Reichardt came to see if they had anything to eat in the cave. Although the organ grinder only had a few potatoes, dumplings and some fruit, he invited him to supper. Hans offered to fetch provisions from the inn and bring them back in a tilbury. The organ grinder refused. You came here today to talk, didn't you? he said. Friends talk, you needn't always bring gifts. On hearing his master, Franz gave an abrupt bark, which sounded like a hungry clarification.
No, Reichardt explained to Hans as he munched a potato, previously I was employed on several estates; you stayed on until they threw you out or you found a better-paid job. The trouble is nowâany more dumplings? Thanksânone of the estate managers will hire me full-time, they say I'm too old. So every week I go to the market square touting for work, I talk to the farmers who are there selling produce and if I'm lucky they offer me a day's labour, or more, weeding, tilling, sowing, you know. The worst thing isn't when you stand there waiting to be hired and they look at you as if you were a dried up turd, it's ending the day wondering if you'll get any more work. I feel healthy, bah, I manage, I'm still strong enough to shift heavy sacks, the thing is you're out there surrounded by other labourers and you say to yourself: Is this my last day? I don't mean here on earth, I couldn't care less about that, when I die, well,
it'll be good riddance, an end to all my problems! The thing is finishing a day's work and remembering how hard it was to get hired and thinking next time will be even harder. Working in the fields does my back in but I like it, why do anything else if that's what I've always done? Hey, are there any apples left? Pity. On top of that, those bastards see you're a bit past it and sometimes they don't pay you in money, which is better because you can save it, they pay you in leftover produce, it's true, Hans, it's true, but what can you do? Tell them to hire someone else, tell them to stick their vegetables up their stingy arses? So you accept whatever they give you, thank them, stuff it in your bag and go home. Where do I live? Over by the cornfields in one of those mud huts with the other labourers. No, of course I don't, not even an acre! The land belongs to the Church, but since they don't use it they let us live there and charge a tribute per hut. I swear on my eight good teeth these bloody tithes will be the death of us, apart from the priests we pay a tax to the landowners, the principality and I don't know what else. No, the farmers don't own the land either, they're tenants and pay the landowners a tithe for the harvest and for the livestock, you see? The same old families, the Trakls, the Wilderhauses, the Rumenigges, the Ratztrinkers' cousins, they're all the same. Who me? Leave here? Never. Well, when I was a youngster I thought of looking for work elsewhere, at the port in Danzig or in some factory up north. But in the end, you know it's not so easy to leave Wandernburg. Besides, this is my home, isn't it? I shouldn't have to leave, they're the bastards, I shouldn't have to go looking in some other bloody place. Do you know how Herr Wilderhaus used to treat us, Hans? No, not him, the father. Because, I don't know if you've seen him, now he looks like a rheumatic old man, but you should have seen the bastard before, son of a whore! In those days he'd show up in the fields whenever he felt like it and say: “Harness four horses,
I'm going to the ball.” And we'd reply: “Sire, we're harvesting the grain and it's nearly dark.” And he'd say: “I don't give a turd if it's late or blowing a gale! I told you, I'm going to the ball, now harness four horses. Besides, the grain is mine and you'll harvest it when I say so.” That's how he spoke, rolling his
rrrr
s like a brute, ha
rrrr
ness fou
rrrr
ho
rrrr
ses this instant, and those of us who had to do it hu
rrrr
ied, how we hu
rrrr
ied to do that bastard's bidding! No, no, Herr Wilderhaus was a kitten in comparison to some of them! Do you know what old Rumenigge did to the daughters of the, bah, what's the difference, he's dead now, to hell with him. And so we saddled up the horses and d
rrrr
ove him to the ball. Which I'm sure you've guessed was no ball, although we had to swear on our lives that we would always call it d
rrrr
iving him to the ball! Grapes, thanks, Franz, you rogue, I can see you! I know. You're right there. Well, don't be too sorry about it, Hans, because that's not the worst thing. What's worse by far for a man my age is wishing things hadn't changed, do you understand, because nowadays there's less and less need for labourers, one man can do the work of five and the farmers prefer young men because they say we older men don't know how to work the machines. Machines, they say! I was already tilling these fields with my eyes shut before they'd even taken a shit in them! In the old days we let them lie fallow for three years, we didn't have all that irrigation and fertilisers and things. Now they rotate the crops, alternating cereal with hay and God knows what. And anything left over they throw away, just like that, they throw it away! Otherwise prices will go down, they say. That is, yes, the new machines are very intelligent, very well thought out my eye. And I say: What's to become of us? If I'm no good for working in the fields, what am I good for? Take the English planting and sowing machines. A lot of farmers make you use them now, they say this thing can plant and cover the seeds simultaneously, that it saves time. It saves
time? The earth has its own time. I've never needed a machine to show me where to make a furrow or where the thistle root is, how to walk between the ridges, what colour ripe grain is, the way corn ears smell when the harvest is bad, none of that. Isn't this the same soil my father and grandfather worked? Haven't I been tilling and sowing here for fifty years? Who's telling me I don't know how any more? Where do they want me to go?
