On hearing these last words, G L Mietter, Doctor of Philology, Honorary Member of the Berlin Society of the German Language and the Berlin Academy of Science, Emeritus Professor of the University of Berlin, tireless collaborator on the Gottingen
Almanac of the Muses
and chief literary critic on the
Thunderer
, did what no one, not even he, would have thoughtâhe began sobbing uncontrollably.
Gentlemen, we've done an excellent job, declared the Chief Superintendent.
Congratulations, sir, said Gluck the younger, ironically.
The following day at noon, the other members of the Gottlieb salon were sent brief notes informing them the Friday meetings were suspended until further notice.
As he gobbled down a late breakfast at the Café Europa, Hans read with sleep-filled eyes a fervent article on the first page of the
Thunderer
that ended:
⦠of this shady individual whose Lutheran tendencies had on more than one occasion sown the seeds of suspicion among the local authorities, not least because of his suspected association with Anabaptist sects. Even his writings seemed to have fallen off in comparison to his earlier work, and while his previous merits remain unquestioned, the quality of his contributionsâas our observant readers will have noticedâhad become noticeably inferior. Given the deplorable circumstances, we now feel at liberty to reveal that for this and other reasons, our newspaper had long been considering relieving the professor of his Sunday column with theâas we see itâworthy intention of allowing fresh young voices to be heard, which is what our public deserves, and what our newspaper has always prided itself on providing. Yesterday's appalling turn of events has merely brought forward this imminent change fortuitouslyâwisdom would decree, there are times when the fate of scoundrels appears to be carved in stone. As newspapermen and as fathers, we welcome wholeheartedly this unexpected arrest. It is precisely what we have been demanding both actively and passively from this very tribune. By the same token we now have a duty to ask ourselvesâis this case absolutely and unquestionably closed? Was the wretched culprit really acting alone? Is he, without a shadow of a doubt, the sole perpetrator of each of these attacks? Or could this be an official version designed to allay the population's fears? For such fears are indeed legitimate, and only when they have been properly laid to rest will we feel safe in our own homes. And moreover we are convinced that at this very moment our readers are mulling over similar concerns. We will provide a more in-depth analysis of the matter in tomorrow's edition.
November was growing cold, the organ grinder was burning up. Towards the middle of the month, Doctor Müller admitted that his patient was deterioratingâhis bronchioles were closing up, his fevers were worse, and in the past few days he had suffered momentary losses of consciousness. Occasionally he would come round, utter three or four intelligible words,
and close his eyes before plunging into a fitful sleep. Doctor Müller continued prescribing him with purges, balms, infusions, cataplasms and enemas. Yet he did so with less conviction (or at least so Hans thought), as one might read out a list of minerals. Faith is as powerful as any remedy, my friend, the doctor had assured him on his last visit. Do you believe that, doctor? Hans had said, removing the bedpan from between the old man's wizened legs. Absolutely, Müller had replied, science comes from the spirit. Be patient and have faith, your friend may still get better. And what if he goes on getting worse? Hans had asked. Doctor Müller had smiled, shrugged and folded his stethoscope.
The organ grinder's eyelids wriggled like a pair of caterpillars. They creased, puffed up, their crusty edges opening to reveal two eyeballs floating in liquid. For a moment his eyes turned in circles and were lost between blinks, until gradually he was able to focus. Franz gave his brow a cooling lick. Behind, at the back, far away, Hans greeted him with a wave of his hand. Hans stooped, crossed the pool of light and shadow separating them, and spoke into his ear. The doctor is coming, he whispered. What a shame, the old man gasped, I was thinking of going shopping. Then he remained silent, supine.
Hans watched him, not daring to touch him, breathing with him, following the air going in and out of his lungs, watching him give and receive light, suspended between each breath. He knelt down next to the old man, held him gently by the shoulders and said: Don't go.
