John LeCarre - A New Collection of Three Novels Part 19

"I don't think I have actually. Nigel has left instructions that any request from you has to be processed by Secretariat first. Sorry, Jack."

"Nigel's at the Foreign Office. Check with Bo. While you're about it, ask Defence to give you the name of the Commandant of Number Six Interrogation, Graz, Austria, on July 18, 1951. I'm in a hurry. Greensleeves, have you got it? Maybe you're not musical."

He rang off and pulled Pym's battered letter to Tom savagely towards him.

"He's a sh.e.l.l," Kate said. "All you have to do is find the hermit crab that climbed into him. Don't look for the truth about him. The truth is what we gave him of ourselves."

"Sure," said Brotherhood. He set a sheet of paper ready to jot on while he silently read: "If I don't write to you for a while, remember I'm thinking of you all the time." Maudlin slush. "If you need help and don't want to turn to Uncle Jack, this is what you do." He continued reading, writing out Pym's instructions to his son, one by one. "Don't worry your head so much about religious things, just try to trust in G.o.d's goodness." "d.a.m.n the man!" he expostulated aloud for Kate's sake and, slamming down his pencil, pressed both fists against his temple as the phone rang again. He let it ring a moment, recovered and picked it up, glancing at his watch, which was his habit always.

"Anyway the file you want went missing years ago," said Nicholson with pleasure.

"Who to?"

"Us. They say it's marked out to us and we never returned it."

"Who of us in particular?"

"Czech section. It was requisitioned by one of our own London desk officers in 1953."

"Which one?"

"M.R.E That would be Pym. Do you want me to ring Vienna and ask him what he did with it?"

"I'll ask him myself in the morning," he said. "What about the C.O.?"

"A Major Harrison Membury of the Education Corps."

"The what?"

"He was on secondment to Army Intelligence for the period 1950 to '54."

"Christ Almighty. Any address?"

He wrote it down, remembering, quip of Pym's a paraphrased from Clemenceau: "Military intelligence has about as much to do with intelligence as military music has to do with music."

He rang off "They haven't even indoctrinated the poor b.l.o.o.d.y duty officer!" Brotherhood expostulated, again for Kate.

He went back to his homework better pleased. Somewhere beyond Green Park a London clock was striking three.

"I'm going," Kate said. She was standing at the door, dressed.

Brotherhood was on his feet in a moment.

"Oh no you're not. You're staying here until I hear you laugh."

He went to her and undressed her again. He put her back to bed.

"Why do you think I'm going to kill myself?" she said. "Has somebody done that to you once?"

"Let's just say once would be too often," he replied.

"What's in the burnbox?" she asked, for the second time that night. But for the second time, too, Brotherhood appeared too busy to reply.

8.

My memory gets selective here, Jack. More than usual. He's in my sights as I expect he begins to be in yours. But you are in them too. Whatever doesn't point to you both slips by me like landscape through a railway window. I could paint for you Pym's distressing conversations with the luckless Herr Bertl in which, on Rick's instruction, he a.s.sured him repeatedly it was in the post, it was taken care of, everybody would be seen right, and his father was on the point of making an offer for the hotel. Or we could have some fun with Pym, languishing for days and nights in his hotel bedroom as a hostage to the mountain of unpaid bills downstairs, dreaming of Elena Weber's milky body reflected in its many delightful poses in the mirrored changing rooms of Bern, kicking himself for his timidity, living off h.o.a.rded continental breakfasts, running up more bills and waiting for the telephone. Or the moment when Rick went off the air. He did not ring and when Pym tried his number the only response was a howl, like the cry of a wolf stuck on one note.

When he tried Syd he got Meg, and Meg's advice was strikingly similar to E. Weber's. "You're better off where you are, dear," she said in the pointed voice of someone who is telling you she is overheard. "There's a heat wave here and a lot of people are getting burned." "Where's Syd?" "Cooling himself, darling." Or the Sunday afternoon when everything in the hotel fell mercifully silent and Pym, having packed together his few possessions, stole heart in mouth down the staff staircase and out through a side door into what was suddenly a hostile foreign city--his first clandestine exit, and his easiest.

