Like all good-natured men, our fat man was scared of women – he bent his soul as a traveller bends his back under a shower of rain. He made a big effort, and really threw himself into action. He was on the telephone for a long time and then disappeared.

After lunch, he returned in high spirits, his fat rippling with contentment. ‘Come with me!’ he said.

The castle had an annexe. If asked, Fatty would surely have replied, ‘In the twenty-first century . . .’ It was fairly new, long, smooth-fronted, handsome. We went in, and were met by a very friendly old lady. It turned out that there were two large rooms and another, smaller one to let in this castle-annexe. Right here in the castle? I looked disbelievingly at Herr Bengtsson. Here in the castle. And she would cook for us. But wouldn’t we be disturbed by countless tourists coming here to take in the paintings and the torture-chamber? They only came on Sundays, and they never came round this way, they went over there . . .

We inspected the rooms. They were nice and big; there was old castle furniture in them, in a heavy, comfortable style. With my blind spot, I could see none of the details – but the style spoke to me, and it said yes.

One of the windows overlooked the lake, another a quiet little park. The Princess, with female practicality, was assessing the bathroom situation . . . and came back satisfied. The price was surprisingly low. ‘Why is that?’ I asked Fatty. Even when faced with good fortune, we tend to be suspicious. The lady of the castle did it out of friendship for him, because she knew him. And people didn’t often come here for a longer stay. Mariefred was well known as a place for excursions; and such a reputation tended to stick to a place. So we took the rooms.

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

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