He laughed. ‘No. But I wish I could. I am in the anomalous position of believing in souls yet not in God.’
‘So art’s a comfort, eh?’ She was smiling. ‘Not that we don’t need comforting.’
‘Art’s many things, isn’t it? A comfort for me, a source of argument for you?’
A warmth in her smile, as she responded to his teasing, touched something inside him. ‘In the face of such large questions, really art in the twentieth century has little to say. After Kafka – nothing worth having. The Theatre of the Absurd.’
She indicated the bust which impersonally supervised their conversation. ‘Do you think this cross-eyed general is elevated to the Absurd? Just a few pencil lines make a difference.’
‘They do to any of us.’
‘Will you have dinner with me, please? If I promise not to convert you to Marxism.’
‘I’d love to, but I have to go out.’ Looking at his watch, he added, ‘Now.’
He noted her immediate curiosity, and added, ‘I have an appointment. Perhaps tomorrow evening.’
‘Are you going to a brothel? I hear there are plenty in Ermalpa. Because of the poverty.’
Laughing, he said, ‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Oh, don’t be all English and bashful. If you are going, can I come with you? I won’t spoil your enjoyment, but I’d like to talk to the women.’
‘Die Spitze might like that but I wouldn’t. I’m not in the habit of taking ladies to brothels. For one thing, it’s too much like taking coals to Newcastle …’
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