Traveler of the Century Read Online Free

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