Traveler of the Century: A Novel

To the memory of my mother, which echoes and echoes.

To my father and brother, who listen to it with me.

Table of Contents

Title Page

THE LIGHT HERE IS ANCIENT

ALMOST A HEART

THE GREAT HANDLE

SOMBRE CHORDS

THE WIND IS USEFUL

Copyright Page

Strange old organ grinder,

Should I stay with you?

Will you churn out a tune

To the sound of my singing?

Wilhelm Müller/Franz Schubert

Europe, dragging your tattered rags,

Will you come one day, will your day come?

Adolfo Casais Monteiro

Trees have roots and I have legs.

George Steiner

Wandernburg: moving city sit. approx. between ancient states of Saxony and Prussia. Cap. of ancient principality of same name. Lat. N and long. E indeterminate due to shifting co-ord. […] Hydro. R. Nulte non-navigable. Econ. activity wheat-growing and text. ind. […] Despite accounts of chroniclers and travellers, precise loc. unknown.

THE LIGHT HERE IS ANCIENT

A-ARE YO-UU C-COLD? THE coachman shouted, his voice fragmented by the jolting of the coach. I-I’m f-fine, th-ank yo-uu, replied Hans, teeth chattering.

The coach lamps flickered as the horses sped along the road. Mud flew up from the wheels. The axles twisted in every pothole, and seemed about to snap. Their cheeks puffing, the horses blew clouds from their nostrils. An opaque moon was rolling above the horizon.

For some time now Wandernburg had been visible in the distance, to the south. And yet, thought Hans, as often happens at the end of an exhausting day, the small city seemed to be moving in step with them, and getting no nearer. The sky above the carriage was heavy. With each crack of the coachman’s whip the cold grew bolder, pressing against every outline. I-s the-ere mu-mu-ch f-f-urther t-oo g-oo? asked Hans, sticking his head out of the window. He had to repeat the question twice before the coachman heard him above the din and shouted, pointing with his whip: A-as yo-uu ca-an s-eee! Hans was uncertain whether this meant they were only a few minutes away or that it was impossible to tell. Since he was the only remaining passenger and had no one to talk to, he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again he saw a stone wall and an arched gateway. As they drew closer, Hans sensed something odd about the thickness of the wall, as if it were a warning about how hard it would be to leave rather than to enter. By the dim light of the coach lantern he could make out the shapes of the first buildings, the round-cut tiles like fish scales on some of the rooftops, the needle spires, the ornaments shaped like vertebrae. He had the impression he was arriving in a place that had just been evacuated, where the clatter of hooves and the wheels jolting on the cobblestones were producing too loud an echo. Everything was so still, it seemed as though someone was spying on them with bated breath. The carriage turned a corner, and the horses’ gallop was suddenly muted—they were now on a beaten earth track. They went down Old Cauldron Street. Hans caught sight of an iron sign swinging in the breeze. He told the coachman to stop.

The man climbed down from his perch. When he reached the ground, he looked puzzled. He took a few steps, peered down at his feet, smiled uncertainly. He patted the lead horse’s neck and whispered some words of thanks in its ear. The animal replied with a snort. Hans helped him untie the ropes from the luggage rack, pull back the wet canvas, then unload his case and a big trunk with handles on it. What have you got in there, a dead body? complained the coachman, dropping the chest to the ground and rubbing his hands. Not one dead body, Hans said with a smile, several. The man laughed abruptly, although a twitch of alarm flitted across his face. Will you be spending the night here too? asked Hans. No, the coachman explained, I’m going on to Wittenberg. I know a good place to sleep there, and there’s a family who have to get to Leipzig. Then, looking askance at the creaking inn sign, he added: Are you sure you wouldn’t like to ride on a little farther? Thanks, replied Hans, but this is fine. I need some rest. As you wish, sir, as you wish, said the coachman, clearing his throat several times. Hans paid him, refused the coins he offered in change, and bade him farewell. Behind his back he heard the crack of a whip, the creak of wood, and the thud of hooves moving off.

It was only when he was on his own outside the inn that he noticed a shooting pain in his back, sensed his muscles tremble and heard a pounding in his ears. He could still feel the jolting coach—the lights seemed to waver, the stones to be shifting. Hans rubbed his eyes. The windows of the inn were steamed up, making it impossible for him to see inside. He knocked on the door, where a Christmas wreath still hung. No one came. He tried the frozen handle, then pushed the door open. He saw a corridor lit by oil lamps suspended from hooks. The warmth drew Hans in. From the far end of the corridor came the crackle of an open fire. He struggled to drag the case and trunk inside. He stood beneath one of the lanterns, trying to warm up. With a start, he saw Herr Zeit staring at him from behind the reception desk. I was on my way to let you in, Herr Zeit said. The innkeeper moved extremely slowly, as if he were trapped between the counter and the wall. He had a huge, barrel-shaped belly, and smelt of musty fabric. Where have you come from? he asked. I’ve come from Berlin, said Hans, not that it really matters. It matters to me, young sir, Herr Zeit cut in, not suspecting that Hans had meant something else. How many nights do you intend to stay? Just one, I suppose, said Hans, I’m not sure yet. Well, when you’ve decided, please let me know, said the innkeeper, we need to be sure which rooms will be available.

