by David Lodge
– This is the life, eh Timothy? said Kate.
They ordered trout with salad and sauté potatoes. Vince suggested some white wine to go with the meal.
– I’ll just have a beer, said Mel. We’re playing golf this afternoon, remember.
– What the hell, said Ruth. I can’t hit the ball when I’m sober, so what have I got to lose?
Mel and Vince were serious golfers, and played against each other. The others formed a foursome, Kate and Greg playing against Dot and Ruth. Dot seemed to be a reasonably skilful player. The others were beginners whom Timothy quickly ranked in a descending order of competence: Kate, Greg, Ruth. They hired little trolleys to carry their golf bags, and Timothy volunteered to pull Kate’s for her.
Vince and Mel whacked their balls high and straight down the fairway, and strode off shoulder to shoulder. It took the others much longer to get off the first tee, and their progress round the course was slow and erratic. They swung and missed, they hacked great divots out of the turf, they lost innumerable balls in the rough, or sliced them into the wrong fairways and got mixed up in other people’s games. They giggled and cursed and tried to cheat on the score.
Timothy was bored until Kate allowed him to putt for her. He had considerable experience of putting on the bumpy Municipal green at Worthing, and as a result of his skill Kate and Greg began to draw level with Dot and Ruth.
– You’re terrific, Timothy, said Kate, as he sank a sixteen-foot putt. You ought to take up the game.
Greg, who was lying on the grassy bank that half enclosed the green, applauded.
– The grass is like velvet, you can’t miss, said Timothy modestly.
– Well, it is one of the finest courses in Europe, said Kate. Golfers come from all over the world to play here. Look out!
Timothy ducked as a ball whizzed past his head and disappeared into the rough grass on the far side of the green. Ruth limped over the rim of a bunker, a cigarette dangling from her lip, her baseball cap askew.
– Hey, didya see that? I actually hit it! Pow! She scowled and looked round with her hands on her hips. Now were the hell is it? Don’t tell me it went straight down the hole?
– Maybe it did, Ruth, said Greg. But not down this hole. Try one of the other holes.
– O.K., Sam Snyder, you’re not doing so good yourself. Jesus, it’s hot! She sat down on the green and took off her right shoe, wriggling her toes. These new shoes are killing me.
– That pool looks a treat, doesn’t it? said Dot, looking over towards the hotel Timothy had noticed earlier. And no one seems to be using it.
– Pool? Did someone say pool? Ruth squawked. Lead me to it. Carry me to it.
– Water, water, Greg croaked, crawling up the grass bank on all fours.
– How about it, gang? said Ruth. What say we call this game quits and go have a swim?
– But we’ve no costumes, Kate pointed out.
– This is no time for prudery, said Greg. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see Ruth in the raw.
– Brother, you haven’t lived! Ruth cawed delightedly.
– Maybe they’ll lend us some costumes, said Dot. I could sure do with a dip.
– Who says they’ll even let us swim? said Kate. After all, it is a private pool.
The manager of the hotel shook his head bemusedly at first, but after a few notes had changed hands they were given permission to use the pool and some costumes were produced. The costumes were ill-fitting and of old-fashioned design, and their appearance, when they emerged from the dressing cubicles, threw them all into hysterics.
– I hope you kept your bras on, girls, said Ruth. I tried this on without, and for one horrible moment I thought I’d lost ’em. She mimed feeling herself for her breasts like a man searching for his wallet.
They ordered iced tea to drink while they were drying off in the sun. It was casting long shadows when Mel and Vince arrived, looking hot.
– What in hell are you doing here? Mel demanded of his wife. I’ve been looking all over the goddam course.
– He lost, said Ruth. You lost, didn’t you, sweetie-pie? I can tell with my woman’s intuition.
Vince confirmed this guess:
– Three and two. I offered him a few strokes before we started, but he was too proud to take the offer.
– My handicap’s the same as yours, Mel growled. I just had an off day. My putting was all to hell.
