Turner listened in grudging admiration to Bradfield’s inexhaustible flow of small-talk. He expected no help from anyone. His eyes were dark with fatigue, but his dialogue was as fresh, as considerate and as aimless as ifhe were on holiday. ‘Come along, Bernhard; you’re just a wise old owl and nobody ever tells me anything. I’m just the Hausfrau. I’m supposed to look at Vogue and make canapés all day.’
‘You know the saying,’ Vandelung replied. ‘What else must happen in Bonn before something happens? They can do nothing we have not seen before.’
‘They can trample all over my roses,’ Hazel remarked, lighting herself a cigarette. ‘They can steal my husband away at all hours of the night. Day trips to Brussels indeed! It’s quite absurd. And look what they did in Hanover. Can you imagine what would happen if they broke these windows? Dealing with that wretched Works Department? We’d all be sitting here in overcoats while they worked out who pays. It’s too bad, it really is. Thank goodness we have Mr Turner to protect us.’ As she said this her gaze rested upon him, and it seemed to him both anxious and enquiring. ‘Frau Saab, does your husband travel all over the place these days? I am sure journalists make far better husbands than diplomats.’
‘He is very true.’ The little doll blushed unhappily.
‘She means loyal.’ Saab kissed her hand with love.
Opening her tiny handbag, she took out a powder compact and parted its gold petals one byone. ‘We have been married one year tomorrow. It is so beautiful.’
‘Du bist noch schöner,’ Saab cried and the conversation disintegrated into an exchange of domestic and financial intelligence on the Saabs’ newly formed household. Yes, they had bought a plot of land up by Oberwinter. Karl-Heinz had bought it last year for the engagement and already the value had risen four marks per Quadratmeter.
‘Karl-Heinz, how do you say Quadratmeter?’
‘The same,’ Saab asserted, ‘quadrate meter,’ and glowered at Turner in case he should dare to contradict him. Suddenly Frau Saab was talking and no one could stop her any more. Her whole little life was spread before them in an oriental tinkle of hopes and disappointments; the colour which had mounted so prettily to her cheeks stayed there like the warm flush of sexual success.
They had hoped that Karl-Heinz would get the Bonn Büro of his newspaper. Bonn editor: that had been their expectation. His salary would go up another thousand and he would have a real position. What had happened instead? The paper had appointed den Flitzdorf and the Flitzdorf was just a boy, with no experience and nothing and completely homosexual and Karl-Heinz, who had worked now eighteen years for the paper and had so many contacts, was still only second man and was having to make extra by writing for all the cheese-papers. ‘Yellow press,’ said her husband, but for once she quite ignored him.
Well, when that had happened they had had a long discussion and decided they would go ahead with their building plans although the Hypothek was appalling; and no sooner had they paid over the money to the Makler than a really terrible thing happened: the Africans had come to Oberwinter. It was quite awful. Karl-Heinz was always very sharp against Africans, but now they had actually taken the next door plot and were building a Residenz for one of their Ambassadors, and twice a week they all came up and climbed like monkeys over the bricks and shouted they wanted it different; and in no time they would have a whole colony up there, with Cadillacs and children and music all night, and as for herself, she would be all alone when Karl-Heinz was working late, and they were already putting special bolts on the doors so that she would not be –
‘They talk fantastic!’ Saab shouted, loudly enough for Siebkron and Bradfield to look round at him sharply; for the two men had drawn away to the window and were murmuring quietly into the night. ‘But we don’t get nothing to drink!’
‘Karl-Heinz, my poor chap, we are completely neglecting you.’ With a final word to Siebkron, Bradfield walked down. the room to where the decanters stood on their bright-cut silver tray. ‘Who else would like a nightcap?’