Herr Zeit searched for a candlestick, then led Hans down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. As Hans watched the rotund figure heaving himself up each step, he was afraid he might come crashing down on top of him. The entire inn smelt of burning oil, the sulphur from the lamp wicks, and a mixture of sweat and soap. They reached the first-floor landing and carried on up. Hans was surprised to see that all the rooms appeared unoccupied. On the second floor, Herr Zeit paused at a door with the number seven chalked on it. Recovering his breath, he declared proudly: This is our best room. He took a battered ring laden with keys out of his pocket, and after several attempts and muttered curses, they entered the room.

Candlestick in hand, Herr Zeit ploughed his way through the darkness over to the window. When he opened the shutters, there was the sound of creaking wood and a cloud of dust flew up. Rather than illuminating the room, the feeble light from outside seemed to seep into the darkness like a gas. It gets quite sunny in the mornings, Herr Zeit explained, because it faces east. Hans screwed up his eyes to examine the room. He could make out a table and two chairs. A camp bed with a pile of folded woollen blankets on it. A zinc bathtub, a rusty chamber pot, a washbasin on a stand, a water jug. A brick-and-stone chimney piece with a ledge that seemed too narrow to accommodate any objects (Only rooms three and seven have a hearth, Herr Zeit announced) and beside it were several tools: a small shovel, a poker, a pair of blackened tongs, an almost bald brush. In the fireplace lay two charred logs. On the wall opposite the door, between table and tub, Hans’s attention was drawn to a small painting that looked to him like a watercolour, although he could not see it properly. One more thing, Herr Zeit concluded solemnly, taking the lamp over to the table and sliding his hand along the surface. It’s pure oak. Hans stroked the table contentedly. He glanced at the candlesticks with their tallow candles, and at the rusty oil lamp. I’ll take it, he said. He was immediately aware of Herr Zeit helping him out of his frock coat and hanging it on one of the nails in the wall beside the door—the coat stand.

Wife! the innkeeper bellowed, as if he had just woken up. Wife, come up here! We have a guest! Instantly there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs. A broad-beamed woman appeared in the doorway, wearing skirts and an apron with a huge pouch over her bosom. Unlike her husband, Frau Zeit moved swiftly and efficiently. In a trice she had changed the bed sheets for a slightly less yellowing set, given the room a cursory sweep, and vanished downstairs again to fill the water jug. When she reappeared with it, Hans drank greedily, almost without pausing for breath. Will you bring his luggage up? Herr Zeit asked. His wife sighed. Her husband decided the sigh meant she would, and so, after nodding to Hans, he in turn disappeared down the stairs.

Lying on his back on the bed, Hans could feel with his toes how rough the sheets were. Closing his eyes, he thought he could hear scratching sounds from beneath the floorboards. He drifted off to sleep, letting all his cares slide away, and said to himself: Tomorrow I’ll gather my things and move elsewhere. If he had examined the ceiling closely with a candle, he would have seen the huge cobwebs between the beams. Hidden among them, a spider watched over Hans’s sleep, thread by thread.

He woke up late, his stomach empty. A warm sun was dancing over the table, flowing down the chairs like syrup. Hans washed in the handbasin, opened his case, and dressed. Then he went over to the small painting and confirmed that it was indeed a watercolour. The frame seemed to him rather too ornate. When he took it down to examine it more closely, he discovered a tiny mirror on the back. He hung it up again, this time with the mirror facing towards him. He filled the basin with the water left in the jug, broke off a piece of soap, rummaged for his shaving brush, his razor and his colognes. He whistled while he shaved, unaware of what it was he was whistling.

