The Girl in a Swing Read online

the possession of England. Jytte insisted on taking me to see

  Glaus Berg's sixteenth-century altar-piece in Frue Kirke

  (heavily restored and really rather dull) % Next day we drove

  out to the Fjord for a picnic in the sun.

  Throughout the trip I could not be free from involuntary,

  though inaccurate, recollections of Fraulein Geutner. The

  sight of her, sitting cross-legged in the chintz armchair, was

  continually appearing in the tail of my inner eye; but as with

  a phrase of music that one feels frustrated at being unable

  precisely to recall, I could never quite visualize her face. And

  with this went a notion, never exactly formulated or going

  so far as to contend with the present pleasure, that I was not

  really in the right place. So might a migrant bird feel among

  the first, barely perceptible touches of autumn. It will soon

  be time to return.

  On Friday morning I proceeded once more to Mr Hansen's

  71

  in the Panoptikon, somewhat burdened with his claret and a

  bottle of Arpege. In London, of course, one would simply

  have put the Arpege in one's pocket, but in K0benhavn they

  gift-wrap virtually everything as a matter of course. The

  Arpege, with its ribbons and coloured paper, was in a large

  bag. Both presents were intended to strike the recipients as

  slightly, though not ostentatiously, more than they had been

  expecting. I wanted them to think well of Englishmen and

  besides, other letters might need typing on some later

  occasion.

  Mr Hansen - still with all the time to spare in the world

  - inquired politely about the Fyn trip, responded to my questions

  about his grandchildren (their photographs were on his

  desk) and, of course, reproached me for bringing the claret.

  'You should not have done this, Mr Desland, and I will tell

  you why. You could see that the claret was very good, but

  you have not yet seen that the letters are very good.'

  'Det er jeg sikker pa at de er.'

  'Well, here they are. I have them ready for you.' And he

  handed me a folder.

  This was unexpected, and I failed to check a little start.

  Only then did I realize that it had never entered my head

  that Fraulein Geutner would not be giving me the letters herself.

  Yet why should she? What more considerate and polite

  than that Mr Hansen should have them ready? As I took the

  folder from him, confusion and disappointment descended

  upon my self-possession like a sheet of newspaper blown

  across the windscreen of a moving car. I was at a loss and

  Mr Hansen, perceiving this, albeit uncomprehendingly,

  waited courteously for me to find my tongue.

  'How - oh, that's really most kind of you, Mr Hansen. I

  - er - do you think I ought to see Fraulein Geutner myself

  a moment? I brought a little - er - gift for her too, as a

  matter of fact.'

  'You are much too kind, Mr Desland. There was no need

  for you to put yourself to all this trouble and expense. Would

  you like me to give it to her? Only I am not quite sure where

  she gets to this morning. I think she may have gone round

  to our other office.'

  72

  Again it came over me - 'It's incredible. He doesn't know!'

  But this time I felt only relief. If the man was short-sighted,

  that merely left me free to move more easily before his eyes.

  But I now knew - and the force of the feeling lifted me beyond

  self-consciousness - that I was utterly determined to

  see her, even if it made me look the biggest fool in Denmark.

  'Well, I would have liked to see her personally - just for a

  minute - she really took a lot of trouble, you know - I er-'

  At this moment his secretary came in. As she was about to

  speak, Hansen asked, 'Ah, Birgit, do you know whether

  Fraulein Geutner is here or at the other office this morning?'

  'She's just come back this moment, Mr Hansen. Do you

  want to see her?'

  'Yes, ask her to come in, please.'

  The girl went out and I, having been begged once more by

  Mr Hansen to look at the letters, at last opened the folder.

  They were far better than I had expected. The German ones

  were faultless. Of the Danish I was no competent judge, but

  it was plain that here and there she had, on her own initiative,

  corrected and improved my imperfect Danish in the typing.

  In the English ones there were a few errors (I particularly

  liked 'bridal path' for 'bridle-path': it was my own fault), but

  nothing at all which many an English shorthand-typist might

  not well have perpetrated. As I was signing them and assuring

  Mr Hansen of my sincere appreciation ('But you are

  seeming too much surprised, Mr Desland'), Fraulein Geutner

  came in.

