On their way to Café Europa, Álvaro confessed, in the nonchalant tone men sometimes adopt when revealing their feelings to another man: For a moment I thought you’d left. Why? asked Hans. It’s hard to explain, replied Álvaro, whenever I spend time with my relatives speaking in my own language, I feel as if Wandernburg no longer exists or has disappeared off the map, do you know what I mean? As though each day it were drifting farther away, and then I begin to think my friends are no longer there, or that they were perhaps a figment of my imagination. Álvaro, dear Álvaro, Hans laughed, I can’t decide whether you’re a fantasist or just plain sentimental. Is there a difference? Álvaro grinned.
Hans stopped dead amid the criss-cross of reflections in Glass Walk. Just a moment, he said, but, but wasn’t the café over there, opposite the. Bah, Álvaro shrugged, it’s always the same story. Just keep walking, it’ll turn up.
They played billiards, talked about London and browsed the foreign press. In the Gazette, Álvaro read an article about the revolt in Catalonia. Banners showing King Ferdinand dangling by his feet were waved, the unrest spread to Manresa, Vich, Cervera. The peasants joined the uprising backed by some dissident army members. That is good news isn’t it? remarked Hans. More or less, Álvaro said, it reeks of Carlism to me, I hope they don’t try to topple a traitor and crown an imbecile. What exactly is Carlism? asked Hans. Oof, sighed Álvaro, that’s what we Spaniards would like to know. Well, if you have the time I’ll try to explain it to you. Although the Carlists themselves would be hard pressed to do that.
Hans listened with astonishment to Álvaro’s account of modern Spanish politics. And, as his friend had warned, it wasn’t easy to understand. That is, Álvaro summed up, the bastard Ferdinand plots against his traitorous father, is tried and absolved, and later on his father abdicates in favour of him, so far so good? Napoleon kidnaps them both, blackmails Ferdinand into returning the crown to his father, and his father hands it over to Napoleon’s brother. Aren’t we the limit! Ferdinand gives up his freedom, or rather he gives banquets at his castle until the war of independence is over. The bastard Ferdinand plays the martyr, and, as always, the people welcome him as if he were the Messiah. Bonaparte recognises Ferdinand as the bastard King of Spain, the republican constitution is torn up and the restoration begins, right? The bastard king accords an amnesty, some of us return and he reluctantly accepts the Constitution of Cádiz, which as you can imagine wasn’t upheld for very long. (I understand, nodded Hans, more or less, and what did you do after that?) For a while I thought of staying in Spain, but things didn’t look good and Ulrike wasn’t convinced either, our life was already elsewhere, and, besides, we planned to raise a German family, which we never did. Wait, I’ll have the same again. My God, if you existed! We leave again, the liberal era is soon over, and in ’21 there’s a revolt in Barcelona. I try to go and join it, but when my coach reaches the Pyrenees we are told the uprising is being put down, and at that point, I admit, I turned around and went back to Wandernburg. Do you know the thing I most regret in life, besides not having had a child with Ulrike? Not having pressed on that day. (Don’t talk nonsense, said Hans, what could you have done?) How should I know! I could have given them money, fired a few shots, anything! (Although I know you have, I find it hard to imagine you shooting someone.) Don’t be so shocked, there are times when violence is the only way of getting justice (I doubt it, Hans disagreed, folding his arms), doubting it or fearing it, my friend, doesn’t make it any less true.