I could offer you Pym the infant refugee, though I never starved, had a valid British pa.s.sport and in retrospect seldom wanted for a kindly word. But he did dip tallows for a religious candlemaker, sweep the aisle of the Minster, roll beer barrels for a brewer and unst.i.tch sacks of carpets for an old Armenian who kept urging him to marry his daughter, and come to think of it he might have done worse; she was a beautiful girl and kept sighing and draping herself over the sofa but Pym was too polite to approach her. All those things he did and more. All of them at night, a night animal on the run through that lovely candlelit city with its clocks and wells and cobble and arcades. He swept snow, carted cheeses, led a blind dray-horse and taught English to aspiring travel agents. All under cover while he waited for Herr Bertl's hounds to sniff him out and bring him to justice, though I know now the poor man bore me no grudge whatever, and even at the height of his rage avoided mentioning Pym's part in the affair."Dear Father, I am really happy out here and you must not worry about me at all as the Swiss are kindly and hospitable and have all sorts of remarkable bursaries for young foreigners keen on reading law."I could sing of another great hotel, not a stone's throw from the first, where Pym went to earth as a night waiter and became a schoolboy again, sleeping under avenues of lagged piping in a bas.e.m.e.nt dormitory as big as a factory where the lights never went out; how he took gratefully once more to his little iron bed and how he jollied his fellow waiters as he had jollied his fellow new boys, for they turned out to be peasants from Ticino who wanted only to go home. How he rose willingly with every bell and donned a white d.i.c.ky that, though thick with last night's grease, was not half as constricting as Mr. Willow's collars. And how he took trays of bubbly and foie gras to ambiguous couples who sometimes wanted him to stay, Amor and Rococo beckoning from their glances. But once again he was too polite and too unknowing to oblige. His manners in those days were a barbed-wire cage. He only l.u.s.ted when he was alone. Yet even as I allow my memory to brush past these tantalising episodes, my heart is hurtling ahead to the night I met the saintly Herr Ollinger in the third-cla.s.s buffet of Bern railway station and, through his charity, stumbled into the encounter that altered all my life till here--and I fear your life as well, Jack, though you have yet to learn by how much.

Of the university, how Pym enrolled there and why, my recollections are equally impatient. It was for cover. All for cover as usual, leave it there. He had been working in a circus at its winter home, which was a patch of land just beneath the same railway station where his footsteps so often finished after his all-day walks. Somehow the elephants had drawn him. Any fool can wash an elephant, but he was surprised to learn how hard it was to dip the head of a twenty-foot brush into a bucket when the only light comes in shafts from the spotlights in the apex of the marquee. Each dawn when his work was done he made his way home to the Salvation Army hostel that was his temporary Ascot. Each dawn he saw the green dome of the university rising above him through the autumn mist like an ugly little Rome challenging him to convert. And somehow he had to get inside the place, for he had a second terror, greater than Herr Bertl's hounds: namely that Rick despite his problems of liquidity would appear in a cloud of Bentley and whisk him home.

He had fabricated for Rick handsomely and imaginatively. I have won that foreigners' scholarship I was talking about. I am reading Swiss law and German law and Roman law and all the other laws there are. I am attending night school on the side to keep myself out of mischief. He had praised the erudition of his non-existent tutors and the piety of the university chaplains. But Rick's systems of intelligence, though erratic, were impressive. Pym knew he was not safe until he had given substance to his fictions. One morning therefore he found the courage and marched up there. He lied first about his qualifications and then about his age, for the one could not have been earned without an adjustment to the other. He paid out the last of E. Weber's white banknotes to a crew-cut cashier, and in return received a grey cloth-card with his photograph on it, describing him as legitimate. I have never in my life been so gratified by the sight of a false doc.u.ment. Pym would have given his whole fortune for it, which was a further seventy-one francs. Philosophie Zwei was Pym's faculty and I still have only the sketchiest notion of what it comprised, for Pym had asked for law but somehow been rerouted. He learned more from translating the students' bulletins on the notice-board, which invited him to a string of unlikely forums and gave him his first rumblings of political gunfire since Ollie and Mr. Cudlove had vented their anger against the rich and Lippsie had warned him of the hollowness of possessions. You remember those forums too, Jack, though from a different aspect, and for reasons we shall come to soon enough.

It was from the university notice-board also that Pym discovered the existence of an English church in Elfenau, the diplomatic fairyland. Along he went--he could hardly wait-- often two or three Sundays running. He prayed, he hovered outside the doors afterwards, shaking hands with anything that moved, though little did. He gazed soulfully at elderly mothers, fell in love with several, consumed cake and lifeless tea in their thickly curtained houses and charmed them with extravagant accounts of his parentless upbringing. Soon the expatriate in him couldn't get along without its weekly shot of the English ba.n.a.lity. The English church with its iron-back diplomatic families, ancient Britons and dubious Anglophiles became his school chapel and all the other chapels he had defected from.

