“Amen,” said Peter. “Lead on, friend. We don’t mind if we do.”
He led us to a back street and then up two pairs of stairs to a very snug little flat. The place was filled with fine red lacquer, and I guessed that art-dealing was his nominal business. Portugal, since the republic broke up the convents and sold up the big royalist grandees, was full of bargains in the lacquer and curio line.
He filled us two long tankards of very good Munich beer.
“Prosit,” he said, raising his glass. “You are from South Africa. What make you in Europe?”
We both looked sullen and secretive.
“That’s our own business,” I answered. “You don’t expect to buy our confidence with a glass of beer.”
“So?” he said. “Then I will put it differently. From your speech in the cafe I judge you do not love the English.”
Peter said something about stamping on their grandmothers, a Kaffir phrase which sounded gruesome in Dutch.
The man laughed. “That is all I want to know. You are on the German side?”
“That remains to be seen,” I said. “If they treat me fair I’ll fight for them, or for anybody else that makes war on England. England has stolen my country and corrupted my people and made me an exile. We Afrikanders do not forget. We may be slow but we win in the end. We two are men worth a great price. Germany fights England in East Africa. We know the natives as no Englishmen can ever know them. They are too soft and easy and the Kaffirs laugh at them. But we can handle the blacks so that they will fight like devils for fear of us. What is the reward, little man, for our services? I will tell you. There will be no reward. We ask none. We fight for hate of England.”