  I stood up, and then felt self-conscious because Mr Hansen,

  naturally enough, did not. He was about to speak and

  so was I, but she forestalled us both. With a brief smile to

  him, she came across the room and held out her hand.

  'Good morning, Mr Desland,' she said. 'I hope you had a

  nice time at Odense, with your friends?'

  She had a very light, fresh scent of carnation, and as she

  shook my hand a thin chain bracelet slid down her wrist and

  for a moment covered my finger-tips. I saw now that neither

  her clothes - a plain, white cotton blouse and dark skirt 73

  li

  nor her shoes could have cost very much. They made her

  look like a princess who has taken care not to put on anything

  obviously beyond the means of the loving subjects

  whose hospitality she has accepted.

  'Thank you,' I replied. 'I did.5 And for twopence I would

  have gone on to tell her all about it, but I restrained myself.

  'I wanted to thank you for the letters. They're excellent - it's

  really a great help to me -'

  'Oh, f'ff -' And with a little gesture of her fingers she dismissed

  the matter. Princesses have innumerable accomplishments.

  They do not need to be praised for them. Indeed, it

  is slightly bad form to mention such things, as though they

  were ordinary people. 'And soon now you must go back to

  England?'

  'On Monday, I'm afraid. "Must" is right - I always hate

  leaving K0benhavn."

  'Oh - haffen't you got any friends in England?'

  This was plain teasing, yet there was no impudence in it. It

  seemed more like a kind of test. If I failed to respond, the

  sun could easily be switched off.

  'Yes, but you see I always leave my heart in K0benhavn.

  It gets so heavy at the prospect of leaving that I can't afford

  the excess baggage.'

  'Then we must take care of it for you. Mr Hansen, you

  are such a kind employer; can you find a job for Mr Desland's

  heart?"

  It was while Hansen was taking a rather ponderous swing

  at this - something about always being happy to have close

  at hand the brave hearts of the English - that I was hit by

  the cold truth like a man who comes in sight of the station

  to see his train steaming at the platform. 'In a few moments<
br />
  this girl is going to go from the room, and unless you do

  something about it, the odds are that you'll never see her

  again.' The thought was unbearable. There was nothing,

  nothing I wanted more than to see her again. If I did not see

  her again, grey ashes would fall from the sky. To-day would

  grieve, to-morrow grieve. I felt myself in a world of stripped

  and burning reality - a world like that of the animals, where

  only immediate longings exist, and they with total, compul74

  !

  sive intensity. Yet the presence of Mr Hansen, for all his

  casual bonhomie, was inhibiting. What could I say?

  At this moment his secretary reappeared, and he broke off

  and looked at her inquiringly.

  'What I came in to tell you just now, Mr Hansen, was that

  Mr Andersen is here and would like to see you for a few moments.

  Apparently it's rather urgent. Shall I send him in?'

  Til come out,' said Hansen. 'Please excuse me one minute,

  Mr Desland.' He evidently knew what it was about, for before

  going he paused to select some papers from his desk and

  took them with him.

  Now might I do it, pat, now a' is a-praying.

  'I was wondering, Fraulein Geutner -' She had been watching

  Hansen as he went out of the door, and looked quickly

  round with a slightly startled air. I realized that my words

  had come tumbling out in a little, breathless rush. I sat

  down on the edge of Hansen's desk and made myself relax

  and smile.

  'If you're not doing anything this evening, would you care

  to have dinner with me? I should enjoy it so much.'

  Kathe, as I was still to learn, made up her own rules. Like

  Peacock's Mr Gall, I could already distinguish the picturesque

  and the beautiful, but I had still to add to them the third and

  distinct character of unexpectedness. Her reply was more

  than unladylike - it was charming. She smiled indulgently,

  with a tiny expulsion of breath and a quick movement of the

  shoulders which suggested that she was restraining herself

  from actually laughing; but whether from pleasure or

  mockery, or both, there was no telling.

  'Will it be somewhere very nice?'

  This not only meant Yes, but also 'You are excited, aren't

  you, my lad, my admirer? Perhaps I might be, too.'