On his way downstairs he ran into Herr Zeit, who was climbing the steps laboriously one by one. He was carrying a small notebook, and asked Hans to pay for the night’s lodging before breakfast. It’s a house rule, he said. Hans went back into his room and came out with the exact sum, plus a one-groschen tip, which he gave to the innkeeper with a wry smile. Down on the ground floor Hans had a look around. At the far end of the corridor he could see a large dining room with a blazing hearth and a big cooking pot over the fire. Opposite it was a sofa, which, as Hans quickly discovered, sank in the middle as soon as you sat on it. On the other side of the corridor was a door, which he imagined must lead to the Zeits’ apartment. Next to the door stood a Christmas tree that was so exquisitely decorated he could scarcely believe either of them could have been responsible for it. Out the back of the inn he discovered a courtyard with latrines and a well. He made use of one of the latrines, and returned feeling much better. A raft of smells caught his attention. He strode towards it and found Frau Zeit chopping chard in the kitchen. Hams, strings of sausages and sides of bacon hung like silent sentinels. A pot was boiling on the stove. Row upon row of frying pans, serving spoons, cauldrons and saucepans refracted the morning in whorls of light. You’re late, sit down, Frau Zeit ordered, without looking up from her chopping. Hans did as he was told. We usually serve breakfast in the dining room, she went on, but I can’t leave the fire now, so you’d best have it in here. On the board were laid vegetables, a basted joint of meat, the rippled skins of potatoes. A tap was dripping into a sink full of dirty dishes. Underneath were piled baskets of firewood, coal and slack. Farther off, stacked among a jumble of pitchers and jars were small sacks of beans, rice, flour, semolina. Frau Zeit dried her hands on her apron. In one swift movement she sliced through a fresh loaf, and spread jam on it. Placing a bowl in front of Hans, she filled it with ewe’s milk, then poured coffee in until it slopped over the sides. Will you be wanting eggs? she asked.

Recalling how desolate Wandernburg had seemed the night before, Hans was surprised at the hustle and bustle in the streets when he went out after breakfast. Although all the activity seemed somehow restrained, Hans had to accept the evidence that people did indeed live in the city. He wandered aimlessly around. Occasionally, he thought he had lost his way in the narrow, steep streets, at other times he realised he had walked in a circle. He discovered that the coachmen of Wandernburg avoided slowing down so as not to pull on their horses’ mouths, and only gave him a few seconds to jump out of their way. As he walked, he noticed lace curtains being drawn aside, then closing again. When Hans tried to smile courteously in the direction of some of these windows, the shadows immediately withdrew. Snowflakes threatened to turn the air white, but were quickly engulfed in mist. Even the pigeons fluttering above his head seemed to crane their necks to look at him. Bewildered by the winding streets, his feet sore from the cobblestones, Hans paused in the market square for a rest.

The market square was the place where all the streets of Wandernburg converged, the centre of its map. At one end was the town hall, with its red-tiled roof and pointed turrets. At the opposite end stood the Tower of the Wind. Seen from the pavement, its most prominent feature was the square clock face sprinkling the time over the square below. Yet from the top of the tower, even more impressive was the arrow on its weathervane, which quivered and groaned as it twisted this way and that.

In addition to the stalls selling food, peasants came to the market square from the surrounding region, their carts laden with produce. Others turned up hoping to be taken on as day labourers in the fields. For some reason Hans could not understand, the traders peddled their wares almost in whispers, and haggling was carried out in hushed tones. He bought some fruit at a stall. He strolled on again, amusing himself by counting the number of lace curtains that twitched as he went past. When he raised his eyes to look up at the Tower of the Wind, he realised he had missed the afternoon coach. Resigning himself to the fact, he walked round in circles three or four times more until he found himself back in Old Cauldron Street. Night had fallen like a curtain.

Walking along the streets of Wandernburg after dark, passing mouldy arches and isolated street lamps, Hans experienced the same sensations as when he had first arrived. He could see that the city’s inhabitants went home early, almost scuttling back to their houses for safety. Their place was taken by cats and dogs, disporting themselves as they pleased, gnawing at any scraps of food they could find in the streets. As he was entering the inn and reflecting that the Christmas wreath had disappeared, Hans heard the cry of a nightwatchman. He was coming round the street corner, wearing a hood, and carrying a long pole with a dim light on the tip:

Time to go home, everyone!

The church bell has chimed six,

Watch over your fire and your lamps,

Praise be to God! All praise!

Herr Zeit seemed surprised to see him, as if he had been expecting his guest to vanish into thin air without warning. Everything in the inn was as quiet as before, although as he passed by the kitchen Hans counted six dirty plates piled up next to the sink, from which he deduced there were four other guests. His calculation turned out to be wrong, however, because as he headed for the staircase a slender figure emerged from the door to the Zeits’ apartment bearing a Christmas tree and a box of candles. This is my daughter, Lisa, said Frau Zeit in a hurried introduction as she scurried down the corridor. Still wedged between the counter and the wall, Herr Zeit himself noted the ensuing silence and shouted: Lisa! Say hello to the gentleman! Lisa smiled mischievously at Hans, calmly shrugged her shoulders and went back inside without saying a word.

The Zeits had had seven children. Three were now married; two had died of the measles. Still living with them were Lisa, the eldest, and Thomas, a boisterous child who wasted no time in bursting into the dining room where Hans was eating dumplings with bread and butter. Who are you? asked Thomas. I’m Hans, said Hans, to which Thomas replied: Then I don’t know who you are. With that he stole a dumpling, wheeled round, and disappeared down the corridor.

