doing?’
‘He’s an intelligent child.’
‘And he works hard?’
‘Hard enough.’
A glance round. A rather stiff smile. ‘You are covering up for him. He is a lazy child.’
‘But clever.’
‘You are fond of him?’
‘We get on well.’
‘And Gretchen. You get on well with Gretchen.’ The use of her Christian name, the
diminutive
form of her Christian name, is disconcerting. Francesco shifts uneasily in his chair. It is warm in the room and beads of sweat glisten on his forehead. The Gretchen of the photograph seemsto laugh at his discomfiture, tilting her head back and laughing derisively.
‘With Frau Huber, as well. It is, perhaps, that we share a fondness for Leo.’
Herr Huber nods. ‘You are a Catholic, aren’t you?’
Francesco agrees that, yes, he is a Catholic. All good Italians are Catholics. Although perhaps he is not a very strong believer.
‘Gretchen is also a Catholic, a devout Catholic, did you know that? I expect she has told you. Her mother was English, a
governess
. Do you understand the word?’
‘
Una tata?
’
‘Is that the Italian word? Someone employed to look after the children, a respectable girl from a respectable bourgeois family, and when the mistress of the house died suddenly – a riding accident of some kind – there was the young governess ready to hold the mourning husband’s hand. A clever move, don’t you think? Clever also to convert to Catholicism and claim moral purity rather than allow the widower to have her as a mistress. And cleverer still to get herself pregnant so quickly, to provide a half-sister for the children for whom she had been caring.’
Francesco perches on the edge of his chair, looking for escape.
‘So, despite seeming so beautiful, so perfectly Aryan, Gretchen is actually a mongrel,’ Huber says. ‘She is a cross-breed, a genetics experiment from the place where the father of genetics was born.’ He laughs, and expects Francesco to laugh with him. ‘While I, on the other hand, am of pure German stock. Like her I was born a Catholic, but unlike her I do
not
believe. And you say that you do not believe either …’ He smiles at the young man, indulgently, like an uncle smiling at a favourite nephew.
‘I believe that there might be a God. Maybe I believed more strongly once, that is all.’
Huber shakes his head. ‘It seems an ever more unlikely proposition, doesn’t it? The existence of God, I mean. Nietzsche declared the death of God. For me as for Nietzsche, there is no God, only blood and race. But Gretchen believes and, to make her happy, I accompany her and Leo to church.’ He looks thoughtfully away from Francesco, towards the window and the garden, and then suddenly, sharply, back. ‘And in the last weeks she has ceased to take communion. Now why do you think that can be?’
‘I wouldn’t even try to imagine.’ There is a rivulet of sweat running down Francesco’s temple. ‘It would be an impertinence, an affront to Frau Huber’s privacy even to think about it.’
‘But I try to imagine.’ The tall man’s voice is quiet, almost reflective. The accent is on the personal pronoun, as though he has a right to know what goes on in the heart and mind and soul of his wife. ‘
I
try to imagine what the reason might be.’
In the schoolroom young Leo, wearing knickerbockers and a Norfolk jacket (we must always keep up appearances, even when there is no one to appear to), bends over his exercise book and copies out copious notes about the life of Christ – Christ beating the money-changers out of the Temple, Christ arguing with the Pharisees on the Sabbath, Christ being led before Pilate. He looks up at Francesco, blue eyes looking from beneath blond hair at the dark-skinned Italian.
‘Explain this paradox to me,’ the boy says. He has recently learned the word
paradox
and enjoys using it. It soundsabsurd coming from the mouth of a child as young as he, absurd and pretentious. ‘Jesus was a Jew. How could
‘He’s an intelligent child.’
‘And he works hard?’
‘Hard enough.’
A glance round. A rather stiff smile. ‘You are covering up for him. He is a lazy child.’
‘But clever.’
‘You are fond of him?’
‘We get on well.’
‘And Gretchen. You get on well with Gretchen.’ The use of her Christian name, the
diminutive
form of her Christian name, is disconcerting. Francesco shifts uneasily in his chair. It is warm in the room and beads of sweat glisten on his forehead. The Gretchen of the photograph seemsto laugh at his discomfiture, tilting her head back and laughing derisively.
‘With Frau Huber, as well. It is, perhaps, that we share a fondness for Leo.’
Herr Huber nods. ‘You are a Catholic, aren’t you?’
Francesco agrees that, yes, he is a Catholic. All good Italians are Catholics. Although perhaps he is not a very strong believer.
‘Gretchen is also a Catholic, a devout Catholic, did you know that? I expect she has told you. Her mother was English, a
governess
. Do you understand the word?’
‘
Una tata?
’
‘Is that the Italian word? Someone employed to look after the children, a respectable girl from a respectable bourgeois family, and when the mistress of the house died suddenly – a riding accident of some kind – there was the young governess ready to hold the mourning husband’s hand. A clever move, don’t you think? Clever also to convert to Catholicism and claim moral purity rather than allow the widower to have her as a mistress. And cleverer still to get herself pregnant so quickly, to provide a half-sister for the children for whom she had been caring.’
Francesco perches on the edge of his chair, looking for escape.
‘So, despite seeming so beautiful, so perfectly Aryan, Gretchen is actually a mongrel,’ Huber says. ‘She is a cross-breed, a genetics experiment from the place where the father of genetics was born.’ He laughs, and expects Francesco to laugh with him. ‘While I, on the other hand, am of pure German stock. Like her I was born a Catholic, but unlike her I do
not
believe. And you say that you do not believe either …’ He smiles at the young man, indulgently, like an uncle smiling at a favourite nephew.
‘I believe that there might be a God. Maybe I believed more strongly once, that is all.’
Huber shakes his head. ‘It seems an ever more unlikely proposition, doesn’t it? The existence of God, I mean. Nietzsche declared the death of God. For me as for Nietzsche, there is no God, only blood and race. But Gretchen believes and, to make her happy, I accompany her and Leo to church.’ He looks thoughtfully away from Francesco, towards the window and the garden, and then suddenly, sharply, back. ‘And in the last weeks she has ceased to take communion. Now why do you think that can be?’
‘I wouldn’t even try to imagine.’ There is a rivulet of sweat running down Francesco’s temple. ‘It would be an impertinence, an affront to Frau Huber’s privacy even to think about it.’
‘But I try to imagine.’ The tall man’s voice is quiet, almost reflective. The accent is on the personal pronoun, as though he has a right to know what goes on in the heart and mind and soul of his wife. ‘
I
try to imagine what the reason might be.’
In the schoolroom young Leo, wearing knickerbockers and a Norfolk jacket (we must always keep up appearances, even when there is no one to appear to), bends over his exercise book and copies out copious notes about the life of Christ – Christ beating the money-changers out of the Temple, Christ arguing with the Pharisees on the Sabbath, Christ being led before Pilate. He looks up at Francesco, blue eyes looking from beneath blond hair at the dark-skinned Italian.
‘Explain this paradox to me,’ the boy says. He has recently learned the word
paradox
and enjoys using it. It soundsabsurd coming from the mouth of a child as young as he, absurd and pretentious. ‘Jesus was a Jew. How could
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