  'It can be wherever you like. Tell me.'

  'Nein.' And then, more gravely, 'I don't know about

  restaurants.' (I have people who see to that sort of thing for

  me. You're one of them.) 'I will be delighted, Mr Desland.

  How very kind of you!'

  'Shall I call for you, then? What time?'

  But now came a quick, practical flash - almost a retort 75

  which again took me by surprise. In this respect, at all

  events, she knew what she wanted; and meant to have it, too.

  'Ach, nein! I will meet you. I will meet you at the restaurant

  at - Moment bitte - at eight o'clock.'

  'Isn't that a bit late?'

  'Nein. That will be perfect, Mr Desland. I shall look

  forward to it very much.'

  'So shall I. At the "Golden Pheasant", then. I'll tell the

  head waiter to expect you and show you to the table.'

  She smiled again, with raised eyebrows, as much as to say

  'Well, that's magnificent - more than I could have expected.

  You know how things ought to be done, don't you?' This

  time it was just short of teasing, and made me feel like a

  king.

  Mr Hansen returned and I took my leave. When I got outside

  I realized that I was still carrying the bag containing the

  Arpege.

  JARL and Jytte had made no arrangements for that evening

  and I knew them well enough to say that I had collected a

  dinner invitation at short notice with a ceramics acquaintance

  whom I had met unexpectedly. There was no particular

  reason why I should not have said that I was dining with a

  girl who had typed my letters - they would have been rather

  tickled, and Jytte was never one either to tease or to pry. Yet

  for some reason I felt a kind of superstitious disinclination

  to tell. An undertaking of great advantage, but no one to

  know what it is. The bubble might burst.

  The 'Golden Pheasant' was full. I had known it would be

  and had called in at mid-day to book a table, make myself

  known to the head waiter (this being Denmark, I did not

  have to tip him in advance) and order a bottle of Dom

  Perignon to be put on the ice in good time. The table was on

  the further side of the restaurant, opposite the door, with a

  banquette against the wall and a looking-glass above it. I

  76

  arrived at ten to eight, sat down facing the glass, ordered a

  gin-and-tonic and pretended to read Politiken.

  It was ten past eight and I was just beginning to feel

  apprehensive when, in the reflection, I saw her appear. Two

  men, not accompanied by girls, were about to go out through

  the door, which was glass-panelled. She, in the porch outside,

  already had a hand raised to the door-handle when she

  noticed them through the glass. At once she lowered her arm

  and waited, standing perfectly still. One of the men, looking

  sideways as he talked to his companion, pulled open the

  door and was about to go through it when he saw her. At

  once he stepped back, took his cigar out of his mouth and

  held the door wide. She passed between the two of them,

  turning her head to smile first at one and then the other as

  they looked her up and down with about the most undisguised

  admiration I have ever seen. And there they remained

  for several seconds longer, their eyes following her as she

  walked leisurely across to the head waiter's desk and spoke

  to him.

  She was wearing a black velvet cloak, fastened at the neck

  with a silver chain, which fell to within a few inches of her

  sandals. In her hair, above the left temple, was a spray of

  stephanotis. She was carrying a small black bag, which she

  put down on the desk. As the head waiter answered her she

  suddenly flung back her head and burst into open-mouthed

  laughter. I could hear it from where I was sitting. After a

  moment's pause the head waiter (who at lunch-time had

  treated me with somewhat frosty propriety) laughed too,

  showing every evidence of genuine amusement - or perhaps

  delight would be a more accurate term. Then he bowed and

  conducted her across to the door of the cloakroom; opened

  it for her and hung around in the general vicinity for a good

  three minutes until she reappeared.

  Her plain, lilac jersey dress, full-skirted and narrowbodiced,

  which could have come off the peg at any department

  store, fitted her as its skin a deer. The lilac of the

  pearl beads round her neck did not quite match the dress,

  and neither did the lavender chiffon scarf which floated at

  her wrist, held by the chain bracelet. Such was her ease and

  77

  assurance, however, that this dissonance of colours seemed

  intentional, as though she were modelling some challenging
/>
  and brilliant new creation. Everyone else looked rather

  over-dressed and as though they had taken more trouble

  than was appropriate to an evening's casual, light-hearted

  enjoyment. Several men turned their heads to look at her

  as she followed the head waiter across the restaurant. They

  reached my table and I stood up and turned round.

