by David Lodge
“Coffee for me,” said Vic. “I’ll leave the bubbly till later.”
Herr Winkler, a portly, smiling man, with small, perfectly shod feet and a springy step like a ballroom dancer, chuckled. “You wish to keep a clear head, of course. But your charming assistant… ?”
“Oh, she can drink as much as she likes,” said Vic offhandedly, presumably to encourage the supposition that her presence on this occasion was purely decorative. He had already stripped her of her doctorate, introducing her to the Germans as “Miss Penrose.” With her false identity card on her lapel, Robyn felt she had no option but to go along with the role assigned to her, and enjoy the fun of it. “I’m rather susceptible to champagne,” she simpered. “I think I’d better mix it with orange juice.”
“Ah, yes, the Buck Fizz, isn’t it?” said Herr Winkler.
“Buck’s Fizz, actually,” she said, ever the teacher, even in disguise. “As distinct from Buck House, where the Queen lives.”
“Buck’s Fizz, Buck House—I must remember,” said Herr Winkler, waltzing over to the drinks table. “Heinrich! a glass of Buck’s Fizz for the lady! And coffee for Mr. Wilcox, who wishes to buy one of our beautiful machines.”
“If the price is right,” said Vic.
“Ha ha! Of course,” Winkler chuckled. Dr. Patsch, tall, saturnine and dark-bearded, measured orange juice and sparkling wine into a champagne flute, holding it level with his eyes like a test-tube. Winkler snatched the drink from him and sashayed back to Robyn. He presented the glass to her with a slight bow and a perceptible click of his heels. “I am informed that your boss is a hard bargainer, Miss Penrose.”
“Who told you that?” Vic said.
“My spies,” said Dr. Winkler, beaming merrily. “We have all spies in business these days, do we not? Will you take cream in your coffee, Mr. Wilcox?”
“Black with sugar, please. Then I’d like to take a closer look at the machine you’ve got out there.”
“Of course, of course. Dr. Patsch will explain everything to you. Then you and I will talk money, which is so much more complicated.”
The next hour was rather tedious for Robyn and she had no difficulty in simulating bored incomprehension. They went out into the exhibition hall and examined the huge moulding machine at its phantom task. Dr. Patsch gave a detailed commentary on its operation in excellent English, and Vic seemed impressed. When they went back inside the stand to discuss terms, however, there appeared to be a wide gap between the asking price and Vic’s limit. Winkler suggested that they adjourn for lunch, and pranced them out of the exhibition centre and across the road to a high-rise hotel of ostentatious luxury where a table had been reserved. It was the kind of restaurant where the first thing the waiters did was to take away the perfectly serviceable place settings already on the table and substitute more elaborate ones. Robyn submitted to being guided through the German menu by Dr. Winkler, and compensated herself by choosing the most expensive items on it, smoked salmon and venison. The wine was excellent. There was light conversation about differences between England and Germany in which Robyn avoided giving any impression of suspicious intelligence by attributing her every opinion to something she had read in a newspaper. But as the meal drew to its conclusion the talk turned back to the matter of business. “It’s a beautiful machine,” said Vic, puffing a cigar over the coffee and cognac. “It’s exactly what I need. The trouble is, you want a hundred and seventy thousand pounds for it, and I’m only authorised to pay a hundred and fifty.”
Dr. Winkler smiled, a shade desperately. “We might be able to arrange a small discount.”
“How small?”
“Two per cent.”
Vic shook his head. “Not worth talking about.” He glanced at his watch. “I have another appointment this afternoon…”
“Yes, of course,” said Winkler despondently. He motioned to a waiter for his bill. Vic excused himself and went off to the men’s cloakroom. Winkler and Patsch exchanged some remarks in German to which Robyn listened attentively, while accepting a second cup of coffee from the waiter and indulging herself in a chocolate truffle. After a little while she stood up and, with a little charade of embarrassment, asked the way to the Ladies. She loitered outside the door until Vic emerged from the adjacent Herren.
“They’re going to accept your price,” she said.
His face brightened. “Are they? That’s terrific!”