Reichardt stopped talking and gazed out towards the darkening fields.
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As the weather grew warmer, shadows and figures began popping up in the corridors of the inn. Hans would meet them on the stairs. He didn't know who they were, he didn't know their names, he never spoke to them, but their elusive presence made him feel accompanied. Frau Zeit seemed suddenly thinner and her movements had acquired the invisible force of the breeze when it blows in through the window. After breakfast, for which Hans was seldom up in time, Lisa went off carrying a basket piled with dirty linen to wash in the unfrozen river. Herr Zeit had begun rising a little earlierâhe would eat breakfast with his family then invariably go out on some errand, as though the sun were a long-awaited pretext. He would walk Thomas to school and come back for lunch. It was obvious from the glassy look in his eyes that he had stopped off at more than one tavern.
Good morning! It's Wednesday, already! Herr Zeit greeted Hans as he walked past reception. Did you sleep well? Me? said Hans. Yes, quite well, why? We're not used to seeing you up before midday, the innkeeper said, grinning mysteriously. Actually, said Hans, I came down to ask whether the postman had brought anything for me. For you? the innkeeper asked in surprise. No, nothing. Are you sure? said Hans, looking worried. Absolutely, the innkeeper replied trying to hold in his belly to seem more plausible. But he did come today, didn't he? Hans
insisted, I mean, the post from Leipzig comes on Wednesdays, doesn't it? Certainly, said Herr Zeit, the mail coach from Leipzig arrived this morning and drove straight past the door without stopping. Hans sighed. His shoulders sank. Then he regained his composure, took a deep breath, and left the inn bidding them good day.
At a quarter to four in the afternoon, fifteen minutes earlier than the arranged hour, Hans had knocked at the door to the Gottlieb residence and Bertold had accompanied him into the drawing room. Hans had asked whether the master of the house was at home so that he could pay his respects, and Bertold had replied that unfortunately he had gone out calling and would be back late. After a few minutes of fretful waiting, Hans wondered whether Sophie was getting ready in her bedroom or whether she was inflicting a small revenge on him. However, as soon as the long hand of the clock struck four, he heard the swish of Sophie's skirt at the other end of the corridor. Hans leapt to his feet, sat down on the sofa, then stood up again. Good afternoon, Sophie said entering the room, may it be stated for the record that you are the one who is unpunctual.
Burying his nose in his teacup and peering over its rim, Hans studied Sophie more closely and realised that this time her expression was untranslatableâwas she offended or on guard? Was that smile of hers sardonic or amused? Hans folded his legs, she unfolded hers. He clasped his hands on his knee, she unclasped hers, resting them in her lap. Hans frowned, as though about to speak, she raised her eyebrows as though preparing to listen. So, you read ⦠Hans ventured. Yes, Sophie replied, I read your letter, which is why I asked you to come here. In any case, he continued, well, I'd like to take the opportunity, as we are here, to apologise once again for the way I spoke to you the other evening, I honestly didn't mean, I assure you, at no time did I imagine, that it, it wasn't my. Don't trouble yourself, she
interrupted, you already explained all that in your letter. And are you still angry with me? he said.