– You should get Timothy to give you some lessons, said Ruth. He’s the greatest.
– Wheredya get those swimsuits?
– A nice man in the hotel gave them to us.
– Looks like he got them out of a museum or something.
– You’re just jealous, lover. Why don’t you get yourself one and join us?
– Come on, it’s getting late.
– Maybe we should go, said Vince. Or we’ll never get to the Casino tonight.
– You talked me into it, said Ruth, jumping to her feet.
– You don’t like Kate’s friends, do you? Timothy said.
Don looked a little taken aback.
– I expect it’s mutual.
– Why don’t you, though?
Don seemed about to speak, but hesitated. They walked on in silence, apart from the buzzing of insects in the grass beside the Philosopher’s Way, and the hum of traffic from the town far below.
– Let’s drop the subject, he said at last. They’re your sister’s friends.
– I won’t tell her, said Timothy.
Don grinned.
– I like your sister, anyway. Is that mutual?
– I dunno . . . I think so. You don’t think she’s too fat?
– No, said Don, laughing. I don’t think she’s too fat. You can tell her that, if you like.
They went back to the hotel to shower and change; then drove off again to a little restaurant in the mountains that Vince and Greg had discovered. It was an old, crooked-roofed little inn, with space for only twenty diners, and Greg said you had to book a table several days in advance. The meal seemed to go on for ages, and included venison, hunted in the Black Forest with bow and arrow, according to Vince, and rum omelettes which gave Dot hiccups. Pardon me, she kept saying, and Greg said had they heard the story about the American at a dinner party in Paris, where one of the ladies farted.
– A Frenchman sitting next to this American guy stood up and apologized. Whaddya do that for, it wasn’t you that farted, said the American in a whisper. Ah, M’sieu, said the Frenchman, in this country we have a reputation for gallantry. A few minutes later the same lady farted again. The American jumped to his feet and said, Folks, have that one on me!
Timothy, who had never heard a grown-up say fart before, and had drunk two glasses of wine, thought this was very funny, and laughed a lot. The others began to tell stories, some of which made Kate look quizzically at him. He avoided her glance and cultivated an absent-minded smile which left the extent of his comprehension an open question – which indeed it was.
It was eleven o’clock by the time they left the restaurant. The lights of Baden-Baden twinkled in the valley far below. Ever since he had come out from England it seemed to him that he had been looking down from heights, being shown the kingdoms of the world, like Jesus in the Bible. The crisp night air quenched his yawns and cooled his overheated body. He would have liked to ride in the open Mercedes with Vince, but Kate threw a scarf over her head and jumped into the front passenger seat. The rest of the party got into Mel’s Oldsmobile and followed the Mercedes down the twisting mountain road, its brake lights glowing and fading like cigarettes in the dark as Vince slowed at the sharp bends. Greg, on the front seat of the Oldsmobile, twiddled the knobs of the radio, sweeping the needle on the dial through a spectrum of gabbled languages, snatches of music, symphonies, marches, opera, until he found some jazz. Timothy was once again impressed by the insatiable appetite for diversion Kate’s friends possessed. Their aim seemed to be to make life an endless succession of pleasant sen
sations, more than one sensation at a time if possible. He pictured whimsically to himself the six-armed Indian gods and goddesses he had seen in art books, with a martini in one hand, a cigarette in the other, one hand wielding a fork, another tuning a radio, while the third pair held a dancing partner round the waist.
