Traveller of the Century

Hans felt the urge to spit in Rudi’s face or to embrace him.

As he reached the end of his declarations, Rudi gave Hans a glimpse of the true source of his anxiety. Contrary to Hans’s initial fear, what most troubled him about his betrothal to Sophie was not the appearance of a rival (a possibility he appeared to exclude out of ignorance or conceit) but the doubts that a woman as self-possessed and difficult to please as her could instil in a man such as he.

At that moment, Hans at last saw Rudi. And he understood his torment. And he pitied him. This betrothal might to some degree have been born of convenience — but not on his part. For Rudi it was a consequence of having fallen in love. And for this reason, sensing Hans had affinities with Sophie that were inaccessible to him, the powerful Rudi Wilderhaus was seeking his help, almost unwittingly. For a moment Hans was able to put himself in Rudi’s place, to glimpse the weakness behind his show of strength, to put his finger on the trigger of his fears. And yet, seeing Rudi suffer, he knew he could never be loyal to him, and would never be his friend. And he felt wretched and jubilant, filled with cruel delight, more traitorous than ever, and truer to his desire.

He inhaled the intoxicating morning breeze, held it in his lungs like someone smoking pungent tobacco, breathed out slowly. He walked over to Rudi and without looking him in the eye said: Pass me that gun.

I dare not call this a reply, Sophie, for these hasty lines scarcely honour your radiant letter. Yet I am aware of how soon we forget feelings (not a complete but a gentle, imperceptible forgetting, like an unremembered tune you still hear as a murmur in the background). That is why I wanted to reply urgently, now, this instant. In fact, your letter is impossible to match. Were I to take the time necessary to write the reply you deserve, I would first have to overcome the turmoil your letter has caused me. And if I write to you while under its influence, as I am doing, I will not do justice to its loftiness. If I think about it, your letter can only be replied to with music.

But I have to say something, if only in prose. And it is this, and I don’t know what else. I remember you each day with an overpowering feeling of complicity. An inexplicable complicity that seems to come from somewhere beyond, from many things we haven’t experienced. It is curious. The last few times we have met, I have felt a strong desire finally to xxxxxxx sleep with you. And yet I notice a feeling between us of afterwards — not only the tension of two people who have never touched, but also (and this is what is so strange) the calm intimacy of those who have slept together. And I do not mean, the devil take me, platonically.

And between the before and the after, between the having and the not having slept together, there is this peculiar happiness. Sophie, I can’t think of you without grinning foolishly. That is the good thing.

The good thing is you exist.

Yours, Hans.

I have chosen this moment to write to you because it has suddenly begun to rain, and on hearing the insistence of those playful raindrops and seeing how everything became more faint, I felt an irresistible urge to speak to you. But today there is no salon, nor any credible excuse for me to leave the house. What there is, is an arch of floating clouds that pass from me to you, or from you to me, I wouldn’t know which way they are going. How are you today, you bad boy? What are you translating? I translate what I imagine you would say to me if we could see one another. I also read some of my beloved Duecento poets. Il corso delle cose è sempre sinuoso …

I wish I could converse with you a moment, dear Hans. I love addressing you using formal language, I feel deliciously nervous when I speak to you like that in front of others. I wish I could see you right now and that you were here beside me. Not so that we could sleep together (how reckless of you to say such things to me in a letter? What if someone read them? Don’t you know we young ladies like to be a little more reticent, if not in our desires, then at least in our words? I love your impulsiveness) but in order to stroll along the path to the bridge and to walk beside the river and lose ourselves in the fields.

I send you a kiss of rain, which has just stopped. Has it reached you? Is it refreshing? And, with my kiss, a question. What is the origin of beauty? Do you know? It sounds a little pretentious, I know, but it is a serious question. What is its origin?

S

We shall meet. With or without proper excuses, we shall meet. And in the meantime, yes — let us savour this waiting, which the ancients praised so much. Nowadays everything seems so much more rushed than it did in olden times, does it not? To me, patience is a kind of mysterious flower. A flower all of us, unknowingly, have clasped in our hands. You are teaching me how to pull out its petals, and so forgive me if I crumple it without meaning to.

I am not complaining, though — you sent me a kiss, or so you said.

Xxxx xxxx Sophie, Sophie Gottlieb, I don’t know why my language goes all awry when I write to you. Never has stammering felt so satisfying. I don’t know what I would do first if I were alone with you. Ah, but you say I shouldn’t write such things in a letter. In that case, it gives me great pleasure to tell you in writing that I would do everything that is unmentionable to you … So you see I am repeating what I said, and enjoying it.

You asked me (and you say it is a serious question — of course it is!) what is the origin of beauty. After thinking about it for a long time, I would say it comes from transience and joy. I am almost certain of it. Or perhaps an image would help — beauty originates from the tremors of the bridge between tingling and truth. When that bridge trembles, it means something important is crossing it.

I hear your footsteps. The bridge is trembling.

H

Hans, darling Hans, it upsets me a little to think that the other night, during our precious few hours together in the salon, I was unable to do anything but pretend. Luckily, the next day your beautiful flower arrived with the girl from the inn, thank you so much, again. I slipped it like a treasure between the pages of my album, and there it was this morning until my nosy father saw it peeping out and asked if Rudi had sent it (of course!) and said it had wilted and I should throw it away, because Rudi would be sending me many more. My father doesn’t like things to wilt.

Elsa has just come into the room. I must leave you now, I shall take this opportunity to give her my letter. But no, I am not leaving you. Un bacio all’italiana e spero ansiosamente di rivederti presto, amore.