What I like doing, kof, the organ grinder protested, is going out to work, I can’t stay here all day thinking. What you can’t do, Hans, chided him in earnest, is wander round outside in this condition. But I’ve only got a, kof, a cold! the old man insisted. His words sounded distant, as if the layers of blankets Hans had placed on top of him were muffling his voice.
Less than a week after his return to the square, the organ grinder had been obliged once more to take to his bed. The damp breeze and intermittent rain had given him a chill. His cough was persistent now, it had gone onto his chest. His temperature would not go down. His bones ached. Hans would wrap him in woolly layers, before helping him out his bed so he could urinate. A dark liquid dripped feebly from his shrivelled member, making a hole in the frost.
If Lamberg had entertained the possibility of stopping to greet Sophie in Archway, this was because she had been unexpectedly friendly on the two or three occasions when they had met. Lamberg had very clear ideas about Wandernburgers such as the Gottliebs — their good name and their appearance meant more to them than other people and their lives. He had always mistrusted Sophie, and yet the unaffected way in which she had behaved at the cave had made him reconsider. This was why it hurt him so much that when he plucked up the courage to smile and approach her she had walked straight past him. Would he tell Hans when he reached the cave? No, what was the point, he would only leap to her defence. What a fool I am, he said to himself, striding angrily down Bridge Walk, I never learn.
Lamberg thought the organ grinder looked less pale than the day before, but still poorly. When he saw Lamberg arrive, the old man put down his spoon and tried to get out of bed. Hans restrained him gently and pulled the covers back over him. Álvaro, who had just arrived, handed Lamberg a bottle of schnapps. Lamberg declined with a brusque gesture that startled Franz. Never say no to schnapps, my lad, the organ grinder said, even dogs know that! Lamberg allowed himself to smile for the second time that day, sat down on the edge of the straw pallet and raised the bottle.
The fire blazed. Cold air wafted in and out. Álvaro’s horse was gone. The schnapps was finished. And what about you? Lamberg asked, what did you dream about? This morning, the old man said, before I woke up, I dreamt of a lot of women standing in a row with their hands raised, and do you know the strangest thing? They were all wearing black, except one. Why do you think that was? Hans asked with interest. How should I know? the organ grinder replied, it was a dream!
Just as the poplars by the river had difficulty holding onto their leaves, and the waters of the Nulte began to ice over, and the streets became slippery, Sophie and Hans’s resolve began to falter, to lose its momentum. Meeting alone was becoming more and more complex. The rumours were no longer a possibility or something to guard against, but a fixed routine that dogged them in every street, on every corner, behind every shutter. Elsa and Sophie would circle the inn, gradually approach the doorway, and glance about before slipping inside. Their random encounters grew briefer — the days were shorter and she and Elsa had to be home before nightfall. Some afternoons, because of the timing or the hurry, Elsa was unable to visit Álvaro, and this affected her mood and her willingness to make excuses for Sophie when she went out. Sophie did not always manage to keep her temper with her father or to behave affectionately towards her fiancé. And Hans could not stop thinking of Dessau. They even argued now some afternoons.
I didn’t say I wanted to leave, replied Hans, tugging at the blankets. Before I met you I travelled all the time, and, well, I just wanted to know if, given the opportunity, you’d have the courage to follow me. Sophie sat up, pulled the blanket over to her side, and said: Given the opportunity? I must remind you I’m about to marry, and I can’t leave my father all alone, not to mention subject him to such a scandal. Don’t forget, I’ve told you many times — it’s not so easy to escape from here. In the end, given the opportunity, you could as easily stay in Wandernburg in order to be with me as I could leave here in order to be with you, don’t you think?
They said goodbye obliquely, without giving one another a last kiss, the way people do when they don’t know when they will see each other again. In the doorway, he offered to accompany her to the baroque fountain. Leave together? Are you crazy? she said. There’s already enough gossip, I’d better go alone as always. But it’s different now, he insisted, the streets are darker and emptier, I could pretend to be walking behind you, just for a few minutes, if we cover our faces properly no one will recognise us. Listen, my love, she said, pulling on her gloves and folding her cashmere shawl into three, it’s very kind of you, but I have to go.
Sophie peeps out into Old Cauldron Street. She looks to left and right, fastens her bonnet and sets off. The contrasting warmth of her cheeks and the chill air has the effect of slightly lowering her spirits. She imagines Elsa must be waiting for her, and quickens her pace. She can still feel a prickle of moisture between her legs. Although uncomfortable, the reminder makes her smile. A bitten moon climbs the sky.
Near the corner of Archway, installed in the shadows between the street lamps, the figure in the long coat hears a woman’s shoes approach. He narrows his eyes, judges the distance, puts on his mask. When Sophie passes the corner, he waits a few moments before moving away from the wall. He begins walking at a slow pace. He leaves Jesus Lane and follows her. He walks behind her at a steady distance. Sophie hears or senses something moving behind her. She holds her breath and listens hard — all she can hear are her own alarmed footsteps. She walks on, nervously. She glances behind her. She sees no one. Even so, she quickens her pace. The masked figure gradually shortens the distance between them, taking great care his feet strike the ground in tandem with his victim’s nervous steps. He estimates that twelve or fifteen strides will bring him close enough. Less than eight or ten, now. A few yards from the inescapable, Sophie has the happy idea of suddenly stopping in her tracks. Caught off guard, the masked figure cannot avoid taking a few more steps before coming to a halt. She clearly hears the echo of feet that aren’t hers. Then she reacts. She drops everything — her parasol, her shawl, her ridiculous bag. She takes off. She runs as fast as her legs will carry her, screaming at the top of her voice. For a moment the masked figure hesitates — usually his victims attempt to flee when he is closer to them. Flustered, he gives chase, calculating how long he has until the end of the alley. After covering half the distance separating them, he doubts he will catch her before they come perilously close to the next street, which is more brightly lit. Still chasing her, he slows down. Sophie reaches Potter’s Lane and turns into it, crying for help. The masked figure stops dead, turns round and runs off in the opposite direction, towards the darkness. Just then a nightwatchman blows his whistle and comes over brandishing his lamp.