The dawn mist floated in and out of the cave's entrance. Hans and the organ grinder had stayed awake all night. They had just sat down side by side to look at the pinewoods, the river, the white earth. The fire warmed their backs. Hans was fascinated by the organ grinder's silent attention as he contemplated the landscape, sometimes for hours. Hans looked at the old man out of the corner of his eye. The old man looked at the snow-covered scenery. The empty landscape observed itself.
It observed itself weighed down by hardened mud, the long-established frosts, the compacted snow. The submerged pinewoods. The snapped-off branches. The bare tree trunks. In spite of everything, the Nulte went on flowing beneath the crust of ice, went on being the river of Wandernburg. The stark poplars swayed.
Can you hear? said the organ grinder.
Hear what? said Hans.
The cracking sound, said the organ grinder, the cracking
sound of the Nulte.
Honestly, said Hans, I don't think so.
There, said the organ grinder, a bit farther down.
I don't know, said Hans, well, a little. And is the river saying something?
It's saying, the old man whispered, I'm on my way. I'm nearly here.
What's nearly here? Hans asked.
Spring, the organ grinder replied, even though we can't see it, even though it's frozen, it is on its way. Stay another month. You can't leave here without seeing Wandernburg in spring.
Don't these frozen trees, this icy landscape, make you feel sad? Hans asked.
Sad? said the organ grinder, they give me hope. They're like a promise.
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To the slow, steady rhythm of the handle, the days turned and turned, and Herr Gottlieb's long-awaited betrothal dinners took place. During the first of these, which was held in Stag Street beneath the chandelier that recalled better days in the dining room Hans had never seen, amid the cabinets filled with porcelain and Saxon china figurines, around the big, oblong table that had once seen many more guests, Rudi had presented Sophie with the engagement ring. Eight days later, on the eve of the second betrothal dinner, she had reciprocated by sending him her portrait enclosed in an oval-shaped silver medallion. The Wilderhaus family had behaved towards Herr Gottlieb in a correct if unenthusiastic manner, and were certainly willing to indulge their son Rudi if this wedding was really what he wanted. Neither Sophie nor her father had ever set foot inside Wilderhaus Hall, whose impressive facade they had only seen from King's Parade. Herr Gottlieb's first reaction as they walked around it was shock, followed by awe, then finally exhilaration.
Sophie held her chin up and remained silent during most of the dinner. Herr Gottlieb left the mansion feeling profoundly relieved. At last everything seemed to be going smoothlyâafter the desserts had been served, contrary to his expectations, the Wilderhauses raised few objections to his conditions and had agreed to the sum of her dowry.
Since their first tentative letters, Hans and Sophie had begun writing to each other almost every day, and by now Hans had become a frequent caller at the Gottlieb residence. He had achieved what he thought would be the most difficult aimâbecoming Sophie's
friend
; and once he had, he felt disappointed. As had been their custom for some time, the two of them were taking tea in the drawing room. Herr Gottlieb had retired to his study and they were able to enjoy the luxury of gazing into each other's eyes. As the carpet soaked up the afternoon light, Sophie described in detail the dinner at Wilderhaus Hall. Hans responded to her narrative with a sour smile. Why is she telling me all this? he thought. To show she trusts me? To see how I will react, or to put me off? Even as she spoke to him in a relaxed tone, Sophie could not help wondering: Why does he listen so happily to all this? To show his friendship? So that I make the first move? Or is he distancing himself? Yet the more Sophie shared her misgivings about the opulence of Wilderhaus Hall, the more Hans thought she was trying to bring Rudi into the conversation, and the more he smiled out of self-protection. And the more he smiled, the more Sophie thought he was deliberately showing his aloofness, and so the more she persisted in giving him details. And in their own way, during this exchange, they both felt an uncertain happiness.
Imagine our amazement, Hans, Sophie went on, when half a dozen liveried footmen kept serving ice cream throughout the meal and offering us tea every fifteen minutes, then brought champagne, Scotch whisky and bottles of Riesling after dinner.
