“Little Bert has never seen a pomegranate,” said Herbert. There were forms of conversation he simply refused to accept.
The woman in the corner had sucked up the last drops from the bottom of the can, and now began eating again. Not only did I cook thousands of suppers, but they went on diets. Bananas and skimmed milk. The men lasted one day, she lasted two.
“The Coca-Cola man,” said little Bert — but no, this time the vendor had powdered coffee and a jug of hot water, which he was selling only to passengers who happened to have cups in their luggage; he had run out of plastic mugs. The woman pulled a pottery stein out of her WINES OF GERMANY bag and bought about an inch of coffee. Drinking it, she fanned herself with her chiffon scarf, complaining, “Too hot, too hot.”
Half the time they all ate something different — this one rice, that one potatoes, the other one cornflakes and brown sugar. I was the one that stood there dishing it all up. Always on my feet. After she had finished the coffee she ate grapes, an apple, mint sweets, and raisin cookies. I never got used to the electric stove. But I had to have it electric. It came from the factory.
A smell of rot began to fill the compartment. The grape seeds and stems, the apple core, and the papers the sweets had been in had immediately become garbage. The Norwegian was clearly disturbed — nauseated, in fact. He kept moving in and out to the passage, trying to catch the slightest breath of fresh air. Each time he came back he stared at Christine.
Christine was conscious of her bare brown arms because she could see the Norwegian eyeing them. She raised them, nervously toying with her scarf. Herbert sat as calm as an incarnation of Buddha, even when their direction changed and the sun fell directly on him; even when the woman beside him shut the window because the hot breeze touched her beehive of hair. He must have been as hot and uncomfortable as the rest of them, but nothing would ever make him say so.
To escape the Norwegian’s staring, Christine went out to the corridor and stood with her arms resting on the lowered window. She could see a road, a low wall, and a private park filled with shade trees sloping up to a small mock-Gothic castle built of reddish stone. Two cream-coloured cars were drawn up before the gates — the Mercedes belonging to Uncle Ludwig and a Volvo driven by the horrible Jürgen, who was Uncle Ludwig’s contact man. Jürgen was large and strong, weighed more than two hundred pounds, and had a beaked nose and eyes so sunken he looked blind.
It was like Uncle Ludwig to make everyone get out at the gates instead of driving straight in. He still dressed as he had when he was poor; he had on the trousers of one suit and the jacket of another, a narrow tie bought years ago out of a barrow, and metal-tipped boots. His clothes tended to be loose-fitting because he carried wads of money all over his person, paid everything in cash, kept his records in his head. Uncle Ludwig never carried a gun; Jürgen did. Along with these two, the party included Uncle Bebo, Aunt Barbara, Aunt Eva, Uncle Max, and Uncle Georg with Aunt Milena. These two were father and mother to a little boy who got out last of all and gave his hand to a grandmother. Grandmother was dressed in a long skirt and a blouse of dark blue embroidered with daisies of a lighter blue, so small they looked like dots. Upon the skirt was an apron of yet another blue, with a hem of starched glossy pleats. She was in shades of blue from her chin to her wrists and right down to the tops of her shoes, which were black and polished, without buckles or any nonsense. Grandmother had a wide mouth, eyes like currants, high cheekbones, and a little blunt nose. She was not much taller than her grandson.
The whole party shook itself out. The women straightened their skirts and blew what they hoped would be cooler air on each other’s necks; the men wiped their wet foreheads with folded handkerchiefs and replaced their hats. They turned at the same time and smiled their respects to the estate steward, who had a broken neck and wore a cast like a white chimney. Close behind him came a thin man in country tweeds; he looked to them more English than German, because of all the aristocratic British scoundrels they had seen in films. He strolled down to them with his feet hidden in a low cloud of housedogs, who did not let up barking. He was not English, of course, but as removed from them as any foreigner might have been. He spoke with such a correct and beautiful accent that Grandmother could make out only a word or two. She looked away, blushed, and performed a deep curtsey.
Jürgen muttered, “The family came for the drive,” to which the steward said affably that they could visit, with a great wave that seemed to waft them up the green hill and indoors.
“The castle is a museum,” said Uncle Bebo. He was the only one in the family who had travelled much in peacetime.
Uncle Ludwig, who always sounded like a piece of metal machinery, said, “Yes — visit!” which was something of an order. He and his man Jürgen had come here to see about buying thousands of Christmas trees for the market next December. The steward, part of whose job it was to talk about money, removed himself to an alley of lime trees with the horrible Jürgen, while Uncle Ludwig and the thin man sat down on a stone bench carved with pineapples and began a discussion about the cathedral at Freiburg. Uncle Ludwig did not know if he had ever seen the cathedral or only pictures of it, and did not care whether he had or had not. Now that he was rich he was not thought ignorant any more, but simply eccentric. He sat patiently, letting Jürgen get on with it.
The rest of the party marched on to the castle, led by Uncle Bebo. Knowing about museums, Uncle Bebo had some loose change ready, five marks in all, with which to tip the guide. It was a long walk, all uphill. The hot weather, plus Uncle Bebo’s jokes, made them feel silly and drunk. Giggling and hitting each other, they trooped in and up a great flight of stairs — Uncle Bebo said that in castle-museums the ticket office was one floor up. They opened doors on museum rooms furnished to look as if someone lived in them. Uncle Bebo fingered the draperies and even tried the beds, while Aunt Barbara, who had one problem on outings, and one only, began to look for a sign saying “Ladies.”
“That will be downstairs,” much-travelled Uncle Bebo said. He led the descent, opened another great door, and saw what he took to be the staff of the museum eating lunch. He swung his arm back, the confident gesture of a know-it-all, and the others followed him into a large dining room where some ten or twelve persons of all ages stared back at them without speaking.
“Good appetite!” the visitors cried. They urged the staff to take no notice, please — to eat up their veal and dumplings while the dish was still hot. Uncle Bebo tried to see if the guide to be tipped was here, but none of the stunned faces showed the required signs of leadership. The men at lunch wore country jackets with bone buttons. The women seemed so dowdy that nobody remembered later what they were wearing. The visitors were in their Sunday urban best — meaning, for the aunts, pinkish nylon stockings, flowered drip-dry frocks, white no-iron cardigans, Aunt Barbara in a no-iron skirt from Italy and shoes with needle heels and her hair rolled up in blond thimbles. The men wore high collars and stiff shiny ties, had hair newly trimmed so that a crescent of skin left each ear looking stranded. The men smelled of aftershave lotion — lilac and carnation — that they’d been given last Christmas by the family women.
The visitors followed Uncle Bebo once around the table. They paused when he did, to squint at an oval portrait, nodded when he said, “Baroque!” and cried out with wonder at the sweet bell-tone when he snapped his fingernails on a crystal punchbowl — all the while renewing their smiles and encouraging remarks to the staff. Finally all headed towards another door at the end of the room. This one had a pointed lintel beneath which Uncle Bebo paused for the last time. He raised his fist (still clenched around the five marks), looked up at the lintel, back at the frozen people of all ages clutching their knives and forks, did not cry, “Death to upper-class swine!” as they might have feared in their collective bad dream, but only, “This door is Gothic! No mistake!” and led the visitors on, the marks in his knuckles going cling-cling-cling. Granny turned back, smiled, curtsied deeply, and gave them a blessing.