Heavenly Date and Other Flirtations

  They passed a coffee bar, popular with students, and the smell of freshly ground coffee wafted out to them.

  “I could do with a coffee,” said Herr Brugli. “What about you? Could you do with one too?”

  Madame Thermaat could, and so they entered the coffee bar, both feeling a little bit excited at the prospect of a new place with new, younger people. Zürich had changed over the previous few years, and you were never quite sure whom you might meet. Parts of it were Bohemian now; parts were even dangerous. There were foreigners – Eastern Europeans and others – exotica, thought Herr Brugli.

  They found a small table near the bar and a waitress came to serve them. She had black fish-net tights and looked somewhat dishevelled. She was wearing a cheap perfume that made Madame Thermaat wrinkle her nose.

  Herr Brugli smiled, conspiratorially. “This is rather different, is it not?”

  Madame Thermaat looked about her. “What do these people do?” she said to him, her voice lowered. “Do you think they actually study?”

  Herr Brugli shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps,” he said. “They study at night – perhaps.”

  Their coffee arrived. It was piping hot and very strong.

  “So welcome,” said Herr Brugli. “In whatever surroundings.”

  He looked at his watch, and saw that it was almost lunchtime. For a moment he was thoughtful; then he called the waitress across and whispered something to her. She muttered something, and returned later with a bottle of champagne, which Herr Brugli inspected. Then he nodded and said something further to the waitress. She appeared surprised, but smiled after a moment and disappeared behind the bar.

  “You’re conspiring Herr Brugli!” scolded Madame Thermaat. “You’re planning some mischief!”

  A few minutes later the waitress returned, accompanied by a man in an apron. He was carrying two magnums of champagne. He put the champagne down on the bar and then, to Madame Thermaat’s astonishment, clapped his hands loudly. The conversation died down. People looked up from the tables; a woman laid down her cigarette; a young man, who was in the process of getting up from his chair, sat down again.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” said the man. “I am happy to announce that each table may, if it wishes, have a magnum of champagne, by courtesy of one of our honoured guests.” He paused, his hand stretched out to introduce Herr Brugli.

  One of the students laughed.

  “Good for the honoured guest! Where’s the champagne?”

  The waitress opened the first bottle and gave it to a table of young men. Then others received their bottle and the wine was poured.

  “Herr Brugli!” said Madame Thermaat. “Such a generous gesture! I think the students approve.”

  They did. Glasses were raised from all quarters of the restaurant, and Herr Brugli and Madame Thermaat acknowledged the toasts. Herr Brugli himself had two large glasses of champagne and felt immediately exhilarated by the flinty wine.

  “This really is proving to be a marvellous day,” he said expansively. “Such wonderful weather – such wonderful company!”

  Madame Thermaat smiled demurely, raising her glass to her lips. She was more moderate in her consumption of champagne, but enjoyed it nonetheless. The students, of course, drank quickly. Soon the first magnums had been exhausted, but a sign from Herr Brugli to the waitress produced more. The man in the apron looked dubious, but money changed hands and he went away smiling.

  Glasses refreshed, the students’ conversation became more animated. At one table there was uproarious laughter; at another an earnest debate; at yet another, a student broke into a snatch of song.

  A couple of students now got up and came over to the table at which Herr Brugli and Madame Thermaat were sitting. They were a boy and a girl – in their late teens or very early twenties by the look of them – dressed in the uniform of the student quarter, jeans and black jackets.

  “May we join you?” asked the boy. “It was very kind of you to give us all champagne.”

  Herr Brugli rose to his feet, drawing up a chair for the girl.

  “Of course,” he said. “It has been a very great pleasure to see you all enjoying yourselves so much. It’s just like The Student Prince …”

  The students looked blank.

  “Surely you remember the film,” interjected Madame Thermaat. “Mario Lanza was the prince. He was a student too …”

  The girl shook her head. “An old film?” she asked.

