'Why did you mention The Flowers of Evil?' said Fitzduane. 'Does the symbol remind you of some organization of that name?'
'Nothing so precise,' said Andreas. 'It was merely an association of ideas, and I happen to like Baudelaire. The name seems apt considering what you have told me.'
'Exceedingly apt,' said Fitzduane. 'Tell me, can you remember where you first ran across Baudelaire? Somehow, knowing the kind of stuff he wrote, I doubt that it was at primary school.'
Andreas laughed but nonetheless looked mildly uncomfortable. Fitzduane could see that he was blushing. 'My stepmother,' he said, 'Erika.'
Andreas had no further chance to speak. The woods around them echoed to massed automatic-rifle fire, various objects cascaded through the air and landed on top of the bunker, and numerous camouflaged figures erupted into the clearing and assailed the position. It occurred to Fitzduane that he had almost certainly been killed, as had Andreas.
The section leaders formed a semicircle around Andreas, and in clear, measured tones he told them what they had done right and what they had done wrong. There were questions from two of the corporals. Andreas answered in the same measured manner. Salutes were exchanged, and the platoon formed up in two long files. Laden with their weapons and equipment, the men headed back to the camp and lunch. Andreas and Fitzduane walked behind and talked.
'Do you have any recollection of an incident in Lenk?' asked Fitzduane. 'Something involving Vreni and, I suspect, Rudi?'
'Vreni told you about this?'
'Yes. She told me that there had been an incident, but she wouldn't say what. She seemed highly disturbed about whatever it was, and she mentioned a man named Oskar Schupbach, but it was not clear in what connection except that he was a great family friend. I think whatever it was may be important.'
They walked along in silence for a few paces. The track led through pinewoods, the trees being mature and well separated. The air smelled good. The recruits were looking forward to lunch, and there were bursts of laughter. A Jeep roared down the center of the track between the two files.
'I don't know a lot about what happened in Lenk,' said Andreas. 'It was a sexual experience of some sort, I believe. I don't know the details. Rudi, Vreni, and Erika went up to the chalet as usual for a few weeks of skiing. I was busy studying, so I didn't go. Father was supposed to join them on the weekends, but he had to go away for several weeks on business.'
'So they were there on their own?'
'I suppose,' said Andreas. 'I just don't know. I heard very little of what happened. All I can recall is that both Rudi and Vreni were tense and strained when they came back and somehow changed. They were more secretive and retreated increasingly into their own little world. I asked Erika if anything had happened, and she just laughed. She said it snowed too much, and she was sick of reading novels, playing cards, and being cooped up inside.'
'And that was all?'
'No,' said Andreas. 'Rudi came into my room a few days later. He said he wanted to ask me something. He beat around the bush for quite a while, and then he started asking me about homosexuality. He asked me had I ever had a homosexual experience and did having one mean he wouldn't still want to sleep with girls. I wasn't much help to him, I fear. He wouldn't say why he was asking, and he seemed confused; he was a little high anyway.'
'On what?' asked Fitzduane.
'Oh, grass or something like that,' said Andreas. 'It was hard to know with Rudi. He liked to mix it around.'
'And what had Vreni to do with all this? I got the strongest impression that she, too, was involved in whatever it was.'
'You may be right,' said Andreas. 'She would certainly know. Those two were as thick as thieves, but she didn't say anything. I'll tell you, though, there are a couple of people in Lenk you could talk to. You know about Oskar anyway.'
'Yes.'
'Okay,' said Andreas. 'Well, there's him, and there is also a close friend of the twins who lives there. He's about their age. He's an apprentice cheesemaker, a guy called Felix Krane, a nice fellow, I've always thought.'
'Is he gay?'
'Yes, he is,' said Andreas, 'but I don't know; somehow it doesn't seem to fit. If it was Felix, I don't see why all the fuss.'
'A first sexual anything can be pretty disorienting, and it can certainly change relationships.'
'Yes, it can,' said Andreas. He was blushing again, or it may have been the flush of exertion from the long walk. They entered the camp. They had noodles, meat sauce, and beets for lunch in the officers' mess. They didn't have to eat out of mess tins, but the taste was the same; somehow with army food it always was.
The Bear put down his wineglass with a sigh of satisfaction. Three deciliters of wine had vanished effortlessly. Fitzduane was impressed by the idea of actually knowing how much a wineglass held. The Swiss glasses came in different sizes and were marked accordingly. In Ireland, in the spirit of the national obsession for gambling, a wineglass could be almost any size. A few glasses of wine could make you pleasantly mellow, decidedly the worse for wear, or have you punching the barman in thirst and frustration.
'I'm not being followed anymore,' said Fitzduane, 'or at least I don't think so.'
'Perhaps you were mistaken. Perhaps you were never being followed and it was a case of imagination.'
'Perhaps.' Fitzduane reached into a breast pocket of his blouson jacket and removed a photograph. He handed it to the Bear.
The Bear pursed his lips; his mustache twitched. It looked at if he were thinking. 'What do you make of it?' asked Fitzduane.
The Bear was still studying the photograph. 'A nice sharp photo of a motorcycle taking a corner somewhere up in the mountains.' He looked at Fitzduane. 'And you want me to check the registration.'
Fitzduane nodded. 'It might be interesting.'
A buxom waitress in a low-cut traditional blouse with white sleeves brought them fresh wine. There was a rising buzz of conversation around them as the cellar filled up. They were seated with their backs to the wall at a corner table, an arrangement that made for privacy yet allowed the entrance and most of the other tables to be surveyed. The choice had apparently been made without conscious thought. Fitzduane had been quietly amused. You get into habits, he supposed, if you spent a great deal of time watching people.
'A few centuries ago there used to be a couple of hundred places like this in Bern selling wine,' said the Bear. 'Many of the aristocracy had vineyards on their country estates, and the wine business was the one trade that was considered socially acceptable for the higher echelons, apart, of course, from the business of army and government. Then fashions changed, the nobility lost power, and people drank instead at inns and in cafes. There are still plenty of cellars left, but those that are used commercially are boutiques and restaurants and places like that. I think it's a pity. A wine cellar like this has great atmosphere: arched ceilings, scrubbed wooden tables, age- darkened paneling, wine barrels, a drinking song or two, and a good-looking widow in charge of it all.'
'Why a widow?'
'Don't really know,' said the Bear. 'It's just a tradition now that the Klotzikeller is run by a widow.' He looked across at Fitzduane. 'My chief called me in.'
' Ja und? ' said Fitzduane. 'It's about all the German I know.'
'Just as well with an accent like that. Beat von Graffenlaub was in touch with him. They are old friends, or at least they know each other of old. They met in the army, and now they play golf and sit on some Burgergemeinde committee together.'