“But there’s a catch in it, I think. Patsch said, ‘We can’t do it with a something system,’—it sounded like ‘semen,’ And Winkler said, ‘Well, he hasn’t specified semen.’”
Vic frowned and pushed his fingers through his forelock. “The cunning bastards. They’re going to try and fob me off with an electromechanical control system.”
“What?”
“The machine we saw this morning has a Siemens solid-state control system with diagnostic panels for identifying faults. The older type is electromechanical—all switches and relays, and no diagnostic facility. Nowhere near as reliable. The Siemens system would add nearly twenty thousand to the total cost—exactly the margin we’re haggling about. Nice work, Robyn.” While he was talking Vic was moving back towards the restaurant.
“Wait for me,” said Robyn. “I don’t want to miss anything, but I must go to the loo.”
When they returned to the restaurant, Robyn wondered whether Winkler and Patsch would have seen anything suspicious in their long absence, but Vic had had a story ready about phoning his divisional boss in England. “No dice, I’m afraid. My ceiling is still a hundred and fifty thousand.”
“We have been discussing the problem,” said Winkler with a genial smile. “After all, we think we can meet your requirements for that figure.”
“Now you’re talking,” said Vic.
“Excellent!” Winkler beamed. “Let us have another cognac.” He waved to the wine waiter.
“I’ll send you a letter as soon as I get back,” said Vic. “Let’s just get the deal straight.” He took a notebook from his inside pocket and leafed through it with a wetted finger till he reached a certain page. “It’s your 22EX machine, right?”
“Correct.”
“With Siemens solid-state systems.”
Herr Winkler’s smile faded. “I do not think we specified that.”
“But the demonstration model in the exhibition has Siemens solid-state.”
“Very likely,” said Winkler with a shrug. “Our machines are available with a variety of control systems.”
“The 22EX is also supplied with Klugermann electromechanical controls,” said Dr. Patsch. “That is what we had in mind for the price.”
“Then it’s no deal,” said Vic, closing his notebook and stowing it away. “I’m only interested in solid-state.”
The wine waiter came up to the table. Winkler swatted him away irritably. Vic stood up and put his hand on the back of Robyn’s chair. “Perhaps we shouldn’t waste any more of your time, Mr. Winkler.”
“Thanks for the lovely lunch,” said Robyn, getting to her feet and giving a vacant smile of which she was rather proud.
“One moment, Mr. Wilcox. Sit down, please,” said Winkler. “If you will excuse us, I should like to discuss further with my colleague.”
Winkler and Patsch went off in the direction of the cloakrooms, deep in conversation. The former’s step seemed to have lost some of its spring, and he collided clumsily with one of the waiters as he threaded his way through the tables.
“Well?” said Robyn.
“I think they might just bite the bullet,” said Vic. “Winkler thought he had the deal sewn up. He can’t bear the thought of it slipping out of his grasp at the last moment.”
After five minutes, the Germans came back. Patsch was looking glum, but Winkler smiled gamely. “One hundred and fifty-five thousand,” he said, “with Siemens solid-state. That is absolutely our final offer.”
Vic took out his notebook again. “Let’s not make any more mistakes,” he said. “This is
the 22EX with Siemens solid-state, for one hundred and fifty-five thousand, to be paid in sterling in stages as per your outline quotation: 25% with order, 50% on delivery, 15% on being commissioned by your engineers, and 10% after two months satisfactory operation, right?”
“Correct.”
“Can you write out the new quotation and let me have it today?”
“It will be delivered to your hotel this afternoon.”
“It’s a deal, Mr. Winkler,” said Vic. “I can find the odd five thousand from somewhere.” He shook Winkler’s hand.
“I was not misinformed about you, Mr. Wilcox,” said Winkler, with a slightly weary smile.
They all shook hands again when they parted in the foyer of the hotel. “Goodbye, Miss Penrose,” said Winkler. “Enjoy yourself in Frankfurt.”
“Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Winkler,” she replied. “Ich wurde mich freuen wenn der Rest meines Besuches so erfreulich wird wie dieses köstliche Mittagessen.”
He gaped at her. “I did not know you speak German.”
