And then it was Karlchen’s turn again. He told how Dörte, Mathilde and Zophie, the nosiest girls in the whole town of Celle, had asked him who the young man was, who was to be found wandering about the streets every morning. And how he’d then woken them up at night, which was easy enough, as they lived on the ground floor, and when all three of them came to the window, considerably alarmed, he said: ‘I just wanted to tell you ladies that the morning visitor was a seller of holy books!’

And then they took it in turn to sing songs. The Princess sang:

‘Old Mother Pietsche sits on Mount Sinai,

and when she’s out of food, then she . . .

Karlchen, what about a little lullaby this afternoon?’ she asked suddenly. Karlchen was just singing:

‘She wore a brightly patterned dress,

and I’m still sore about the money I spent –

No,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a nice walk in the afternoon. It’ll do fatty here some good, and we’ll all sleep better at night.’

Fatty was me. He gazed at me benevolently. ‘Young people like you . . . you look so healthy and relaxed!’

That was how we felt too. I waddled along in silence beside them, because young love should be left to blossom.

Did he fancy her?

Of course he fancied her. But that was our unwritten law, our totem and taboo . . . We didn’t know what star we had been born under; but it must have been the same one. Each other’s women: never. We rationalised it like this: ‘Your taste in women – no thanks all the same!’ And again, for the hundredth time in as many years, I felt all the unspoken things in our friendship, the foundation on which it was built. I knew what made him tick. I knew it because I had seen all that the man had gone through (‘I’ve had my share of storms,’ he would say). I saw his unwavering self-control: when things went wrong he would keep a stiff upper lip. Often, when I was at a loss, I would ask myself what Karlchen would do. Then I’d be all right again for a time. A real male friendship . . . it’s like an iceberg: only the last quarter of it is visible above the surface. The rest is submerged and invisible. Fun – but fun is only good when there’s something serious behind it.

‘Preaching in Platt German,’ I heard Karlchen saying, ‘no-no.’

‘But that doesn’t make sense, Herr Karlchen,’ said the Princess. ‘Why not? The peasants understand it much better. Not your Platt, of course . . . but ours . . .!’