I'm embarrassed to tell you this, Hans admitted, but the fact is I'm running out of money. (Really? Ãlvaro was surprised. Why didn't you say so?) I told you, I was embarrassed, and I didn't want to think too much about it either, I suppose I was hoping for a stroke of luck. Up until now I always did things in the same wayâI worked, saved and traveled until I ran out of funds, then I started all over again. But things changed since I came here, I stayed longer than I should, I've been careless with money, and now I can't expect that (of course you can, dear fellow! Ãlvaro protested, dropping his cup into its saucer. How much do you need?) No, truly, I'm grateful, but a loan won't solve my problem. (What will then?) A piece of good news. Yes, don't pull that face, I've been waiting for it for days. If it arrives, all will be well. If not, then, within eight or ten days at most I'll
positively have to go to Dessau, talk to Herr Lyotard and look for work there. (At least let me tide you over! What are friends for!) Friends, my dear Urquijo, are there to listen, which is what you've been doing and, believe me, that's enough of a help. I'm relieved to have got it off my chest. But now I beg you let's not talk about it any more, and don't insist on lending me moneyâif my situation doesn't change, I shan't be able to pay you back, and if it does then I won't need it.)
Cabrón
, muttered Ãlvaro, patting him on the back, how well you pronounce my Basque surname! Rather better, Hans grinned, than your pronunciation of our German names. Ãlvaro gave one of his booming laughs. Then he straightened up in his chair and said with a solemn air: Just let me ask you one question, how much do you have left? How much? Hans sighed, gazed up at the ceiling, appeared to calculate among the rafters, and quoted a sum. Not one thaler more? exclaimed Ãlvaro, alarmed. Are you sure? What about the inn? Don't worry, said Hans, next week is paid for, we'll see if it's my last. And changing the subject: Do you dare to beat me at billiards again?
That evening, while they were dining together at the Central Tavern, two big lemon-scented hands alighted on their backs. They turned to discover Rudi Wilderhaus's closely shaven chin. Forgive me, gentlemen, he said, if I didn't greet you before. On the contrary, said Hans stiffly, we are the ones who apologise for not having seen you. That's only natural, replied Rudi, my table is at the back. I always reserve that one because it's the quietest, why do people always crowd around the entrance? There isn't a learned man in all Germany who can tell you, but there it is, gentlemen, they won't walk more than a few paces!
With this, Rudi began to laugh, closing one eye and watching Hans and Ãlvaro through the other to see if they were joining in. The two men exchanged glances, gave a few forced sniggers, and then, on seeing Rudi's ludicrous expression, suffered a genuine fit
of laughter. In any case, gentlemen, Rudi said gesturing towards the table at the other end of the tavern, I'd be pleased if you'd agree to join us. They turned around and could make out the glowing cigars of Herr Gelding and his partners.
What a pleasant surprise, Herr Gelding said in greeting. Gentlemen, I believe you already know Herr
Urquiho
, who represents our distributors in London. Herr
Urquiho
, I can't remember if I've introduced you to Herr Klinsman, ah yes, I pointed him out to you, I thought as much, and what about Herr Voeller? But do have a seat, please, have a seat, our distinguished Herr Wilderhaus here has just been telling us that you and he attend the same salon, who would have thought it! By Jove, a literary salon, why, Herr
Urquiho
, you really are a dark horse.
In the middle of the table was roast chicken on a platter, together with a dish of seasoned endives and a bowl of strawberries.
Prost!