  Madame Thermaat laughed. “Goodness!” she said. “I suppose we forget just how old we are. Yes, I suppose it was an old film.”

  “We saw Casablanca last week,” offered the boy. “It was terribly good. It was at a festival of historic films.”

  Herr Brugli glanced at Madame Thermaat. “It was a truly great film,” he said. “It was probably the best film ever made. I saw it shortly after it came out,” adding: “Although I was terribly young at the time, just a boy really.”

  There was a short silence. Herr Brugli reached for his bottle of champagne and filled up the students’ glasses.

  “Tell us all about yourselves,” he said. “Tell us what you study. Tell us where you live. Tell us which professors are worth listening to and which are not.”

  They walked out of the coffee house together. The boy took Madame Thermaat’s arm, for which she was grateful, after four glasses of champagne – and Herr Brugli took the girl’s.

  “Our place is just a minute or two away,” said the boy. “It’s nothing much, I’m afraid.”

  “What does one need in life?” asked Herr Brugli. “A glass of wine, a book, a bough, and thou? Is that not what Omar Khyham says.”

  “Yes,” said the boy, hesitantly. “Maybe …”

  They passed a bookshop and then followed a narrow lane that led back up the hill. Then there was an alley, with several bicycles propped against the walls, and graffiti daubed on the plaster. There was a slightly dank smell in the air, an odour of cats, thought Herr Brugli.

  “Here we are,” said the girl. “This door to the right.”

  They entered the doorway. There was a cramped hall, and a set of narrow stone stairs which the boy bounded up. From a landing above, he called down to them: “Door’s open! Up you come!”

  Madame Thermaat went in first, followed by the girl. Then Herr Brugli entered, stooping under the squat lintel of the door, holding his felt hat in one hand and his parcel in the other.

  There were only two rooms. One was a living room, neatly kept, but sparsely furnished. There were several large cushions on the floor and a sofa covered with a tartan rug. There were posters on the wall – a picture of a man’s head, a travel poster from Greece, an Italian railway timetable. There were books stacked in a narrow bookcase and several forming a pile on the floor itself.

  The door into the other room was open, and they could see a large mattress on the floor. Beside the mattress there was a vase of dried flowers and more books. Herr Brugli averted his gaze, guilty, awed.

  “You see,” said the boy. “This is how we live. This is our place.”

  “It’s charming,” said Madame Thermaat. “And look, you can see the Cathedral down there!”

  Herr Brugli joined her at the window and they looked down at the roof tops of the city, falling away below them towards the river. It was a view of the city they were unused to; it could even have been another town.

  “I would like to live somewhere like this,” said Herr Brugli quietly. “Away from everything. Just by oneself. Imagine it.”

  Madame Thermaat closed her eyes. “You wouldn’t have to worry about anything,” she murmured. “No staff troubles. No bridge parties. No telephone.”

  “It would be blissful,” said Herr Brugli. “Heaven.”

  The girl had switched some music on – it was jazz, a saxophonist – while the boy ground coffee.

  “Listen,” said Herr Brugli, raising a finger in the air. “You know what that is, don’t you. As time goes by! Casablanca!”

  He turned to
Madame Thermaat.

  “We should dance,” he said. “Would you care to?”

  “I should love to,” she replied.

  The boy set the mugs of coffee down on a low table. Then he went to the girl and took her by the hand. They danced too, next to Herr Brugli and Madame Thermaat. As time goes by finished, and now it was Afternoon in Paris; only Herr Brugli knew what that was, but they all danced again. Then the boy danced with Madame Thermaat, and Herr Brugli danced with the girl.

  Now the boy opened a bottle of wine – cheap Swiss wine from up the lake – but Herr Brugli said it was the most delicious wine he had had for many years. Madame Thermaat agreed, and drank two glasses.

  Suddenly Herr Brugli looked at his watch.

  “Look at the time!” he said. “Almost five o’clock!”