“You didn’t ask me,” she said, smiling sweetly.
“Goodbye, then,” said Vic, taking Robyn’s arm. “You’ll be getting a letter next week. Then my technical people will be in touch.” He hurried her away towards the revolving doors. “What did you say?” he muttered.
“I said I would be happy if the rest of my stay was as enjoyable as the delicious lunch.”
“That was cheeky,” he said, keeping his grinning face hidden from the Germans. As the door spun them into the open, he punched the air triumphantly, like a footballer who has scored a goal. “Turned the tables on the buggers!” he cried. “At a hundred and fifty-five, it’s a snip!”
“Ssh! They’ll hear you.”
“They can’t back out now. What do you want to do?”
“Haven’t you got another appointment?”
“No, I invented that to concentrate their minds, I’ve got no more meetings till tomorrow. We could go and have a look at the Old Town if you like—it’s all fake, mind. Or go on the river. Whatever you fancy. It’s your treat. You deserve it.”
“It’s raining,” Robyn observed.
He held out a hand and looked up at the sky. “So it is.”
“Not much fun sightseeing in the rain. I think what I’d like to do is buy a swimming-costume and go back to that nice hotel and have a swim.”
“Good idea. There’s a taxi!”
…
So they went back to the hotel by taxi and Robyn chose a blue and green one-piece swimming costume in the sports boutique and allowed Vic to pay for it. He bought a pair of trunks for himself at the same time. He was not a great enthusiast for this form of exercise, but he had no intention of letting Robyn out of his sight any longer than was necessary to change into a pair of trunks.
It was years since he had bought such a garment, and in the meantime either he had got bigger or swimming costumes had got smaller. Robyn’s appearance when she emerged from the changing-room suggested that the latter was the case. Her pointed nipples were sharply embossed on the tight-fitting satiny cloth, and the bottom part of her costume was cut away so steeply that tendrils of red-gold hair crept out from under the fabric at the vee. He would have enjoyed all this more if he hadn’t been so conscious of his genitals bulging like a bunch of grapes at the crotch of his own costume.
They had the pool to themselves, apart from a couple of kids splashing about at the shallow end. Robyn dived gracefully into the water, and began a tidy crawl up and down the length of the pool. He might have guessed she would be a good swimmer. He jumped in, holding his nose, and tailed her with his slower breaststroke. When she offered to race him, he stipulated the breaststroke, but she still beat him easily. She climbed out of the pool, water streaming from her long white flanks, and tried vainly to lever the cheeks of her buttocks under the skimpy costume with her thumbs. She stood at the end of the diving board, bounced once, twice, and somersaulted into the water with a great splash. She surfaced, laughing and spluttering, “Made a hash of that!” and hauled herself out to try again. Vic trod water and watched her, entranced.
There was a jacuzzi at one end of the pool, a foaming whirlpool of hot water that gently pummelled your muscles into a state of blissful relaxation. They sat in it up to their necks, facing each other like cartoon characters in a cannibal’s pot. “I’ve never been in one of these before,” said Vic. “It’s magic.”
“An item to tick off your list,” said Robyn.
“What list?”
“The miss list. The list of things you’ve never done.”
“Oh, yes,” said Vic. He thought of another item, that she did not know about. Jennifer Rush burst into song inside his head:
There’s no need to run away,
If you feel that this is for real,
’Cause when it’s warm and straight from the heart,
It’s time to start.
“We shouldn’t stay in here too long,” said Robyn. She clambered out and took a running dive into the pool. He clumsily followed suit, gasping with the shock of the cool water after the hot jacuzzi. Into the jacuzzi they went once more, and once more into the pool. Then they separated to shower and dry themselves. The locker-room was supplied with an abundance of towels, robes, track suits, soaps, shampoos, body lotions and talcum powders. They emerged pink, gleaming, and odoriferous from these ablutions, and ordered tea in the games room. They played table-tennis and Vic won the best of five games. Then he taught her how to play snooker, a heady experience. Apart from the occasional handshake, or a guiding hand placed on her arm, he had never touched her before. Now he encircled her with his arms, almost embraced her from behind, as he corrected her posture and adjusted her handling of the cue. Jennifer Rush murmured:
I hold on to your body,
And feel each move you make,
Your voice is warm and tender
A love that I could not forsake.
