would give their right arm for a meal like that?’
‘Send them over,’ was all Andrea replied, snuggling up in the duvet and finally going to sleep.
16
Dalmann was convinced that Schaeffer was trying to expose him to ridicule. The tracksuit he had brought him was red with neon-yellow arms. ‘Couldn’t you find
anything more conspicuous?’ he asked.
‘I’m told that the more expressive colours are preferable at this time of year. Not least for safety considerations.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I took some expert advice,’ his colleague said, rather piqued.
Dalmann had put on the outfit, but in all honesty he did not care for it. None of the others looked any better in theirs, which were either too tight or too big. Nor did he care for the way they
tried to atone for the sins of previous decades: slaves to their fitness machines, bright red in the face and out of breath.
Dalmann was sitting on an ergometer, pedalling without much effort. In a slot in front of the handlebars was a sheet of paper detailing his personal fitness programme. He was skipping the other
exercises, concentrating instead on the ergometer. This allowed him to regulate his exertions and sit down at the same time. The doctor at the health farm had told him to do the exercises every
day, but never push it to the limit. Dalmann had strictly observed the latter piece of advice.
They had inserted a stent, a tiny tube which expanded the constricted heart vessel that had been responsible for the infarction. It had not been a particularly invasive procedure; he had come
through it well and now just had to complete this tiresome health farm treatment and take some medicine to regulate his blood clotting so that the tube stayed open. Apart from that he was supposed
to lead a healthier lifestyle, watch what he ate and drank, and – the thing he found most difficult of all – give up smoking.
In the past he had always said, ‘I’d rather be dead than go to a health farm.’ Now, however, he did not find it so awful. It was like a luxury hotel with a slightly more
professional wellness centre. Admittedly, the guests were older and more delicate, and the only thing they talked about was their health. But he did not have to talk to them, did he? Every other
day Schaeffer came with his briefcase and they spent a few hours working in Dalmann’s suite.
His pulse had risen above ninety. Dalmann again lowered his leisurely pedalling rate a touch, then a touch more, finally stopping altogether and getting off.
In the changing room he put on the white dressing gown with the large hotel logo embroidered on the chest, went to the kiosk, bought the most important papers, and shuffled towards the lift
which took him to his floor.
The newspapers carried stories about the resignation of Pervez Musharraf. Dalmann wondered what effect that would have on his Pakistani connection.
He was going to have a shower, put on some normal clothes and allow himself a cigarette on the balcony. His non-smoking suite was full of no smoking signs.
But when he came back into the living room it was so dark he had to turn on the lights. Low-lying storm clouds had turned the gloomy summer’s day into night. Dalmann opened the balcony
door. The rain that sprayed in from the balcony darkened the light-beige fitted carpet.
September 2008
17
National banks around the world were pumping billions into the financial markets to ensure liquidity. Ten large banks set up a fund of 70 billion dollars to prevent
international panic on the stock markets. And Lehman Brothers, the fourth largest American investment bank, had become insolvent.
Perhaps not the best time to start a company, Andrea thought, after Esther Dubois had hung up.
She had kept to her word and only two days after the dinner had telephoned to book an appointment for a ‘patient couple’. Andrea had said yes, but now doubts were starting to emerge.
She sat in the conservatory, in the creaky rattan chair
‘Send them over,’ was all Andrea replied, snuggling up in the duvet and finally going to sleep.
16
Dalmann was convinced that Schaeffer was trying to expose him to ridicule. The tracksuit he had brought him was red with neon-yellow arms. ‘Couldn’t you find
anything more conspicuous?’ he asked.
‘I’m told that the more expressive colours are preferable at this time of year. Not least for safety considerations.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I took some expert advice,’ his colleague said, rather piqued.
Dalmann had put on the outfit, but in all honesty he did not care for it. None of the others looked any better in theirs, which were either too tight or too big. Nor did he care for the way they
tried to atone for the sins of previous decades: slaves to their fitness machines, bright red in the face and out of breath.
Dalmann was sitting on an ergometer, pedalling without much effort. In a slot in front of the handlebars was a sheet of paper detailing his personal fitness programme. He was skipping the other
exercises, concentrating instead on the ergometer. This allowed him to regulate his exertions and sit down at the same time. The doctor at the health farm had told him to do the exercises every
day, but never push it to the limit. Dalmann had strictly observed the latter piece of advice.
They had inserted a stent, a tiny tube which expanded the constricted heart vessel that had been responsible for the infarction. It had not been a particularly invasive procedure; he had come
through it well and now just had to complete this tiresome health farm treatment and take some medicine to regulate his blood clotting so that the tube stayed open. Apart from that he was supposed
to lead a healthier lifestyle, watch what he ate and drank, and – the thing he found most difficult of all – give up smoking.
In the past he had always said, ‘I’d rather be dead than go to a health farm.’ Now, however, he did not find it so awful. It was like a luxury hotel with a slightly more
professional wellness centre. Admittedly, the guests were older and more delicate, and the only thing they talked about was their health. But he did not have to talk to them, did he? Every other
day Schaeffer came with his briefcase and they spent a few hours working in Dalmann’s suite.
His pulse had risen above ninety. Dalmann again lowered his leisurely pedalling rate a touch, then a touch more, finally stopping altogether and getting off.
In the changing room he put on the white dressing gown with the large hotel logo embroidered on the chest, went to the kiosk, bought the most important papers, and shuffled towards the lift
which took him to his floor.
The newspapers carried stories about the resignation of Pervez Musharraf. Dalmann wondered what effect that would have on his Pakistani connection.
He was going to have a shower, put on some normal clothes and allow himself a cigarette on the balcony. His non-smoking suite was full of no smoking signs.
But when he came back into the living room it was so dark he had to turn on the lights. Low-lying storm clouds had turned the gloomy summer’s day into night. Dalmann opened the balcony
door. The rain that sprayed in from the balcony darkened the light-beige fitted carpet.
September 2008
17
National banks around the world were pumping billions into the financial markets to ensure liquidity. Ten large banks set up a fund of 70 billion dollars to prevent
international panic on the stock markets. And Lehman Brothers, the fourth largest American investment bank, had become insolvent.
Perhaps not the best time to start a company, Andrea thought, after Esther Dubois had hung up.
She had kept to her word and only two days after the dinner had telephoned to book an appointment for a ‘patient couple’. Andrea had said yes, but now doubts were starting to emerge.
She sat in the conservatory, in the creaky rattan chair
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