(excerpts)

From the Prologue

“Are we going up?”

The young man in the round glasses glanced sadly over the side of the aircraft and made up his mind to defy the noise of the gas engine operating at full throttle: “No,” he declared laconically. “Quite the reverse.”

“What?” The pilot in the leather flying helmet, hypnotized by the horizon of the wide valley, attempted to turn around. In doing so, he upset the already delicate balance of the machine.

“Now it’s even worse, Nicolas…”

The cover of the left wing failed to withstand the onrush of air.

The other party in the anticipated disaster wanted to cry out, but in keeping with his phlegmatic temperament he merely stated: “I believe we are falling.”

“Confound it! Let’s throw out the ballast!”

“Aircraft — unlike hot-air balloons or airships — don’t have ballast, Nicolas.”

“Ah! So I should land?”

“Yes.”

“I can see some kind of field.”

“I see it too.”

“It can’t be more than a hundred and fifty metres away!”

“Nicolas…”

“We can make it! We’re not about to crash right after take-off — I need real proof, do you see, Christian, proof that aeroplanes have a future…”

“It isn’t a field.”

“Each of our attempts brings us closer and closer to the age-old dream of all true adventurers…”

“Nicolas.”

“What?”

“You’re landing in a swamp.”

The pilot tore the leather helmet from his eyes.

The air sliced through his irritated voice:

“Let’s jump! It’s over!”

These words echoed above the desolate moor of Archipelago right around the time when tea was being served in most households. Fortunately, the accident occurred at an altogether negligible altitude. Otherwise this story might have ended before it ever began — and that would have been a pity from the reader’s point of view. So a moment after the maid usually poured the brew from the metal teapot into a pre-warmed porcelain one so that the guests could help themselves, the aircraft crashed.

Its spiritual father, designer and inventor in one person, waited patiently at the edge of the marsh for the tangle of aluminium sections, cables and silk to sink completely into the bright green bottomless pool. Just as he had not uttered a single comment on the failure of the previous ten models. His name was Christian Scott, and everything he dreamed about in the depths of his soul was carefully concealed, because he spoke only when he had something to say. Beneath his heroic brow, framed by blond hair, lay a pure pragmatist. He was utterly devoted to the world of ideas and the sheer will with which he carried out otherwise difficult projects under the patronage of his friend Nicolas, who unlike the humble engineer from the Polytechnic didn’t suffer from a lack of money.

Nor, as it happens, from a cool head. Like a rabid dog, he went round and round the deadly mire until even the last black bubbles had disappeared, not concealing his frustration, and if it had been at all possible, he would have jumped into the swamp for the wreckage of the flying machine just so that he could trample it into even smaller pieces and throw them back in with a torrent of curses unworthy of a gentleman. As it was, he just ripped up the stitched helmet with the sewn-in eyeglasses and talked incessantly.

“The lifting surfaces seem too pliable to me, that snarl of wires we have to straighten them out with doesn’t exactly seem like an ideal solution to me, Christian — and why a biplane anyway, why not a triplane? The more surfaces, the more lift? In the past we mostly damaged the fuselage of the plane, I’m happy with the undercarriage, the Bergamon rubber wheels will even withstand a hard landing, but during take-off we’re losing stability and the machine’s lower wing always tilts towards the ground. And the propeller is too small in diameter, it doesn’t have any drag. And the worst thing of all is this helmet,” he said, tossing the shredded garment into the heather. “It restricts the vision. We’ll just have to make do with goggles. Big ones, with round eyepieces. What do you think, Christian?”

“A triplane isn’t necessary.”

The wind above the field barely let up; they both stood so that their hair didn’t blow across their faces; the engineer pulled his into a short ponytail. Nicolas finally calmed down – he even seemed to be satisfied.

“Five hundred metres – at least I think so,” he said, estimating the distance they had travelled from the launch site today. “Not bad. If we can just iron out some of these glitches…”

“A triplane will paradoxically have less lift – the lifting surfaces will interfere due to the higher air resistance.

Maybe it’d be more manoeuvrable in the turns, but that’s all. Two is more than enough.”

Nicolas didn’t argue with him. He would probably only have got a list of precise figures, and right now the last thing he needed was to occupy his mind with information of secondary importance.

If the truth be told, right now he would rather occupy it with a glass of whisky.

