"Was it one with clear, blue, childlike eyes?" I asked.
"Aha, you too, brother!" replied Gottfried. "It was you he told me about then.
The old boy was mighty disappointed when he realized what the doing the Stations was all about.
He was beginning to think the piety of the male population was on the increase."
"Did he let you get away with the flowers then?" I asked.
"He allowed himself to be persuaded.
In the end he even helped me pick them." Gottfried's nose wrinkled.
Pat laughed.
"Is that true?"
Gottfried grinned.
"Of course.
It was marvellous to see the holy gentleman jumping in the twilight for the highest branches.
He developed a real sporting spirit.
Told me that he had been a good footballer at the University.
Inside right, I think."
"You have led a priest to steal," said I. "That'll cost you a few hundred years' purgatory.
But where's Otto?"
"He's at Alfons' already.
We are having supper at Alfons', I suppose?"
"Yes, of course," said Pat.
"Right, off we go then." Alfons was awaiting us in striped trousers, morning coat and silver-grey tie. "Going to a wedding?" asked Lenz. "No, but I know what is fitting," announced Alfons, kissing Pat's hand. The seams of his too-tight coat creaked, his mountain of muscles swelled so. "Quick, have you got anything stiff to drink?" Lenz wiped his hand across his eyes as if he had seen an apparition. Alfons straightened and majestically signalled Hans, the waiter, who brought a tray with glasses. "Say what you like, Gottfried, kummel is the best appetizer." "The best is a real vodka," retorted Lenz. "Madam," Alfons turned to Pat, "we have been arguing about that ever sincje 1916. It started at Verdun, and the boy still won't hear reason. However: Welcome and good health!" We drank. "The kummel is excellent," said Pat. "Like cool mountain milk." "I'm glad you noticed that. Kummel experts are rare." Alfons took the bottle from the counter. "Another?" "Yes," said Pat, "one more." Alfons filled her glass. "That's the stuff, that's the stuff." He winked benignly. Pat emptied the glass and looked at me. I took it out of her hand and offered it to Alfons. "Give me another too." "We'll all have one," declared Alfons.
"And then the jugged hare with red cabbage and apple sauce." "Pros't, Pat," said I. "Pros't, old comrade."
As a finale Alfons played the chords of the Don Cossacks on his gramophone.
It was a very soft song where the choir merely hummed like a distant organ while a solitary, clear voice floated above it.
To me it was as if the door opened without a sound and an old and tired man came in, sat down in silenceat one of the tables, and was listening to the song of his youth.
"Well, lads," said Alfons as the choir hummed ever softer and softer until at last it died away like a sigh, "do you know what I always think of when I hear that?
Ypres, 1917, Gottfried; March, you remember, that night when Bertelsmann—" "Yes," said Lenz, "I remember.
The night when the cherry trees—"
Alfons nodded.
Koster stood up.
"I think it's time." He looked at his watch. "Yes, we must be off."
"Just one cognac," said Alfons. "The real Napoleon.
I brought it up specially for you."
We drank the cognac and got ready to go.
"Au revoir, Alfons," said Pat. "I'm so glad to have been here." She gave him her hand.
Alfons turned red.
He held her hand tight between his great paws.
"Well, if there's anything to be done—just say the word." He looked at her with utmost embarrassment. "You belong all right.
I never would have believed a woman could belong, you know."
"Thank you," said Pat, "thank you, Alfons.
You couldn't have said anything nicer to me.
Au revoir and all the best."
"Au revoir!
Soon!" Alfons blew his nose.
Koster and Lenz took us to the station.
We stopped a moment at our house and I fetched the dog.
Jupp had already taken the luggage.
We arrived just in time.
We were hardly aboard when the train pulled out.
As the engine gathered way, Lenz hauled out of his pocket a bottle, wrapped up, and held it out to me.