The guests stood to bid the couple goodbye. Rudi Wilderhaus contemplated them loftily as though they had all remained seated. Herr Gottlieb embraced his daughter and whispered to her all the questions to which he already knew the answersâwas she taking a coat, was the coach ready, should he accompany her to the door, did she love her father as much as he did her.
They all said goodbye to one another as they walked down the corridor. Elsa and Bertold moved among the guests distributing coats, shawls, gloves and hats. Herr Gottlieb brought up the rear of the entourage, as though discreetly sweeping them out.
Hans strode off, stamping his heels irritably into the ground. He had only gone a few paces when someone took hold of his arm. It was Ãlvaro, who smiled at him. Come on, he said, I expect you could do with a few beers. Hans shook his head and told him he didn't feel like drinking. A moment later they were walking down Stag Street, arms around each other's shoulders.
In the opposite direction from that in which the two friends were walking, a carriage with a sleek body and upholstered seats was about to turn into Border Street on its way to the western side of Wandernburg, where gas lamps illuminated the wide avenues lined with columned facades and acacia trees. A lemony odour pervaded the carriage, emanating from the
velvet upholstery and from Rudi's neck. His manner was quite different from half-an-hour earlierâhe was no longer distant, but joyful; his eyes exuded tenderness, not aloofness. Sophie's hand lay limp, cold, between her fiancé's purple gloves. Rudi Wilderhaus's illustrious head bobbed to the rhythm of the galloping white steeds. Above them, sitting upright on the driver's seat, the coachman looked to either side, bewildered, and thought: That's odd, I could have sworn this avenue was shorter.
Meanwhile, silence had descended on the Gottlieb residence, that melancholy stillness places have after everyone has left. Herr Gottlieb had ordered the turning out of the lights, and was sleeping, or trying to sleep. Bertold and Elsa had retired to their rooms. Bertold lay on his back snoring, half undressed, one leg dangling off the bed. From behind Elsa's closed door, however, came a glimmer of light and the sound of slow scribbling, the rustle of the pages of a tattered English dictionary, which no one, not even Sophie, knew Elsa possessed. In the kitchen were stacks of plates, teacups precariously balanced on top of one another, spoons stuck to plates, forks with meringue in their tines, greasy knives. Petra scrubbed her forearms by the light of a petrol lamp, while making sure her daughter ate every last noodle in her soup bowl and grain of rice on her plate. She herself hardly ate anything. She had seen so much food that evening, had kneaded, baked and fried to the point where the mere thought of eating made her feel sick. And yet, despite the dour expression etched on her slack, mistrustful face, despite the weariness ingrained in her skin, which, like the flour caked on her nails, would never rub off, Petra felt a smile on her lipsâtoday there were leftover cakes and jelly, and so her girl would enjoy the finest pudding. Always someone else's pudding, scraps her daughter could innocently enjoy, but which could never taste sweet to her.
No sooner had Rudi Wilderhaus's carriage pulled up in front
of his hosts' residence than a pair of liveried footmen opened the doors, then stepped aside and stood stiffly on either side of the carriage. A third footman poked his head into the carriage and examined the inside, before stretching out a deep-cuffed arm that hovered at the level of Sophie's chest. Thank you, she said, placing her foot on the small step, I think I can manage by myself.
With an earnestness that kindly souls considered elegant, and spiteful ones attributed to plebeian insecurity, Sophie greeted all of Rudi's young friends, some of whom she had already met. Rudi thought his fiancée's self-assurance among strangers admirable, that mixture of haughtiness in her manner and gentleness in her gestures, that special something which in his eyes made her complex and eternally mysterious. These evenings had an ambivalent effect on Sophieâshe was able to enjoy them because she found it easy to distance herself from her surroundings, to observe that luxurious milieu with irony, and yet this was what her life would be in only a few months time. Rudi's attentiveness irritated her, while at the same time she felt a guilty sense of gratitude. Each time he praised her in front of his friends she twisted a fold in her dress.