When he heard Hans’s footsteps going upstairs, the innkeeper struggled to prise his belly free and came to ask if he were planning to leave the next day. Hans had already decided he was, but Herr Zeit’s insistence made him feel as if he were being turned out, and so in order to contradict him he said he did not know. The innkeeper seemed extraordinarily pleased at this reply, going so far as to ask Hans whether he needed anything for his room. Hans said he did not, and thanked him. When Herr Zeit still stood there, Hans added in a friendly tone that apart from the market square, the streets of Wandernburg seemed to him rather dark, and he mentioned the gas lighting used in Berlin or London. We don’t need all that light here, declared Herr Zeit, hitching up his trousers, we have good eyesight and regular habits. We go out by day and at night we sleep. We go to bed early, and get up early. What do we want gas for?

Lying on his back in bed again, Hans yawned, tiredness mingling with bewilderment. He promised himself: Tomorrow I’ll gather my things and move on.

The night barked and meowed.

Atop the Tower of the Wind, piercing the mists, the weathervane seemed about to fly off its hinges.

After another stroll over the frosty ground, Hans had the strange feeling that the city’s layout somehow shifted while everyone was asleep. How could he lose his bearings so completely? It was beyond him—the tavern he had lunched at the day before was on the opposite corner from where he remembered it, the clangs from the smithy, which should have been on the right as he turned the corner, surprised him by coming from the left, the sloping street that went down now went steeply up, a passageway he remembered walking through which should have opened onto an avenue was a dead end. Feeling his pride as a seasoned traveler challenged, Hans booked a seat on the next coach for Dessau, and then resolved to familiarise himself with the maze of streets through which he was wandering. And yet, no sooner had he congratulated himself on two or three successes than he realised to his dismay he was lost again. The only easy place to find was the market square, which he kept going back to in order to get his bearings. Killing time before his coach left, trying hard to memorise the city’s cardinal points, he was standing in the square like a sundial, his thin shadow cast over the cobblestones, when he saw the organ grinder arrive.

Moving laboriously yet gracefully, as though as he shuffled along he imagined he was dancing, the grizzled organ grinder came into the square pulling his barrel organ, leaving its track in the fresh snow. With him was a black-haired dog. With an innate sense of rhythm, the dog always kept the same distance from its master, respecting his every pause, stagger, change of pace. The old man was dressed after a fashion in a threadbare-looking dark overcoat and a translucent cape. He came to a halt on one side of the square. Slowly and carefully, he spread out his things, as though miming what he was going to do later. Once installed, he untied the battered umbrella fastened to the cart handle. He opened it and placed it on top of his instrument to protect it from the flurry of snow. This gesture touched Hans, who stood waiting for the organ grinder to play a tune.

The old man was in no hurry, or he enjoyed dawdling. Beneath his beard Hans saw him smile knowingly at his dog, which gazed up at him, its triangular ears pricked. The barrel organ was of modest size—sitting on the cart, it barely reached the organ grinder’s waist, obliging him to stoop even lower to play it. The cart was painted green and orange. The wooden wheels had once been red. Enclosed by a metal hoop barely holding them together, they were not round but a more uneven shape, like the years they had spent rolling. The front of the organ had once been decorated with a naive landscape of a tree-lined river.

Hans never felt nostalgia for anything: he preferred to think about his next journey. And yet, when the organ grinder began to play, something touched the edge of something. When he heard the barrel organ’s metallic past, Hans sensed that someone else, some past self, was trembling inside him. Following the melody as if it were words streaming on the wind, Hans experienced something unusual—he was aware of what he was feeling, he could see himself being moved. He was listening because the barrel organ was playing, the barrel organ was playing because he was listening. Hans had the impression that the organ grinder was not so much playing as trying to remember. With an airy hand, his fingers stiff with cold, he turned the handle. As he did so the dog’s tail, the square, the weathervane, the light, noon itself, went spinning round and round, and as soon as the tune was approaching the end, the organ grinder’s timekeeping hand created not so much a pause, or even a silence, more a slight tear in a fabric, before turning the handle again, so that the music started up once more, and everything carried on spinning round, and it was no longer cold.

Coming back down to earth, Hans found it odd that no one else seemed to notice the barrel-organ music. Used to it, or in too much of a hurry, everyone walked by without even looking. Finally, a small boy stopped in front of the organ grinder. The old man said hello with a smile to which he responded shyly. Two huge shoes planted themselves behind the boy’s loose shoelaces; a voice leant over saying: Don’t look at the man, can’t you see the way he’s dressed? Don’t bother him, come along now, come along. In front of the old man was a shiny dish into which people would occasionally drop small copper coins. Hans noticed that those showing this consideration did not stop to listen to the music either, but left the money as if they were giving it to a beggar. This did not seem to spoil the organ grinder’s concentration, or the rhythm of his hand.

