was a sugary, heliotropic ripeness to her body that made her look as if she couldn’t have been cultivated in any other climate. ‘You’re from Berlin, you said? How long do you plan to stay in Los Angeles?’
‘No more than two weeks.’
‘You’re an artist of some sort. Or a writer, maybe.’
‘I work in the theatre. How did you know?’
‘You have that look. My husband and I know only a little about the situation in Germany, Mr Loeser, but we know it’s very difficult.’ What did she mean? Difficult to get laid unless you were Brecht? Was she about to invite him to pillage her quietly in the bushes? ‘I don’t know what kind of welcome you’ve had out here so far, but I can assure you we’re both very sympathetic to exiles. Especially those of you who simply want to continue your creative work in peace. I wonder if you’ve heard of an organisation called the Cultural Solidarity Committee of California?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Loeser was feeling a bit insulted about being described as an exile.
‘My husband and I are founding patrons. And that’s not because we’re saints, by the way.’ She smiled. ‘We have ulterior motives. I can’t count how many fascinating men and women we’ve met through the Committee. As it happens, we’re having a small reception here this evening. Perhaps you’d like to join us. You could see my husband then. I’m sure we’d both love to hear about your escape. Each story we hear seems to be more exciting than the last.’
‘I’d be delighted,’ said Loeser. (Escape from what?)
‘Until tonight, then. A pleasure to meet you, Mr Loeser.’
‘Before I go: I’m curious about your house.’
‘Yes, aren’t we lucky? We’ve only just moved in. It was finished while we were in Russia. The architect is a compatriot of yours named Gugelhupf. We brought him to Los Angeles last year so that he could adapt the design precisely to the terrain and the climate. He’s very scientific.’
‘I see.’
‘And afterwards he decided to stay in America. We took that as a compliment! You may be able to meet him later.’
Instead of walking back up to Sunset Boulevard, Loeser decided to go for a stroll along the beach. The tide was going out and big spaghetti clods of yellow seaweed lay drying on the sand. After a while he came to a hotdog stand from which he bought three hotdogs and a bottle of Coca Cola, and then he took off his shoes and sat down just beyond the limit of the waves to read
Holidays to Moscow, cultural charities, afternoon naps in an auto-plagiaristic Bauhaus villa: Loeser had begun to worry that Mutton’s gorgeous wife might have neutered him. But he was reassured by this latest novel, which was Mutton’s most savage yet. His industrialists and aristocrats had never been so grotesque, nor his narrator so remorseless. Loeser read it through twice, by which time the sun had started to slump into the sea, and he spent the next hour watching the sky like an opera, hardly able to believe that he’d been reduced to slack-jawed tears by something as trite and self-congratulatory as a Pacific sunset.
By the time he’d recovered his composure it was nearly nine. He’d heard parties started early in America, so he walked back up to the luminescent fishtank. Sure enough, there were a handful of people standing on the patio, and as he approached he caught a few sentences of the nearest conversation. ‘… And I told the man, I don’t want synthetic violets in my cologne any more than I want synthetic lemon juice in my gin fizz! I don’t give a damn if it smells the same and I don’t give a damn if “everyone uses it”, I’m not spraying myself with something called methyl heptin carbonate, it sounds like poison gas. Then I gave him that line from
‘I’m a guest of Mrs Mutton,’ said Loeser. ‘Do you know where she is?’
‘Oh, you’re one of my wife’s charming pet Europeans! I believe she’s in the kitchen.’
‘Actually I’m looking for Mr Mutton’s wife.’
‘Yes, as I say, Dolores is in the kitchen.’
‘I mean Stent Mutton, the writer.’
The man exchanged a bemused glance with the elderly Japanese fellow he’d been talking to. ‘Is this the start of a radio comedy routine? I am “Stent Mutton, the writer”. Who are you?’
‘I’m Egon Loeser. But you can’t be…’
‘I can’t be what?’
‘But where’s your knife?’ Loeser blurted.
‘If you want to cut a cigar there’s a guillotine in the drawing room.’
Stent Mutton was a scarred, hulking ex-criminal who only scratched out his raw narratives to exorcise the horrors through which he’d lived. Loeser knew this. But he was now trying to remember how he knew it. He was trying to remember whether he’d really read it somewhere, or whether he’d just promoted an assumption to fact.
‘I see you’ve brought one of my penny dreadfuls,’ said Mutton, pointing at the paperback that Loeser had forgotten he was still holding in his hand. ‘Did you want me to sign it?’
Loeser took a step back. He didn’t want this man defacing his book. A signature from the real Stent Mutton would have been marvellous. But not a signature from this impostorous dandy. He shook his head and hurried on into the house. Whereupon:
‘Egon! What an unexpected pleasure!’
‘No,’ said Loeser in German. ‘No, no, no, no, no, no.’
‘Aren’t you happy to see me?’ said Rackenham, who was holding a martini and looked almost parodically tanned and healthy.
‘What the fuck are you doing in Los Angeles?’
‘I’m supposed to be finding Adele Hitler and persuading her to go back to Berlin. But I haven’t got very far. And what are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’ve come for Adele too? I can see by your face that you have. But I presume you’re not getting paid by her parents, like I am. Have you really come six thousand miles just to have sex with her?’
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘Not yet. Were you in Paris, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘What a pity we didn’t cross paths.’
‘What a pity. How did you end up at this party?’ The gathering reminded him of an evening at the Fraunhofens’ before anyone got drunk.
‘I know Mutton from the Hollywood Cricket Club. He’s the only Yank on the team but he bats so well we can hardly make an issue of it. We’re playing the Australians next month.’
‘You’re already in a cricket club? How long have you been out here?’
‘Two or three months. No, it hasn’t taken me too long to find my feet, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Where are you living?’ said Loeser, because that, after all, was the sort of thing people asked at parties.
‘I’m now the Sorceror of Venice Beach. What about you?’
‘The Chateau Marmont.’
‘I presume you don’t intend to live in a hotel indefinitely?’
‘I like it there,’ said Loeser, thinking of the women around the swimming pool, ‘and anyway, I’m not going to stay in Los Angeles long enough to need a house of my own. I’m just going to find Adele, seduce her, and take her back to Berlin with me.’
‘Well, when that plan fails, I can recommend Pasadena. It’s heavenly.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘East of Hollywood. It’s where the millionaires live. And, more importantly, their wives.’