Besides dancing, skating and playing cards, Rudi's friends shared one other traitâwithout exception they all had revenues of at least a thousand ducats, which irrevocably set them apart. Or, in a worst-case scenario, at least until their annual incomes took a downturn. As she crossed an entrance hall as big as her house, Sophie was dazzled by the cascading chandeliers, the trail of white tables and the glinting tableware. She felt giddy as she contemplated quivering jellied fruits in their Saxony baskets, rows of exotic vegetables, spirals of sauces, mounds of meringues, walls of nougat, pyramids of fruit, fountains of almonds, mosaics of oysters, oceans of fish and cauldrons of wine. And in the centre, an absurd, glorious cake in the shape of
a mountain range with avalanches of cream, chocolate covered peaks, cabins made of Lubëck marzipan, pine trees made with real greenery, sleighs fashioned from cashew nuts and drawn by dogs made of candied sugar with skiers of jellied fruit, each sporting a hat, goggles, ski sticks and a coat of arms across his chest.
About a league from there, the organ grinder suddenly opened his eyes and, feeling for his dog's back, murmured: Hey, Franz, aren't you hungry?
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The following Tuesday, the same carriage carried the same passengers to the eastern side of the city. Rudi and Sophie were on their way to the Apollo Theatre, at the other end of Black Horse Avenue, at a distance from the centre of Wandernburg. Tuesday evenings at the Apollo Theatre were reserved exclusively for the landed gentry and their personal guests. Sophie liked going dancing there, although not so much on those days, because the ambience was too formal, and besides she could not meet her friends. In defence of these Tuesdays, she had to confess that Rudi was an extremely good dancer. With his face powder and dab of rouge, his carefully unbuttoned frock coat, his white-satin cravat and waistcoat with gold chain threaded through its buttonhole, puffing out his chest and raising his heavy shoulders, Rudi seemed like a caricature of himselfâa mixture of lightness and manly strength, a rugged charm.
During their ride to the Apollo, Rudi had done what Sophie had been dreading for some timeâhe mentioned Hans. He had done so without histrionics, as though in passing, as one might gaze momentarily through a window. Rudi had been to the Gottliebs' residence that afternoon, and, for the second time that week, had found her taking tea with him in the drawing room. Two things had displeased Rudi: Sophie's laughter as he walked down the corridor, a laughter, how could he describe it
(descriptions were not Rudi Wilderhaus's forte), so self-conscious, as if building on earlier jokes, and Hans's reflex of leaping to his feet as soon as Rudi appeared in the drawing room, a reflex that was too swift, a reflex of denial. Of course, none of this mattered in the slightest. Nor did this stranger. Nor did his know-all air. Nor did his flowing locks.
It seems, Rudi had said as the coach moved off with a jolt, you enjoy very cordial relations with Herr Hans. Do I? Sophie had said, offhandedly, I don't know, possibly, he seems like an interesting gentleman, I don't know him terribly well. At least he reads, which cannot be said for a lot of people. Tell me, Rudi had resumed after a calculated pause, what do you talk about, books? Who? Sophie had replied. Ah yes, well, occasionally we talk about poetry while taking tea, it amuses me. And so, Rudi had nodded, as though giving his complete consent, Herr Hans amuses you. No, my love, Sophie had said, talking about poetry amuses me, not Herr Hans. You seem a little anxious, did you have a bad shoot this morning?
The carriage stopped in front of the Apollo Theatre; Rudi hurriedly clambered down from the carriage and offered Sophie his arm. Unusually, this time she accepted. He stared at her enraptured and said: Your dress looks like a second skin. It makes you glow. It fits your waist to perfection. It enhances your shoulders. It makes you look immeasurably beautiful. You'll be the belle of the ball. It is very kind of you to say so, my dear, Sophie replied, perhaps I have overstepped the mark, then. Rudi took her arm, beaming. At the foot of the steps, the couple passed Mayor Ratztrinker, on his way down with a woman who was not his wife. His Excellency looked down his nose, bowed to Rudi, and swept on his way. At the ornate entrance to the theatre, Rudi brought his lips close to Sophie's ear and whispered: Tonight, my love, you are going to dance the best allemande of your life. Then night threw open the
doors and the couple were swallowed up by the dazzling lights.
