Cohabit. Reproduce. Look out for each other's interests. And they're forever guzzling beer. And this great family spends its time employing the members of another great family, that of the lawyers, doctors, notaries, architects and civil servants. If you added the two together you'd have the entire wealth of the local middle class, with a bit of loose change to spare. Some of which might belong to Herr Gottlieb. But not much. You might say this city's economy is based on organised incest. I see you know them well, Hans chuckled. I know them
too
well, nodded Ãlvaro, and the worst of it is that as soon as they see me, we'll be obliged to go over and pay our respects. Because, among other things, I make my living by selling what they produce.
Five minutes later, Ãlvaro and Hans were sitting at the table with Herr Gelding and his associates. Hans was surprised at the exaggerated politeness with which Ãlvaro spoke to them, marshalling his accent, masticating his voice, imbuing it with a military air completely at odds with the singsong Spanish lilt he had when he spoke to Hans. Herr Gelding immediately launched into the question of his payments, which Ãlvaro responded to by quoting figures, prices and dates from memory.
What vexes me, Herr Gelding said, sucking on his cigar, the corners of his mouth stained with strawberry juice, is this
culture of self-pity, this constant griping despite improving conditions. Although you have to hand it to the scoundrels, conditions have improved because of their griping! No, I'm not denying certain things aren't negotiable, I can even understand day labourers wanting, shall we say, guarantees of longer-term employment. What I'm saying, gentlemen, as God is my judge, is that I work longer hours than they do in order to keep production up. And as is only natural, I demand no less of a commitment from my workers. People rail against flexible hiring practices, yet such practices have seen this accursed city grow by seven per cent in each of the past twenty years, perfect, congratulations, yours is an excellent guild, but do you know what, gentlemen, can you guess what happens when you give in and make an employee permanent? Ah, surprise, surprise, he stops working so hard! Look, work takes work. They'll be asking us to turn off the machines next so they can take an afternoon nap! Upon my soul, gentlemen, I don't know what the world is coming to. Take the machine operators, for instance. The machine operators start work half-an-hour later because it takes time for the boilers to warm up. Very good, I accept that, that's the way boilers work, someone stokes them up and then you come along afterwards. Ah, yet they still find reasons to complain! Isn't that enough to, well, isn't it? Those damned machine operators get up later than I do, and they work a twelve-hour day. And what does that mean, gentlemen? Unless I've lost the ability to count, it means they work half a day, half a day, and the other half they have off. Is that enough to exhaust a man? Is it a reason to start making demands? Or do they expect to have more time off than at work? In my day, gentlemen, in my day! What would these operators think of the hours my father put in, my good father, may God keep him in His glory, who never complained in his life, and who built up a factory all on his own! Oh, no
more strawberries, what a shame. My father knew how to, but what's the use. This is no way to build a nation, or anything else for that matter!
Encouraged by Hans's frowns, Ãlvaro cleared his throat and said: My dear Herr Gelding, you will have noticed that your workers spend most of their time off sleeping. Herr Gelding stared at him, cigar drooping, mouth open in astonishment. He looked more puzzled than offended, as though Ãlvaro hadn't understood what he had been saying. Ah, but Herr
Urquiho
, replied Herr Gelding, we mustn't interfere, no, a worker must be free to do as he pleases in his time off, without any meddling from me, of course! I don't know how they run things in your country, but rest assured, one of the rules in my company is complete freedom of the workers outside the workplace. I imagine we agree on that!
Â
The knocking on his door finally forced him out of bed. A few bands of light filtering through the drawn shutters crept towards Hans's cold feet. He pulled on the first thing he could find on the chair, shuffled over to the door and opened it, still trying to unglue his eyelidsâsmiling, Lisa handed him a mauve sheet of paper. Hans meant to thank her, although he gave a yawn that sounded like
hanyeu
. He took the letter from Lisa's chafed fingers and closed the door.
In the dim light filtering through the shutters, Hans glimpsed the name on the card accompanying the letterâSophie Gottlieb.
