‘I get by like this,’ I said. ‘First I speak German, and if they don’t understand that, English, and if they don’t understand that, Platt, and if that doesn’t work either, then I stick an “as” ending onto German words, and I find they understand that quite well.’ This was all we needed. She thought it absolutely wonderful, and immediately incorporated it into her linguistic paraphernalia.

‘So it’s Sweden next. What do you think will happenas to us now in Sweden?’

‘Whatever happens on a holiday . . . You, I hope.’

‘You know,’ said the Princess, ‘I’m not really on holiday at all yet. I’m sitting next to you in this compartment; but I’ve still got the office droning away in my head, and . . . Christ!’

‘What is it?’

‘I forgot to phone Tichauer!’

‘Who’s Tichauer?’

‘Tichauer is the director of the N.G.S.W. – the North German Soap Works. My boss said I was to cancel him, because he was going on holiday . . . and the conference is on Tuesday . . . Oh blast!’

‘So what do we do?’

‘We’d best send him a telegram before we get on the ferry at Helsingör. Bloody hell! Oh, Poppa, why does Berlin always follow you around like that? It takes at least a fortnight to be rid of it, and just when you’ve managed to forget all about it, it’s time to go back. What a wonderful profession!

‘Profession . . . I always thought of it as more of an occupation.’

‘You’re only an author, but still you’re right. Distract me. Stand on the seats and put on a show. Sing something – what did I take you along for?’ Only calm and patience could help here . . .

‘Look over there, those hens on the water!’ I said.

‘Hens? What sort of hens?’

‘Visible hens. Jakopp the naturalist distinguishes between two types of hen: the visible hen, which you can only see, and the edible hen, which you can eat too. These are visible hens. How d’you like the country here?’

‘A bit bleak, to tell the truth. If I didn’t know we were still in Denmark and just about to cross over into Sweden.’

She had put her finger on it. Nothing distracts people from their real perceptions more than place-names, heavy with ancient longings and crammed with a multitude of associations. Then, when they finally reach the place, it’s just a shadow of what they’d hoped it would be. But who would admit it openly?

Helsingör. We sent the wire to Tichauer and boarded the small ferry. Down below, in the ship’s restaurant, were three Austrians. They were obviously aristocrats: one of them had that very languid voice. He narrowed his eyes in a peculiar way, like someone paying a bill with a cigar in his mouth, and I heard him mutter, ‘Sound fellow – rather mediocre . . .’ I’m not in favour of the Anschluss.