So, kof, tell me, said the organ grinder, do you think dreams speak the truth? Who knows, said Hans trying to stop thinking about the man with two backs, although Novalis said dreams occur somewhere between the body and the soul, or at a moment when body and soul are chemically joined. (I see, kof, said the old man, and does that mean dreams speak the truth?) Well, more or less. (Just as I thought, said the organ grinder, closing his eyes.)
Hey, Hans, said the organ grinder, opening his eyes, are you still there? (I am, I am, he replied, dabbing his brow with a damp cloth.) I’m bored, Hans, I haven’t, kof, played my barrel organ for days, kof, how long has it been? If I can’t, kof, if I can’t play it I become bored, and so does he (Hans glanced at the back of the cave and couldn’t help feeling a pang when he saw the bulky instrument a blanket draped over it), kof, that’s what I regret most, Franz and I have no music, kof, we spend hours listening to the wind.
Kof, Hans, hey Hans, the old man woke up again, talk to me about something (what, for instance? asked Hans), anything, whatever comes into your head, you talk about lots of things (I don’t know, he hesitated, you’ve caught me unprepared, let me see, I can’t think of anything, actually I can), kof, I thought so! (I’ll go on telling you about Novalis, the fellow I just mentioned, do you remember?) Kof, of course I do, I’m dying, not suffering from amnesia (you’re not dying), yes, yes I am, go on. (Well, I’ve just remembered something he said about your favourite subject.) Barrel organs, kof? (No, no, dreams.) Ah, excellent. (I think he said that while we sleep the body digests the soul’s perceptions, that is, a dream is like the stomach of the soul, do you see? Hey, organ grinder, are you awake?) Yes, kof, I’m thinking.
Hey, Hans, listen. (You’re awake already, are you thirsty?) Yes, thanks, but tell me, so, kof, let’s see if I’ve understood this properly, when the body has digested what the soul has eaten, yes? Kof, when there are no more dreams to digest we wake up hungry?
Kof, Hans, hey … (Yes?) I’m … (Thirsty? Do you want more water?) No thanks, no, not thirsty, kof, I’m afraid. (Afraid of dying?) No, not of dying, you die, and then it’s over, kof, in a flash, I don’t know if it’s painful, kof, but I’m accustomed to physical pain, you see? No, I’m afraid for my barrel organ, Hans, my barrel organ, kof, kof, who will play the tunes? Come here, come closer. (What is it? What is it?) I want you to do something for me (anything you ask), kof, I want you to find out how to say barrel organ in as many different languages as you can, I’d like it very much if you could tell me the names, kof, I need to hear them, will you do that for me, Hans, will you do that for me?
Light seeped from the afternoons like milk from a broken jug. The first snows had come, settling on the branches. An icy wind whipped the countryside. The old man’s coughing fits had given way to something altogether denser, deeper, inside his chest cavity. Hans had to sit right next to him in order to hear what he was saying. The lilt had gone from his voice, the air escaped from his lungs. He didn’t speak so much as gasp. As soon as he saw Hans come in, he struggled to sit up. Do you have them? he breathed. Did you bring the names? Hans pushed aside the stale knot of sheets, straw, woollen covers. He sat down on the pallet. He clasped the old man’s fleshless hand and fished his notebook out of his pocket.
You already know that as well as Leierkasten, Hans said, still holding his hand, we also call it a Drehorgel. (I’ve never liked that name, the organ grinder whispered, I prefer Leierkasten, that’s what I’ve always called it.) And apart from that, where shall we begin? Let me see, well, for instance in Italian they call it organetto di Barberia (the name has humour, don’t you think? said the organ grinder. It’s a festive name), and it’s very similar in French—orgue de barbarie (those Frenchmen! chuckled the organ grinder as Hans pronounced the words), the Dutch have lots of names for it, there’s one similar to the one you don’t like, I’d best leave that out, but there’s another very simple one—straatorgel. (Excellent, yes, sir, the organ grinder said approvingly, that’s exactly what it is, did you know the barrel organ originated there, in Holland?) No, I didn’t, I thought we’d invented it, what others, lirekasse in Danish. (That’s a good one, very good, it sounds like they copied it from us, doesn’t it?) Possibly, or maybe we copied it from the Danes (impossible, impossible, the German barrel organs are older), well, shall I go on? In Swedish they say positiv (excellent, excellent), the Norwegians call it fataorgan (that sounds like a name for a bigger instrument), the Portuguese say realejo (unusual, but pretty), in Polish it’s katarynka (wonderful! This one has a tinkle), and after that, well, the English have various names for it, according to its size and what it’s used for, you know? (That’s logical, the English are so pragmatic.) Let’s see, for instance they call it a barrel organ (aha), also a fair organ (quite right), then there’s another, street organ (good, good), and here’s my favourite—hurdy-gurdy (oh yes! For children!) …
When Hans had finished telling him the names, the organ grinder remained lost in thought. Pretty, he nodded at last with a smile that grew weaker, they’re very pretty, thank you, I feel much better now. A fleeting sense of relief seemed to relax his face. Almost immediately, the spasms made it tense up again.
He’s stopped coughing, said Hans, is that a good sign? I’d say it was inevitable, replied Doctor Müller.
The organ grinder would gaze for hours glassy-eyed at the roof of the cave, or whimper in his sleep, before waking abruptly. Breathing appeared painful, as though instead of air he were inhaling a thick liquid. His ghostly voice was almost lost in his beard. It was difficult helping him to relieve himself. Washing half his body was an achievement. His limbs were greasy, his hair a matted lump, his skin covered in bites from bedbugs. He looked repulsive, beautiful in his own way, deserving of infinite love.
Kitted out with blankets and clothes from the inn, Hans had slept several nights at the cave — he had resolved to stay there until the end. Álvaro brought them a daily hamper of food. That morning Hans had also asked him to bring a book by Novalis. I need to commune with him, Hans had said. When his friend handed him the volume, Hans started — this wasn’t the volume he’d asked for, which he had told him was lying on the desk, it was another he kept in the trunk (or at least so he thought). Had Álvaro discovered the key to his trunk? Had he rifled through its contents? What else had he seen? Hans looked straight at him. He couldn’t tell. Nor did he ask.
Towards nightfall, against a backdrop of watery snow, Hans felt his eyelids begin to close. Soon afterwards, in the dark, he was awoken by a sound like a branch breaking. The snow had stopped. He fanned the flames, turned to the old man and discovered the source of the noise. It wasn’t branches breaking, it was his lungs. He was groaning, his face straining. The cold air blew in through the mouth of the cave, yet it scarcely left the old man’s mouth. What’s the matter? Hans drew closer. What is it? Nothing, said the organ grinder, I’m nothing now, it feels like someone else is going.