They explored the gymnasium and played with the exercise bicycle and the rowing-machine and a kind of inverted treadmill that looked as if it had been invented by the Spanish Inquisition, until they worked up such a sweat that it was necessary to go and shower again. They agreed to rest for an hour or so in their rooms.
Vic lay on his bed, feeling tired but relaxed after all the exercise, his eyes shut, his head a mere amplifier now for Jennifer Rush. The lobes of his brain were two spools on which her tape played and replayed in an endless loop.
But it makes you feel all right,
Just to think of doin’ her right,
The road to choose is straight ahead in the end.
Surrender! It’s your only chance, surrender!
Don’t wait too long to realize
That her eyes will say “Forever.”
He rose after an hour and shaved for the second time that day. In the mirror his hair looked as light and fluffy as a baby’s from all the washing and drying. He parted it carefully, and combed it back, but the limp forelock fell forward inevitably across his forehead. Other men’s hair didn’t do that, he reflected irritably. Perhaps all his life he had been combing it the wrong way. He tried parting it on the other side, but it looked queer. Then he combed it forward without a parting at all, but it looked ridiculous. He rubbed some Vaseline into it, parted and combed it in the usual style. As soon as he moved, the forelock fell forward.
He put on a clean shirt and anxiously inspected his tie, which had got splashed with a bit of gravy at lunch. He dabbed at it with a wet face-flannel without much effect, except for creating a damp halo around the original spot. It was the only tie he had, though, and he could hardly wear an open-necked shirt with his striped suit. For the first time in his life, Vic wished he had brought more clothes with him on a business trip. Robyn, he felt sure, would have brought a change for the evening. “I thought I’d dress the part.”
He was not disappointed. When he knocked on the door of her room at the appointed time, she appeared at the threshold wearing a dress he
had never seen before, something silky and filmy and swirling, in a muted pattern of brown, blue and green, with different shoes and different earrings, even a different handbag, from the ones she’d worn earlier that day.
“You look wonderful,” he said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears: it had assimilated some of the passionate timbre of Jennifer Rush. Robyn seemed to notice, for she blushed slightly, and rattled away in reply:
“Thanks—shall I come straight away? I’m ready, and hungry, believe it or not. Must be all that exercise.”
“Do you want to go out somewhere to dinner? Or shall we eat here?”
“I don’t mind,” she said. “Do you know somewhere special?”
“No,” he said. “Wherever we go will be crowded with people from the trade fair.”
“Then let’s eat here.”
“Good,” he said.
…
Vic insisted on ordering champagne at dinner. “A celebration,” he said. “We deserve it.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to the Altenhofer 22EX automatic core blower with Siemens solid-state diagnostic controls at the bargain price of a hundred and fifty-five thousand pounds.”
“Here’s to it,” said Robyn, feeling the bubbles explode pleasantly in her nostrils as she drank. “Mmm, delicious!”
Robyn hadn’t been joking when she told Herr Winkler that she was peculiarly susceptible to champagne. It had no perceptible effect on her at first, apart from tasting nice, so that she tended to drink more of it, more quickly, than she would another wine. Then, suddenly—woomph! She would be high as a kite. This evening she ordered herself to drink slowly, but somehow the bottle had emptied itself before they had finished their main course of trout meunière, and she weakly acquiesced in the ordering of a second. After all, why shouldn’t she get a little high? She was in a holiday mood: carefree, hedonistic, glowing with physical wellbeing. Rummidge and its attendant worries seemed infinitely remote. The curved crystal-lit dining room, filled with the civilised sounds of tinkling glassware, the soft clash of cutlery on china plate, subdued laughter and conversation, might have been the cabin of a spaceship, with portholes behind the thick velvet curtains from which the Earth would look no bigger or more substantial than a milky-coloured balloon. There was no gravity here, and one breathed champagne bubbles. The sensation was exhilarating.