Listen, Álvaro said at last looking straight at him, you are aware of the trouble you’re getting into, aren’t you? Hans gave a sigh, more of relief than unease. A smile flickered over his lips. Then he looked down, contemplated the dregs of his coffee, shrugged and said: It’s out of my control now. And I don’t want to control it. Álvaro nodded. After a measured pause, he went on: What about Sophie? Sophie, replied Hans, has more courage than both of us together. And the wedding? said Álvaro. I suppose it’ll have to go ahead, murmured Hans, Sophie doesn’t need saving, only loving. But do you seriously love her? asked Álvaro. So seriously, said Hans, that I know very well I mustn’t obstruct this wedding. And afterwards? said Álvaro. Afterwards, replied Hans, I’ve no idea. We’ll either continue seeing each other … Or? Álvaro pressed him. Or I’ll leave for Dessau, concluded Hans, where Herr Lyotard is expecting me.
Álvaro’s hat continued to smoke, as if it was on fire. They did not notice when a fly landed on the brim. The fly liked it. It stayed there.
Tell me something, Álvaro said, if you’re so in love with Sophie, how can you stand her being with another man while she’s with you? Because while she’s with me, Hans grinned, she’s not with anyone else. Yes, but you’re not the only one, said Álvaro, and when you really love. The truth is, Hans interrupted, we’re never the only ones. Everyone is or thinks about being with others. Come now, said Álvaro, you don’t fool me, don’t pretend you aren’t jealous when you think of her and Rudi together! (The fly began crawling over the hat, rubbing its tiny legs on the shiny fabric.) I’m not saying I never feel jealous, replied Hans, only that my jealousy doesn’t depend on what she does. One can be eaten up with jealous imaginings. But aren’t you afraid of losing her? Álvaro insisted, that she’ll choose someone else, Rudi or some other man? Of course! said Hans. I just doubt I could prevent that by being the only man she sleeps with, do you see? I’d even go so far as to say one is more likely to lose a woman if one tries to stop her meeting other men. And what if she meets someone else and falls for him, Álvaro argued. There’s always that danger, Hans admitted, but frustrated curiosity is an even greater peril. We can become obsessed with someone we’ve never touched precisely because we’ve never touched them. That’s why I always mistrust faithful women, don’t laugh, they’re capable of idealising another man so much it becomes impossible for them not to fall in love with him. Don’t relationships between faithful couples fail? And how many marriages survive thanks to lovers? I’m still not sure, sighed Álvaro, if you’re pulling my leg, or if you genuinely believe this. My dear fellow, replied Hans, I do believe you’re becoming conservative in your old age! Álvaro shook his head: This is the young man in you speaking. When you’re young you enjoy playing with ambiguity. But as you grow older you stop being certain of almost everything, and you cling like a leech to the few things you know — the one you love, your family, your territory. I’m not as young as you think, replied Hans, and, aside from Sophie, I’m no longer certain of anything. And what about her, does she share your ideas? asked Álvaro. Oh, very much so! Hans chuckled. And besides … Besides what? Álvaro enquired, leaning closer. (The fly’s tiny wings quivered, threatened to take off.) And besides, Hans whispered, that way she’ll give me more pleasure, she can teach me what she learns with others. Oh, please! Álvaro exclaimed. Now you’re being cynical! No, no, Hans bridled, it’s impossible to be cynical when you’re in love. And I’m more in love with Sophie than I’ve ever been with anyone. How can I explain, for me there’s nothing more beautiful than feeling chosen, do you understand? Anyway, either report me to Father Pigherzog or buy me another coffee, it’s your turn. Coffee, no, said Álvaro, whisky. Waiter! Two whiskies, please! Both for this gentleman!
It was then they saw the fly.
What do we have to translate today, she asked slipping back into her white stockings. The Italians, he said, and the Portuguese. But first look at this.
Hans searched through his trunk and passed Sophie a copy of Atlas. In the centre pages was a selection of a young French poet they had translated together. And, underneath the heading, an introductory note accredited to Sophie. What’s this? she said, surprised. When did I write this? You didn’t, he replied, you said it. That day, I wrote down your ideas, copied them out, and sent them off together with the poems. And as you can see, the publishers of the magazine thought it was brilliant. C’est la vie, mademoiselle Bodenlieb.
We can do nothing with Camões, said Hans, because he’s already published and the translations are good. Have you heard of Bocage? You haven’t? He has no reason to envy the greats. I’ve jotted down some queries, there are a few verses I don’t quite understand, what does pejo mean exactly, and capir? We have this (Hans handed Sophie a small, thick volume: A Pocket Dictionary of Italian, Spanish, Portuguese and German Languages, published in London in 1799), have a look at the poems.
Hark Marilia to the shepherds’ pipes,
Their merry lilt, their happy sounds!
How the Tagus smiles! And can you hear
The breezes dancing among the flowers?
See how in their playful love
They invite our most ardent kisses!
Look how innocent from plant to plant
The idling butterflies splash their colour!
Over in yonder bush waits the nightingale,
While amongst its leaves hovers a bee
Or suddenly buzzes through the stirring air!
Such a happy landscape, so clear a morn!
And yet if in seeing this I saw not thee,
Worse than death it would seem to me.
Yes, said Sophie, I think “breezes” works better than “zephyrs”. What about the butterflies, asked Hans, is “floating” better than “idling”? No, no, said Sophie, “idling” is better, because it gives the impression they take their time going from flower to flower, and inadvertently show us their colours.
Sophie worked in silence, head down. She went over the different versions, copied them out and consulted the dictionary. Hans became caught up watching her, so serious and concentrated, the long fingers of her right hand stained with ink, and he found her terribly beautiful. He tried to go back to the draft of the sonnet he had translated, but something buzzed in his ears like Bocage’s bee. Then he said: How is Rudi? Sophie looked up; Hans didn’t mention him very often, for which she was grateful, and she was surprised. Well, said Sophie, he is all right, he seems to have calmed down. On Monday I received a jet bracelet and a mother-of-pearl comb, so I suppose all is well.
Importunate reason, pursue me not;
Your harsh voice whispers in vain
If with terms of love or force of gentleness
You rule not, nor contrast, nor soften;
If you attack the mortal instead of giving succour
If (knowing the disease) you offer no cure,
Let me linger in my madness;
Importunate reason, pursue me not;
Your aim, your wish is to corrupt my soul