(I can imagine, Hans replied, how upsetting!) I swear I didn't know whom to greet first or how to address them, there must have been at least two uniformed coachmen, half a dozen servants, goodness knows how many chambermaids, and a kitchen staff the size of a small village (my, what indigestion! exclaimed Hans), seriously, I'm not used to so much etiquette, I wonder how anyone can feel truly at ease surrounded by so many people (oh well, said Hans, as with most things, you grow accustomed to it, you know), the only place where there's any privacy is in the gardens (the gard
ens
, he said, surprised), well, yes, there are two, one at the front and one at the back (of course, of course, Hans nodded), they were pretty, yes, but it sent a shiver up my spine when I realised one of them was full of graves, I'll wager you can't guess whose they were? (You have me on tenterhooks, he said.) The dogs'! Yes, you heard me, eleven dogs are buried there, the family's hunting dogs, and each has a headstone with its name inscribed (how very commendable, Hans said, to extend such treatment to their poor animals), I don't know, it all seems rather excessive to me, why would anyone need four billiard tables? (They certainly know how to keep themselves entertained! Hans said approvingly.) If they even play, because everything in that house looks unused, including the library, which incidentally is vast. I was able to leaf through a few old French volumes which I suspect no one has ever so much as glanced at. (And what about paintings? said Hans. Do they own many paintings, I imagine they must glance at them?) You seem in excellent spirits this afternoon, my friend, I'm delighted you are keen to know so much about my fiancé (I'm burning with curiosity, Fräulein, positively burning! said Hans, shifting in his seat), yes, indeed, they own many paintings, a large collection of Italian, French and Flemish masters they have acquired over the years from local convents. (What a magnificent investment! Hans exclaimed. And do they
have a music room?) I'm afraid they do, a beautiful little room with gas lamps, and another marble-lined banqueting hall (yes, said Hans, marble is always best for banquets). May I offer you a herbal tea, Herr Hans, you seem a little on edge. Elsa dear, come here will you? I wasn't aware you knew so much about architecture, indeed, I was going to tell you about the English taps and drainpipes, but I'm not sure I should.
Hans arrived at the inn with a hunger on his skin and a hollow feeling in his chest. He had no inclination to go out, preferring to remain slumped on the old settee mulling over his conversation with Sophie. Lisa, who was still up, hastened to serve him what remained of the family's dinner. When he saw her approach with a plate and bowl in her hands, he was suddenly touched. Thank you Lisa, he said, you shouldn't have taken the trouble. There's no need to thank me, she replied, trying to look as if she couldn't care less, I'm only doing my duty. But the pinkish tinge to her cheeks suggested otherwise. In that case I'd like to thank you for doing your duty so well. Thank you, Lisa replied, without thinking. And, after she realised what she had said, she could not help smiling brightly.
Within minutes she was next to him on the sofa, sitting with her feet tucked under her. Where's your father? Hans asked. Asleep, Lisa replied. And your mother? Trying to put Thomas to bed, she said. And you? asked Hans. Aren't you sleepy? Not really, Lisa said, shaking her head. Then she added: What about you? Me? Hans replied, surprised. No, well, a little. Are you going up to your room, then? she asked. I think I will, he said. Do you need some more candles? Lisa said. I don't think so, replied Hans. Lisa stared at him with an intensity that was only possible from someone truly innocent or extremely artful. But Hans knew Lisa was still too young to be that artful. Good night then, Lisa said. Good night Lisa, said Hans. He stood up. She lowered her eyes and began picking at a hangnail.
When Hans was already on the stairs, Lisa's voice called him back. Aren't you going to tell me what you keep in your trunk? she asked, making patterns with her foot. Hans turned around, smiling. The whole world, he said.
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Silence radiates, like concentric rings, from the centre of the market square towards the yellowish gloomy alleyways, from the capricious tip of the Tower of the Wind to the sloping contours of St Nicholas's Church, from the high doors to the railings round the graveyard, from the worn cobblestones to the dormant stench of the fields manured for spring, and beyond.
When the nightwatchman turns the corner of Wool Alley and enters narrow Prayer Street, when his cries dissolve into echoes â¦
to go home, everyone! ⦠bell has chimed eight! ⦠your fire and your lamps ⦠to God! All praise!