Its counterpart was the third-cla.s.s railway buffet where, if he wasn't working, he could sit all night smoking himself sick on Disque Bleus over a single beer and fancying himself the most stateless, world-weary globe-trotter he had ever met. Today the station is an indoor metropolis of smart boutiques and plastic-coated restaurants, but in the immediate post-war years it was still an ill-lit Edwardian staging post, with stuffed stages in the concourse and murals of freed peasants waving flags, and a scent of Bockwurst and fried onion that never went away. The first-cla.s.s buffet was full of gentlemen in black suits with napkins round their necks, but the third cla.s.s was shadowed and beery, with a whiff of Balkan lawlessness and drunks who sang out of tune. Pym's favourite table was in a panelled corner near the coats where a sacred waitress called Elisabeth gave him extra soup. It must have been Herr Ollinger's favourite also for he homed on it as soon as he entered and having bowed lovingly at Elisabeth, who wore a low-cut Tracht with perforated smocking, bowed at Pym too, and fidgeted with his poor briefcase, and hauled at his disobedient hair, and asked, "Do we disturb you?" in a tone of breathless anxiety while he stroked an old yellow chow dog that hung grumbling on its lead. Thus as I now know does our Maker disguise His best agents.

Herr Ollinger was ageless but I guess now fifty. His complexion was doughy, his smile regretful, his cheeks were dimpled and pendulous like an old man's bottom. Even when he did finally allow that his chair was not taken by superior beings, he lowered his round body so gingerly into it that you would think he expected to be shooed away any minute by someone more deserving. With the a.s.surance of an habitue Pym took the brown raincoat from his unresisting arm and threaded a hanger into it. He had decided he needed Herr Ollinger and his yellow chow dog urgently. His life was going through a fallow period at the time and he had not exchanged more than a few words with anyone for a week. His gesture threw Herr Ollinger into a vortex of hopeless grat.i.tude. Herr Ollinger beamed and declared Pym most friendly. He grabbed a copy of Der Bund from the rack and buried his face in it. He whispered to the dog to behave itself and tapped it ineffectually on the snout, though it was behaving with exemplary tolerance. But he had spoken, which gave Pym reason to explain, in a set sentence, that unfortunately I am foreign, sir, and not yet equal to your local dialect. So please be kind enough to speak High German and excuse me. After this, as he had learned to, he added his surname, "Pym," at which Herr Ollinger confessed that he was Ollinger, as if the name implied some frightful slur, and afterwards presented the chow as Herr Bastl, which for a moment rang uncomfortably of the luckless Bertl.

"But you speak excellent German!" Herr Ollinger protested. "I would immediately have thought you are from Germany! You are not? Then where do you come from, if I may be so impertinent?"

And this was kind of Herr Ollinger for n.o.body in his right mind, in those days, could have confused Pym's German with the real thing. So Pym told Herr Ollinger the story of his life, which was what he had intended from the first, and dazzled him with tender questions about himself, and in every way he knew laid upon Herr Ollinger the full burden of his sensitive charm--which as it later turned out was a totally needless exertion on Pym's part since Herr Ollinger was unselective in his acquaintance. He admired everybody, pitied everybody from below--not least for their dreadful misfortune in having to share the world with him. Herr Ollinger said he was married to an angel, and possessed three angel daughters who were musical prodigies. Herr Ollinger said he had inherited his father's factory in Ostermundigen, which was a great worry to him. And so indeed it should have been, for in retrospect it is clear that the poor man rose diligently every morning in order to run it further into the earth. Herr Ollinger said Herr Bastl had been with him three years but only temporarily, because he was still trying to find the dog's owner.

Reciprocating with equal generosity, Pym described his experiences in the blitz, and the night he had been visiting his aunt in Coventry when they hit the cathedral; how she lived but a hundred yards from the main doors and her house by a miracle was unscathed. When he had destroyed Coventry, he described himself in an imaginative tour de force as an admiral's son standing at his dormitory window in his dressing-gown, calmly watching the waves of German bombers flying over his school and wondering whether this time they were going to drop the parachutists dressed as nuns.

"But did you have no shelters?" Herr Ollinger cried. "That's a disgrace! You were a child, my G.o.d! My wife would be completely furious. She is from Wilderswil," he explained, while Herr Bastl ate a pretzel and farted.