Yes, the same again, thank you, where were we? Álvaro resumed. Ah, yes ’23. We could see it coming, Metternich and Frederick William had already tried it out in Italy. The hundred thousand bastard sons of Saint Louis arrived, fully armed, you see! To lend Ferdinand a helping hand, and that was the end of the constitution and of everything else. The Holy Alliance occupied Spain more completely than Bonaparte ever had, they persecuted half the population, the Inquisition was revived and so, my friend, my country returned to its favourite place — the past. That is Spain for you, Hans, an eternal merry-go-round. Scheiße! Do you like Goya? So do I, have you by any chance seen a painting called Allegory of the City of Madrid? Well, no matter. In this painting is a medallion with a portrait of Joseph Bonaparte. Like many other Enlightenment figures, Goya had sworn loyalty to him, but when Madrid is liberated from the French, Goya replaces the head of Joseph Bonaparte with the word constitution, what do you think of that? And when the French take back the city, he repaints the head. After the final victory, Don Francisco Goya did not hesitate to replace it once more with the word constitution, but wait! In 1815 he covers the word up with a portrait of that bastard Ferdinand, whose head remains there until the Liberal Triennium. After that the constitution is reinstated in the painting until ’23, and so on. You see what a merry-go-round Spain is! In my view Goya is the greatest genius in all of Europe, and that painting is the supreme expression of Spanish history (I wasn’t aware Goya was so calculating), no, Hans, he wasn’t calculating, half of Spain was doing the same thing, waiting to see who the victors were in order to save their own skins. Some people did it for their children’s sake, others to safeguard their positions, I’m sure I would have done the same for Ulrike. It’s as simple as that. And in the end what did we others do? We left.
Here’s to the other Spain, Álvaro said, emptying his tankard, which they always destroy. It happened with the Catholic monarchs, and then the Counter-Reformation, it went on happening for three centuries, it happened again in 1814, and then again in 1823, who knows when it will happen next. A country as conservative and as monarchist as Spain can only breed cynical rebels, and cynical rebels can only end up being punished by the fatherland (the fatherland doesn’t exist, said Hans, you blame everything on the fatherland! But it’s patriots, not the fatherland, who do the punishing), no, no, you’re wrong, of course it exists, that’s why it causes us so much grief. (Well, in that case, from a purely patriotic standpoint did you grieve over the loss of Spain’s colonies?) Did I? On the contrary! I rejoiced! It was high time we gave up the pretence of empire and focused on our own disasters. And the same goes for the Turks in Athens. I was delighted by poor Riego’s actions, he was a true patriot! A Freemason, a Francophile and a Spanish general (what did he do? Tell me), well, instead of going to defend Spain’s colonies in the Americas, he revolted, demanded the reinstatement of the Constitution of Cádiz and led the movement into Galicia and Catalonia. Perfect! Why attack the Americas? I doubt Bolívar will treat his people any worse than our Viceroys did (perhaps not, but let’s wait and see what the national oligarchies do after independence), ah, that’s a different matter, I think they’d be well advised to unite. (You see, empires are real, fatherlands aren’t!) You’re an obstinate soul, aren’t you? (So, what happened to the general?) Who? You mean General Riego? Nothing, he was executed to loud applause in a pretty square in Madrid.
In honour of Sophie’s visit, the organ grinder had decorated the entrance to the cave with a row of geometric shapes cut out of newspapers, hanging from the clothesline. Lamberg and Reichardt had helped him dust off the largest rocks and he had improvised some seating out of burlap sacks stuffed with wool. In order to create some atmospheric lighting, he had placed the open umbrella in front of a row of candles. He had arranged the earthenware tumblers, the plates, the bottles and tin mugs neatly on two trays, each on a straw chair. Outside were several little piles of wood and kindling to light the fire for the tea. Between them they had managed to give Franz a bath in the river; he had put up a struggle and growled throughout while Lamberg held him in his vice-like grip. In the middle of the cave, the barrel organ stood on its rug like an arbitrary statue or humble effigy — the organ grinder had changed the barrel for one containing the most lively dances. Although the plan was to have a simple picnic on the grass, the organ grinder knew how much this visit meant to Hans, and he wanted to make a good impression on Sophie. Do you think it’s too gloomy? he asked Reichardt, pointing to the umbrella. Reichardt rubbed his nose, made a sound like a blocked drain, and said: It’s fine so long as we can see her cleavage.