 

From Chapter II – The Pair of Them

That evening, as the sun drew tremulous shadows through the fog and the smoke from the chimneys of the harbour district and the roofs of the two-storey buildings turned as golden as the thatched coverings of the workers’ lodgings, a rather strange duo stepped off the regular long-distance ferry between the continent of Altica and the group of islands known as Archipelago. It was impossible to pinpoint exactly what it was that lent them this strangeness in the eyes of passers-by — the proper, if somewhat shabby apparel would seem to be almost flawless, were it not for a certain exoticness in the styles usually worn in warmer climes. Their tanned faces were reminiscent of inhabitants of the Land of Raab. The tall man with the strong cheekbones and a hint of a moustache on his otherwise smooth face was certainly fair-skinned. His gaze somewhat indifferent, though often casting around, examining everyone who crossed their path.

He had superbly polished and carefully looked-after tall riding boots, lagging a good century behind the fashion of the salons, a long tobacco-brown cloak, sand-coloured trousers and dark hair hidden beneath some kind of headwear bearing only a vague resemblance to a respectable top hat. His younger companion was weighed down by a duffel bag; however, under the short, sinewy, veined and crooked figure seemed to beat the indomitable heart of a Raaban accustomed to hard work in regions of dried-up wadis and blazing mountains. Yet he had neither the black eyes of the Abasks, bordered by a white that shone in their dark brown skin, nor the reddish-brown colour of the savage Borrs. He resembled an ugly child placed in a cradle by an evil fairy who had grown into a young man grinning incessantly with a kind of malice — even though he walked barefoot and only in a torn coat with the sleeves hanging off, beneath which he wore a linen tunic and short trousers.

We still have not mentioned the main thing about them that might have attracted the reader’s attention. You have often come across a worse kind of riffraff on board vessels; the cheaper the ticket, the more likely they are to steal the nose from your face and then deny it, even though they have put it on and stuck a label on it saying For sale – going cheap.

There were whispers that during the night red coals would glow in the eyes of some wormwood-consumers.

Nothing was said of a man by the name of Felix Montez. And yet it was not the first time he had set foot in Port Elizabeth.

As he gazed at the sprawling silhouette of the New Capitol towering above the bay, he silently recalled the last glance over his shoulder – that was years ago, when he swore never to return to this area, or to Archipelago in general. But never say never, he told himself. And never say never to anyone who never says never. And who never… He couldn’t finish the thought. He shook his head. He was home.

Beside the slender tower of the church loomed the massive walls of the Librarium, the strongest fortress on Archipelago. The steel supporting pillars were part of the main station of Richmond. It had been built from the remains of the great ship Porta Victoria, on which, according to legend, the first colonists had arrived; one of two – her sister ship the Porta Libertas had never been found. The huge complex of now rusting steel formed a characteristic silhouette, and the chimneys had been converted into restaurants with panoramic views. As well as trains, the city’s high-speed rail system and the outdated paromobiles, the long-distance airships also terminated here… terminated or began their journey, thought Felix Montez, playing with meanings, the way a villager strokes a hare behind the ears before giving him a decisive blow to the back of the head. The other high-rise buildings formed a compact-looking core of grey stone, veined with steel bridges, suspended rails and elevated railway lines, Ariadne’s guide in the jungle of austere Capitol architecture, whose beauty was evoked by a church hastily converted into a factory hall, turned upside down for some unknown reason. A forest of brick chimneys pierced the darkening sky in parts of the Industrial Island, and a pyramid with a red glowing eye represented the triumph of wealth and progress, Industrion; cranes lined the shore around the docks. Only the royal palace was hidden from sight, and sticking out from the Parliament was the Copper Tower, equipped with the largest clock face in the world, which gentlemen from here to Far Raab set their chronometers by, since because of the difficulties with the unstable rotation of the planet, Archipelago time, independent of solar time, was used in most countries.

Felix automatically glanced at his pocket watch. He concluded with satisfaction that its previous owner had had a good mechanic, then he returned it to the appropriate pocket of his waistcoat, leaving only the steel chain hanging out, and indicated some sort of instruction to his companion.

They stopped in front of a newspaper kiosk. The Raaban dropped the bulky bag and began to ferret about. The seller was used to characters like these; all the daily newspapers were carefully secured to the open hatch of the round, mushroom-like booth by a metal strip with a mechanical lock.