At first, Hans was content to watch him. After a while, as though waking up from a dream, he realised that he too was part of the scene. He walked over noiselessly, and, in an attempt to show his appreciation, bent over to leave an offering that was twice as much as what was already in the dish. At this, for the first time since he had arrived, the organ grinder straightened up. He smiled openly at Hans with an expression of calm content, then carried on playing, unperturbed. Hans assumed the old man had not interrupted his playing because he knew he was enjoying the music. More matter-of-factly, the organ grinder’s dog appeared to think this called for some sort of formal recognition—he squinted as though the sun had just come out, opened his jaws very wide and unfurled his long pink tongue.

When the organ grinder took a break, Hans decided to talk to him. They stood for a while conversing, the falling snow soaking their clothes. They discussed the cold, the colour of Wandernburg’s trees, the differences between the mazurka and the cracovienne. Hans found the organ grinder’s polite manners charming, and the organ grinder appreciated the deep timbre of Hans’s voice. Hans looked at the clock on the Tower of the Wind and calculated that he had an hour left before going back to the inn to fetch his luggage and wait for the coach. He invited the organ grinder for a drink at one of the taverns in the square. The organ grinder accepted with a nod and added: In that case I must introduce you two. He asked Hans’s name, then said: Franz, this is Herr Hans, Herr Hans, this is my dog, Franz.

To Hans it seemed that the organ grinder followed him as if he had been expecting him that morning. On their way to the tavern, the old man stopped to greet a couple of beggars. He exchanged a few friendly words that revealed he knew them, and as he took his leave he handed them half the money from his dish, then calmly carried on walking. Do you always do that? Hans asked, gesturing towards the beggars. Do what? said the organ grinder. You mean the money? No, no, I couldn’t afford to. I shared what you gave me today so that you know I’m accepting your invitation not out of self-interest, but because I like you.

When they reached the door of the Central Tavern, the old man ordered Franz to wait outside. Bringing the barrel organ with them, they went inside, Hans first, then the organ grinder. The Central Tavern was crammed to the rafters. The stoves, the oven and the tobacco smoke created a blanket of heat that smothered voices, breathing and smells. The smokers blew out spirals like ribcages—a smoke animal devoured the patrons. Hans pulled a face. Doing their best to protect the barrel organ, they managed with difficulty to make a tiny space for themselves at the bar. The organ grinder had a dreamy smile on his face. Less relaxed, Hans resembled a prince watching a carnival. They ordered two wheat beers, and, elbow-to-elbow, raised their glasses in a toast before resuming their conversation. Hans said he had not seen the old man the previous day. The organ grinder explained that in wintertime he went to the square every morning, but never in the afternoons because it was too cold. Hans still had the feeling that they had missed out the main topic, that they were both talking as though they had already said the things that in fact had not even been mentioned. They ordered two more beers, followed by another two. That’s good, the old man said, his whiskers covered in froth. Through the bottom of his glass, Hans’s smile was lopsided.

A coachman came here asking for you, Herr Zeit declared. He waited a few minutes then stomped off angrily. Herr Zeit added thoughtfully, as if he had reached this conclusion after a great deal of effort: It’s Tuesday already! Playing along with him, Hans replied: Quite right, it’s Tuesday. Herr Zeit seemed satisfied and asked whether he planned to stay more nights. Hans paused, genuinely unsure this time, and said: I don’t think so. I really must get to Dessau. Then, since he was feeling quite merry, he added: Although you never know.

Ensconced on the sofa in the dining room, her face glowing orange in front of the fire, Frau Zeit was darning a pair of enormous socks: Hans wondered whether they belonged to her or her husband. When she saw him come in, she stood up. She told him his supper was ready and asked him not to make any noise because the children had just gone to bed. Almost at once, Thomas contradicted her by bursting through the door clutching a handful of lead soldiers. Colliding with his mother, he stopped dead, a pale skinny leg flailing in mid-air. And as swiftly as he had arrived he turned tail and ran. A door slammed in the Zeits’ apartment. Instantly, a shrill adolescent voice screamed out Thomas’s name, followed by some other protests they could not hear. The little scallywag, the landlady muttered under her breath.

Lying in bed, mouth half-open as though waiting for a drip to fall from the ceiling, Hans listened to his own thoughts: Tomorrow for sure, at the very latest the day after, I’ll gather my things and leave. As he drifted into oblivion he thought he heard light footsteps padding down the corridor and pausing outside his room. He even imagined he could hear someone breathing nervously on the other side of the door. But he could not be sure. Perhaps it was his own breathing, growing gradually deeper, his own breathing, his own, his.

Hans had gone to the market square to find the organ grinder. He had discovered him in the same place, in the same position. On seeing him, the old man had gestured to his dog and Franz had gone to greet him, tail wagging from side to side like a metronome. They had shared a lunch of warm soup, hard sheep’s cheese, bread with liver pâté and several beers. The organ grinder had finished his day’s work and now they were strolling together along the River Walk towards High Gate, where Wandernburg ended and the countryside began. After objecting to Hans paying for his lunch, the old man had insisted on inviting him to his house for tea.

