Beside him sat Lamberg, as always listening and saying nothing. Unlike Reichardt, who would frequently stop by the cave, Lamberg went there mainly on Saturday evenings or on Sundays, which was his day off. He had been working in Wandernburg's textile mill since he was twelve. He shared a room in the houses built around the mill, the rent being deducted
from his wages. His muscles were always clenched, as if he were permanently suffering from cramp. The fumes from the mill meant his eyes were always bloodshot. Everything he looked at seemed to turn red, to burn. Lamberg was a man of few words. He never raised his voice. He rarely disagreed with the person he was talking to. He simply fixed them with his eyes, red like two glowing pistons.
Franz did not seem to trust the two men equallyâhe showed a playful familiarity towards Reichardt, whom he kept licking and who he wanted to rub his tummy, while from time to time he would sniff at Lamberg's legs suspiciously, as though he were still not quite used to his smell. Sitting across from them as the wine was passed around, Hans noticed the two men's different way of getting drunk. Reichardt was an experienced drinkerâhe waved his glass about a lot, but only occasionally lifted it to his lips. He remained relatively alert in his drunkenness, like a gambler waiting for his fellow players to become completely intoxicated. There was a youthful impetuosity to Lamberg's thirst. Although, Hans reflected, perhaps Lamberg's aim was to find the quickest route to unconsciousness, and this was why he drank as though he were swallowing not only the alcohol but also all the words he never spoke.
At the start of the evening, Hans felt that he would prefer to be alone with the organ grinder to be able to talk to him peacefully as was their custom. And yet, as the hours went by, Hans noticed that Reichardt began swearing at him more affectionately, and Lamberg clapped him on the back more gently. Hans descended from proud aloofness to comic verbosity. He regaled them with tales of his travels, some unbelievable yet true, others plausible but invented. Then he described the inn, the way Frau Zeit filleted fish, Thomas's little explosions and Lisa screaming his name. When Hans swayed from side to side trying to imitate Herr Zeit, for the first time Lamberg let out
a long guffaw, then seemed amazed at himself and sucked his laugh up again like a noodle.
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Amid the tobacco fumes and the heat from the stoves, a city councillor had made his way over to say good day to him. Hans found this doubly bafflingâhe had never seen the man before, and besides, it was evening. The councillor had planted his elbows on the bar and beamed at him with a friendliness that was tainted with something. Hans had tilted his head back to take some sips from his beer. But the councillor was still there, and he had not come over simply to wish him good day.
After a few polite phrases, abounding with the words “
gnädiger Herr
”, “esteemed visitor”, “honourable gentleman”, the councillor looked at him differently, as though focusing a lens, and Hans knew he was about to say what he had come to say. We're delighted to welcome you here among us, the councillor began, Wandernburg is a city that appreciates tourists, for you are a tourist aren't you? (More or less, replied Hans.) And, as I say, tourists are most welcome here, you'll soon see how hospitable we Wandernburgers are (I've already noticed, Hans observed), marvellous, marvellous, yes, most welcome indeed, let me tell you. If you don't mind me asking, are you from around here, from these parts? Are you planning to stay long? (I'm just passing through, Hans replied tersely, and, no, I'm not from these parts.) Aha. I see. (The councillor snapped his fingers to order two more beers. The waiter hurried over to serve them.) Well, my dear sir, it's a pleasure to converse with a man of the world like you, we welcome visitors who are men of the world. Doubtless you'll think me inquisitive, and if so I beg your pardon. I simply like to know what's going on, you know, curiosity, my friend! Such an important quality! And so, forgive me, but when I came in I couldn't help noticing your attire (my attire? Hans said, pretending to be surprised), yes,
that's right, your attire, and as I did so, I said to myself: Our visitor is undoubtedly a refined gentleman, and, as I said before, nothing makes us happier. And then I said to myself: But isn't it a little daring? (A little daring? Hans said, realising the best way to respond to the man's cross-examination was by repeating his questions with a quizzical look.) Daring, precisely, I see we understand one another! And so it occurred to me, and you will see I have your best interests at heart, to suggest that, as far as you are able and naturally without any obligation, you should abstain from offending the sensibilities of the authorities. (The councillor beamed at Hans again and gestured at his traditional German dress, frowned upon by the post-restoration regime.) I'm referring of course (he added hurriedly, in order not to give Hans time to echo his last words) to the use of certain garments, in particular your beret. (My beret? said Hans. The councillor frowned.) Yes, indeed, your beret. Of your own free will, I repeat (I see, said Hans, you're too kind, my free will and I are most grateful for your advice), good, very good.
