“That’s good — do I speak?”

“I will speak on your behalf. If you were to speak, it would not be for long, for the principal wants to speak.”

“I’ve written the first lecture.”

“Kleist?”

“Heinrich von.’

“A marvellous writer … ‘Die Marquise von O’ — do you know that?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“Oh yes, marvellous indeed. Do you have any tobacco? Unfortunately you can’t smoke around here; it’s easier to get away with a joint than a cigarette in Ireland these days. Come on!” And so they walked to the taxis outside.

They were driven through town, and Sebastian took in the scene as if eating fine food; the passing crowds, the brimming street cafés…

Light illuminated the row of Dublin cabs, their roofs yellowed in the sun, and spread itself as far back as the automatic doors behind. Getting in, Sebastian felt acutely the width of his frame on the back seat, the massiveness of his thighs. The shuddery, Indian driver looked most confused at the two gangly North Europeans wedged into the back of his car. It seemed doubly unfair that the same small driver heaved up their suitcases while the two littérateurs conversed behind.

They were driven through town, and Sebastian took in the scene as if eating fine food; the passing crowds, the brimming street cafés, and the houses. Eventually, they stopped and got out; “This is your place,” Baummüller said, his back lined up before a town house. “This is your door card — there’s some tea in the room. And this is my card if you need me.” Dr. Karl Baummüller.

“What did you promote in?”

“Intimations of piety in the work of Von Kleist. With reference to Hegel,” said Karl, fumbling at a cigarette. “Hegel.”

Children played behind him in a pleasantly suburban street. “So, a real romantic,” grinned Sebastian.

“Not any more. I like your books — de duivelwals is good. Post-Kleistian in the best sense, one might say. All that macabre sex. And I read you in Dutch, too.”

“Echt?”

“Oh yes,” said Karl with a large grin, “Nederlands is voor mij niet uitzonderlijk zwaar. Het is in feite een dialect van Duits, niet waar?”^[6]

“Well, I’m pleased for you,” Sebastian said after a moment’s thought; and pleased he was too to have now the opportunity to say adieu. “I’ll see you later.”

“There’ll be a taxi for you at seven,” said Karl, and ducked back into the one attendant.

In Sebastian Beetje’s novel de duivelwals (1974), the protagonist Molly Dugdegon is gradually drawn into the nocturnal perversions of the sinister Baron Perceval Sugden, a transcontinental dandy with a bull-pizzle moustache and a collection of antique riding crops. Dressed in military outfits, the Baron conducts the nocturnal revels of the title, interposing his own unique imprint on the event: the adoption of eclectic historical dress. At Blotto Towers, the Baron’s palace, crusaders fumble geishas and centurions fellate swarthy pageant musclemen. This vision of history as one wild orgy seemed rather incongruous with the wrinkled, mild-mannered gentleman who unpacked his suitcase at the edge of the room, but in reality it accorded squarely to his long-established view of the world. Sebastian, relaxed in demeanour, was wild inside.

… how lovely it was to have made one’s reputation in an age of some residual public for literature and now be able to spend the time basking in modernity like some proud whale.

And how the trees fell in honour of words he had written years hence, which delighted him; how lovely it was to have made one’s reputation in an age of some residual public for literature and now be able to spend the time basking in modernity like some proud whale. Now it was time, he thought, to “indulge in posterity,” to truss up his worn frame in waistcoat and slacks — who wore slacks anymore? — and to work the room. He remembered an age-old trip to Antwerp, just after the war, and being fitted with a complet anglais on market day, then purchasing what the Germans call eine Manchesterhose, which had never seen Manchester of course. At his age, his head was a dusty box of memories, fragments, lost words and a perpetual din. The din came from some obscure struggle of rivalry and success he had these days little desire to think of… Another cigar.