The next evening we took him to the station, to the little puffing railway train, and the two of them gave each other a farewell kiss that seemed to me to take rather a long time. Then he had to get on, and we stood beside the little carriage, giving him good advice for the journey. He bared his teeth at us and when the train started to move, he said agreeably, ‘Fritzchen, I’ve taken your toothpaste with me!’ In my excitement I threw my hat after him, and it almost rolled under the wheels. He waved, and then the little train disappeared round the corner, and we couldn’t see anything any more.

At noon the next day, four postcards arrived: one from each of the main stations on the way to Stockholm. On the last one he had written the following:

‘Dear Toni!

On no account let the police take you in for questioning over the false entry at the hotel on the 15th! If need be, remain firm and insist you are my daughter!

Dear friend, before I left this evening, I looked at your profile once more and I must say I was seriously alarmed. I believe you’re losing your hair. That’s more than an indication – that’s a symptom!

Don’t search in vain for the second canary – I’ve taken it home for my dear little children. Where is the ass?

Dear Marie, please look at once for my signet-ring – it must be under your pillow. I know it for a fact.

Pity about my wasted holiday!

I am evermore

your dear

Karlchen.’

Chapter Four

So long as our pastor doesn’t see me,

I’ll take my chances with God, said the peasant –

and he made his hay on a Sunday.

1

‘How did all that come about so suddenly?’ asked the Princess, as I toppled out of my head-stand.

We were doing exercises, Lydia was, I was – and over there, Billie was rolling about under the trees. Billie wasn’t a man, but a young woman by the name of Sibylle.

‘Oh boy . . .’ said the Princess and dropped onto the ground, gasping for breath. ‘If that doesn’t make us clever and beautiful . . .’

‘And slim,’ I said, and sat down next to her.

‘How do you like her?’ asked the Princess, with a nod over at the trees.

‘I like her,’ I said. ‘She’s a nice girl: fun, playful, serious when she wants to be. Such a sweetheart!’

‘Who?’

‘Her.’

‘Talking of hearts, Poppa, she’s just broken up with her boyfriend, but discreetly and amicably.’

‘And who was he again?’

‘The painter. A decent young man. It just didn’t work any more. Don’t ask her, she doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s the kind of thing you have to cope with on your own.’

‘How long have you known each other?’