Before taking his leave, perhaps by way of compensating for the negative effect of his observations, or to carry on observing Hans, the councillor invited him to a reception that same evening organised by the city council to commemorate a local hero. All the best families in Wandernburg will be there, the councillor said, you know, cultured people such as journalists and merchants. And distinguished visitors, he added as though illuminated by a sudden inspiration. Hans thought the best way to avoid suspicion and to enjoy himself would be to go. He accepted, mimicking the councillor's pompous manner. When he was alone, he walked out into the market square and glanced up at the clock on the Tower of the Wind. He calculated that he had just enough time to return to the inn, take a bath and change his clothes.
To his disappointment, Hans noticed nothing extraordinary
during the soirée. Beyond the tedium, the evening was sadly uneventful. The inside of the town hall was like all other town hallsâa mixture of grandeur and gypsum. The councillor had come over to greet him with a theatrical show of friendliness, and had introduced him to Mayor Ratztrinker. Excellency, he had declared, it is my pleasure to introduce you to ⦠Mayor Ratztrinker, who had a beaky nose and a shiny little moustache, had shaken his hand without so much as looking at him, then moved on to greet someone else. Looking down from the chandeliers, the reception hall resembled a dance floor where curved topcoats mingled with pointed shoulder capes, flashes of coloured cravats, and lights reflecting faintly off polished shoes. Hans had changed out of his frock coat buttoned to the neck, his tight breeches, knotted scarf and beret, and was wearing a waistcoat and tails, which suited him well, although he detested them.
After making polite conversation yet speaking to no one, Hans had backed himself into a corner and was waiting for the most appropriate moment to leave. It was there he made the chance acquaintance of a gentleman with bushy moustaches and an amber pipe, who was on his way back from the bathroom. When two strangers remark on the tediousness of a party, they enjoy themselves togetherâsomething similar happened between Hans and Herr Gottlieb, who claimed he was exhausted even as he went on dipping his moustaches in glasses of wine, like some hairy bird drinking at the edge of a fountain. With no one more interesting to talk to, Hans gratefully accepted his company, and managed to be more or less witty. Herr Gottlieb was the widowed father of a well-to-do family, and, as he told Hans, he had been a tea importer and a textile merchant, businesses from which, at his age, he had now retired. His moustaches had quivered when he uttered the words
at my age
, and Hans had felt sympathy for him. The informal tone of their conversation seemed to amuse
Herr Gottlieb. After three glasses of wine and as many jokes, he decided Hans was a strange but agreeable enough young fellow, and in a sudden burst of enthusiasm invited him to his house for tea the following afternoon. Hans said he would be delighted, and the two men parted clinking glasses. The light from the chandelier floated down and drowned in the wine.
When Hans turned round, he stepped on the councillor's foot. Are you enjoying the evening, my good man? the councillor smiled, rubbing his shoe on his trouser leg like a heron.
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The Gottlieb house was a few yards from the market square, on a corner of Stag Street. The entrance boasted two stout front doors. The wider one on the left had a bronze knocker in the shape of a roaring lion's head, and opened onto a vaulted corridor leading to the coach house. The door on the right had a swallow-shaped knocker and provided access to the stairs and the courtyard. Hans tapped on the door with the swallow-shaped knocker. At first it seemed no one was going to let him in. As Hans clasped the swallow's wings to knock a second time, he heard footsteps hurrying down the stairs. They drew nearer, slowing before they stopped on the other side of the door. Hans found himself staring at Bertold's lip.
Herr Gottlieb's valet, Bertold, had a small scar that split his lip in two, creating the impression that he was always about to say something. The scar moved, and Bertold said good afternoon to Hans. We used to have a doorman, the servant explained apologetically, tugging on his sleeves, but ⦠They climbed the stone staircase, fitted with a burgundy-red carpet and brass stair rods. The banister was a twisting geometrical figure, topped off with an oak handrail. When they reached the first floor they stopped. This was the main part of the house, where the Gottliebs resided. Had they carried on climbing the staircase, Hans would have seen how it changed, grew narrower, shed its
carpet, how the steps were made of creaking wood and the fake marble wall coverings replaced with whitewash. The servants' quarters were on the second floor. The cook and her daughter slept in the attic room on the third floor.
