Lisa took the envelope with a solemn air, tucked it between her skirt and blouse, sighed, and threw herself into Hans’s arms. He managed to catch her in time to prevent her from falling flat on her face. Lisa considered herself embraced — she kissed the corner of Hans’s mouth and declared: I’ll tell my mother Thomas has left one of his schoolbooks behind and can’t finish his homework without it. But what if Thomas finds out? Hans frowned, what if he tells your mother it’s a lie? She gave the laugh of a heroine and retorted: And what do you suppose I’m going to steal from his room? You’ll go far, he said, astonished. We’ll see, Lisa said moving towards the door. Ah, and it might be a good thing if you kept the little scallywag amused for a while. He’s playing in the corridor. Wish me luck.
Hans went to find Thomas, who was scrupulously dismembering and scrutinising a toy cart made of wood. What’s that game you’re playing? Hans asked. The boy held out a twisted axle and a torn-off wheel. Dear little Thomas, Hans said, kneeling down, you know I’m leaving tomorrow. What’s that to me? the boy said, pinching his leg.
Lisa had scurried off towards Stag Street. She was clutching the envelope in one hand, and holding onto her hat with the other. She was reflecting on the importance of her mission, and how handsome Hans was, and how much he had always trusted her. Halfway there, however, something began to niggle away at her, then to upset her and finally to enrage her. She slowed her pace. She came to a sudden halt. She stared at the envelope. At Hans’s flowing, expert writing. At the stupid name, Sophie, which she could now read with loathing. She looked for a lighted doorway. She sat down on the step, and without hesitating, opened the envelope, doing her best not to tear it. She read stumblingly the first few paragraphs. The sentences were terribly long and the writing difficult to decipher. She made out the odd sentence, a word here and there. She recognised many of the verbs and some of the nouns. She was unable to understand its content, but it was obviously a love letter to that stuck-up woman. A love letter from Hans, which she couldn’t even read. Lisa leapt angrily to her feet. What was she doing? How could she have been such a fool? She ran back in the direction she had come. She reached Highgate. As soon as she glimpsed the water flowing beneath Bridge Walk, she tore the letter into little pieces and scattered them on the River Nulte.
Álvaro and Hans met at the Central Tavern to say their farewells. Neither spoke much — they looked at one another, smiled awkwardly, clinked tankards. A cold draught seeped through every crack in the walls, cancelling out the effect of the wood stoves. Outside, along the sides of the market square, the vendors were staying up to arrange their Christmas stalls with rattles, pumpernickel bread, stars, sugar sweets, baubles, flagons of wine, coloured candlesticks, marzipan, wreaths.
I shouldn’t have come, Álvaro grumbled, last evenings are always terrible. Shall I get you another beer, you poor martyr? said Hans, clapping him on the back. Is this it, then? Álvaro insisted, you’re really leaving? Yes, yes, replied Hans, why are you so surprised? I don’t know, Álvaro shrugged, well, I am a little, I suppose I was hoping something might happen, I’m not sure what, anything, and that you’d end up staying. Amigo mío, Hans raised his tankard, I have to continue on my way. And, said Álvaro, raising his tankard in turn, you have to work on your Spanish accent. If you like, retorted Hans, we could discuss your German accent. Their brief burst of laughter ends abruptly. Anyway, sighed Álvaro, I’ve never seen anybody leave Wandernburg before. Not wishing to quibble, said Hans, but I’m still here, aren’t I? Nobody, said Álvaro, astonished. Maybe, said Hans, I just loathe Christmas. And I loathe farewells, replied Álvaro, so, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to be there tomorrow when your coach leaves.
They quit the tavern. They walked along, trying to talk about something else, anything else, until they reached the corner of Old Cauldron Street. Their eyes met. They took a deep breath. They nodded as one. They promised to write to one another. They took another deep breath. Hans stepped forward, arms outstretched, Álvaro withdrew. No, he said, I’d rather not. I mean it, I can’t. It’s bad enough having to go back to that accursed tavern tomorrow on my own. Let’s pretend we’re meeting tomorrow as usual. Really. Not another word. I’m going home. Goodnight. Que descanses, hermano.
Álvaro raised an arm, wheeled round, and hurried off along the street.
Hans splashed icy water on his face, making himself start. He shaved in front of the broken mirror on the back of the watercolour. He cut himself twice. He wanted to believe he had slept a little, even though he had the impression of having lain awake all night talking to himself in whispers.
He squashed in clothes, crammed in books, folded papers. He managed to close his luggage. He glanced about the room to make sure he had left nothing behind. Under the bed, covered in fluff, he made out a mass of fine fabric, which he assumed at first was a sock, but which turned out to be something completely unexpected — Lisa’s nightdress. He placed the chairs in the corners of the room, lined up the candleholders, pushed the shutters to — the steamy windowpanes distorted the neighbouring rooftops. Hans took hold of his valise, the handles of his trunk and the rest of his belongings. The trunk seemed heavier than when he arrived. He didn’t glance back to take a last look at the empty room. He walked out into the corridor, closing the door behind him.
Before reaching the stairs he almost tripped over a fir tree he couldn’t remember having seen there the day before. He left his luggage on the landing. He went down to the ground floor where he found Frau Zeit in her skirts and apron, already hard at work. Will you be wanting breakfast? she asked, a bucket of greyish water at the end of each arm. Just coffee, thank you, replied Hans. What do you mean, just coffee? the innkeeper’s wife scolded. You aren’t going to travel on an empty stomach, I won’t allow it, wait here. Frau Zeit set down the buckets (a pair of dirty cloths quivered like octopuses in the soapy water) and went into the kitchen. She came back bearing sausages, a wheel of cheese, a bowl covered with a cloth tied with string.
Here, she commanded, and make sure you eat properly. My husband will be out in a moment to help you with your things. Herr Zeit’s face turned pink, swelled up, glistened, let out air like a balloon. As they went down the stairs, Hans had the impression that the innkeeper’s belly, crushed by the heavy bundles and splaying over them, was adding to the weight of his luggage. They placed everything behind the counter. Herr Zeit collapsed onto a chair (the back quivered like a hammock) and opened up his accounts book. It’s Monday already, he announced feebly. Hans handed him a linen bag containing some money. The innkeeper opened it and looked up at him, puzzled. There’s some extra, Hans explained. There was no need, said Herr Zeit, but I’m not one to refuse. Tell me, Hans asked, is Lisa here? She’s just gone out, replied the innkeeper, to take Thomas to school, is there something you want me to tell her? No, no, Hans hesitated, nothing.