Mr Montez took a moment to get his bearings in the deluge of titles. Industrial Journal, World of Paromobiles, The Betting Man, The Velocipedist’s Year…something for everyone. He was trying to choose which was more sensationalist, the Herald or Capitolism.

“Are you looking for print or a tape?”

“Did you say tape?”

“A tape for an alphabetarium.”

“An alphabetarium?”

“Oh, I see, you haven’t got an alphabetarium yet,” said the seller, shrugging his shoulders as if it was the most natural thing in the world to own the confounded thing, whatever it might be, and anyone without one ceased to be a rightful person. “Do you want to see one? The usual size costs a few pounds, but of course we have bigger ones too…”

Felix thought about this. Do I want to see it? Should I want to see it? Should I want to want to? Is there any point in wanting something? And seeing it?

The seller knew his trade well. On the counter he was laying out a case containing a small metal box upholstered in fine leather whose front part was as smooth as a mirror except for three small buttons shining with newness.

“You insert the tape inside here,” he was rabbiting on, “and there’s a different colour for every day, so you won’t get mixed up if you want to read it over the course of a week, the black ones are books, but of course there’s a whole set of those, and our customers usually just read the dailies, or even just the relevant pages; it has huge benefits – just imagine, if you’re not interested in politics, you can have society news for half price, and sports fixtures are separate as well, and special one-off supplements are marked in mahogany and ebony – they’re a tiny bit more expensive, but if you get them as part of the set they don’t cost you anything…”

Before the eyes of the suspicious stranger, plastic lines of text began to take shape on the front plate of the device.

“Tahrum af!” he muttered under his beard. “You mean to say I can cram the entire Herald into that little box?”

“Not only that!” said the seller, sensing a deal. “The mechanical memory can hold a normal daily newspaper. Of course, they also make devices with a bigger capacity – bigger in size too, unfortunately, if that doesn’t bother you, and there are even desktop alphabetariums, capable…”

“How does it work?”

“Oh, sir, I’m not a mechanic. Inside there’s a system of discs with fifty symbols, as far as I know, and they press against hundreds of fine needles in a solid frame sentence by sentence, according to a code on a tape made of thin sheet metal, which is delivered to us every day from the printers’ — if you press here, the whole page is suddenly smoothed out and the entire process…”

“All right,” Mr Montez interrupted curtly, “I’m not interested in the rest. It’s a mechanical toy, is that it?”

Offended, the seller packed the device away. “And what were you expecting?” he asked. “A magic cabinet? Do you think this is some kind of electron?”

“Karfa ifrahi,” snarled Felix Montez in his face, not caring that the poor man couldn’t understand a word he said. “What would you know about it, avachre?”

He may not have understood, but he interpreted the insulting tone correctly.

“Sling a hook, red,” he said, altering his phraseology. “If you don’t want anything, stop scaring away my punters with your eyes!”

In better circles it was considered good manners not to talk about wormwood. The section of society brought up in the spirit of the constitutional monarchy of Archipelago, could really only know the risqué stories that ladies were so fond of dwelling on in the tea salons and gentlemen discussed in their clubs, even though they had hardly ever set foot outside the villa district. The industrialists also had an aversion to similar excesses – their philosophy was to maximize the profits that their maturing progeny often minimized for them. But for the harbour people — and guardians of public order — this rust-red colour was a signal for increased caution. It mainly appeared around the poorest districts.

Felix Montez looked satisfied. “At least you’ve recognized something. That’s a good sign. Indeed.” Then he leaned through the window. “I remember faces, chusufe, I never forget anything anyone does,” he repeated with relish as if savouring wormwood smoke, “I forget nothing…not even you, you nobody. Next time I’ll force a special edition of the Herald, including the supplement, into your body with a pickaxe handle and cut tapes for the next day from your skin, ilizi if asire! You will beg to be allowed to beg for the favour…of death.” He frowned. The last line hadn’t really worked out the way he had meant it to.

He motioned something to the other man and they both moved away with rapid steps.

It wasn’t until they were under the viaduct, where night had already woken up from its day-long sleep and the gas lamp was attracting moths, that the man held out his hand.

“Afrein, Mussa,” he praised the youth from Raab. “Another time I would happily kill you, you dense fatho, fit only for blows from a stick and for relieving my foot from boredom, but just this once I’ll wait until I’ve read today’s news.”

