"That is all fine, Gottfried," said I. "But what happens when you get caught?
There's not much of a getaway, and pious people might easily consider it as desecration of a holy place."
"My dear boy," replied Lenz, "do you see anybody here?
Since the war people go to political meetings, not to church."
That was true.
"But what about the parsons?" I asked.
"The flowers don't mean anything to the parsons, or the garden would be better looked after.
And the Almighty will have his fun, if you give someone pleasure with it. He's not built that way.
He's an old soldier."
"Yes, you're right there." I contemplated the gigantic old bushes. "They will take care of the next couple of weeks, Gottfried."
"Longer than that.
You're really in luck here.
This is a very lasting, long-flowering sort of rose.
You'll reach well into September.
And then there are asters here, and chrysanthemums.
Come, I'll show you."
We walked through the garden.
The smell of the roses was intoxicating.
Swarms of bees like a buzzing cloud flew from flower to flower.
"Just look at that," said I and stood still. "Where ever can they come from here, in the middle of the city.
There aren't any beehives around here.
Unless you think the parsons keep a few up on their roofs."
"No, brother," replied Lenz. "They come dead straight from a farm somewhere.
Only they happen to know their way." He winked an eye. "We don't, eh?"
I gave a shrug.
"Perhaps we do, though.
Anyway, a small part.
So far as one can.
You know?"
"No.
And don't want to know.
Purposes make life bourgeois."
I glanced up at the cathedral spire.
Silky green it stood out against the blue sky, endlessly old and still, with swallows flying round.
"How quiet it is here," said I.
Lenz nodded.
"Yes, my son, here one recognises it is only for want of time one is not a good man, eh?"
"Time and quiet," I replied. "Quiet, too."
He laughed. "
'Too late.' said the old Captain, weeping bitterly.
Now it's reached a pitch where we can't endure quiet. . . .
So out we go.
Back into the rumpus."
I put Gottfried down and drove back to the stand.
On the way I passed the cemetery.
I knew that Pat would be lying in her lounge chair on the balcony, and hooted a few times.
But nothing showed up and I drove on.
To compensate I did see, a bit farther on, Frau Hasse in a sort of taffeta silk wrap sailing along the street and disappearing round a corner.
I drove after her to ask if I might take her anywhere.
But as I reached the crossing I saw her get into a car that had been waiting behind the corner. It was a rather dilapidated Mercedes limousine, from 1923, that rattled off immediately.