Thus Pym skipped on, piling one fiction on another, appealing to Herr Ollinger's Swiss love of disaster, enthralling the neutral in him with the dire realities of war.

"But you were so young," Herr Ollinger protested again when Pym related the rigours of his early military training at the Signals Depot in Bradford. "You had no nest warmth. You were a child!"

"Well, thank G.o.d they never had to use us," said Pym in a throwaway voice as he called for his bill. "My grandfather died in the first one, my father was given up for dead in the second, so I can't help feeling it's time our family had a break." Herr Ollinger would not hear of Pym paying. Herr Ollinger might be breathing the free air of Switzerland, he said, but he had three generations of English to thank for the privilege. Pym's sausage and beer were a mere step in the mercurial progress of Herr Ollinger's generosity. It was followed by the offer of a room, for as long as Pym wished to do him the honour, in the narrow little house in the Langga.s.se that Herr Ollinger had inherited from his mother.

It was not a big room. It was actually a very small room indeed. An attic, one of three, and Pym's was in the middle, and only the middle of it was big enough for him to stand in, and even then he was more comfortable with his head poked through the skylight. In summer the daylight lasted all night, in winter the snow blacked out the world. For heating he had a great black radiator cut into the party-wall, which he heated from a wood stove in the corridor. He had to choose between freezing and boiling, depending on his mood. Yet, Tom, I have not been so content anywhere until I found Miss Dubber. Once in our lives, it is given us to know a truly happy family. Frau Ollinger was tall and luminous and frugal. On a routine patrol of the house Pym once watched her through a crack in a doorway while she slept, and she was smiling. I am sure she was smiling when she died. Her husband fussed round her like a fat tug, upsetting the economy, dumping every waif and sponger on her that he came upon, adoring her. The daughters were each plainer than the next, played musical instruments atrociously, to the fury of the neighbours, and one by one they married even plainer men and worse musicians whom the Ollingers thought brilliant and delightful--and by thinking made them so. From morning till night a trail of migrants, misfits and undiscovered geniuses drifted through their kitchen, cooking themselves omelettes and treading out their cigarettes on the linoleum. And woe if you left your bedroom unlocked, for Herr Ollinger was quite capable of forgetting you were there--or, if need be, of persuading himself you would be out tonight, or that you wouldn't mind a stranger just until he's got somewhere. What we paid I don't remember. What we could afford was next to nothing and certainly not enough to subsidise the factory in Ostermundigen, for the last I heard of Herr Ollinger he was working happily as a clerk in Bern's main post office, enchanted by the erudite company. The only possession I a.s.sociate with him apart from Herr Bastl is a collection of erotica with which he consoled himself in his shyness. Like everything else about him it was there to be shared, and it was a great deal more revealing than Amor and Rococo Woman.

Such then was the household on which Pym's crow's-nest was built. For once his life was as good as complete. He had a bed, he had a family. He was in love with Elisabeth in the third-cla.s.s buffet and contemplating marriage and early fatherhood. He was locked in a tantalising correspondence with Belinda, who felt it her duty to inform him of Jemima's love affairs, "which I'm sure she only has because you are so far away." If Rick was not extinct he was at least quiescent, for the only sign of him was a flow of homilies on Being Ever True to your Advantages, and avoiding the Foreign Temptations and the Snares of Synicism, which either he or his secretary could not spell. These letters had the distinct air of being typed on the run, and never came from the same place twice: "Write care Topsie Eaton at the Firs, East Grinstead, no need to put my name on envelope." "Write to Colonel Mellow post restaurant the main G.P.O. Hull who obliges by collecting my mail." On one occasion a handwritten love letter varied the diet, beginning: "Annie, my sweet Pet, your body means more to me than Riches of the earth." Rick must have put it into the wrong envelope.

The only thing Pym missed therefore was a friend. He met him in Herr Ollinger's bas.e.m.e.nt on a Sat.u.r.day at midday, when he took down his laundry for his weekly wash. Upstairs in the street the first snowfall was driving out the autumn. Pym had an armful of damp clothes in front of his face and was concerned about the stone steps. The bas.e.m.e.nt light was operated by a time switch; any second he could be plunged into darkness and trip over Herr Bastl, who owned the boiler. But the light stayed on and as he brushed past the switch he noticed that somebody had ingeniously jammed a matchstick into it, a very sleek matchstick trimmed with a knife. He smelt cigar smoke but Bern was not Ascot--anyone who had a few pence could smoke a cigar. When he saw the armchair he mentally a.s.signed it to the junk Herr Ollinger set aside as a gift to Herr Rubi the rag-and-bone man who came on Sat.u.r.days on his horse-drawn float.

