No, no, Lamberg suddenly declared, narrowing his eyes, Hans is right. I’m never sure why I stay here. I don’t know what I’m doing at the mill or where I might go next. I’m the same as Hans, but I don’t move.
The fire and Lamberg’s eyes competed, sparking off one another.
I can’t help it, Hans went on, when I stay in one place for a long time I notice I don’t see so well, as if I were losing my eyesight. Things begin to look like one big blur, and nothing amazes me any more. On the other hand, when I travel everything is a mystery, even before I arrive. For instance, I love going by stagecoach and observing my fellow travellers, I invent lives for them, speculate about why they are leaving or arriving somewhere. I wonder whether something will happen that will bring us together or whether we’ll never meet again, which is more likely. And, since it is almost certain we’ll never meet again, it occurs to me this intimacy is unique, that we could remain silent or declare ourselves, you know the kind of thing; for example, I look at one of the ladies and think: I could tell her right now “I love you”; I could say “Madam, I want you to know I care”, and there would be one chance in a thousand that instead of looking at me as though I had lost my mind, she’d say “Thank you” or smile at me (my eye! said Reichardt. The lady would slap you in the face for being so forward), yes, of course, but she might also ask “Do you mean it?” or confess “It’s been twenty years since anyone said that to me”, do you see? What I mean is it thrills me to think that this is the only time I will ever meet the passengers in this stagecoach. And when I see how quiet, how serious they are, I can’t help wondering what they’re thinking as they look at me, what they must feel, what their secrets are, how much they suffer, whom they love. It’s the same with books, you see mounds of them in bookshops and you want to read them all, or at least to have a taste of them. You think you could be missing out on something important, you see them and they intrigue you, they tempt you, they tell you how insignificant your life is and how tremendous it could be. Everyone’s life, Álvaro declaimed in a comic voice, is both insignificant and tremendous. How young you are, Hans, said the organ grinder. Not nearly as young as I look, Hans replied with a grin. And such a flirt! Álvaro added. Hans hit him on the head with a twig. Álvaro pulled Hans’s beret down over his face and jumped on top of him. They rolled around the floor, laughing aloud, while Franz joined in excitedly, looking for a chance to enter the fray.
I see mysteries everywhere, too, the organ grinder said pensively, only, like I was telling you today, I see them without having to leave the square. I compare what I see with what I saw yesterday, and I tell you, it’s never the same. I look around and I see if one of the fruit stalls is missing or if someone is late for church or if a couple have had a quarrel or if a child is sick. Do you think I’d notice if I hadn’t been to the square so many times? I’d feel giddy if I travelled as much as you do, I’d have no time to concentrate. You think it’s so wonderful, Reichardt said mockingly, because you get mesmerised just looking at the view. I’m almost as old as you. (Which of you is older? Hans asked, amused.) That’s a rude question, whippersnapper! Can’t you see with your own eyes? He is, he is, look at my arms, feel! My problem is I get bored. I’m not so curious any more, as if places had aged like me. I mean, everything’s the same, but diminished.
Hans looked at Reichardt, drained his glass and said: What you just said is brilliant. “Everything’s the same, but diminished.” I don’t think you realise how brilliant, damn it. I’ll realise whatever you like, as long as you pass the bottle, Reichardt retorted. In short, said Álvaro, there seem to be two types of people, wouldn’t you say? Those who always leave and those who always stay put. Well, and there are also those of us who first leave and then stay put. The way I see it, the organ grinder asserted, is this — there are those who want to stay put and those who want to leave. All right, said Álvaro, but wanting to leave and leaving aren’t the same thing. Take me, for example, I’ve wanted to leave Wandernburg ever since, well, it doesn’t matter, for a long time now, yet look, I’m still here. Thinking of leaving is one thing, but actually doing it is another. My dear man, the organ grinder said, am I not always on the move? But you’re different, said Hans. (No, no, said the organ grinder, letting Franz lick the palm of his hand, we’re just like everyone else aren’t we, boy?) You know where your home is, you’ve found your place, but apart from a few exceptions like you (and Franz, the organ grinder said, don’t forget Franz), seriously, though, I think that in order to know where we want to be we have to travel to different places, get to know things, people, learn new words (is that travelling or running away? the organ grinder asked), that’s a good question, let me think, well — it’s both, travelling can also be running away, but that’s not a bad thing. And running away isn’t the same as looking ahead either.
Lamberg spoke once more: I’ve always dreamt of running away to America. To America or any place where you can start afresh. I’d like to start afresh.
Lamberg went quiet and gazed into the fire as if attempting to read a map in the flames.
The organ grinder’s bony fingers played along Franz’s flank as the dog began to fall asleep. I’ve hardly travelled at all, he said, and honestly, Hans, I admire all the things you’ve seen. When I was young I was afraid to travel. I thought it might lead me astray. Lead you astray? said Hans, puzzled. Yes, explained the organ grinder, I thought it might lead me into thinking my life was different, but that this illusion would last only as long as I went on travelling. I don’t know, Álvaro reflected, leaving or staying, perhaps that’s a simplistic way to look at it. In fact, it’s impossible to be fully in one place or to leave it completely. Those who stay could always have left or could leave at any moment, and those who have left could have stayed or could always come back. Doesn’t virtually everyone live like that, on the frontier between leaving and staying? Then you’d feel at home in a port city, like Hamburg, Hans said. I had a home once and lost it, sighed Álvaro. I’ve just remembered an Arabic proverb, Hans said, placing a hand on Álvaro’s shoulder — he who follows a path becomes the path. What the hell does that mean? said Reichardt. I don’t know, Hans grinned, proverbs are ambiguous things. The best path is a winding path, declared Álvaro. Is that another proverb? Reichardt asked, belching. No, replied Álvaro, I just made that up. The best path, Reichardt ventured, is the one that leads to the sea. I haven’t seen the sea in thirty years! The best path, suggested the organ grinder, is the one that leads you to the point of departure.
For me the best path, Lamberg spoke again, would be the one that makes me forget the point of departure.
The organ grinder thought this over. He was about to respond when Lamberg leapt to his feet, brushed off his corduroy jacket and wool breeches. I have to go, he said, gazing at the dying embers. It’s late and I’m working tomorrow. Thanks for the supper. The organ grinder stood up laboriously and offered him a last swig of wine. The four others said goodbye without getting up. Before stepping through the cave mouth, Lamberg turned and said to Hans: I’m going to think about what you said. With that he vanished into the night.