Traveler of the Century by Andrés Neuman Page A

apply to people? For me there’s no greater joy than being reunited with a friend I’ve not seen for a long time. What I mean is, we also go back to places because we love them, don’t you think? And loving someone can be like a homecoming (being older, I think that love, love of places, people or things, is about harmony, and harmony for me is to be at rest, to observe what’s around me, being happy to be where I am, and, well, that’s why I always play in the market square, because I can’t imagine a better place), places and things stay the same, but people change, we change. (My dear Hans, places are constantly changing, haven’t you noticed the branches, the river?) No one notices those things, organ grinder, everyone walks around
without seeing, they become accustomed, accustomed to their houses, their jobs, their loved ones, and in the end they convince themselves that this is their life, there can be no other, it’s just a habit (that’s true, although love can be a habit, too, can’t it? Loving someone could be, I don’t know, like living inside that person), I think I’m getting drunk, Hans sighed, slumping back onto the pallet. The organ grinder stood up. I think we need a third opinion, he announced with a grin. He poked his head out of the cave and proclaimed: What do you think, Franz? But Franz did not bark, and went on lifting his leg calmly against a pine tree. The organ grinder looked at Hans, who sat head in hand. Come on, the old man said, cheer up. What would you like to hear, a waltz or a minuet?
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    Herr Zeit saw the dark lines under Hans’s eyes and cleared his throat. Good morning, he said, it’s Friday already! Yes, Hans replied, without much enthusiasm. But then immediately thought: Friday! and remembered the salon was that afternoon. He pulled himself together, instinctively tidied his hair, and felt a sudden rush of tenderness towards the innkeeper’s rippling belly. Do you know something, Herr Zeit? he said, to make conversation. I was wondering the other day why there aren’t more guests at the inn. Are you unhappy with the service? said Herr Zeit apparently offended. I didn’t mean that at all, Hans explained hurriedly, I’m simply surprised the inn is so empty. There’s nothing strange about it, Frau Zeit’s voice chimed in from behind. Hans wheeled round and saw her walking towards them, carrying a pile of logs. It’s the same every year, she said, in winter we have next to no guests, but in spring and particularly in summer, we get so busy we even have to hire a couple of servants to attend to all the guests. Herr Zeit scratched his belly. If you stay on until the season begins, you’ll see for yourself, said the innkeeper. I was also wondering, Hans
added, where I might send a telegram from. I haven’t seen any telegraph offices. There aren’t any in Wandernburg, replied Herr Zeit, we don’t need them. When we have something to say to each other we do it in person. When we want to send a letter, we wait for the postman and we give it to him. We’re simple folk. And proud of it.
    Lisa! Are you bringing that laundry in or what? yelled Frau Zeit. Lisa came in from the backyard carrying a basket full of stiff linen. She had an annoyed look on her face and her hair was speckled with snow. When she saw Hans in the passageway, she dropped the basket on the floor as though it didn’t belong to her, and pulled down her jersey, which filled out slightly. Here it is, Mother, she said looking at Hans. Good morning, Lisa, he said. Good morning, she beamed. Is it very cold outside? he enquired. A little, she said. Noticing that Hans was holding a cup, Lisa said: Is there any coffee left, mother? Later, Frau Zeit replied, first go and fetch the groceries, it’s getting late. Lisa sighed. Well, she said, I’ll see you later, I suppose. Yes, see you later, he nodded. When Lisa closed the