He jumped up, went to the washbasin to splash water on his face, opened the shutters, and sat down by the window. The card was printed on stiff paper and had a thin raised edge. The inscription was an unusual orange-grey colour that suggested solemnity and a hint of coquetry. Despite his eagerness, Hans paused before opening the letter, enjoying the uncertainty, savouring this moment of heightened expectation, lest what followed should be a disappointment. Sophie's swift, resolute,
slightly sprawling pen strokes caught his attentionâthis was a feline hand rather than the writing of a young lady. There was no heading or greeting.
I have been thinking, in odd moments, about the arguments you put forward at last Friday's meeting. And, although I will not try to hide the fact that some of what you said jarred with me a little, or perhaps what jarred was your tone (why are you in the habit of making what is intelligent seem a challenge, and what is logical appear conceited?), I must confess I also found it interesting, and even to some extent original.
“Interesting”! “To some extent”! Hans glanced for a moment at the sun pouring through the window, delighting in Sophie's sense of pride. He knew that whatever she went on to say, he was going to enjoy her letter.
For this reason, my dear Herr Hans, providing you are willing and can find no better way to spend your time, it would give me great pleasure to have the opportunity to speak to you outside the salon, which you may have observed requires me to share my attention and even to employ the ruses of a hostess, as I am sure you have perceived.
This fleeting complicity with him, “as I am sure you have perceived”, made his breath quicken. So, she admitted perceiving that he had perceived!
What
exactly they had both perceived remained to be seen. But if Sophie thought she could get away with this disclosure without any consequences, she was mistakenâHans was willing to cling to her words as to a branch in mid plunge.
Therefore, if you have time, my father and I would be delighted to receive you at our house tomorrow afternoon at a half past four. I trust I am not importuning you with a fresh engagementâit appears you are a tireless reader, and tireless readers have little time for socialising. Kindly reply
at your leisure during the course of the day.
Affectionately,
Sophie G
Hans was aware of an omission in her aloof and rather abrupt ending, the subtle omission of a conventional, and, in this case, he thought, extraordinarily significant wordâ
yours
. If Sophie had not finished her letter with the usual polite phrase
yours affectionately
, perhaps her coy omission of that possessive revealed a sensual fear that could not be entirely ingenuous. Could it? Or couldn't it? Was he imagining things? Was he making a fool of himself by being overly susceptible? Was he reading too much into it? Was he being too clever by half? Was he once more inadvertently confusing intelligence with conceit?
He was rescued from this confusion by the postscript, which looked as if it had been jotted down as an afterthought, and revealed an uneasy hesitancy:
PS I will also take the liberty of asking you to refrain from appearing before my father in the beret and broad-collared shirt I have seen you wearing in your walks around the city. Without wishing to deny my sympathies for the political connotations of such attire, I am sure you appreciate its inappropriateness in a household as traditional as mine. The more formally you dress the better. Thank you in advance for complying with these tiresome rules of etiquette. I shall do my utmost to reward your goodwill with canapés and sweetmeats. S G
And Sophie's last words were sweet, sweet her very last word.
Hans was beside himself with joy and anticipation. What should he reply? And how long should he wait before doing so? What clothes was he to wear the following day? He stood up, sat down again, got to his feet again. He felt a wave of happiness, had a violent erection and then could barely control
his emotions. He realised he must first read Sophie's letter in a calmer state. He made himself wait a few minutes, looked out of the window at the heads, hats and feet moving up and down Old Cauldron Street, while he let the letter cool down. He read her opening admonishments over and over. He smiled at Sophie's gentle rebuke, which revealed her nature as surely as they alluded to him. He studied the dissembling nature of her invitation, her winning disdain, the charming piquancy of her complicity. He pondered the abrupt ending, trying to gauge how much of it was due to aloofness and how much to prudence. And to finish off he savoured the marvellous appeal in the postscript, which was Sophie's way of saying that she too noticed him in the street. Hans picked up his quill and dipped it into the ink pot.