The organ grinder opened his eyelids once more and replied slowly, without coughing: My dear Hans, I'm not going anywhere, on the contrary, I shall soon be everywhere. Look at the countryside. Look at the leaves on the birch trees.
At which, he was wracked by a prolonged yet strangely calm coughing fit.
Hans gave him a handkerchief and turned to look at the
leaves. From inside the cave he could see only one birch tree, almost leafless. He gazed intently at its branches, at the dark fluttering leaves.
Hans, the old man called out. What? he replied. I'm going to ask you a favour, the old man said. I'm listening, Hans nodded.
Kof
, please speak to me using the familiar form of
you
, said the old man. All right, Hans grinned, carry on, I'm listening. That was all, thanks, the old man said. What? That was all, the old man repeated,
kof
, I just wanted you to address me informally. Hush, don't talk, whispered Hans, don't talk so much, be patient, you're going to get better. Yes, breathed the old man, just like that birch tree.
The wind outside whistled along the river. The branches in the pinewood were rattling. The air inside the organ grinder's lungs also crackled, it climbed up his trunk, sprouting branches. The pine trees pierced the mist. His chest scaled the branches.
Having overcome his sense of shame, or perhaps because he wanted to be as close to the old man as possible, Hans became curious. How does it feel? he whispered in his ear. The organ grinder seemed to like the question. You feel it, he said, smell it, touch it. And above all,
kof
, you hear it. You make your way in little by little, it's like swapping something with someone. But everything happens slowly,
kof
, ever so slowly, you start to recognise it, you see? It comes towards you, and you can hear it, as if dying were a,
kof
, I don't know, a sombre chord, it has high notes and low notes, you can hear them quite clearly, some rise, others fall,
kof
, they rise and fall, can't you hear them? Can't you hear them? Can't you? â¦
Doctor Müller cleared his throat twice. Hans wheeled round with a start. Müller doffed his hat. I thought you were never coming, said Hans, more in a tone of entreaty than reproach. Unfortunately, said the doctor, I have many other patients to attend. Hans remained silent and moved away from the old
man. Doctor Müller knelt down next to the straw pallet, listened to his chest, took his temperature, placed a pill between his lips. His temperature is quite high, Müller announced, but he seems comfortable. How can he be comfortable, Doctor? Hans demurred. He's bathed in sweat and shivering. My dear sir, Doctor Müller said, rising to his feet, in my lifetime I've seen many men go through this, and I can assure you, rarely have I seen one who is suffering so little. Look. Take his wrist. His pulse is slow, remarkably slow considering how much difficulty he has breathing, it's as if he were sleeping, you see, ah, well, he has fallen asleep! It's the best thing for him. He needs rest, lots of rest. And now you must stop worrying, my good man, I've given him a sleeping pill. Get some rest yourself.
Â
The week went by slowly, the hours dragged like mud. Health has a slippery qualityâits swift passage is imperceptible. Illness on the other hand lingers, it delays time, which ironically is the thing it extinguishes. Slowly, inexorably, illness coursed through the organ grinder's body, anointing it with shadows. His limbs had grown emaciated. A translucent layer enfolded his bones. When his fever peaked, his hands shook even more, tracing indecipherable pictures in the air. And yet the old man seemed to be passing away with instinctive equanimity. When he was not exhausted after vomiting or drifting into unconsciousness, he would make an effort to sit up amid the filth of his straw pallet in order to gaze at something in the pinewood and beyond. At such times, Franz, who only left his side in order to scavenge for food or to defecate among the trees, pricked up his triangular ears and watched with him. Can you hear that, Franz? the organ grinder nodded, can you hear the wind?