⦠and when his pole with the lantern at its tip is swallowed up by the night, then, as on other nights, a figure emerges from a narrow strip of shadow, the black brim of his hat poking out. His arms are thrust into the pockets of his long overcoat, his hands snug in a pair of thin gloves, his expectant fingers clasping a knife, a mask, a length of rope.
Opposite, there is the sound of light feet, of brisk heels coming down the alleyway. The gloves tense inside the overcoat, the brim of the hat tilts, the mask slips over the face, and the shadowy figure begins to move forward.
In Wandernburg a sandy moon turns full, a moon caught unawares, a moon with nowhere.
T
HE DAY SPRING CAME to call in Wandernburg, Frau Zeit woke up in an astonishingly good mood. She scurried about the house as if the light were an illustrious visitor whom she must wait upon. Herr Zeit stood behind the counter browsing through the
Thunderer
, an untouched cup of coffee in his hand, while his wife and daughter cleaned and oiled the pokers and fire tongs, before storing them in the backyard shed. From time to time, Lisa would gaze at the streaks of soot on her milk-white arm. Then her mother would hurry her along. Have you carded the mattress wool yet? she asked, fondly brushing a lock of the girl's hair from her face. Lisa wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and said: Only in number seven, mother. Is that all? said Frau Zeit, surprised. What about the other rooms? I was about to start on them when you called me, I came down to see what you wanted and after that there wasn't time. Don't worry, my love, the innkeeper's wife said, a rare smile appearing on her face, enhancing her good looks, you finish this, I'll go and see to them.
All that had hitherto been rattling bolts, half-closed shutters and darkened windows suddenly became a flurry of doors opening, shutters flung wide and gleaming windowpanes. Carpets, curtains and rugs unfurled like tongues from the inn windows, and from all the windows in the city. Young girls no longer walked with eyes lowered to the groundâthey raised their heads as they passed by. They wore brightly coloured clothes and floppy straw hats with daises in them. The young men bobbed their heads at them, and inhaled an aroma of vanilla. Elsa turned
into Old Cauldron Street. She was holding a parasol in one hand and in the other a mauve letter.
Hans was sitting on his trunk, shaving. Legs apart, he gazed into the little mirror propped up on the floor. He had not yet sloughed off his drowsiness and still felt startled at the way Lisa had burst into his room without knocking, or at least without him hearing her knock, in order to begin cleaning the room before he had time to get dressed. Hans yawned in front of the little mirror on the back of the watercolour. He remembered snippets of conversation from the salon the night before. The snuffbox Rudi had held out to him several times, whether as a sign of hospitality or contempt he could not tell. His disagreements with Professor Mietter, who never lost his patience. His own remarks, more vehement than he would have liked. Ãlvaro's resounding laugh. Sophie's furtive glances. The whispered jokes he had managed to share with her. The way in which â¦
There was a knock at the door.
He opened it to find Lisa standing there again. Instead of handing him the mauve letter, the girl stood gazing at his half-shaven chin, at the faint trace of down above his lips.
Hans sat down to read the letter without finishing shaving. He smiled when he opened it and saw that all it said was:
Why did you look at me in that way yesterday?
Hans dipped his quill in ink and sent Lisa to the Gottlieb residence with another letter which read succinctly:
Sophie's response was:
You know in
what
way. In that way you shouldn't.
Hans felt a frisson as he replied:
How observant you are, my dear ladyâI had no idea I was being so obvious.
Hiding the letters in her basket and keeping away from the busiest streets, Lisa would hurry back and forth between the inn and the Gottlieb residence. She would also try desperately to read the scrawls, to decipher some clue to their unfathomable code, some pattern, some telltale word. All she managed to determine was that their messages contained no numbersâthis meant they weren't arranging a meeting. And Lisa was right, although only by chanceâthey usually wrote the times in words.
She knocked once more at the door of room seven and handed Hans another letter with the reply:
How observant you are, my dear sirâlooks speak volumes.