Herr Gelding belched, picking up a strawberry between thumb and forefinger and dipping it in his tankard of beer. Herr Gelding's remarks seemed to amuse Rudi, although he wrinkled his brow with each belch. Soon the others at the table, including Ãlvaro, began talking business. Rudi and Hans remained silent, sizing each other up like opponents across a chessboard. (Bah! one of Herr Gelding's partners suddenly exclaimed. Don't talk to me about Varnhagen, he's only good for charging in advance and paying late!) The more affable Rudi was towards him, the more uneasy Hans becameâwhy did he insist on smiling at him when they had never liked each other? Why did Rudi refresh his tankard as soon as it was half-empty? Was he trying to make him drunk? Did he know something, did he want to know something? (Don't go all charitable on me Herr
Urquiho
, please! Herr Gelding chuckled. At this rate the labourers will be better off than us, mark my words, my grandfather was a labourer so I know what I'm talking about, things were far tougher in those days! So don't
come to me with that, we need men, do you hear, men, but all their sons have trades now, they learn to read and write!) In spite of everything, from a sense of male pride of which Hans deep down felt ashamed, he drank all the beer he was served, as though refusing would not only be churlish but would give Rudi a reason to mistrust him. As the alcohol began slowly to permeate his consciousness, Hans had the impression that his memories were also liquid sloshing round in a tankard, a frothy substance splashing at the rim, and that his secrets could be viewed through a glass. (Let's be clear, said one of Herr Gelding's partners, everyone deserves respect, just so long as we the management are respected, everyone wants their say without even having an income of a hundred ducats.) Now Rudi was speaking to him, speaking to him earnestly, too earnestly, and his hand was creeping over his shoulder, like a spider, thought Hans. (That's a good one! Herr Gelding belched as he brought his hand down on the table.) Rudi placed his hand on Hans's shoulder and began talking to him about horses and hunting. (Don't even think about it! one of Herr Gelding's partners declared. While prices continue to go down it's best not to raise one's expectations.) He spoke in a soft voice and told him he was also a traveler and how much he appreciated men of the world, that he already knew half of Europe and soon he would see the rest, God and my health permitting, said Rudi, soon I'll see the other half with my wife Sophie, and it'll give us great pleasure to write to you, she tells me that as well as being a good friend you are an excellent letter writer, an admirable quality, I like men who appreciate the value of words.
At midnight, alone once more, Hans and Ãlvaro zigzagged down Potter's Lane. They were headed for the Picaro Tavern, where on Saturdays young women would dance without any of the affectations of the Apollo Theatre, to the strains of a
small orchestra. Hey, you, Hans spluttered, how can you tolerate them? Who? said Ãlvaro. Oh them, it's very simple, my dear, very simpleâI never mix business with pleasure; that's something I learnt in England. Before I knew that I was a little nobler and a lot poorer,
if you see what I mean
! And I'm telling you, Hans said distractedly, we've gone past it, seriously, isn't it farther back? In that other street, I mean. No, replied Ãlvaro, how can it be back there? Just follow me, come on! I swear, Hans went on, whenever those men open their mouths it makes me long for the cave. Your organ grinder is a strange bird, said Ãlvaro, sometimes he talks as if he knows everything, and other times I look at him and he seems like a poor old man in a cave. The organ grinder knows everything, replied Hans, don't ask me how, but he does. It's very odd, insisted Ãlvaro, I don't know where he gets it from, have you ever seen him read? Does he have any books in the cave? Never, replied Hans, he never reads, he has no time for books or newspapers. When he isn't playing his barrel organ, he's gazing at the landscape. When I'm with him I feel a little stupid, as if I'd read everything without having read anything, sorry, did I tread on your foot? Are you sure we're going the right way?
The Picaro Tavern was a place where no sooner people entered than the rhythm of the polka and the smell of sweat invited them to relax and cast their cares aside. Anyone who crossed its threshold with a heavy gait left with a spring in his step, wondering what had come over him. The clientele was mixed, everyone except the aristocracy, who preferred more discreet establishments farther from the centre, where they paid much more money to do the same things. On the chalkboard hanging next to a warped mirror, a message (complete with misspellings) announced: “The Picaro Tavern welcomes not ladies and gentlemen, but men and women.” The police never interfered with the tavern's activities, provided it closed at three
in the morning, held no parties during religious holidays and, in accordance with the Rules Governing Public Places of Free Admission in Wandernburg, its patrons did not wear masks. It was not uncommon after suppertime to find off-duty policemen in the tavern.