"Don't you know it is forbidden for foreigners to hang their clothes in Swiss bas.e.m.e.nts?" said a male voice, not in dialect but in a crisp High German.

"I'm afraid I didn't," said Pym. He peered round for someone to apologise to and saw instead the unclear form of a slender man curled on the armchair, clutching a patchwork blanket to his neck with one long white hand and a book with the other. He wore a black beret and had a drooping moustache. No feet showed, but his body had the look of something spiky and wrongly folded, like a tripod that had stuck halfway. Herr Ollinger's walking-stick was propped against the chair. A small cigar smouldered between the fingers that clutched the blanket.

"In Switzerland it is forbidden to be poor, it is forbidden to be foreign, it is completely forbidden to hang clothes. You are an inmate of this establishment?"

"I am a friend of Herr Ollinger's."

"An English friend?"

"My name is Pym."

Discovering the moustache, the fingers of one white hand began stroking it reflectively downward.

"Lord Pym?"

"Just Magnus."

"But you are of aristocratic stock."

"Well, nothing very special."

"And you are the war hero," the stranger said, and made a sucking noise that in England would have sounded skeptical.

Pym did not like the description at all. The account of himself that he had given to Herr Ollinger was obsolete. He was dismayed to hear it revived.

"So who are you, if I may ask?" said Pym.

The stranger's fingers rose to claw at some irritation in his cheek while he appeared to consider a range of alternatives. "My name is Axel and since one week I am your neighbour, so I am obliged to listen to you grinding your teeth at night," he said, drawing on his cigar.

"Herr Axel?" said Pym.

"Herr Axel Axel. My parents forgot to give me a second name." He put down the book and held out a slim hand in greeting. "For G.o.d's sake," he exclaimed with a wince as Pym grasped it. "Go easy, will you? The war's over."

Too challenged for his comfort Pym left his washing for another day and took himself upstairs.

"What is Axel's other name?" he asked Herr Ollinger next day.

"Maybe he hasn't one," Herr Ollinger replied mischievously. "Maybe that's why he has no papers."

"Is he a student?"

"He is a poet," said Herr Ollinger proudly but the house was stiff with poets.

"They must be very long poems. He types all night," said Pym.

"Indeed he does. And on my typewriter," said Herr Ollinger, his pride complete.

My husband found him in the factory, Frau Ollinger said while Pym helped her prepare vegetables for the evening meal. That is to say, Herr Harprecht the night-watchman found him. Axel was sleeping on sacks in the warehouse and Herr Harprecht wanted to hand him over to the police because he had no papers and was foreign and smelly, but thank goodness my husband stopped Herr Harprecht in time and gave Axel breakfast and took him to a doctor for his sweating.

"Where does he come from?" Pym asked.

Frau Ollinger became uncharacteristically guarded. Axel comes from druben, she said--druben being across the border, druben being those irrational tracts of Europe that were not Switzerland, where people rode in tanks instead of trolleybuses, and the starving had the ill manners to pick their food from rubble instead of buying it from shops.

"How did he get here?" Pym asked.

"We think he walked," Frau Ollinger said.

"But he's an invalid. He's all crippled and thin."

"We think he had a strong will and a great necessity."

"Is he German?"

"There are many sorts of German, Magnus."

"Which sort is Axel?"

"We don't ask. Maybe you should not ask either."

"Can you guess from his voice?"

"We don't guess either. With Axel it is better we are completely without curiosity."

"What's he ill of?"

"Maybe he suffered in the war, as you did," Frau Ollinger suggested with a smile of rather too much understanding. "Don't you like Axel? Is he disturbing you up there?"

How can he disturb me when he doesn't speak to me? thought Pym. When all I hear of him is the clicking of Herr Ollinger's typewriter, the cries of ecstasy from his lady callers in the afternoons and the shuffle of his feet as he hauls himself to the lavatory on Herr Ollinger's walking-stick? When all I see of him is his empty vodka bottles and the blue cloud of his cigar smoke in the corridor and his pale empty body disappearing down the stairs?

"Axel's super," he said.

