D
RIZZLE MELTED THE FIRST big snowfall in Wandernburg. The fine spray didn't clean the streets so much as make them muddierâthe earth on the roads, the flagstones were bordered with dirt, brown water filled the spaces between the cobbles. The days broke half-heartedly, as though hauled aloft by an inexpert arm. Chimneys darkened the clouds. Overcoats encumbered the shadows of passers-by.
Hans stopped in the middle of the market square. He turned his gaze towards the spot where the organ grinder used to stand. The space he had left was imperceptible, cavernous. Hans tried to look at the square the way the organ grinder had seen it, the way he himself had once seen it. He found it bleak and unappealing. He slipped his hands inside his frock-coat pockets, lowered his head, and kept on walking.
Despite having managed to catch up with some of his work, Hans had the impression he wasn't translating as well. He would spend whole afternoons shut in his room, devouring page after page, shifting words around, and he began to work better, and yet he did not enjoy it. And when he took a break, besides his meetings with Ãlvaro, he could find nothing to do, nowhere to go. It was impossible to see SophieâHerr Gottlieb wouldn't let her out of his sight, and had imposed a strict curfew until the day of the wedding. She was only allowed to go out in a coach with Rudi, who would fetch her and deliver her home. All they had were their letters. Elsa cooperated with her usual mixture of displeasure and loyalty. Each time she went out on an errand, she would leave or
collect a letter at the reception desk at the inn, and hurry away down the street.
Sophie's long, ardent letters left Hans on edge, torn between the desire to stay close to the one who sent them, and the despair at not being able to see her face. Sophie's face, which was growing ever more faint, which was becoming that of a stranger. In Hans's memory, flashes of her features, her profile, her different smiles appeared, which refused to meld into a complete image. And yet he did remember, with absolute clarity, her hands reaching out to him. Her hands and her voice. That voice he heard when he read her letters. Which spoke of everything except what was about to happen.
Hans's terse, anxious letters unsettled Sophie. He continued to write steadfastly, to show her his feelings, to be patient. And yet there was a sense of farewell in all the beautiful things he said to her, as though he had accepted they would never see one another again, as though each letter were a prelude to his departure. Did Hans say those things to her because he knew he was leaving? Or, on the contrary, did he say them because in spite of everything he had decided to stay? And if so what was he expecting? Why was he still in Wandernburg? She couldn't ask him this kind of thing in a letter. Or rather, they were not things that could be answered properly without being face to face. And what about her? What were her hopes? In the end, this was the most difficult question of all. As far as she could see, she could hope for nothing. Yet if she tried to be honest with herself, perhaps this unfamiliar resignation, this sadness to which she was becoming accustomed, still contained a measure of hope.
In their daily exchange of letters they did not limit themselves to declaring, or to concealing, their tumultuous emotions. They also made love in writing. And they did this as literally as they could. Some mornings, Hans woke up to a mauve note in which Sophie said simply:
I'm licking the tip. You open your eyes.
Or:
I'm
sitting astride you. Good morning.
Half asleep, Hans would respond:
I'm slipping three fingers inside you. I open my hand.
Or:
I have just soaked you, I'm sorry about your skirts.
Then he would masturbate and go downstairs to breakfast.
Hans crossed the square, head lowered, hands in his frock-coat pockets. When he was plagued by doubt, only walking would calm him. Movement gave him the comforting feeling he was leaving everything behind. So, was it time to move on? Was this his fate? Or was he fleeing? Who was freerâthose who gradually accept they are beaten or those who insist on staying behind in order to experience defeat? As he walked past the ornate fountain, Hans's hat flew off and was blown a few yards. The weathervane on the Tower of the Wind creaked this way and that. Birds circled the steeple, they, too, transformed into minutes.
