vile temper for over a week.
We’d done no more than say how well Lange looked and what a fierce old devil he was when Ingrid Winter came into the room.
‘Bernie is staying here with us,’ Werner said rather more sadly than I would have hoped, but then Werner was like that.
Ingrid had come into the room without my noticing. ‘Oh, that’s good,’ she said. It would be easy to see Ingrid as a timid, self-effacing spinster, for she was always willing to appear in this guise. Her greying hair, which she did nothing to tint, her quiet voice and her style of floral-patterned woollen dresses all contributed to this picture. But even on our short acquaintance I’d discovered that Ingrid was a creature offortitude and strength. Werner had discovered the same thing, and more, for the relationship between them was close. ‘That woman was here again,’ she told Werner in a voice tinged with disapproval.
‘The Duchess?’
‘The Englishwoman. The woman you said was a busybody.’
Werner looked at me and grinned selfconsciously. ‘What did she want?’
‘The Duchess likes it here,’ I interjected. ‘She hopes it’s becoming a sort of club for the people she knows.’
Werner’s face tightened. Ingrid was watching him as I spoke but her face showed no emotion, not even reflecting that of Werner. Werner looked at me and said, ‘Ingrid thinks there is more to it than that.’
‘What sort of more?’
‘I told her about Frank,’ said Werner as if that would explain everything. When I didn’t react he added, ‘Frank wants to use this place. It’s obvious.’
‘It’s not obvious to me, Werner,’ I said. ‘Use it how?’
Werner poured himself more soda water and added no more than a drop of Underberg which only just coloured it. He took a sip of it and said, ‘I think Frank has ordered his people to come here. They’ll return to the office and report to him every word they hear and everything they see. It will all go on file.’ This mild paranoia – complete with his rather endearing picture of Frank’s rigorous and capable administration – provided a perfect example of Werner’s ingrained Germanic thinking. In fact, Frank was typically English. Idle and congenial, Frank was an easygoing time-server who’d muster neither the energy nor the inclination to organize such a venture.
Werner on the other hand was provincial and narrow-minded in the way that Germans are prey to being. These differing attitudes were fundamental to their enmity, but I would never tell either of them what I thought. Werner would have been horrified: he always thought of himself as acosmopolitan liberal. But of course all wealthy well-travelled bigots make that claim.
‘As long as they pay cash for their drinks,’ I said.
This flippancy did not please Werner. ‘I don’t mind Frank’s people coming here but I don’t want them to monopolize the place and try to turn it into some awful sort of English pub. And anyway, Bernie,’ he added in a very quiet measured voice, as if talking to a small child, ‘if you’re here, they’ll spy on you.’
Any difficulty I might have had in answering Werner was removed by Ingrid. I had a feeling she was not listening to us very carefully. Perhaps she was already familiar with Werner’s suspicions about the Departmental personnel transmogrifying his bar. During a lapse in the conversation she said, ‘There is something else. I heard them talking about Bernard. And about his wife.’
My wife! My wife! Now she had all my attention, and I wanted to hear all about it. She said that the Duchess had come into the bar in the early evening. She’d ordered a gin and tonic and read the Daily Express. Werner had recently started to provide the hotel with French and English, as well as German, daily papers, impaling them upon wooden Zeitunghälter and hanging them alongside the coat rack. Two other Department people – a man and a woman – came in soon afterwards and invited the Duchess to
We’d done no more than say how well Lange looked and what a fierce old devil he was when Ingrid Winter came into the room.
‘Bernie is staying here with us,’ Werner said rather more sadly than I would have hoped, but then Werner was like that.
Ingrid had come into the room without my noticing. ‘Oh, that’s good,’ she said. It would be easy to see Ingrid as a timid, self-effacing spinster, for she was always willing to appear in this guise. Her greying hair, which she did nothing to tint, her quiet voice and her style of floral-patterned woollen dresses all contributed to this picture. But even on our short acquaintance I’d discovered that Ingrid was a creature offortitude and strength. Werner had discovered the same thing, and more, for the relationship between them was close. ‘That woman was here again,’ she told Werner in a voice tinged with disapproval.
‘The Duchess?’
‘The Englishwoman. The woman you said was a busybody.’
Werner looked at me and grinned selfconsciously. ‘What did she want?’
‘The Duchess likes it here,’ I interjected. ‘She hopes it’s becoming a sort of club for the people she knows.’
Werner’s face tightened. Ingrid was watching him as I spoke but her face showed no emotion, not even reflecting that of Werner. Werner looked at me and said, ‘Ingrid thinks there is more to it than that.’
‘What sort of more?’
‘I told her about Frank,’ said Werner as if that would explain everything. When I didn’t react he added, ‘Frank wants to use this place. It’s obvious.’
‘It’s not obvious to me, Werner,’ I said. ‘Use it how?’
Werner poured himself more soda water and added no more than a drop of Underberg which only just coloured it. He took a sip of it and said, ‘I think Frank has ordered his people to come here. They’ll return to the office and report to him every word they hear and everything they see. It will all go on file.’ This mild paranoia – complete with his rather endearing picture of Frank’s rigorous and capable administration – provided a perfect example of Werner’s ingrained Germanic thinking. In fact, Frank was typically English. Idle and congenial, Frank was an easygoing time-server who’d muster neither the energy nor the inclination to organize such a venture.
Werner on the other hand was provincial and narrow-minded in the way that Germans are prey to being. These differing attitudes were fundamental to their enmity, but I would never tell either of them what I thought. Werner would have been horrified: he always thought of himself as acosmopolitan liberal. But of course all wealthy well-travelled bigots make that claim.
‘As long as they pay cash for their drinks,’ I said.
This flippancy did not please Werner. ‘I don’t mind Frank’s people coming here but I don’t want them to monopolize the place and try to turn it into some awful sort of English pub. And anyway, Bernie,’ he added in a very quiet measured voice, as if talking to a small child, ‘if you’re here, they’ll spy on you.’
Any difficulty I might have had in answering Werner was removed by Ingrid. I had a feeling she was not listening to us very carefully. Perhaps she was already familiar with Werner’s suspicions about the Departmental personnel transmogrifying his bar. During a lapse in the conversation she said, ‘There is something else. I heard them talking about Bernard. And about his wife.’
My wife! My wife! Now she had all my attention, and I wanted to hear all about it. She said that the Duchess had come into the bar in the early evening. She’d ordered a gin and tonic and read the Daily Express. Werner had recently started to provide the hotel with French and English, as well as German, daily papers, impaling them upon wooden Zeitunghälter and hanging them alongside the coat rack. Two other Department people – a man and a woman – came in soon afterwards and invited the Duchess to
Similar Books
