John is right about them, the “bloody fucking middle classes” of every nation. They will rise phoenix-like from the rubble, the victors, the makers of the new world . . .

All those in attendance take part in the act of laundering: Witte’s very own pudgy fingers stir the detergent powder to foam—not too much, not too little—just right!—in the bucket and Carlotta kneads the blood-spattered handkerchief in it until the red spots turn pale pink and at last disappear entirely. The result is convincing, but Witte isn’t satisfied yet. The red, white, and blue cockade of his burgher’s face is afire as he calls for more objects to launder. A. offers a snow-white cambric handkerchief (Jermyn Street, from John’s supply) and without hesitation pours ink on it before Witte can intervene. The detergent foam and the water in the bucket turn brownish-blue and have to be replaced. Frau Busse takes over the washing with a second dose of Wittewash-Whiter-than-White, and after four acts of laundering pulls the handkerchief, now perfectly sky-blue, from the suds. She refuses to continue, says she’s got to protect her hands, and Carlotta opens the fourth bottle of champagne.

Despite a “not yet hundred-and-fifty-percent demonstration,” Witte is in high spirits, his ruddy face aglow, his sea-blue eyes twinkling: the champagne is having its effect. It’s five in the afternoon and the sandwiches haven’t filled them up. Witte orders lobster sent in (“Let lobster be our lodestar, eh? See, I can make puns too. Our mutual friend Baron von Rönnekamp even thinks me capable of better things. He says in English, ‘Za pun iss za wurst form uff Witt.’ Get it? Pun is the least of Witte’s talents.”) But the name Rönnekamp opens up a piquant field in which Witte whiffs the possibility of gamboling about and showing he’s familiar with “the intellectual principles to which I owe your visit, dear friend. I know you were angling at an opportunity to enter my firm. And why not? There’s always need for new blood. I wouldn’t entrust the cash box to you, but as I said, in advertising, why not, even if you may have a penchant for drastic measures, as you showed with your lovely handkerchief. But there were a few things that interested me in your remarks at dinner the other evening at my house, to which you were brought by your charming wife. I mean, what you had to say about the multiplicity of the social structure of postwar Germany. It’s true that the main emphasis of our current form of government and economy is on the bourgeoisie, and the old upper classes just have to fall in line with that, however much sympathy I may have for Baron von Rönnekamp—not to mention his outstanding talents as broker and financial advisor—but take that other gentleman he brought along, Count Lentzau-Wilmersbüttel: I mean really, not my cup of tea at all! That’s truly a kind of decadence you would seek in vain in solid middle-class circles—here in Hamburg, I mean. Or can you imagine Hans Albers as a homo? Mind you, a democracy should have a place for all kinds of eccentricities, and it does. Not being from here, you’d be astonished if I told you, for example, the rumors that circulate about one of our most renowned publishers whose name I’d rather not mention, and while such things don’t take place in public, they do in municipal establishments that are a testimony to our Hanseatic open-mindedness—we’ve seen just about every curiosity our globe has to offer and we swear by the well-known Bible verse ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.’ Deviations such as those of the gentlemen in question may not be exactly rare in general. I’m not gonna get hot under the collar about it and I can even see it from a humorous point of view to a certain extent—I mean, those affected gestures just kill me—but as I said, their whole class is rotten to the core. Nowadays we have nothing more to expect from the aristocracy, especially us Hamburgers. Our best families proudly refused to be ennobled and it was likely our straightforward modesty that persuaded the Iron Chancellor to settle so near our gates, in Friedrichsruh—I understand your spouse is a regular guest there—no? Not yet. But given her family ties, it won’t be long . . .”