As they stepped through the tavern doors, an image of the organ grinder gazing through his fingers at the sun flashed though Hans's mind. He grinned drunkenly and missed him foolishly, as though he had not seen him in years. He thought instantly: Tomorrow I'll go to see him. They descended into the gloomy Picaro Tavern, looking for a place to sit. Suddenly, Hans thought he recognised somebody's backâa stocky figure, hunched over, muscles tensed as though suffering from cramp. The figure instinctively wheeled round and faced himâit was Lamberg, wearing an old mask that covered his eyes and half his brow. Opposite him, at a safe distance, a waiter was trying to persuade him to take it off. Lamberg appeared not to hear him. His arms hung at his sides, tensed, as though pushing down on a spring. For a moment, Hans thought Lamberg was going to tip up a chair or punch the waiter. But all he did was to stagger, tear off his mask, walk over to Hans and embrace him wholeheartedly. His face stank of stale alcohol, his back was rigid. After flashing Hans a look of relief, the waiter disappeared among the dancers. What were you doing wearing that mask? Ãlvaro asked, coming over. Lamberg slowly raised his head from Hans's shoulder, and said: I just wanted it to be Carnival. With that, he burst into tears for a few moments. He soon calmed down and remained silent, expressionless. Come on, Hans said, we'll buy you a drink.
They approached the bar and ordered three schnapps from the same waiter who had been arguing with Lamberg. The waiter looked at him askance, but Lamberg seemed to be concentrating on something on the ceiling. While the waiter was pouring
out their drinks, a candle dropped from one of the cast iron wagon-wheel chandeliers above the bar straight onto his shirt, setting his sleeve alight. The waiter leapt into the air and began flailing his arm about. The bottle of schnapps spilt onto the bar. The customers standing nearby turned their heads. Ãlvaro and Hans yelled. Someone ran over with a siphon to spray the waiter, who was glaring at Lamberg with a mixture of loathing and bewilderment. Lamberg was still silent, his eyes fixed on the waiter's shirt.
Â
The cave dissolved the remains of the heat like a stomach digesting soup. During the past few weeks the interior had offered a welcome contrast to the heat of midday and a buffer against the night air, which was still chilly. The organ grinder had lit two tallow candles and was examining the inside of his barrel organ. The strings, in groups of three, were looped around screws, the loops worn by the passage of time. The organ grinder adjusted the strings with a key, his bony hand turning it clockwise. Above the screws, written in pencil in the unsteady hand of an infant or one palsied with age, were the notes A, B, C, D â¦
Hans was also spelling something outâhis last meeting with Sophie at the salon on Friday. He was relaying all the details to the organ grinder, and although nothing was certain (even his next visit to the Gottlieb salon), these uncertainties seemed to diminish when he talked to the old man, as though every tuned string were an eventuality foretold, a doubt resolved. Since their snatched kiss that day, Sophie had been as discreet towards him in person as she had been audacious in her letters. They had not seen one another alone since then, which far from seeming to Hans a bad sign, suggested something was afoot. What flowers were in the house? the organ grinder asked, glancing up with a pin between his lips. What flowers? Spikenards, I think. Spikenards?âthe organ grinder gave a
startâAre you sure? I think so, replied Hans, they were white and pungent, they must have been spikenards, why, what does it mean? It means, the old man said, smiling as he lowered the lid, pleasure, pleasure and danger.
The moon was growing bigger and as round as a peephole in a door. Although at that moment, as Franz was lifting his leg on a pine tree, no one in the whole of Wandernburg was gazing at it, just as no one was gazing at the clock on the Tower of the Wind, or noticing it looked like the moon with clock hands. On the outskirts, however, Hans and the organ grinder were sitting contemplating the night from the entrance to the cave. Before he met the organ grinder, Hans had never spent so much time gazing at the sky. Now he had grown accustomed to this calm activity that brought them together without the need to talk or do anything. The stars were few and spaced out, like a spray of salt. The two men looked at them in very different ways. Hans's expression before the vastness of the universe suggested restlessness, choice, an uncertain future. The organ grinder saw in the horizon a shelter, a protective boundary, an undivided present.
Hans murmured:
The stars and the night
Make the wine of life
Let's drink without strife
Till like them we are light.
What was that? asked the organ grinder. It's by Novalis, replied Hans. And who's he? said the old man. Him? said Hans with a grin. He's just a friend of mine. Ah, said the organ grinder, why don't you bring him along one evening?