Mussa conjured up five newspapers from somewhere. The ones that had been hanging on the public stand under lock and key a moment before.

On the front page of all of them screamed the headline: “General’s son heir to a billion pounds!”

Felix Montez donned a satisfied expression. A billion, he repeated to himself quietly. Bill yon. Billyawning. Billy Awn. We’re in the right place.

We’re home.

Or at least we soon will be, once I have this country eating out of my hand. The idea brought a smile to his face.

 

From Chapter III – Men on Women

“Women are unpredictable creatures. For them, ‘yes’ and ‘no’ are mutually interchangeable terms, suitable only as a way of gaining time for something a woman doesn’t yet know she will want but for which she is already preparing the ground; women constantly want to be taken somewhere — with you, by the hand, to a promised land, at their word… Their wrath is worse than poison, it eats away at you from inside, and you would move heaven and earth for their smile, which is why they are the ones who rule men, and the only way to resist it is to permanently ignore their sex; the world of men who deserve undisturbed peace and quiet to think for the good of humanity — after all, what discovery, work of art or heroic deed has ever been achieved by a woman, my friend?

Their role is indisputable — being mothers is…undoubtedly an important calling…but that’s where their role in life should end! When he leaves the bosom of the family and goes to university, the life of a young man should be guided only by the real scholars and luminaries of our time, until one day he decides that it is time to pass on everything he has acquired, whether it be wisdom or property, to the next generation. And then he finds himself a mate, sows his seed and goes on to devote himself primarily to self-improvement — being an example to all, that is a man’s true calling!

Until his progeny grows up, he is not obliged to wipe his…whatever – his elementary education must be instilled in him by a teacher. However, his father determines his fate and social level through the correct choice of those who will guide the child. In the past it was mostly priests – thank God we are now living in an age of enlightenment. A father also dispenses advice. A father decides… Damnation, a father always knows best!”

Nicolas slammed his glass with the rest of the wine down on the table, its contents staining his shirt. His friends, the engineer Christian Scott, observed the house opposite through the window. The glow of the gas lamp was drowned in flurries of rain, which in Archipelago and especially in the New Capitol was an everyday occurrence. The weather didn’t change throughout the year. One of Archipelago’s most hackneyed jokes was: guess what the heavens have in store for you today — rain, and many people had simply grown so used to it that they didn’t even pull out an umbrella on account of the passing showers. That is, unless it was the latest fad, like a hat fitted with a telescopic canopy.

Christian had once tried to refine the principle behind it, before he began to devote himself to more practical flick knives, from which he proceeded to refine pocket knives – with nineteen functions and in the finest steel.

“Our queen is a woman,” he said. “At least I think so. I’ve never seen her up close.”

He leaned back in a seat covered in red velvet and resumed his observations of the changes in the weather outside the window, since the interior of the establishment in which the two friends were drinking to Nicolas’s bachelorhood was quite familiar to him.

The floral designs on the wallpaper were complemented by gold edging; above the divans, variously occupied by small groups of one to three gentlemen with an extremely casual arrangement of clothing, mostly consisting of an open-necked shirt and trousers with unfastened braces, flocked naked cupids, accompanying Aphrodite, pursuing Psyche and spying on a sleeping Artemis. Girls with skirts vulgarly revealing their knees walked among small tables with decanters of wine; others, in only negligees, lounged around on couches and on the shoulders of honourable gentlemen, and yet others were getting ready for an artistic production in the farthest corner, where a flock of eager old men with curling moustaches were already waiting below the stage.

“Women,” Nicolas shrugged, refilling his glass. The gas lamps in the hall dimmed and an invisible pianist, his gentle improvisations creating the ideal atmosphere for small talk on many levels, began a Galenic overture, an instruction for all the gazes wearied by the evening to be raised.

“Of course, I have nothing against marriage,” Nicolas said, refusing to be interrupted in his thinking out loud. “Despite being an atheist, I am firmly convinced in my material soul of the importance of this institution for the proper functioning of society. Just look at Near Raab — their bonds are loose and the woman is often entirely subordinated to the man, who can have as many wives as he can provide for. For her, divorce — or just leaving the breadwinner — is a complete nonsense… Unthinkable! Here we have contracts for everything. Barristers. Lawyers. Solicitors. Damn it all! I mean, just look at me!”

Christian did so.