  “We must be on our way,” said Madame Thermaat. “I have so much to do.”

  “And so do I,” said Herr Brugli.

  The boy said he was sorry they were leaving. They could have had dinner in the flat.

  “Some other day,” said Herr Brugli. “And perhaps some time you would both join us for dinner in our houses.”

  “That would be very nice,” said the girl.

  Herr Brugli looked at the girl. She was enchanting; kind, loving, wonderful – just wonderful. And the boy was so courteous too; nothing had really changed in Switzerland, nothing. He leant over to Madame Thermaat and whispered in her ear. She listened gravely, and then nodded enthusiastically.

  “We are so grateful to you for your kindness,” said Herr Brugli. “Asking us home, and arranging this impromptu little dance – everything. We have presents for you, and you must accept them.”

  He passed the painting to the boy, and Madame Thermaat pressed the jewelled egg, in its wrapping of gold foil, into the girl’s hands.

  The boy looked embarrassed as he took the paper off the parcel. He was silent as he studied the painting, holding it tenderly.

  “It’s marvellous,” he said. “It looks just like an original. It’s so realistic.”

  Herr Brugli laughed. “But it is the original,” he said. “It’s Florentine.”

  “And the egg is French, not Russian,” said Madame Thermaat. “Not, alas, by Fabergé, but by a follower.”

  The girl looked mutely at the boy, who raised an eyebrow.

  “These presents are too generous,” he said. “It’s very kind of you, but we can’t … we can’t accept them.”

  “But of course you can,” said Herr Brugli. “You would offend us if you did not. Is that not so, Madame Thermaat?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

  They bade farewell at the end of the lane. The boy and girl stood there for a few minutes, his arm around her waist, and at the bottom of the hill Herr Brugli turned round to wave to them. Then a taxi stopped and he ushered Madame Thermaat into it.

  He gave the address, and they set off in the direction of the lake road.

  “What a wonderful day it has been,” sighed Herr Brugli. “We’ve done so very much.”

  “Our days in Zürich are always wonderful,” said Madame Thermaat.

  “Next Wednesday then,” said Herr Brugli. “Shall we go out again?”

  “Yes,” said Madame Thermaat. “That would be very suitable. Perhaps we’ll have good weather again.”

  The taxi drove on. They sat in silence now, each separately reflecting on the satisfaction of the day. They passed blocks of flats, garages, parks. Now they were going through an industrial area, and there were factories. One stood out – with a great blue sign in neon light, illuminated against the dark of the sky – Brugli’s Chocolate. But Herr Brugli did not see it, as his eyes were closed in sheer pleasure and from the fatigue that comes from a busy day. Madame Thermaat was looking out over the lake. She would play bridge later that night, with her friends, as usual. She had had a bad hand of cards last time, but she was completely confident that tonight they would be decidedly better.

  Nice Little Date

  They treated him well – as he found they always did in hotels which had aspirations for just one more elusive star.

  “We’ve reserved your usual room,” the manager had said, pleased with himself at having remembered. “The one you had last year. The one which looks out over the trees. I believe you liked it.”

  “I did like it. Yes.”

  He had smiled, and thanked them. It gave him a feeling of security, to be known, at least to them. They understood, as well; they were discreet, when necessary. There had never been any trouble with them, any embarrassment over anything.

  Now he handed them the key as he went out for the evening, and the clerk tucked it away under the desk.

  “It’s a splendid evening,” he said. “It’s going to become cooler. A good evening to go out walking. To see the city.”

  “Yes,” he had said, and then walked out through the revolving door into the scented heat of the front garden, with its flowering trees and shrubs. The air was heavy, and it embraced him like the waters of a tepid bath; a little bit too hot, he thought, but it would cool down shortly, once the sun disappeared.

