‘That will explain it then,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘The extra weight.’

‘Hmmm. Why do you think he’s so serious?’

‘I suppose I mean about work,’ I said. ‘That whole lecture about type and the will to purity. Is he always like that?’

‘The thing about Franz is that he’s an obsessive, and if you’re not, you’re a dilettante. He’s a purist. He thinks Otti’s a fake for using too much chenille. If you’re a weaver, use wool. If you’re a sculptor, use stone. If you’re a typographer, then for God’s sake make it legible.’

‘I’d like to see Otti and Franz in an argument.’

Walter rolled his eyes. ‘It would never end.’ We watched what the river’s current could drag with it. ‘I think Otti likes you.’

‘Otti Berger? Why?’

‘Because she goes into hyperinflation when she’s around you. All her facts and figures. You make her nervous.’

This was a nice thing to hear, though I wasn’t sure I believed him. Otti was the same with everyone: there was no difference between her behaviour to me or Charlotte or Anni. ‘Are you excited about seeing Ernst tonight?’

‘Yes,’ he said, his smile warm and real. ‘I think I am.’

‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘It’s your turn. For a little sweetness.’

‘Do you think that?’

I hesitated. I was wary that I had perhaps over-promised him things in the past. ‘I want you to be happy, that’s all.’

‘Well, that means you deserve something too. I was sad nothing happened with Magdalena.’

‘What was in that box he sent you?’

‘Oh, stuff from the studio. It was too heavy for the train.’

‘What’ll you do tonight?’

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Walter blush as scarlet as he did on the snowy bridge.

‘I meant in your painting!’

‘Oh,’ he said, laughing. ‘Glades and girls. The usual. Come on, let’s catch them up.’

In the puddles the ice broke under our boots. We walked toward a trapped bar of light and reached the mausoleum: Christ in the stucco, stone bears below. We heard their footsteps first, then Charlotte and Jenö emerged around the corner.

‘I’ve never been in,’ said Charlotte, looking up at its dome.

I’d been inside in summer, and it had felt wintry even in the height of the hot weather. It would be an icebox in February.

‘Who’s in there?’

‘Goethe once came here with Charlotte von Stein,’ said Walter, who said it seriously but laughed straight afterward.

‘You and your Goethe!’

‘It was built years after he died,’ Jenö said. ‘Look.’ He found the Roman numerals. ‘Eighteen hundred—’

‘And eighty-eight,’ said Walter.

‘Ninety-eight,’ Charlotte said. ‘Mad to think the Director built the Bauhaus thirty or so years after this monstrosity.’