“I am going to be the richest man in Archipelago — and all for nothing. My father said — together in marriage. So she,” he said, stabbing a finger in the air as if to press the nose of an imaginary woman, “will in effect get half. And if she is headstrong, then I will also ask her to let me spend my own money sensibly. And they always are headstrong. They turn everything on its head.”

“I must say that Miss Fryné is looking lovely today,” said Christian, trying to divert his attention.

Nicolas squinted at the stage. Two lace-trimmed legs in close-fitting lingerie bore a statuesque body which didn’t even seem to need the black silk corset. She smiled with full lips and batted glittering eyelashes. The kiss she blew was for all the men in the room. When she stamped her high heel on the parquet flooring and straightened her neck, it took the gentlemen’s breath away. When she raised her arms and stuck out her chest, the mythical electricity flowed along the back of their hand.

“I could do anything,” continued Nicolas uninterrupted, “spend evenings at Mama’s, in the embrace of her little cuties. Drink the finest bottle of Ibrian wine. And what will happen now? You have no idea how gladly I would trade places with you, my friend! What if you were the richest man in Archipelago? You could experience undreamt-of delights. Let yourself be pleasured by the likes of the inaccessible Fryné all night! Who can afford that? Of course, you are far removed from earthly decadence, you have no reason to concern yourself with base instincts — for you, physics, metaphysics and metachemistry exert a greater appeal…”

“Truly magnificent…”

“Of course,” said Nicolas, oblivious to his friend’s gaze, “you never get as drunk as I do, you don’t take girls into the rooms and the next day you have no reason to wonder whether to ask a pastor for absolution or call a doctor – even your religious conviction is entirely logical and I cannot raise any objections to it…”

“It’s like the moist, warm breath of an orchard at night…!”

“…I bow before your asceticism, which, as the classics tell us, is the only way to self-knowledge, and although I know that passions and poetics give you a wide berth, I would still like to ascertain your opinion on the female sex – that is, in general, since it seems to me that I am talking too much this evening, being tipsy and in a condition where I would not even resist the temptation to immerse myself in the ambiguous waters of wormwood, if Mama didn’t run the establishment in keeping with certain conventions, thanks to which it has not yet been shut down by the royal police.”

The seductive Fryné was already tossing away her gloves, slipping out of the corset and, hidden by the sprightly baldaquin of a feather fan, proceeding to remove her stockings. The audience expressed its approval loudly. Indeed, right then it would not even have been opposed by the police inspector, but he usually visited the club on a Monday, when his wife had lessons in Christian education.

Baron Edward Fiedler, the owner of textile factories and laundries, threw a banknote with a pound motif on it onto the stage. “I think that next time I shall play cat and mouse with her,” he whispered to his companion. However, the steel magnate Duke Bratford of Oxberry was too preoccupied with his hot punch and merely grunted in approval.

“Apparently she’s a true magician,” continued the Baron. “I’ve heard the best references from Minister Edwards. Some members of the royal cabinet…”

“They say she’s rather expensive,” said Duke Bratford grumpily, putting down his empty goblet. “And it is rumoured that she isn’t entirely clean.”

“You don’t mean…”

“No,” said the Duke, forestalling the word that aroused greater fear within these walls than a fox in a henhouse, “a few prominent gentlemen were apparently compromised on the basis of her testimony. It might also be gossip – after a fall, everyone is eager to find a culprit.”

“I’m not nearly so foolish as to discuss my business affairs in front of molls, Duke,” smiled Baron Fiedler, waving another banknote at Fryné. “Our brotherhood’s plans come first. And only then,” he said, rubbing his moustache, “a little harmless fun.”

The young woman tossed her lace underwear in the direction of a generous donor.

Christian realized that the muted hum of the monologue had slackened in intensity. However, he had lost the thread. He decided to agree.

Nicolas was pleased and immediately embarked on another of his profound flights of fancy, partly brought about — let us be fair — by his intoxication.

