“Why aren’t you with her?”
With this “have-you-left-off-beating-your-wife” kind of question I am quite incompetent to deal. A holiday visit to a country inn is a form of enjoyment no German could be made to understand.
The inquisitors fiercely smoothe out a map in front of me.
“Show us!”
I pass a trembling hand over that network of lines and names. To my accusers, the second’s indecision spells conclusive guilt.
“La Roche. Here,” I say gently.
“Luxemburg. Ah!” They nod sapiently.
I draw my finger slowly along an infinitesimal space of map. “Then I took the vicinal train to Melreux ... so ... and up to Manhay ... so.”
“Belgium!” They are shouting again, this time in tones of raucous triumph.
For a moment I am at a loss to understand. “Manhay is in Luxemburg,” I say.