  'Guten Abend, Fraulein Geutner.'

  Putting a hand on mine, she replied in English. 'I'm so

  sorry to be late.'

  (How about a little counter-tease?) 'Are you really?'

  'No, not really.' And the very tip of her tongue showed

  for an instant between her lips.

  Then she was sitting opposite me, elbows on the table,

  chin resting lightly on her fingers. The head waiter said, 'A

  drink for madame?'

  I raised my eyebrows. 'What shall I have?' she asked.

  'Sherry? Dry martini? Gin-and-tonic?'

  'Oh, but I asked you - really.'

  I ordered a large dry sherry and offered her a cigarette.

  'I never smoke. You don't either, do you?'

  'No. How did you know?'

  'I knew. But you carry cigarettes?'

  'Well, it was just in case you might want one, as a matter

  of fact. I can give them away now. That's a beautiful cloak

  you were wearing when you came in.'

  'Oh, it's not mine. I borrowed it, Alan.' She said this wideeyed

  and with a little shake of the head, as though it must

  surely have been obvious to anyone with a spark of commonsense.

  'How did you know my name?'

  'You don't know mine?' (Slipping, aren't you?)

  'I'd like to.'

  'Kathe. With dots.' She poked twice at the air with one

  finger. 'To show I'm dotty, you know.' It was the sort of joke

  no one would make in her own language, but which one

  thinks rather well of oneself for making in a foreign language

  - one knows an idiom and can make a pun.

  78

  The head waiter - who had apparently taken us over personally

  - reappeared with two menus about as big as the

  Fish Footman's invitation. Before he could proffer her one

  of them she raised her hand to one side, thus ensuring that

  he would give it to her in a way which would not obscure

  our view of one another. I wondered whether she would ask

  me to choose the meal for her as well, but on the contrary

  she went through everything with the closest attention before

  finally ordering whitebait and Wiener Schnitzel. When

  at length she had finished questioning the head waiter closely

  about vegetables, I asked for a dozen escargots and a mixed

  grill.

  'Your English is very good, Kathe. Where did you learn it?'

  'But everybody in K0benhavn speaks good English, don't

  you think?'

  'You've lived here a little while, then?'

  'Isn't it a beautiful city? You come here quite often, don't

  you? It must be nicer than London, I suppose. 1st das der

  Grund?'

  'I don't live in London, thank goodness. What part of Germany

  do you come from?'

  'Oh, it's so easy to forget, sometimes, that I come from

  Germany. But some of the times I am missing German things.

  Little things. Christmas is so nice in Germany - and the

  wine festivals - you know, when - when anything goes. You

  say anything goes?'

  'Yes, and sometimes I feel it, too.'

  'Then you should come to a wine festival.'

  She ate like a German, with a kind of serious pleasure and

  unself-conscious greed; slowly, and every last thing on each

  plate. My escargots alerted her as a ball of wool a kitten.

  Her eyes followed the first one out of the shell and up to

  my mouth.

  'Was ist das?'

  'Escargots.' Gazing, she shook her head. 'Snails, Kathe.'

  'Snails? You mean Schnecken? Really?'

  'They're delicious. You haven't come across them before?'

  'Can I try to taste one?'

  I extracted one and held out to her the butt of the little,

  79

  two-pronged fork. Instead of taking it from me she raised

  a hand to mine, turned the business-end towards herself and

  then, leaning across the table, took the snail into her open

  mouth.

  'Oh, lovely! M'mm! I wish I'd had some.'

  'You can. I'll call him over.'

  Again she made the little, dismissive gesture with her

  fingers. 'Ach nein. Bin anderes Mai. For now, as long as we

  both have had garlic-' And she returned to her whitebait

  with concentration.

  Twice, however, with a smile and a nod, she summoned the

  head waiter on her own account. With her whitebait she required

  thin brown bread-and-butter; but the Wiener Schnitzel,