Angry? Sophie repeated, and her question reverberated like a tuning fork. She glanced about, making sure neither Elsa nor Bertold were in the room. Then she did something so swift that Hans was only able to see it clearly in his memory, rather than when it actually happened:
Sophie leant forward.
She remained erect, poised.
She bent her body over the low table.
She brought her face close to his.
She collided with his lips.
She offered him her warm, determined tongue, which disarranged his mouth.
Swift, undulating.
She withdrew her face.
She tilted backwards.
She settled back in her chair, gazing at him unruffled.
Hans's reply was a stammer. His mouth was awash with flavours. His blood was on fire. Sophie's manner scarcely helped dispel his disbeliefâshe was watching him, completely serene, as though for a moment he had let his fantasies carry him away, and on resuming their conversation had discovered everything in its place, including Sophie, who was sitting still listening to him. What was most excruciating and delicious was how long their silence lasted. Sophie gave no sign of adding anything. Hans thought of a hundred words and they all dissolved on his tongue. That kiss didn't seem to accept any commentary.
Are you sorry? Hans finally managed to say. Because I'd quite understand, believe me, I mean, if it was just a sudden whim, I promise I'll pretend it never happened, you needn't worry, I don't mind, you know, these things, well they're normal between friends, they can happen to anyone, can't they?
Sophie's eyes narrowed, as she shrugged off the flood of unnecessary comments, still savouring the earlier silence. She gave a slow smile. And then she hurled herself at Hans in order to kiss him again, only this time much more violently, deeply and lingeringly. She bit his lip, he clasped her neck.
When they drew apart, Hans could see the strange expression on Sophie's face, and thought she was worried someone might surprise them.
But it wasn't concern that made Sophie look like that. It was the sweet ache in her groin.
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At first glance Café Europa was just another reflection in the string of shop windows in Glass Walk, the place where all the city's glaziers were crammed together. Anyone walking down the narrow street had the impression they were being mesmerised, for each shop window was reflected in the ones opposite, and on a sunny day they became so superimposed it was difficult to be sure which door to walk through. Or at least that was Hans's experience whenever he went to Glass Walk to have a cup of hot chocolate, wake himself up with an umpteenth coffee or browse the newspapers.
Café Europa was the only place in Wandernburg, where, besides the skimpy pages of the
Thunderer
, one could read above all the French press, as well as the broadsheets from Berlin, Munich, Dresden and Hamburg. On his first visit there, Hans was surprised to discover among the magazine racks the cultural supplement of the
Morning News
and even an issue of the
Jena Literary Review
. As occasional out-of-date issues of the
Gazette
or the
Daily Bulletin
would arrive from Madrid, Ãlvaro was in the habit of going there to do his weekly business accounts. The moment he opened a newspaper from his native country he would begin railing against King Ferdinand or censorship. Even so he would continue to devour them with an avidity Hans found strange and moving
in equal measureâhis friend couldn't leave Wandernburg, yet he had never left Spain either. During the afternoons they spent reading in the café, Ãlvaro would bring Hans cuttings from
Spanish Pastimes
and other publications written by exiles in London that he received. He passed the time comparing news items and gesticulating furiously while his coffee grew cold.
That Saturday, they were sitting at one of Café Europa's round marble tables conversing in the soft glow of the oil lamps. At the other end of the room two billiard tables shone dimly beneath a halo of smoke. Ãlvaro had folded his newspaper and was once again telling Hans that he was behaving oddly, by turns elated and anxious. The fact is he was right. Apart from the organ grinder, Hans had spoken to no one about what had happened at the Gottliebs' house on Wednesday afternoon. Not even to Sophie herself. Nor had he spoken of her most recent letters, replete with double entendres and insinuations. Hans sensed he had no need to explain his excitement to Ãlvaro, and that somehow he had known what was happening from the start. As for what was making him anxious, Hans decided to be frank.