They walked side by side, waiting for each other whenever the organ grinder stopped pushing the cart to catch his breath, Hans lagged behind to peer into a side street or Franz paused to lift his leg here and there. By the way, asked Hans, what’s your name? Well, the old man replied, switching to a less formal way of addressing him, as if they were already firm friends, it’s an ugly name and since I seldom use it I hardly remember what it is. Just call me organ grinder—that’s the best name for me. And what’s yours? (Hans, said Hans.) I know that, but what’s your surname? (Hans, repeated Hans, laughing.) Well, what does it matter, eh? Hey, Franz, will you stop pissing on every stone please? We have a guest for tea today, behave yourself, it’s getting dark and we’re not home yet, good, that’s what I like to see.

They walked through High Gate, continuing along a narrower earthen track. The countryside opened out before them, smooth and white. For the first time, Hans saw the vastness of the U-shaped plain to the south-east of Wandernburg. In the distance he glimpsed the hedges of crop fields, the pastures for the farm animals, the sown cornfields lying in frozen expectancy. At the end of the path he could make out a wooden footbridge, the ribbon of the river, and beyond it a pinewood and rocky outcrops. Surprised at not seeing any houses, Hans wondered where the old man was taking him. Sensing Hans’s thoughts, and at the same time adding to his bewilderment, the organ grinder set down his cart for a moment, took him by the arm and said: We’re almost there.

Hans calculated that they had walked more than half a league from the market square. Had he been able to climb the rocks behind the pinewoods, he would have had a panorama of the whole of the surrounding countryside and the city. He would have been able to observe the highway along which he had traveled on the first night, as it skirted the eastern edge of the city—at that very moment, several coaches were making their way north to Berlin, or south to Leipzig. On the far side, to the west of the plain, the air was stirred by the sails of the windmills around the textile mill with its brick chimney stack polluting the atmosphere. In the hedged fields, a few peasants were dotted about, carrying out the first hoeing of the year, slowly scratching at the soil. And snaking through it all, a silent witness, ran the River Nulte. Too shallow for boats, the Nulte was an anaemic river. Its waters seemed worn out, resigned to their fate. Bordered by two rows of poplars, the Nulte trickled through the valley as though in search of help. Looked at from the top of the hill, it was a loop of water flattened by the wind. Less a river than the memory of a river. Wandernburg’s river.

They crossed the tiny wooden footbridge over the Nulte. The pinewood and the stony outcrop seemed to be the only things ahead of them. Hans did not dare ask where they were going, partly out of politeness and partly because, wherever they were going, he had enjoyed discovering the outskirts of the city. They walked through the pinewood almost in a straight line. The wind hummed in the branches, the organ grinder whistled to echo the sound, and Franz echoed his master’s whistles with barks. When they had reached the first rocks, Hans said to himself that the only possibility left was for them to go through the rock.

And, to his astonishment, that was what they did.

The organ grinder stopped in front of a cave and began unloading his cart. Franz ran inside and trotted out with a morsel of herring in his mouth. Hans’s first thought was that this must be some mistake. On second thoughts, it struck him as altogether wonderful. And that nobody in a long while had surprised him as much as this old man. The organ grinder, who was smiling at him again, welcomed him with a sweep of his arm and said: Make yourself at home. Hans responded with a theatrical bow, stepping back a few paces in order to get a better view of the cave’s setting. On close inspection, and ignoring the fact that it bore no resemblance to a house, the cave could not have been better situated. There were enough pine trees surrounding it to soften the effects of the wind or the rain, without making it inaccessible. It was close to a bend in the River Nulte, and thus guaranteed a source of water. Unlike other barren, muddy areas at the foot of the hill, the entrance to the cave was blessed with a thick patch of grass. As though concurring with Hans, the organ grinder said: Of all the caves and grottos in the hill, this is the cosiest. As he stooped to enter, Hans discovered that, although undeniably damp, the cave was warmer than he had expected. The old man lit some tinder and tallow candles. By their light, the organ grinder took Hans on a tour of the cave, showing him every nook and cranny as if it were a palace. One of the great advantages to this dwelling is the lack of doors, he began, which means Franz and I can enjoy the view from our beds. As you see the walls aren’t exactly smooth, but the irregularities break the monotony and create an interesting play of light, and what light! (The old man raised his voice, wheeling round with surprising agility—the candle he was carrying traced a faint circle on the walls, sputtered, but stayed alight.) Besides, how can I put it, they provide plenty of opportunity to enjoy some privacy or sheltered sleep. The reason I mention privacy (the organ grinder whispered, winking) is because Franz is a bit nosey, he always wants to know what I’m doing, sometimes it feels like he’s the owner of the house. Anyway, sshh! I didn’t say a word, let’s carry on! Here we have the back of the cave, which, as you can see, is simple, but notice how still, how quiet it is, all you can hear are the leaves. Ah, and as for the acoustics, the echoes are amazing, when I play the barrel organ in here it feels as if you’ve downed a bottle of wine in one.