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Lisa squinted, wrinkled her nose, and breathed through her mouth. The stench began to blend with the fumes of chlorine and sodium. She tipped a couple of buckets of water into the latrines and gave them a scrub before swilling them out again. As soon as she had closed the doors, she exhaled abruptly and kicked the buckets away. When she grudgingly went to pick them up, she cut her knuckles on one of the sharp edges. Lisa let out a cry, raised her fist to her mouth, and, just before licking her knuckles, she paused, and cursed. She went over to the well to wash her hands. As she scrubbed them with soap, she contemplated them in disgustâhow could a man like Hans ever like her if she had hands like this? The marks of the river on her wrists, her chapped knuckles, her split nails, her flayed fingertips. Men like Hans prefer stupid women who have hands like princesses, women like Fräulein Gottlieb who probably didn't even know how to fill a bucket from a well, assuming she could even pick one up. Fräulein Gottlieb, who always smiled
at her falsely when they met on the stairs. Fräulein Gottlieb, who, had it not been for the dresses her father gave her, and the servants who did her hair, would be no better than she. Fräulein Gottlieb, who, incidentally, hadn't been coming to see Hans for how long was it now? They saw each other little and wrote to each other a lot. This, Lisa concluded, drying her hands, was a very good sign.
Lisa went into their apartment to put the starched laundry away. After making sure Thomas wasn't there, she spent a few moments freshening her face and combing her hair. She walked along the corridor humming to herself. In the dining room, the logs were crackling in the hearth, the cauldron was steaming. Herr Zeit was snoozing behind the counter. Lisa peeped into the kitchen. Her mother was busy stirring the broth and chopping up bacon while the potatoes roasted on the fire. Have you done all the ironing? Frau Zeit said without looking round. Lisa wondered how her mother always managed to sense her presence even though her back was turned. Yes, mother, answered Lisa, all of it. What about the latrines? I've done them, too, Lisa sighed. Very good, said the innkeeper's wife, now go and fill the. Sorry, mother, interrupted Lisa, are those vegetables for today? Yes, said Frau Zeit, why? Because, Lisa replied coolly as she reached for a ladle, Herr Hans asked me to bring him his lunch, then you can tell me what else, I'll just take up these two dishes and a slice of bread, and I'll be down at once, mother.
Lisa rested the tray on the floor. She knocked on Hans's door, and, as was her wont, walked in without waiting for a response. The room had a troubled odour. Lisa, who had a very strong sense of smell, was convinced that when a person was troubled their breath became foul and polluted the air. The fire in the hearth had almost burned down. Hans's crumpled clothes lay in a heap on a chair. The top of his dishevelled head peeped out from behind the lectern, between two mounds of books
on his desk. The light filtering through the window scarcely illuminated the mass of papers, where the oil lamp and candles stood unlit.
I've brought you some food, Lisa announced cheerfully. How kind, thank you, murmured Hans. Shall I open the shutters a little? she suggested. As you like, he said. Lisa placed her hands on her hips and gazed at him, discouraged. You look tired, she said. Yes, I am, Hans replied, staring into the plate. Are you angry? she ventured. Me, angry? he replied, raising his head. With whom? With you? Lisa nodded glumly. Hans pushed the plate aside, stood up and went over to her. My dear girl, he said, cupping her face in his hands, how could I be angry with you? Now, at last, Hans had smiled at her. Lisa blinked, her eyes fixing on his warm hands, his splayed fingers, the gentle strength of his thumbs. Life should be like this, exactly like this, always. How wonderful it would be, she reflected, if I fainted right at this moment. She began to feel the blood draining from her head into her breasts, her stomach, her legs. She even thought Hans had moved his face ever so slightly closer, not much, just a little closer, to hers. Lisa! Frau Zeit's voice echoed up the stairs. Lisa, the oil lamps! Hans withdrew his hands from her face and stepped back. Lisa stood motionless. Her face twisted in an expression of loathing. I'm coming! she shouted as she left the room.
That evening Ãlvaro called at the inn, and forced Hans to dress and go out with him. Hans let himself be steered towards Potter's Lane. The noise inside the Picaro Tavern hurt his earsâeveryone was laughing, getting drunk or groping one another openly. On the iron wheels hanging from the ceiling, only every other candle was litâat that time of the evening, it was best not to see too clearly what the customers were doing. Hans stared into his tankard of beer as if it was a kaleidoscope. Not drinking? Ãlvaro asked, surprised. Yes, yes, Hans murmured,
downing half his beer in one go. Ãlvaro made two or three stabs at conversation then placed his arm round Hans's shoulder. How long since you last saw her? he asked. Hans sighed, made the calculation in silence, and replied: Two and a half, nearly three weeks. Ãlvaro began nudging Hans's tankard with his own in an attempt to cheer him up. Hans, who had begun brooding again, had to respond to stop his beer from spilling. The golden liquid sloshed around the tankard, slopped against the rim, settled with a quiver.