Have a good day and do not to drink too much coffee. S
And so the morning passed, until he went out to meet Ãlvaro for luncheon. Before going into the Central Tavern, Hans went over to the corner where the organ grinder was playing. He listened to mazurkas, polonaises and allemandes. Franz seemed distracted by the new bustle in the square, but he wagged his tail to the rhythm of the dances. It was obvious from the half a dozen or so coins in the organ grinder's little dish that the gloomy Wandernburgers were delighted to have left winter behind. As was his custom, the old man winked at Hans, still continuing to turn the handle. Unwittingly copying the organ grinder's gesture, Hans responded with a circular wave of his hand that meant “we'll meet later”. The old man nodded contentedly and glanced down at the
dish, raising his eyebrows. Hans laughed, rubbing his hands together like someone contemplating a treasure trove. Franz's gently lolling tongue seemed to taste the sweetness of the noontime hour.
The organ grinder paused to sit down and eat the bread and bacon he had brought with him in his bag. While he and Franz were sharing their meal, Father Pigherzog stopped to watch them on his way back to church. Franz raised his head and gave an enquiring bark. My good man, Father Pigherzog said, bending over them, aren't you uncomfortable sprawled on the ground? If you have nowhere else to go, at the old folks' canteen we can offer you a meal at a table, it won't cost you a penny, my son. The organ grinder stopped munching and looked up at the priest in a puzzled way. Father Pigherzog stood there beaming, his hand clasped across his chest. When he had swallowed his mouthful of bacon, the organ grinder wiped the corners of his mouth with his sleeve and replied: Sir, I applaud your idea of a canteen and I hope it is a help for the old folks. With this, he took another bite. Sighing, Father Pigherzog continued on his way.
In the afternoon, Hans went back to the inn to change and find some warm clothing in order to accompany the organ grinder back to the cave. When he opened the door to his room he was not surprised to find a mauve letter at his feetâbefore going to lunch he had sent one of Novalis's poems to the Gottlieb residence, and Sophie did not like others to have the last word. He slowly unfolded the note. He saw there was another poem and smiled.
(“Dearest”! Hans's heart leapt.)
Dearest friend, I reply to your Novalis poem with one of my favourite poems by Madame Mereau, I don't know whether you know her. I chose it because it speaks to us women readers, to all those who dream of another life in this life,
(“Another life”? Hans paused. So is the life she has, the one she will soon have, the one that awaits her after this summer, not the life she longs for? In that case perhaps she? Perhaps it isn't? Enough, read on!)
of another life in this life, another world in this selfsame world, those who are gaining strength thanks to words such as these. I see this poem as a hymn to the small revolution in every book, to the power of every woman reader. And although you are a man, in this way I consider you an equal.
(“An equal”, no less! Hans thought, filled with joy. And then doubt cast a shadow over himâan equal “in this way”, she says, but why not the other way? And what might that be? And why can't we be equals in that way too? I mean, could there be anything more or was “this” all there was? And between the two what does “dearest friend” mean? Am I more a “friend” than a “dear”? Oh, I can't read â¦)
And although you are a man, in this way I consider you an equal. For this reason I have copied out a few verses below, the ones I find most beautiful, in the hope that today or tomorrow you will respond with another poem.
(Aha! She's inviting me to replyâthat's new. That is, she is allowing me the last word. Is that not a gift? A kind of surrender? Or am I reading too much into things as usual?)
Affectionately yours,
Sophie
(Mmm. “Affectionately”. That doesn't sound very ⦠No, it doesn't. Yet she has written her name in full. She is offering herself, isn't she? As though she were saying: I am yours completely. I am Sophie, I am. Oh stop this nonsense! I'm going to take a bath. No, it's getting late. The old man will be waiting for me. It suddenly feels hot in here, doesn't it? Now, let's look at this poem. I'll reply tomorrow. Curses! Shall I look for something now? Better tomorrow.)
yours,
Sophie
Â
All these women at peace, not wasting time on war,
Deeply aware of their intimate worth,
Between them creating wave-like shapes,
Summoned by the sign of the times,
Have come to unfurl from a fantasy realm
In spoken and written word, their unstoppable life;
Better no one try to detain their surging strength
Or they will find their way is blocked,
Because all these women are announcing their awakening,
The glad beginnings of their inner force.