This style of living was difficult to adjust to, for it affronted his deepest instincts and principles. The whole system of prudent rules and safeguards, painfully learned in the school of scarcity – saving up, keeping things for best, postponing pleasure, or ekeing it out morsel by morsel, living in anticipation or recollection, never by impulse – this system was impossible to operate in an environment of excess. What profit was it to save half the chocolate bar he got on Monday, if Kate gave him a whole new one on Tuesday? What point in rationing yourself to one Coke, when you had enough money in your pocket for two? What use looking forward to a treat next week, when today might produce something more exciting? Already this day had contained enough novelty and indulgence to satisfy a year’s longing at home, and still it was not finished. They swooped down the spiralling road towards a new goal of pleasure. Half an hour ago he had been ready for bed. Now, refreshed by the cool night air, he had got his second wind, he entered into the spirit of excess, he wanted the night to go on. He marvelled at himself, and looked back with a certain scorn at his former existence. It seemed to him that for years he had been doing things that he hadn’t really wanted to do, out of timidity and ignorance of anything better. Now he had discovered that there was another world to join, one that was abundantly pleasurable.
– You’ve heard of camp followers? said Don. When every army drew a second army in its wake. Living off the first army, protected by them, tolerated by them, scavenging for what the first army hadn’t looted or destroyed . . . I’m afraid that’s what the civilian establishment out here reminds me of, sometimes. Camp-followers. Only they don’t wear rags and carry bundles on their backs. They wear Brooks Brothers suits and have matched luggage and they ride about in big shiny Buicks.
Timothy glanced covertly at Don’s frayed cuffs and scruffy cotton trousers.
– But it’s not their fault if they’re well off, he said mildly.
– Maybe, but they don’t deserve it, either, said Don. Why should they inherit the earth?
– Why d’you mean?
– They live like the aristocracy used to. But give me the aristocracy of blood over the aristocracy of the dollar any day. Back home most of these people wouldn’t rate a second glance, and they know it. I don’t mean your sister, now.
– No, said Timothy, though he couldn’t see why not.
– I mean my compatriots. Back home they’d be nobodies, sitting in their backyards, wondering if they could afford to change their cars this year, planning a vacation in Atlantic City. Out here they can live like kings. Europe is their playground. They just struck it lucky.
– Being here, you mean?
– Being here at the right time. Just when the Germans – and not just the Germans – began to crawl out of their cellars, clear away the rubble, rebuild their cities, open up the hotels and restaurants and the sights and the casinos – they happened to be the only people around with enough money to take advantage of it. The only people with no currency problems, no passport problems, no visa problems. Of course, they can’t travel East, but they wouldn’t want to, anyway. No pleasure there. It’s mostly rubble still, there.
– You mean, behind the Iron Curtain? Have you been there?
– I was all fixed to go to Warsaw once. I had my visa, everything.
– Why didn’t you go, then?
Don shrugged.
– It’s considered un-American to go to Communist-sponsored conferences – that’s what it was, a youth conference. They said, You can go, buddy, but we won’t let you back in. They would have confiscated my passport.
Don raised his hand and shaded his eyes. Timothy followed the direction of his gaze, along the line of the river eastwards, upstream. There was a shallow dam or waterfall where water foamed, and a lock to one side. The river beyond the lock was quickly lost to view between the steep green mountains of the Neckar valley.
– Difficult to imagine, isn’t it? said Don. Couple of hundred miles east and you wouldn’t know the war had ended. Rubble. Food lines. Secret police.
– Why d’you want to go there, then?
– It’s hard to say . . . I guess, when you think of what happened in Europe only a few years ago, sackcloth and ashes seem more appropriate than Waikiki shirts.
Timothy considered this for a moment.
– Is that why you like England? he asked.
When he woke in his hotel room in Baden he found that in the course of the night he had rolled himself tightly in the down quilt which, absurdly, seemed the only form of bed-clothing provided, so that he was soaked in perspiration. He was also extremely thirsty, and his head ached. Was this, he wondered, a hangover? He had only had two glasses of wine, and a Tom Collins at the Casino.
The memory of that drink released a stream of other mental images of the Casino. The gaudy magnificence of the décor – mirrors, chandeliers, murals. Gigantic naked women painted on the ceiling, labelled Richesse, Noblesse, Industrie, and Agriculture, with wisps of drapery concealing their private parts. The whirring rattle of the roulette wheels and the clicking of chips being shuffled and sorted, an incessant background noise, like the sound of crickets. Kate standing on the threshold of the Grande Salle, with flared nostrils and bright eyes, murmuring, Isn’t it fabulous, Timothy? And, hours later, as they dragged their weary legs out to the car park, whispering: Don’t ask Vince how he made out. He had bad luck.