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The reddish liquid curled like a tongue, reflecting the carbide lamps as it whirled round, licked the rim of the glass then spilt violently over the lace tablecloth. Two servants instantly came over with damp cloths to clean the stain. Rudi righted his glass and screamed at the servants to close the dining-room doors and to leave them in peace.
Frozen in mid-mouthful, Sophie stared at Rudi through the tines of her fork. She had noticed him raise his voice more often during these past days than he had in a whole year. As soon as the dining room was quiet, he exclaimed: How dare you mention his name in my house! I'm sorry, she said, I didn't think the servants knew who he was. The servants know everything! replied Rudi. They always know everything! I said I'm sorry, Sophie repeated, looking away. How could you! Rudi yelled. That's what I want to know, how could you! My friends already tried to warn me, they told me about the rumours and I wouldn't listen! And do you know why, Sophie? Because I trusted you, I trusted you! Good God, what a betrayal, not to mention the scandal! How ungrateful can a woman be! No, don't let's talk in here! We'll go out into the garden!
Shivering in the damp garden, her eyelids puffy, her voice faltering, Sophie realised it was futile to go on denying it and at last she admitted the truth. And to her surprise, instead
of getting angrier, Rudi calmed down as he listened. He became lost in thought, walking round the bushes like the bloodhound that has just dug up a bone. Sophie felt sorry for him as she watched him pace up and down. And, even as she cursed herself for it, she couldn't help feeling guilty. She had often promised herself that, come what may, she would never regret doing what she had done, of having the courage to follow her desires. Now everything was turning into a disasterâshe had betrayed Rudi, her engagement was hanging by a thread, Hans appeared to be on the point of leaving, and to top it all, she was going against her principles and beginning to regret her audacious behaviour. Just then Rudi began speaking to her again. And how could you prefer him to me? he implored. Moved by Rudi's weakness, Sophie tried to soften the blow. It isn't that I prefer him, she whispered, it's a different feeling. Different? he said. In what way different? Are you fond of me and you love him? Do you love me and desire him? Tell me! Say something! Are you sure you want to go on talking about it? she asked. Haven't I said enough? I demand an explanation, he replied, I need to understand, aren't you supposed to be good with words? In that case explain it to me! Incapable of going on without wounding him further, Sophie preferred to remain silent. She was aware that men's rage requires an antagonist. And that if she avoided confrontation Rudi would be more lenient with her.
Half-an-hour later, still in the garden, the roles had begun to be reversed. Sophie felt in some way relieved now that her secret was out in the open and she had admitted her betrayal. And it was Rudi who, having made his accusations, felt suddenly defenceless. For several months she had been walking a tightrope, and, as she'd expected, she had ended up falling off. But now she could look at Rudi without any pretence. And she began to see that
there was more strength in her honesty as an unfaithful woman than in her fiancé's angry indignation. His recriminations had given way to perplexity, and his perplexity to pain. I thought as much! he howled, stamping his feet. I tell you, I thought as much! You betrayed me! With that fop! And if you thought as much, she said, surprising herself with a show of conjugal pride, then why didn't you come back before? Why did you stay at your spa? How could you be so sure of yourself? Rudi stopped pacing. He stared at the ground and replied: No. I wasn't sure of myself. I've never been this in love with anyone. And I've never felt so unsure of myself as I have with you. Rudi! she sighed, biting her lip. In Baden, he went on, I was plagued with doubts. I doubted myself, you, everything. There were nights when I cried as I fretted over whether to go back to Wandernburg unannounced. But I tried to convince myself that I had to trust in you, in us. That I mustn't behave like the typical jealous husband a woman such as you would never aspire to marry. And in the end I decided to stay, in the hope you'd understand that my absence wasn't a sign that I didn't care, but the hardest test of my love.