It's Tuesday already! Herr Zeit affirmed when he saw Hans leaving the inn, tomorrow is another day! Accustomed to the innkeeper's unsolicited remarks, which to begin with had struck him as banal, but were now beginning to sound enigmatic, Hans replied: How right you are. Herr Zeit, who was wearing striped pyjamas, the tight cord of his threadbare dressing gown digging into his belly, asked whether Hans had dined. He told him not to worry. Herr Zeit gave a snort and turned on his heel. A hand on the doorknob, Hans stood watching the innkeeper shuffle down the passageway in his checked slippers. At the far end the door to the Zeits' apartment opened, and the dimly lit figure of his wife appeared in the doorway. Frau Zeit was holding an oil lamp and had on the flimsy flannel garment she called her kimono. I'm coming, I'm coming, he muttered. His wife shrugged a shoulder and swung her hips to one side to let him pass. Then Hans closed the door.
Hey, Lamberg, the organ grinder said, don't go yet, you haven't told us your dream. It's late, said Lamberg, I have to go to bed. In that case, the old man smiled, tell us what you're going to dream when you've gone.
On many evenings, as they sat round the fire at the cave mouth, the organ grinder would ask each of his friends to relate their dreams. As he listened, he would remain silent, nodding his head, as though he had already dreamt them or guessed their meaning, which even so he never revealed. Instead of having dreams, the organ grinder preferred to say he
saw
dreams, and he enjoyed telling them his own, which Hans suspected were too outlandish or too perfectly narrated to be true. But this didn't matter, for his favourite evenings in the cave were beginning to be these ones when they relived their dreams.
Sometimes, Lamberg said, sitting down again, I dream that the Steaming Eleanor (the what? Reichardt exclaimed), the
machine at the mill, my machine, I dream she starts to turn faster and faster until the platform begins to shake and I fall into her jaws. And then what happens? said the organ grinder. Nothing, that's it, said Lamberg, then I wake up and I can't get back to sleep. But you have to go with it, said the organ grinder, try going with it until the end, it isn't good to wake up halfway through a bad dream. When I wake up, Lamberg said shaking his head, I try to forget my dreams as quickly as possible, I dream horrible things sometimes, things I can't believe I'm doing in the dream. Maybe, suggested Hans, they're things you think about when you're awake and they come back to you when you're asleep. I doubt it, the organ grinder said, dreams have nothing to do with our waking state, on the contrary (why on the contrary? said Hans), I mean, for me dreaming is like being
more
awake, don't you see? And sometimes when you wake up, your dreams stay asleep. There are things you only know when you're asleep. Maybe what you say is true, organ grinder, said Lamberg, but I don't want to know anything about my dreams. There's no need to be afraid, said the organ grinder, try to concentrate, don't wake yourself up, just concentrate on the images and if they're not good, speak to them. Is that what you do? asked Hans. Yes, replied the old man, and I always wake up happy. The first thing I do when I wake up, said Reichardt, is to count my teeth with my tongue to see if they're all still there.
I don't sleep much, Hans confessed, and I often have the same dream. (What's that? asked the organ grinder.) It's foolish, I dream I'm crossing a very long suspension bridge, and just as I'm about to reach the other side the end of the bridge begins to give way in front of me, so I turn round and try to run back to the other side, and that's it. (But do you get there or not? asked Lamberg, his eyes wide open.) That's the thing, I've no idea because I always wake up before reaching the end
or falling. (And what's below the bridge, Hans? asked the organ grinder.) Below it? I've never thought about that, I couldn't tell you to be honest. (Do you see? said the organ grinder. That's the question, that's what you need to find out, if you know what's below you can be sure the bridge won't give way.) What an imaginative lot you are, Reichardt said, belching quietly, I hardly ever dream, when I wake up my mind is empty. (Perhaps that's because you're dreaming of your beer tankard, quipped Hans.) Maybe it's your head, I'm dreaming about the inside of your head without knowing!
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What? Ãlvaro said, surprised. You don't know the Apollo Theatre, where do you go of an evening? I go to a cave, replied Hans.
An hour later, having lost their way twice and ended up where they had started a couple of times, Ãlvaro and Hans found themselves standing in front of the Apollo Theatre. Good grief, what appalling taste, Hans said contemplating the overly ornate friezes. Well, said Ãlvaro, they were copied from the Redoutensaal in Vienna, but it's not bad for Wandernburg. Come on, let's go in.