Hans listened to the organ grinder spellbound. Although he found the damp, the gloom and the dirtiness of the cave uncomfortable, he thought it would be an excellent idea to spend the evening or even the night there. The old man lit a fire with some broom, dry grass and newspaper. Franz had been down to the river to drink and had come back shivering, his fur standing on end, the flecks on his paws a little paler. When he saw the fire, he trotted over to it, almost singeing his tail. Hans burst out laughing. The organ grinder passed him a demijohn of wine he kept in a corner. Only then, in the glow of the fire the old man had lit, could Hans appreciate the entire cave and study its odd furnishings. A few bits of clothing hung from a rope stretched across the entrance. Beneath the rope, the sharp point of the umbrella was embedded in the ground. Next to the umbrella were two pairs of shoes, one almost in tatters, stuffed with balls of paper. Lined up against the wall in order of size stood a row of earthenware cups, some plates, empty bottles with corks in them, tin pitchers. In one corner lay a straw pallet, and on top of it a heap of sheets and scraps of filthy wool. Scattered around the mattress like a ruined dressing table lay bowls, small wooden boxes and pieces of soap. A bunch of newspapers was hanging between two rock ledges. At the back of the cave was a pile of shoeboxes filled with pins, screws and various pieces of equipment and tools necessary for repairing the barrel organ. Spectacularly out of place in the midst of all this lay the immaculate rug the instrument sat on. There was not a single book in sight.

There were two temperatures in the cave now. Within a half-yard radius of the fire, the air was warming up, caressing their skin. An inch beyond that, the room was freezing, lending a hard outline to everything. Franz appeared to be asleep, or intent on getting warm. Rubbing his hands together, Hans puffed into them. He pulled down his liberty beret, wound his scarf twice more round his neck, turned up the collar of his frock coat. He gazed at the organ grinder’s threadbare overcoat, its baggy seams and worn buttons. Aren’t you cold in that? said Hans. Well, it’s seen better days, the old man replied. But it brings back good memories, and they keep us warm, too, don’t they?

The fire shrank slowly.

A few days after meeting the organ grinder, Hans was still intending to leave Wandernburg at any moment. And yet, without really knowing why, he kept putting off his departure. One of the things that most captivated Hans about his new acquaintance, besides the way he played his instrument, was his relationship with his dog. Franz was a Hovawart with a broad forehead, an alert muzzle and a bushy, restless tail. He was as sparing with his barks as if they were coins. The old man would let Franz guide him through the countryside; he would talk to him and whistle tunes from the barrel organ to lull him to sleep. Franz seemed to have a remarkable ear for music, and would growl if the old man stopped in mid-tune. Occasionally they would look at one another knowingly, as though they could both hear some inaudible sound.

Without giving away too much, Hans had explained to the old man that he was a sort of traveler, who journeyed from place to place, stopping off at unfamiliar destinations to discover what they were like, then moving on when he grew bored, felt the urge to travel again or found something better to do elsewhere. A few days earlier, Hans had suggested to the organ grinder that he accompany him to Dessau. The old man, who never asked questions Hans did not seem happy to answer, proposed he stay on another week and keep him company before leaving.

Hans usually woke up late, later anyway than the handful of other guests who, to judge by the leftover food, the footsteps on the stair and the sound of doors opening and closing, were also staying at the inn. He would eat his breakfast under the watchful eye of Frau Zeit, whose furious prowess with the kitchen knives would have woken him, or he would go out for a bite to eat at the Central Tavern. There he would read for a while, have a coffee, or more precisely two coffees, and after that would go to meet the organ grinder. He would listen to him play, watch him turn the handle and let his memory spin round in circles. To its rhythm, he would think of all the places he had visited, about the future journeys he would make, about people he did not always wish to remember. Some days, when the hands on the Tower of the Wind said it was time to go, Hans would accompany the organ grinder home. They would leave the city centre, stroll along River Walk and through High Gate, follow the narrow earthen path to the footbridge, cross the babbling waters of the River Nulte, and traverse the pinewood until they reached the rocky outcrop. On other days, Hans would pass by the cave later, and the organ grinder would welcome him with an open demijohn and a blazing fire. They would pass the time drinking wine, talking, listening to the river. After the first few nights, Hans lost his fear of the path and grew used to going back to the inn on foot. Franz would accompany him part of the way, only turning back when the lights of High Gate came into view. Herr Zeit would get out of bed to unbolt the door for him, fat cheeks furrowed, grunting and cursing to himself, snoring in his slippers. Hans made his way upstairs, wondering how much longer he could put up with the rickety old bed.

