To kill time until the coach arrived, he went out for one last stroll around Wandernburg. The streets smelt of mud, bread and urine. He could already hear the creaking bars of shop windows. The frost softened with the dawn. Hans wandered down Archway, past the church, around the market square, paused in a corner. He saw a beggar walk by, kicking his legs in the air to stretch them. He thought he recognised Olaf. He called out. The beggar looked at him — it wasn’t Olaf. Excuse me, Hans said, do you remember the organ grinder who used to play here? What organ grinder, replied the beggar, continuing on his way.
Hans looked up at the clock on the Tower of the Wind. Slowly he made his way back to the inn. Only when he found himself standing in front of it did he realise with astonishment he hadn’t got lost. A Christmas wreath was flapping on the door.
The wind is a rake, a pulley, a lever, the wind knows, it flattens the landscape, it blows everywhere and is everywhere a foreigner, it draws near, takes shape, runs in a ribbon around Wandernburg, it drops, surfs over rooftops, strips chimney stacks, buffets street lamps, scratches walls, it whistles along, whips up the snow, settles in doorways, rattles doors, the wind rolls, rotates, roams, it heads towards the market square, it is empty, the cobbles are slippery, the Christmas stalls are not finished, the water from the baroque fountain has almost iced over, the wind shakes and breaks it, suddenly it turns, accelerates, climbs as though up a ramp, reaches the top of the tower, the ground shrinks away, the eaves thrum, the tower doesn’t move, but the time inside it does, the time which coughs in the clock, the wind plays with the weathervane making it point in a different direction, then spins round a few more times, shoots up, arches downwards onto a coach roof, slowing it slightly, bounces off and careens over the cobbles, buzzes behind the town hall, the market square was empty, or nearly empty, there was at least one dog, sniffing around between the stalls, a black-haired dog with triangular ears, a restless tail, an attentive nose, the wind strokes Franz’s side, ruffles his tail, Franz lifts his head, his stomach rumbles, he keeps on walking, he leaves the square, sniffs at several doorways, scratches with his paws, finds a few titbits, some strips of fat, peel, rotten fruit, bones, he glances about more relaxed, roots around here and there, moves off, crosses Archway and as he passes St Nicholas’s Church, passes its twisted facade, Franz stops and urinates copiously against it, the wall absorbs some of the urine, Franz continues on his way, turns the corner, disappears, the wind dries what’s left of the urine, the wind scrapes the wall, spreads over the steps, reaches the portico, polishes the arches, creeps under the iron main door, skates up the central nave, makes the candle flames and lamp lights sputter, weaves through the lower aisles, tumbles over the benches, sends a shiver up the spines of the early risers, one of whom draws in her shoulders, raises a hand to her chest and clasps her rosary beads, Frau Pietzine moves her painted lips, she has shadows under her eyes, she prays and prays, another, more slender back repeats aloud the same prayers, Frau Levin intones them vigorously, masticates the words, the wind turns towards the altar, it blows round the crucifix and the candelabras, and makes the angels’ toes go cold while on the other side of the altarpiece, in the sacristy, Father Pigherzog tightens his girdle and steps through the door, as the door to the sacristy opens the draught inside collides with the wind, and, as if driven back by a piston, the wind spins round, escapes under the door and dissolves in the open air, for a moment the wind in Wandernburg is still, the smoke from the chimneys rises vertically, the window panes rest, the clothes repose, until the wind gathers its various parts and grows in strength, skips once more up the steps, surges aloft, rises above the church, sharpens a spire, shakes the bell, flies over a few streets and begins to die down, to calm, it blows past balconies, drips with the water trickling from the flowerpots, forks into branches, one of which sweeps along the ground, ambles down Glass Alley, catches in horses’ hooves, carriage wheels, legs, eludes the shop windows, invisible in their reflections, licks the entrance to Café Europa, imbibes the aroma of chocolate, pauses in the doorway, on the other side of which Álvaro is resting his elbows firmly on a copy of the
Gazette, he hasn’t slept, he’s been sitting like that for a long time, without reading, staring absent-mindedly at the far wall, the wind goes on by, moves forward, at the next corner runs into its other parts, it churns, swells, crosses Old Cauldron Street, enters the inn through the yard, sweeps down the corridor, bursts into the Zeits’ apartment, visits the children’s room, scarcely disturbs Thomas’s toys, discovers Lisa under her bed with a candle, secretly studying, spelling the words in her exercise book, on the other side of the room the firewood crackles, the wind flies up the chimney and out into the white sky, stretches like a piece of rubber over the city, leans against the other tower in the market square, coils around it like a rope, makes the weathervane spin, then crosses diagonally towards Stag Street, the knockers on the Gottlieb residence, lion and swallow, threaten to tap against the hardwood, or they do tap imperceptibly, the sound travels to the gallery, the coach houses, the frozen garden, a puff of wind is carried up the stairs, where Herr Gottlieb is asleep or does not want to get up, Bertold does not insist, Petra curses the food she is cooking by the five chimes of the five bells of the five rooms from which the servants can be called, on the top floor, Elsa browses her English-grammar book half-heartedly, she hasn’t a lot to do these days, on the ground floor, the wall clock waits for someone to wind it, everything in the drawing room has a lifeless air, and yet the Prussian-blue curtains flutter, twist, let themselves be ruffled by the gusts of wind blowing through the gap in the windows not properly closed, these gusts of wind scatter some of the ash from the marble fireplace, the statues stand idle on the mantelpiece, the unused flower vases, and to one side of the hearth, glimmering discreetly among the family portraits, Titian reproductions, still lifes and hunting scenes, is the painting of the traveller walking into the forest, a snow-covered forest, a forest that resembles the pinewood where the wind is also now blowing among the rocks on the hill, the spindly poplars, the frozen band of the River Nulte, thirty-two pointed pine cones, the mouth of an empty cave, the wind invades everything and leaves behind everything, it leaves behind the flat, milky-white fields, the planted cornfields, the frozen pastures, the flock of sheep on the point of lambing in the depths of winter, it leaves behind the fields where the peasants are burying roots in the ground, the windmill sails, the factory that tarnishes the air, the snow-covered paths, the main road that passes to the east of Wandernburg, and on which a few coaches are travelling to Berlin, or south to Leipzig, it leaves behind Bridge Walk, where Sophie is standing with her two valises, clinging on to her hat so that it doesn’t blow off, waiting for the next coach, her two valises filled with clothes, papers and doubts, and farther away, much farther away, the wind is also pulling along the coach that carries Hans, who is travelling wherever it may be, his trunk rattling on the roof rack, weighted down by canvas, ropes and snow, Hans, at whose feet sits a casket with a barrel organ inside, Hans who uses his sleeve to wipe the window, opens it, sticks his head out, and feels the wind welcoming him.