When we had taken them, I spoke those golden words, ‘We should have . . .’ and got a friendly smack from the Princess.

‘You old moaner.’ We celebrated the agreement with a big brandy for the three of us.

‘Do you know her well, the lady of the castle?’ I asked Herr Bengtsson. ‘She’s been so kind to us!’

‘You know,’ he replied thoughtfully, ‘everyone knows the monkey, but – the monkey knows no one.’ We had to agree with him there. Then Fatty said goodbye. The suitcases arrived and we unpacked. We re-arranged all the furniture until it was all back where it had been to begin with . . . the Princess took a trial bath, and I rejoiced at the way she crossed the room naked – like a real princess. No, not like a princess, like a woman who knows she has a beautiful body.

‘Lydia,’ I said, ‘there was a Dutch girl in Paris, who had a tattoo on her thigh, over the place she wanted to be kissed on. Can I ask you . . .’ She answered. And here begins section

6

We lay in a meadow, bathing our souls.

The sky was flecked with white; when you had been roasted by the sun for a while, a cloud would come along, a light wind would blow, and the temperature would drop a little. A dog trotted over the grass, a good way behind us.

‘What kind is it?’ I asked.

‘A bull dachshund,’ said the Princess. We let the wind blow over us some more, and said nothing. It’s nice to have someone you can share a silence with.

‘Damn,’ she said suddenly, ‘it’s awful – but I’m not really here yet. God damn my job in Berlin. My head is still buzzing with the old boss and all that . . .’

‘How is he now?’ I asked idly.

‘Well . . . same as ever . . . He’s fat, curious, cowardly and mean. Apart from that, he’s quite nice. Fat, that would be all right. I don’t mind fat men.’ I made a movement. ‘Don’t you start getting ideas . . . your little spare tire!’

‘You probably think you’re something special, just because your name is Lydia. Now let me tell you . . .’

When the conversation had calmed down again, she continued, ‘All right then, fatso. But his curiosity . . . what he’d really like would be for me to give him some new bit of gossip from the trade every day. He’s a spiritual voyeur. He doesn’t himself participate in most things, but he wants to know exactly what everyone else is doing; how, who with and how much they earn – especially that! And what they live on . . . What? How does he earn his money? He does it by bare-faced cheek. Oh, Poppa, we could never do that! For four years I’ve had to watch how the Herr Generalkonsul manages, for instance, to avoid paying his bills on time . . . we couldn’t behave like that, which is why we’ll never be rich. You just wouldn’t believe it! It doesn’t matter who he’s dealing with; he’s so brazen, he’ll twist a signed contract or he’ll repudiate it altogether, then he’ll suddenly forget what his excuse was . . . No, Cheri, you’d never be able to operate like that. You might want to, but you’ll never do it!’