In the corner someone vomited. Hanne rushed to clean it up.
'. . . if they should assassinate Cromer . . .'
'. . . bad show, to have no Consul-General . . .'
'. . . it will degenerate . . .'
Amorous embrace from a customer. Boeblich approached with a friendly scowl.
'. . . keep him safe at all costs . . .'
'. . . capable men in this sick world are at a . . .'
'. . . Bongo-Shaftsbury will try . . .'
'. . . the Opera . . .'
'. . . where? Not the Opera . . .'
'. . . Ezbekiyeh Garden . . .'
'. . . the Opera . . . Manon Lescaut . . .'
'. . . who did say? I know her . . . Zenobia the Copt . . .'
'. . . Kenneth Slime at the Embassy's girl . . .'
Love. She paid attention.
'. . . has it from Slime that Cromer is taking no precautions. My God: Goodfellow and I barged in this morning as Irish tourists: he in a moldly morning hat with a shamrock, I in a red beard. They threw us bodily into the street . . .'
'. . . no precautions . . . O God . . .'
'. . . God, with a shamrock . . . Goodfellow wanted to lob a bomb . . .'
'. . . as if nothing could wake him up . . . doesn't he read the . . .'
A long wait by the bar while Wernher and Musa tapped a new keg. The triangular stain swam somewhere over the crowd, like a tongue on Pentecost.
'. . . now that they have met . . .'
'. . . they will stay, I imagine, round . . .'
'. . . the jungles round . . .'
'. . . will there be, do you think . . .'
'. . . if it begins it will be round . . .'
Where?
'Fashoda.'
'Fashoda.'
Hanne continued on her way, through the establishment's doors and into the street. Grune the waiter found her ten minutes later leaning back against a shop front, gazing on night-garden with mild eyes.
'Come.'
'What is Fashoda, Grune?'
Shrug. 'A place. Like Munich, Weimar, Kiel. A town, but in the jungle.'
'What does it have to do with women's jewelry?'
'Come in. The girls and I can't handle that herd.'
'I see something. Do you? Floating over the park.' From across the canal came the whistle of the night express for Alexandria.
'Bitte . . .' Some common nostalgia - for the cities of home; for the train or only its whistle? - may have held them for a moment. Then the girl shrugged and they returned to the bierhalle.
Varkumian had been replaced by a young girl in a flowered dress. The leprous Englishman seemed upset. With ruminant resourcefulness Hanne rolled eyes, thrust bosoms at a middle-aged bank clerk seated with cronies at the table next to the couple. Received and accepted an invitation to join them.
'I followed you,' the girl said. 'Papa would die if he found out.' Hanne could see her face, half in shadow. 'About Mr. Goodfellow.'
Pause. Then: 'Your father was in a German church this afternoon. As we are now in a German beer hall. Sir Alastair was listening to someone play Bach. As if Bach were all that were left.' Another pause. 'So that he may know.'
She hung her head, a mustache of beer foam on her upper lip. There came one of those queer lulls in the noise level of any room; in its center another whistle from the Alexandria express.
'You love Goodfellow,' he said.
'Yes.' Nearly a whisper.