Beyond the path to the bridge, the light was thinning. The muted rays of the sun spread tiny tremors across the grass. Stretching away from the city, muffling its sounds, the fields were neither green nor golden. The windmill sails turned, scattering the afternoon. Carriages arrived on the main road. Birds flocked, organising the sky. Hans, the organ grinder and Franz had gone through High Gate and were approaching the River Nulte, which flowed brightly between the poplars showing their first new leaves. The mud on the path had hardenedâthe cartwheels turned more easily, Hans's boots threw up little clouds of
dust that Franz sniffed over delightedly. Mixed with the heady scent of pollen and the heat of the paths, the countryside still gave off a smell of earth and manure, of fertiliser spread during the last ploughing. Beyond the hedges, labourers working late were hoeing weeds. Hans felt strange when he heard himself say: The countryside looks lovely. Didn't I tell you so? smiled the old man. And you haven't seen anything yet, just wait until summer. You'll see how Wandernburg grows on you.
When they arrived at the cave, Hans begged the old man to let him try playing the barrel organ for a moment. The old man was about to say no, but Hans's childlike tone won him over and all he could say was: Be careful, please, be careful. Hans focused on visualising the organ grinder's hand movement and tried to reproduce it with his own arm. During the first piece, the handle moved at an acceptable pace. The organ grinder clapped his hands, Hans gave a roar of laughter and Franz barked madly. But when, emboldened, Hans tried to pull on the handle to change the tune, there was a slight crack from the rolls inside the box. The old man leapt forwards, snatching Hans's hand away from the crank, and clutched the instrument to him like someone protecting his young. Hans, my friend, he said falteringly, I'm sorry, really, but no.
I'm going to tell you a secret, said the old man. When the barrel organ is playing and the lid is down, I like to pretend it isn't the keys making the sounds, but the people the songs describe. I pretend they are the ones singing, laughing, weeping, dancing up and down between the strings. And that way I play better. Because I tell you Hans, when I close the lid there's life in there. Almost a heart. And when everything goes quiet again, I hear the sounds of the barrel organ so clearly that for a moment I think I'm still playing. The music is here, in my head, and I don't have to do a thing. You see, in the end, what matters is listening, not playing. If you listen you will always hear music.
We all have music inside us, even those who walk through the square without even noticing me. The sound of instruments serves that purpose, it brings that music back. Sometimes, when I arrive in the square and begin turning the handle, I feel as if I had just woken up in the very place I was dreaming about. Thank goodness for Franz, he helps me realise if I'm playing asleep or awake, for as soon as the barrel organ starts churning I swear Franz pricks up his ears and lifts up his head. He's very partial to music, above all the minuets, he loves the minuets, he's a rather classical dog.
They had gone outside to watch the sunset. Wrapped in woollen blankets, they had sat like a pair of sentries at the cave entrance. Through the poplar trees, in the gaps between the trunks, the light formed into red knots. The organ grinder fell silent for a long moment, but suddenly he went on talking as if there had been no pause: And what are sounds? he said. They are, they are like flowers within flowers, something inside something. And what is inside a sound? I mean, where does the sound of the sound come from? I've no idea. Michele Bacigalupoâyou remember Michele?âhe used to say that with each sound we make we are giving back to the air everything it gives us. What does that mean? I'm not really sure either. I think music is always there, do you see, music plays itself and instruments try to attract it, to coax it down to earth. How strange, Hans said, I have a similar idea about poetry, only horizontally. (Horizontally? the old man said, looking puzzled.) I think poetry is like the wind you enjoy listening to, which comes and goes and belongs to no one, whispering to anyone who passes by. But I don't think the sound of words comes from the sky. I imagine it more like a stagecoach traveling to different places. That's why I believe in traveling, do you see? (Franz, said the organ grinder, stop that, stop biting his boots!) Yes, stop that, Franz. Deep down, people who travel are musicians or poets because they are
looking for sounds. I understand, said the organ grinder, but I don't see the need to travel in order to find sounds, can't you also be very still, attentive, like Franz when he senses someone coming, and wait for sounds to arrive? My dear organ grinder, Hans said, placing an arm around his shoulder, we're back to the same ideaâshould we leave or stay, be still or keep moving? Well, the organ grinder grinned, at least you agree we haven't budged from that point. You win! said Hans.