Traveler of the Century Read Online Free Page B

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.
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    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