The Zeit family would rise at first light, when Hans had only been asleep a few hours. Herr Zeit made them gather round while he read a short passage from the Bible, then the four of them ate breakfast in their apartment. Afterwards, they would each go off to fulfil their different duties. Herr Zeit would take up his position behind the reception desk, spreading the newspaper over his formidable belly as though it were a lectern, and there he would stay until shortly before midday, when he went out to settle a few bills and other payments. He would stop off on the way home to drink a few beers and listen to the local gossip, which he maintained was part of his job. In the meantime, Frau Zeit would tackle a long list of chores that included cooking, fetching firewood, doing the ironing and cleaning the rooms, and ended after supper with a last bit of darning in front of the fire. Then the frown would fade from her brow; she would cast off her apron and parade around the bedroom in the flannel gown she insisted on calling her kimono, swaying her hips with a mixture of sadness and faded charm.

Thomas’s sister Lisa would take him to school. Besides being constantly on the move and never finishing his homework, the boy had a habit that infuriated his sister—he was fond of easing his stomach by letting out little explosions. Each time he did so, Lisa would march out of the bedroom they shared and fetch their mother, who would come and give him a scolding. While Frau Zeit bawled him out and threatened punishment, Thomas would begin again. So, amid giggles and explosions, explosions and giggles, Thomas would finish dressing. He came home every day for lunch, and attended Bible class twice a week. Lisa did not go to school, even though she had always been a more hard-working pupil than her brother. After dropping him off, Lisa would return to help at the inn, shop for groceries in the market square or wash linen in the Nulte. In winter this was the hardest chore, because the washerwomen had to search for stretches that were not iced over. Lisa was tall for her age and quite thin, although in the past year she had begun to fill out, a fact of which she was proud and faintly uneasy. Her skin was smooth and downy, except for her hands—in contrast to the softness of her neck or shoulders, Lisa’s hands were coarse. Her knuckles were red, her fingers chapped, the skin above her wrists raw from the freezing water. Hans noticed this one morning when he wanted to take a hot bath. Lisa was ferrying pans of boiling water up and down the stairs to fill the tub. He suddenly found himself staring at her hands, but she snatched them away, ashamed, and concealed them behind her back. Abashed, Hans tried to distract the girl by engaging her in conversation. Lisa seemed to go along with the ploy, and for the first time since his arrival uttered more than a few words to him. Hans was surprised at how knowledgeable and self-assured she was, although at first she had seemed so timid. When the bathtub was almost full to overflowing, Hans turned to open his case and had the impression Lisa was lingering in the room. As soon as he heard the door close, he felt foolish for even having entertained such a thought.

Worried about the frugality of the organ grinder’s meals, which consisted mainly of boiled potatoes, salted herring, sardines or hard-boiled eggs, Hans would take with him to the cave a little meat, a wheel of sheep’s cheese or some of Frau Zeit’s sausages. The organ grinder accepted these delicacies, but the moment Hans left, fed them to Franz. When Hans discovered his ruse, the old man explained that, although grateful for his generosity, he had promised himself many years ago he would only live off what his barrel organ could provide, which was why he played it in the first place. Hans finally managed to win him over him by persuading him they were simply dining together. One evening, as they were both tucking in to a piece of larded beef and a bowl of rice with vegetables, Hans asked him whether he ever felt lonely in the cave. How can I feel lonely, replied the organ grinder, chewing his beef, when I have Franz watching over me? Isn’t that right, my boy? (Franz trotted over and licked his hand, using the opportunity to help himself to a small chunk of beef.) Besides, my friends come to see me. (Who are they? asked Hans.) You’ll meet them soon enough, you’ll meet them soon enough (the organ grinder topped up his glass), I expect they’ll show up tomorrow or the day after.

Sure enough, a couple of days later, Hans found two other guests at the cave when he arrived—Reichardt and Lamberg. Nobody knew Reichardt’s exact age, but it was obvious he was at least twice as old as Lamberg. Reichardt scraped a living as a hired field hand. He would offer his services to hoe, plough, sow or do a few days’ work on seasonal tasks. He lived crowded together with his fellow labourers on church lands about twenty minutes from the cave. Reichardt was one of those men whose once relatively youthful appearance makes them look even older as they age; their lean bodies betraying more starkly the ravages of time. He suffered from stiff joints, and his hairless skin was cracked and blotchy from the sun. Half his teeth were missing. Reichardt took pleasure in using swear words; he preferred them to the actual subject of a conversation. That evening, when he saw Hans arrive, he greeted him by saying: Shit, so you’re the fellow who comes from who-knows-where. Pleased to meet you, replied Hans. You don’t say? Reichardt replied with a guffaw. Shit, organ grinder, he’s even daintier than you said he was!

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 equally—he 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 drinker—he 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.

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 baffling—he 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 halls—a 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