Free Traveler of the Century by Andrés Neuman

think of one reason that was both simple and logical, but dismissed it as too optimistic. That afternoon, Sophie seemed particularly attentive to what he was saying, and kept giving Hans quizzical looks, as though she had guessed why his face was frozen in an expression of disappointment. During his conversation with Sophie, which had taken on a far more intimate tone than on previous occasions, Hans noticed how, progressively and perhaps foolishly, his hope
began to feel renewed. He promised himself he would not examine this feeling, but allow it to carry him along like an object borne on the wind. And so, when Sophie declared he would be welcome company (welcome company, Hans savoured the words, mmm, “welcome company”) at her salon, he accepted without hesitation. Sophie Gottlieb held her salon on Fridays at teatime, and at them her guests would discuss wide-ranging questions of literature, philosophy and politics. The only virtue of our humble salon, Sophie went on, is that anyone can say what they like. Apart, should I say, from my good father, with his sense of propriety. (Sophie smiled disarmingly at Herr Gottlieb.) Our only rule is that people be sincere in their opinions, which believe me, Herr Hans, is nothing short of a miracle in a city like this. Guests are free to come and go as they please. No two afternoons are the same, some are incrediby stimulating, others more predictable. As we are in no hurry, these gatherings usually go on until quite late. I understand that for this reason alone, my dear Herr Hans, you would make an ideal member of our circle. (Hans could not help feeling a frisson of pleasure at Sophie’s small gesture of connivance.) We have tea and refreshments, and we serve an aperitif with a few canapés, we do not exactly go hungry. Occasionally we play music or perform impromptu readings from Lessing, Shakespeare or Molière, depending on how the mood takes us. We are relatively at ease in one another’s company—there are only eight or nine regular members, including my father and myself. In short, it is a pleasant way to spend the afternoon, so, if you have nothing better to do this Friday … or are you perhaps leaving before then? Me, leaving? said Hans, sitting bolt upright in his chair. Not at all, not at all.
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    Accustomed to the dense quiet of the Gottlieb residence, Hans was surprised to find the drawing room so abuzz the following Friday. While Bertold took his coat and walked away touching
the scar on his lip, Hans’s first impression was of a concerto of murmurings with teacups as percussion. The main group was seated on chairs and armchairs around the low table. There was also a man standing over by the windows, wearing a thoughtful expression, and in a corner two other people were engaged in a more private conversation. Sophie sat to the right of the marble fireplace, or rather brushed the chair with the lace of her skirts, always about to stand up. With calm alacrity she would rise to her feet to serve tea, attend to one of her guests or walk about the room like someone overseeing the different functionings of a loom. She was the discreet hub of the circle, the mediator who listened, suggested, commented, forged links, smoothed out differences and elicited responses, constantly proffering pertinent remarks or stimulating questions. Hans gazed at her in admiration. Sophie looked so radiant, happy and self-assured in her movements that he was unable to stir from the doorway but stood for some minutes just watching her, until she herself went up to him—There’s no need to be shy!—and ushered him into the centre of the room.
    She introduced him one by one to all the members of the salon except for Rudi Wilderhaus, who was absent that afternoon. Firstly to Professor Mietter, Doctor of Philology, Honorary Member of the Berlin Society of the German Language and the Berlin Academy of Science, Emeritus Professor of the University of Berlin.