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after me, flailing and coughing, trying to howl expressions with Scheiss in them. On Brigitte’s dressing-table was a pair of nail-scissors, so I picked these up and danced round him, lunging and puncturing. ‘
Genug
?’ I asked again.
    This time he just stood, panting when not coughing, squinting at me warily. ‘I go,’ he said. ‘I wish mine gelt.’ So she took money, did she? ‘Give it him,’ I said. From the pocket of the bathrobe she drew out a few notes. He snatched them, spitting. I found an even better weapon on the dressing-table – a very long nail-file with a dagger-end. ‘One minute to dress,’ I said, ‘and then out.’ I began to count the seconds. He was pretty quick. He didn’t bother to lace his shoes. ‘And if you give the
Herr Doktor
any more trouble –’ Brigitte’s eyes were on me, not on him, I now had time to notice. She bade him no good-bye as I back-punched him, grumbling, out on to the landing. On the landing he saw Roper’s books and, very vindictive, he swept his fist along a top shelf and sent some of them bumping and swishing to the floor. I said: ‘Smutty swine, you. Uncultured shitheap,’ and I kicked his arse, a large target. ‘Make a fire, shall we? Burn them all?’ He rounded and snarled at me in thelanding-dark, so I thrust him downstairs. Bumping against the stairwell wall he dislodged a little picture that had been unhandily nailed not firmly rawlplugged. It was an old-fashioned woolly monochrome of Siegfried, his gob open for a hero’s shout, his hand grasping Nothung. This angered me. Who were they in this house to think that Wagner was theirs? Wagner was mine. I banged Wurzel down the last few steps and then let him find his own way to the front door. Opening it, he turned to execrate a mouthful as elemental and nasty as a bowel movement. I raised my hand at him, and then he slammed out.
    All this time I had had my raincoat on. Going back upstairs I took it off, as well as my jacket. Entering the bedroom for a new, but still cognate, purpose, I was already loosening my tie. As I’d expected, Brigitte was lying naked on the bed. In a very few seconds I was with her. It was altogether satisfactory, very gross and thorough. I rode into Germany again, a hell become all flowers and honey for the victor. She didn’t want tenderness, victim self-elected, also the mother I and the enemy had been tussling to possess. I re-enacted the victory ride three times. Afterwards (it was now dark) she spoke only German to me, language of darkness. Should she make tea, would I like some schnapps?
    â€˜Did you always take money from him?’ I asked. ‘Do you want money from me now?’
    â€˜Not this time. But if you come again.’
    We shared a black aromatic
Handelsgold
. ‘You’ll have to leave him, you know,’ I said. ‘This sort of thing won’t do at all. Go back to Germany. They’re building fine new
Dirnenwohnheime
there. Düsseldorf. Stuttgart. That’s your line. A lot of money to be made. But leave poor Edwin alone.’
    â€˜I too have thought of that. But here in London is better. A little flat, no
Dirnenwohnheim
.’ She did a theatrical shudder; I felt it in the dark. In the dark, above the bed, Roper and I looked out at our coming world, arms folded; Father Byrne had smiled through theact of light, the act of dusk, the act of darkness. Well, I too, were I Brigitte, would much prefer a flat and a poodle in warm sinful London to one of those cold regimented German whorehouses. I said: ‘Have you any money?’
    â€˜I have saved some. But if I am divorced I am deported.’
    â€˜It’s up to you. But for God’s sake get out of his life. He’s got work to do, important work.’ Lying here, right hand splayed on her right breast, its nipple rousing itself from flaccidity, I felt both loyal and patriotic. ‘Each of