They crossed a freezing hallway and went down a long corridor that felt as draughty as a bridge. The ceilings were so high they were almost invisible. At the far end, Herr Gottlieb's magnificent whiskers parted slightly. Come in, come in, he said, puffing on his pipe. Thank you, Bertold, you may go. Welcome to my humble abode, this way, this way, we'll sit in the drawing room.
When they reached the main drawing room, Hans was able to study the recent course of history in its hotchpotch of styles: the Empire furnishings, the rather provincial insistence on classical motifs, the discreet capitals and pilasters, the pompous symmetry, the proliferation of cubes. Almost every piece of furniture, which Hans took to be made of mahogany, was decorated with excessively ornate gilt-bronze mounts typical of all those countries aspiring to be like the French. Other adornments had been added, mostly in Louis XVIII style, in a vain effort to conceal the fact that time had passed; the more modern furniture showed a different kind of sobriety, a metamorphosis, as though they were insects mutating unimaginably slowly towards rounded forms and paler woods (poplar, Hans suspected, or perhaps ash or cherry wood), as though the battles, treaties, freshly spilt blood and new round of armistices had undermined mahogany's traditional stronghold, besieging it with inlays of amaranth and ebony, overwhelming it with rosettes, lilies, less weighty, more carefree crowns. While Herr Gottlieb pointed him to a chair opposite a low table, Hans remarked from the infrequent touches of Biedermeier that the owner of the house was not at his most prosperous. There was only the occasional homely touch, such as an overwhelmingly Germanic sideboard
or an oval side table devoid of triumphant angles and made of simple young walnut or birch. This house, concluded Hans, has tried to find peace and failed.
As they waited for the tea to arrive they talked of business (Herr Gottlieb spoke, Hans listened), and travel (Hans spoke, Herr Gottlieb listened), of matters as harmless as they were trivial. Herr Gottlieb was an experienced hostâhe had the gift of allowing his guests to feel at ease while not neglecting them for a single moment. Observing that Hans kept glancing towards the bay windows, he stood up and invited him to admire the view. The windows overlooked a balcony that ran along the whole of the front of the house to the corner of Stag Street. Leaning out to the left, half of the market square and the sentry-like silhouette of the Tower of the Wind were visible. Looked at from the opposite direction, from a tiny window in the tower, the Gottliebs' balcony was a thin line suspended in mid-air, and Hans's figure a vague dot on the house front. Suddenly, Hans heard the chink of teacups behind him, then Herr Gottlieb giving orders, and finally his raised voice calling Sophie.
Sophie Gottlieb's skirts swished in the corridor. The rustling sound made Hans vaguely uneasy. A few seconds later, Sophie's figure stepped from the dim corridor into the brightness of the drawing room. My child, Herr Gottlieb announced, let me introduce you to Herr Hans, who is visiting our city. My dear Herr Hans, this is my daughter, Sophie. Sophie greeted him, raising an eyebrow. Hans was overwhelmed by a sudden urge to praise her or to run away as fast as he could. Lost for words, he remarked awkwardly: I didn't think you'd be so young, Fräulein Gottlieb. My dear sir, she replied coolly, surely you'd agree that youth is an accidental virtue. Hans felt terribly foolish and sat down again.
Hans had misjudged the tone, lost the thread of the argument. Sophie's polite yet ironic response to another of his remarks,
the kind of ill-judged quip men make when they are too eager to impress a woman, obliged him to take a different approach. Fortunately, Elsa, Sophie's maid, came over to serve the tea. Hans, Herr Gottlieb and his daughter began the customary exchange of polite chitchat. Sophie scarcely took part, and yet Hans had the impression that she was the one determining its rhythm. Hans was impressed not only by the perceptiveness of Sophie's comments, but by the way she spokeâshe seemed to be selecting each word carefully and articulating, almost singing her sentences. As he listened to her voice, he swung from tone to meaning, meaning to tone, trying to keep his balance. He tried several times to impress her with one of his observations, but he seemed unable to ruffle the calm aloofness of Sophie Gottlieb, who, in spite of herself, could not help noticing Hans's long locks, and the way he kept brushing them from his brow as he spoke.