Hans went to the cave at noon every day. He brought the old man lunch, made sure he drank liquids and stayed with him until nightfall. Depending on how strong he felt, they would talk
or remain silent. The organ grinder slept a lot and complained very little. Hans felt he was more afraid than the sick man. Franz was also nervousâhe kept up a continuous watch, letting out vaporous breaths through his nose, and one afternoon he had tried to bite Lamberg when he called at the cave. Some nights Hans had fallen asleep by the old man's bed, and had woken up shivering next to the embers. He would relight the fire before going back to the inn, crossing the bridge in darkness, as he had so many times that year. But those walks through the pitch-black countryside that had once seemed mysterious to him, with the flashes of excitement that come from wilfully exposing oneself to danger, now seemed long, tiring and reckless. As soon as he returned to his room, he pulled on as many layers of clothing as he could, collapsed onto his bed and fell into a deep sleep. He dragged himself out of bed at first light. Splashed his face with cold water, drank three cups of coffee in quick succession, wrote to Sophie and settled down to do some translation. He spent ages lost in thought, mumbling to himself as he pored over a book written in hostile, mysterious, unfathomable language.
One day he was late leaving the inn. When he saw how full each passing coach was, and the long queue waiting in the market square, he resolved to walk. Instead of taking the usual route along River Way, he took a short cut along a track that crossed the open fields and came out on the path to the pinewood. He set off, his mind blank. The wintry rain had turned the path to slush. The breeze, like a torn sack, fluttered feebly in all directions. Far off, the furrowed cornfields to the south appeared and disappeared from sight. A mottled light blurred the contours of the landscape. This was a day (reflected Hans) for painters, not ramblers. When he attempted to estimate how far he was from the pinewood, he realised he had lost his way.
He glimpsed the cornfields straight ahead of him and
managed to get his bearings. He walked towards them in order to be sure of not straying. On the horizon he could see a row of farm labourers stooped over the ground. As he approached the edge of the field, Hans noticed the crooked figure of an elderly labourer. He stopped to look at him.
Across the fence, a man looked up, trying to work out why the devil the fellow with his hair flying in the wind was staring so intently. For a split second (he convinced himself it wasn't true) he thought the man was staring at him. The labourer spat (it was all right for some, did the young dandy have nothing better to do?) and bent down once more. (He had to work fast. It was no joke. The Rumenigge's overseer was foaming at the mouth. He had bawled at them for being two days late with the ploughing. Had complained that some of the furrows were as crooked as snakes. And had told them that as of the next day their wage would be halved unless they made up the lost time. The overseer was right, but if they ploughed more quickly it would only make matters worse. And if they sowed the seed any old how, the seedlings wouldn't have enough cover. How long was it since the overseer had planted seed? If they hurried they would sow badly. But if they didn't they'd be paid less. That was the way things were today. Anyone who didn't work fast was never hired again, like Reichardt. And why did the long-haired idiot insist on staring?) Hiking up the sack once more and clutching it under his left arm, the farm labourer thrust his hand inside, scattering another handful of seed, trying to trace a complete circle with his wrist (and how the devil was he supposed to sow quickly when the wind was changing all the time, making it impossible to scatter the seed?)
Hans moved away from the edge of the field still staring at the line of peasants combing the ground with their hoes, dibbers and mattocks. While he strolled along, he tried to think of how to say hoe, dibber and mattock in the languages he
thought he knew. And he wondered why his translations were so bad of late?
Once he found the path again, he quickened his pace, his mind on the medicines he had to administer to the organ grinder. Now that the old man's strength was waning, Hans fully realised how fragile his journey, his love, his stay in the city, his certainties were. And he knew, or he accepted, that he was not looking after his friend only out of loyaltyâhe was doing it above all for himself, so as not to take to the road once more, to cling to Wandernburg, to Sophie, to the happy days he had spent at the cave, to delay the moment when he would leave, as he had always left every place, every city, every country he had traveled through.
Near the bridge a flock of crows sailed across the grey clouds, fanning out among the branches of the trees, waiting for the seeds in the cornfields to be left unattended. One of the crows plummeted in such a straight line it looked as though someone had dropped a stone from one of the branches. Others followed, cawing noisily. Amid the riot of beaks Hans could see the purple entrails spilling from a sheep's open belly, a swirl of flies.