His watch had stopped at twenty past seven, but he guessed it was much later than that, for bright sunlight glinted through the chinks in the window shutters. He went over to the washbasin, drank recklessly from the tap and splashed his face with cold water. When he threw back the shutters, sunlight and fresh air burst into the room, and he looked with an irresistible lift of the spirits over the roofs and walled gardens of the town, at the green mountains and the intensely blue sky.
He found Kate on the terrace of the hotel restaurant. She was sitting alone at a table, smoking a cigarette and reading a magazine through her sunglasses.
– Hi! she greeted him. Sleep well? I didn’t like to wake you.
– What’s the time?
– Nearly one.
– Blimey! What about Mass?
Kate grimaced. I think it may be too late for that. I’ll ask a waiter. And order you some brunch.
– What’s brunch?
– What d’you think?
– Breakfast and lunch, I s’pose. Is it a real word?
– It’s an American word.
– It’s typical.
The waiter told them that the last mass in the town was at twelve.
– You don’t really mind, do you, Timothy?
– No, I don’t mind. It wasn’t my fault I overslept. What do you eat for brunch?
– Anything you like. That’s the beauty of it.
He ordered fresh grapefruit, scrambled eggs with ham and sausage, Apfelstrudel and coffee. Kate told him that the others had gone off to play golf again.
– I hope you didn’t stay behind just for me.
– No, I have a little errand to do this afternoon. Something I always do when I come to Baden. You can come with me, if you like.
– Where?
– It’s an orphanage I discovered when we were here last summer.
The appearance of the waiter with his grapefruit enabled Timothy to conceal his excitement. He spooned out a neatly separated segment of the fruit and swallowed it.
– Orphanage? he repeated casually.
– I saw this crocodile of darling little children coming out of the church here one Sunday, and I got talking to one of the nuns who was with them. Well, I’d been lucky at the Casino the night before, so on impulse I gave her a hundred Marks for the home.
Conscience money, Greg called it, but she was so grateful. She cried, Timothy. I felt awful – after all, what was a hundred Marks to me?
Kath sniffed and blew her nose daintily on a paper tissue.
– Well, to cut a long story short, the nun invited me to visit the home, and I’ve been going there ever since. I always take some candies for the kids and sometimes a little donation. The boys usually give me something, too – they’re very generous like that, though they kid me about it. Lady Bountiful, Greg calls me. Would you like to come this afternoon?
Her tone was light, but he thought he detected an anxious plea in her eyes.
– Oh, yes, he assured her, I’ll come.
– I’ve always had a thing about Eastern Europe, said Don quietly – so quietly that Timothy could barely catch his words. I’ve never been there, but I feel as if I know it, as if it were my home. I mean Poland, East Prussia, that part. The part that’s been fought over so many times the soil must be like bonemeal. And sometimes the towns have Polish names and sometimes they have German names and another time it’s Russian names. But they’re the same places. There’s a curse on that land. All the worst things happened there.
He fell silent, but Timothy had nothing to say.
– It’s very grey. And cold – it’s always winter there, in my mind. With a grey sky and a thin layer of dirty snow on the ground. Flat and marshy. Smoke hanging in the air, and a fine wet ash falling like drizzle – but we won’t go into that. And somewhere there’s a locomotive shunting, only you can’t see it, only hear it, hear the freightcars clanking, and the freightcars – but we won’t go into that either.
He paused again. Timothy, puzzled, remained silent.
– When I tried to go to Warsaw, I didn’t really want to go to Warsaw at all, or the conference. I just wanted to go to Auschwitz.
Some response seemed to be expected of him.
– I’ve heard the name somewhere, he said. Wasn’t it one of Napoleon’s –