Hans went to the cave at noon every day. He brought the old man lunch, made sure he drank liquids and stayed with him until nightfall. Depending on how strong he felt, they would talk or remain silent. The organ grinder slept a lot and complained very little. Hans felt he was more afraid than the sick man. Franz was also nervous — he kept up a continuous watch, letting out vaporous breaths through his nose, and one afternoon he had tried to bite Lamberg when he called at the cave. Some nights Hans had fallen asleep by the old man’s bed, and had woken up shivering next to the embers. He would relight the fire before going back to the inn, crossing the bridge in darkness, as he had so many times that year. But those walks through the pitch-black countryside that had once seemed mysterious to him, with the flashes of excitement that come from wilfully exposing oneself to danger, now seemed long, tiring and reckless. As soon as he returned to his room, he pulled on as many layers of clothing as he could, collapsed onto his bed and fell into a deep sleep. He dragged himself out of bed at first light. Splashed his face with cold water, drank three cups of coffee in quick succession, wrote to Sophie and settled down to do some translation. He spent ages lost in thought, mumbling to himself as he pored over a book written in hostile, mysterious, unfathomable language.
One day he was late leaving the inn. When he saw how full each passing coach was, and the long queue waiting in the market square, he resolved to walk. Instead of taking the usual route along River Way, he took a short cut along a track that crossed the open fields and came out on the path to the pinewood. He set off, his mind blank. The wintry rain had turned the path to slush. The breeze, like a torn sack, fluttered feebly in all directions. Far off, the furrowed cornfields to the south appeared and disappeared from sight. A mottled light blurred the contours of the landscape. This was a day (reflected Hans) for painters, not ramblers. When he attempted to estimate how far he was from the pinewood, he realised he had lost his way.
He glimpsed the cornfields straight ahead of him and managed to get his bearings. He walked towards them in order to be sure of not straying. On the horizon he could see a row of farm labourers stooped over the ground. As he approached the edge of the field, Hans noticed the crooked figure of an elderly labourer. He stopped to look at him.
Across the fence, a man looked up, trying to work out why the devil the fellow with his hair flying in the wind was staring so intently. For a split second (he convinced himself it wasn’t true) he thought the man was staring at him. The labourer spat (it was all right for some, did the young dandy have nothing better to do?) and bent down once more. (He had to work fast. It was no joke. The Rumenigge’s overseer was foaming at the mouth. He had bawled at them for being two days late with the ploughing. Had complained that some of the furrows were as crooked as snakes. And had told them that as of the next day their wage would be halved unless they made up the lost time. The overseer was right, but if they ploughed more quickly it would only make matters worse. And if they sowed the seed any old how, the seedlings wouldn’t have enough cover. How long was it since the overseer had planted seed? If they hurried they would sow badly. But if they didn’t they’d be paid less. That was the way things were today. Anyone who didn’t work fast was never hired again, like Reichardt. And why did the long-haired idiot insist on staring?) Hiking up the sack once more and clutching it under his left arm, the farm labourer thrust his hand inside, scattering another handful of seed, trying to trace a complete circle with his wrist (and how the devil was he supposed to sow quickly when the wind was changing all the time, making it impossible to scatter the seed?)
Hans moved away from the edge of the field still staring at the line of peasants combing the ground with their hoes, dibbers and mattocks. While he strolled along, he tried to think of how to say hoe, dibber and mattock in the languages he thought he knew. And he wondered why his translations were so bad of late?
Once he found the path again, he quickened his pace, his mind on the medicines he had to administer to the organ grinder. Now that the old man’s strength was waning, Hans fully realised how fragile his journey, his love, his stay in the city, his certainties were. And he knew, or he accepted, that he was not looking after his friend only out of loyalty — he was doing it above all for himself, so as not to take to the road once more, to cling to Wandernburg, to Sophie, to the happy days he had spent at the cave, to delay the moment when he would leave, as he had always left every place, every city, every country he had travelled through.
Near the bridge a flock of crows sailed across the grey clouds, fanning out among the branches of the trees, waiting for the seeds in the cornfields to be left unattended. One of the crows plummeted in such a straight line it looked as though someone had dropped a stone from one of the branches. Others followed, cawing noisily. Amid the riot of beaks Hans could see the purple entrails spilling from a sheep’s open belly, a swirl of flies.
As he crouched beside the organ grinder, the old man opened his eyes and tried hard to smile. You’ve walked a long way, he said, stifling a cough, where did you go? How did you know? Hans said, surprised. You’re a witch! Don’t be silly, the old man said, your boots are muddy, very muddy. Ah, of course, grinned Hans, I took a short cut and got lost. I’m going to let you into a secret, said the organ grinder, kof, listen — do you know what you have to do in order not to get lost in Wandernburg? Always take the longest route.
Hans heard the sound of someone dismounting, and looked outside to see who it was. The air had congealed, the sun was drawing away from things. I thought I’d find you here, Álvaro said, embracing him. Hans could smell a mixture of horse’s mane and women’s perfume on his shirt. How is he? asked Álvaro. (Hans shrugged.) And your publisher? (Not terribly pleased with me, said Hans, I’m late with all my work.) And Sophie? (I wish I knew, said Hans.) Suddenly, the organ grinder gave a cry and they went inside the cave. They found him talking in his sleep. Is he often delirious? asked Álvaro. Sometimes, answered Hans, dabbing the old man’s face, it depends, these past days his temperature has gone up. Yesterday, he was so feverish he wasn’t himself at all. I think he’s slightly better today.
Seeing his master was being looked after, Franz went out to scavenge for food. His eyes filled with sky. The horizon raced. The light scattered the clouds, like a torch spreading panic.
The fever raged and calmed, flared up and went cold, it climbed the organ grinder’s brow then yielded a little, letting him rest. Hans was sleeping four hours a night and had asked his publisher for a week’s grace.
Hey, Hans, the old man spluttered. Ah, Hans turned round, you’re awake? I’m always awake, replied the old man, kof, especially when I’m asleep. Hans wasn’t sure if this was the fever talking or if he was serious. Hey, guess what I dreamt about? the organ grinder said. Something amazing, kof, I always say that, but this is special, see what you think, I dreamt about a man who had two backs. Hans stared at him with a mixture of surprise and alarm. He tried to imagine the man with two backs, to form a clear image of such a creature, until it made him shudder. The man with two backs would spend his life looking in two directions, leaving everywhere twice, or arriving and leaving everywhere he went at the same time.