  He left the hotel gardens and followed the road that wound its way down the hill, down towards the heart of the city. He had made no plans for the evening, but in the back of his mind he knew what was going to happen. It was best, though, not to acknowledge it, but to wait and see. One could never tell how things were going to work out. There might be nobody. His courage might fail him. He might think better of it, change his mind – return to the hotel and go back to his room to read. That happened more often than not.

  The road began to drop steeply, winding past houses and cramped gardens, past shuttered shops, a convent, a church. People passed him, carrying the evening’s shopping, wheeling bicycles. An old man watched him from his doorway, and he acknowledged him courteously in Portuguese. The old man nodded, closing his rheumy eyes and then re-opening them. For a moment he thought he might stop, to say something, to ask him about the neighbourhood, but a girl had approached the old man from behind and was tugging urgently on his shirtsleeve.

  He stopped for a few moments outside some of the shop windows and looked inside. It seemed to have become a quarter of antique shops and book dealers. There was a window display of faded editions of Pessoa, with a picture of the poet in the middle, surrounded by the works of his various personae, Alberto Camos, Ricardo Reis, Fernando Soares. It had always astonished him that somebody could write so differently, depending on whose name would appear on the work. Today they would treat him as ill, as a multiple personality; there would be critics who would write like doctors; they would make it a clinical matter, and kill the poetry stone dead in the process.

  There was a shop which sold memorabilia of the Empire in Africa, discreetly, almost apologetically. Nobody spoke about it any more, about the vast, nightmare colonies; but they must be there in the city, retired officials who had spent their working lives in distant towns in Mozambique and Angola, and who had come back to a country that wanted nothing more than to erase its memory. They could hardly forget, though; they could hardly be expected to cancel out those years altogether; they could hardly pretend that they had been doing nothing very much for twenty, thirty years of overseas service. They must talk about it sometimes at least, even if only among themselves, furtively, like criminals discussing their crimes.

  Perhaps this was their shop, where they could come and find the familiar atlases, the dog-eared administrative manuals churned out by the Colonial Institute, the grammars of the minor languages. All that effort, that striving; and all that it led to – debts, death, ignominy. He looked through the window more closely. Most of it should be discarded; the ribbons of old medals, a carved walking stick of African hardwood, a soapstone head. His eye was caught by an ancient tin first aid kit, with a name stencilled on the lid. It would have been thrown out a few years ago – nobody could possibly have wanted to buy it – but now it appeared to have some sort of value. Perhaps i
t would trigger a memory somewhere, or make one for somebody who didn’t remember it at all, who was not even born when Salazar fell.

  There was somebody beside him at the window, looking through the dust at the objects in the window.

  “They’re asking us back,” he said. “They’re asking us back to run their farms. Can you believe it? After all that happened. The war, Frelimo, the dispossessions, the lot. The Marxists asking us back!”

  He looked at his companion, who smiled at him, almost conspiratorially, revealing several gold teeth.

  He tried to think what to say, but nothing came to mind.

  “I never thought I’d see that day, I can tell you!” the other man said. “But there you have it. You can never tell what’s going to happen. Never.”

  He nodded in agreement, and the other man walked off, chuckling at his observation.

  Then he knew what he wanted to say, what he should have said. You shouldn’t try to forget your past. There’s no point in denial. Confront it, as the Germans do; worry away at it, dissect it, let it haunt you, until you can look at it. Which you can, eventually.

  He reached the square, and went into a small bar. He ordered a coffee, a strong one, and then a glass of port. The proprietor served him, and then returned to his newspaper. There was a political crisis, and the lurching of a government was blazoned across the page. He found their politics impenetrable, as the politics of others so frequently are, and he did not try to understand.

  The proprietor put down the newspaper.

  “Disgusting,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “You’re not local?”

  “No. I come from America. From South Carolina.”

  “Your Portuguese is good. Usually Americans …”

  He smiled, and interrupted. “Don’t bother to learn.”

  The proprietor looked apologetic. “Perhaps some of them do. You have.”