Pym had already appointed Christmas to be the jolliest of his life and so it was--ndespite a letter of appalling misery from Rick describing the privations of "a small Private hotel in the wilds of Scotland where the meagrest of life's Necessities are a G.o.dsend." He meant, I discovered later, Gleneagles. Christmas Eve came. Pym as youngest lit the candles and helped Frau Ollinger lay the presents round the tree. It had been wonderfully dark all day and in the afternoon thick snowflakes began swirling in the streetlights and clogging the tramlines. The Ollinger daughters arrived with their escorts, followed by a shy married couple from Basel over whom some shadow hung, I forget what. Next a French genius called Jean-Pierre who painted fish in profile, always on a sepia background. And after him an apologetic j.a.panese gentleman called Mr. San--enigmatically so since, as I now know, San is itself a term of j.a.panese address. Mr. San was working at Herr Ollinger's factory as some sort of industrial spy, which in retrospect strikes me as very f.a.n.n.y indeed, because if the j.a.panese ever tried copying Herr Ollinger's methods, they must have set back their industrial output by a decade.

Finally Axel himself came slowly down the wood stairs and made his entry. For the first time Pym could regard him at his leisure. Though desperately thin, his face was by nature rounded. His brow was tall but the hank of brown hair that grew sideways over it gave it a curved and saddening air. It was as if his Maker had put His thumb and forefinger to either temple and yanked the whole face downward as a warning to his frivolity: first the hooped eyebrows, then the eyes, then the moustache which was a s.h.a.ggy horseshoe. And somehow inside all this was Axel himself, his eyes twinkling out of their own shadows, the grateful survivor of something Pym was not allowed to share. One of the daughters had knitted him a sloppy cardigan which he wore like a cape over his wasted shoulders.

"Schon guten Abend, Sir Magnus," he said. He was carrying a straw bonnet upside down. Pym saw parcels in it, beautifully wrapped. "Why do we never speak to each other up there? We could be kilometres apart instead of twenty centimetres. Are you still fighting the Germans? We are allies, you and I. Soon we shall be fighting the Russians."

"I suppose we shall," said Pym feebly.

"Why don't you bang on my door once when you are lonely? We can have a cigar together, save the world a little. You like to talk nonsense?"

"Very much."

"Okay. We talk nonsense." But on the point of shuffling away to greet Mr. San, Axel stopped and turned. And over his caped shoulder he vouchsafed Pym a quizzical, almost challenging glare, as if asking himself whether he had invested his trust too easily.

"Aber dann konnen wir doch Freunde sein, Sir Magnus?" --then we may be friends after all?

"Ich wurde mich freuen!" Pym replied heartily, meeting his gaze without fear--I would be happy!

They shook hands again, but this time lightly. At the same moment Axel's features broke into such a smile of sparkling good fun that Pym's heart filled for him in response, and he promised himself that he would follow Axel anywhere for all the Christmases that he was spared. The party began. The girls played carols and Pym sang with the best, using English words where he lacked the German, There were speeches and after them a toast to absent friends and relations, at which Axel's long eyelids almost hid his eyes and he fell quiet. But then, as if shaking off bad memories, he stood up abruptly and began unpacking the bonnet he had brought while Pym hovered at hand to help him, knowing that this was what Axel had always done at Christmas, wherever Christmas was. For the daughters he had made musical pipes, each with her name carved along the underneath. How had he carved with such wispy white hands? So exquisitely, without Pym hearing him through the part.i.tion? Where had he found his wood, his paint and brushes? For the Ollingers he produced what I later realised was another emblem of prison life, a matchstick model. This one was an ark with painted figures of our extended family waving from the portholes. For Mr. San and Jean-Pierre he had squares of cloth of a sort that Pym had once made for Dorothy on a homemade handloom between nails. For the Basel couple a patterned woollen eye to ward off whatever was afflicting them. And for Pym--I still take it as a compliment that he left me until last--for Sir Magnus he had a much used copy of Grimmelshausen's Simplicissimus, bound in old brown buckram, which Pym had not heard of but could not wait to read since it would give him an excuse to bang on Axel's door. He opened it and read the inscription. "For Sir Magnus, who will never be my enemy." And in the top left corner, in an older ink but in a younger version of the same hand: "A.H. Carlsbad August 1939."

"Where is Carlsbad?" Pym asked before he had allowed himself a second's thought, and noticed at once an awkwardness round him as if everybody had heard the bad news except for himself who was deemed not old enough to receive it.