“Of course, it also has a bright side. Picture it. I come home. Home. I come. Yes: there’ll be a hot dinner waiting for me, prepared by the maid precisely according to my wife’s instructions and in accordance with my wishes — I won’t neglect to point out to her beforehand that meat-free dishes are only suitable for invalids and sweet courses can be reserved for children — she will rush forward to kiss me, to please me with a new style of dress and an elaborate hairstyle — on which, I presume, she will squander at least as much as I do on whisky — she will welcome me like a house cat, brushing against my legs. Perhaps she will help me off with my coat. See to the smooth running of my household, give birth to a son — at least I trust so — and take care of him, which, I also trust, will keep her sufficiently occupied. And if I feel the desire to make love, she will fulfil her wifely duties without delay, which has a double advantage — I won’t have to drag myself halfway across the Capitol to Mama’s and I’ll save twenty pounds. That is, as long as she is at least reasonably presentable. I’m not fussy, Christian, but even my afrisé has its pride! I picture a woman who’s timid rather than provocative, with a proud brow and delicate features…something like her,” said Nicolas, pointing towards the side entrance, where a girl in a small hat with a muslin veil and white gloves was watching the dance performance. “Who the hell is she anyway? She doesn’t look like a…a moll.”

With a massive round of applause, Miss Fryné’s production came to an end. Even Christian let himself be carried away; he even got to his feet as the diva, now wrapped in a white fur, returned to the stage and exposed her body to the flood of banknotes that poured in from every side. Then she walked springily down the steps and headed for the bar. However, the sight of the unknown woman made her stop halfway and coaxed a hundred-pound smile onto her make-up-covered face.

“I’m very glad to see you,” spreading her arms.

“You too, Frída. Did you want to speak to me? How is your little Sofie doing? I rushed here as quickly as I could, but once again I managed to arrive late.”

“Only women of standing can afford to arrive late,” said Nicolas, butting into their conversation as he staggered up to them. “If you are new here, my beauty, I would be especially pleased if I might await you today in the Rose Room.”

“By all means, sir,” she replied nimbly. “Go ahead and wait for me. You will be very surprised how much I can stand.”

Nicolas stared her in the face brashly for a moment before he took her meaning.

“Clever girl,” he said to himself admiringly, “so the lady prefers something more piquant?”

“The sharper the better. Haven’t you heard what they say about a woman’s tongue?”

“I could imagine your tongue in all sorts of ways, Miss.”

“Mr Gordon came here today to amuse himself,” said Christian in an attempt to cut short the conversation.

“As did I,” she retorted. “Frída, can we please…”

“Are you a devotee of female love?” Nicolas cut in brashly. “Now I understand why you’re so aloof…”

Frída/Fryné laughed. “Don’t take it the wrong way, Mr Gordon. We have some personal matters to attend to.”

“Of course. I apologize. Too bad.”

Christian was about to make the same apology to Frída when his thoroughly inebriated friend plumbed the very depths of small talk: there are things a true gentlemen does not speak of, even in a whorehouse.

“Could I at least watch?”

“You are a vile beast,” the unknown woman told him to his face. “And you should be ashamed of yourself,” she scolded the embarrassed Christian, “keeping such company.”

“Mr Nicolas Gordon and I…”

“The Nicolas Gordon? The future billionaire? I might have known. I hope you aren’t going to fritter away your wealth in a brothel.”

Nicolas stopped smiling. “So do I. And as for you, you ought to apologize, my lady. You can’t just go around insulting guests!”

“Nicolas…”

“No, Christian, I insist!”

“Then you’re out of luck.”

“All right then,” decided Mr Gordon, already half enraged, “have it your way! I’ll have you thrown out of here!”

Frída batted her eyelashes. “Surely that won’t be necessary,” she said, blocking his path. “We don’t want any trouble here. My friend didn’t mean to offend you…”

“But she did. If she were a man, I would wipe the floor with her!”

“If you were a man, you would apologize to me…!”

“Nicolas, let’s be magnanimous…”

“Step aside, Christian.”

“And what if,” said Frída, narrowing her big dark eyes in anticipation of a scandal that not even she could risk in relation to her Mama, “I were to apologize to you?”

Nicolas hesitated.

“Tonight for millionaires…as a gift, which can be repaid to me at any time. A private performance in my suite.”

“Hmm.”

“And you,” she beckoned to the young engineer with her long finger, “you can watch.”

Christian lowered his gaze.

“Blimey…”

“It looks like you’ll have to come back another time, my dear,” smiled Frída, when she saw that the bull had calmed down and was chewing the cud. “Come and see me, you know where. We’ll have a chit-chat.”

Nicolas made a noble gesture: “So be it. Apology accepted.”

 

Translated by Graeme Dibble