white linen dress, Alexander a cream-coloured suit and a battered straw hat. They were still walking hand in hand. Zoe worked for Elegance. If she was wearing this now you could be sure that the Summer-in-the French-Countryside look would be all the rage the following year.
‘Just don’t tell me you’re engaged,’ said Uncle Herman, ‘because if you do I’m going down to the cellar and staying there until everyone’s gone.’
‘We’re engaged,’ said Zoe.
‘Une dimanche à la campagne,’ I said. ‘Need I say more?’
Alexander turned his questioning gaze to Zoe.
‘Where the hell is Mrs Sanders?’
Zoe pointed. Uncle Herman turned round and jumped when he saw that she was standing right behind him. ‘Good God, woman, don’t sneak up on me like that.’ Mrs Sanders lowered her left eyebrow. ‘The engagement cake,’ he said. ‘It’s time for the engagement cake!’ Zoe began laughing. Alexander opened his mouth, looked at Uncle Herman and from him to me and then back to Zoe, and closed it again.
When Mrs Sanders had cleared the table and set out the huge cake, the coffee, and the plates and cups, I went to get Zeno. He was still lying on the garden seat, nestled in a cloud of cushions. The sun filtered through the leaves of the apple tree. His body was dappled with tiny golden flecks. ‘Raised by leopards, he was, all the years of his youth,’ I said, after I had stood there for a while watching him. Zeno opened one eye. He observed me coolly. ‘For a kabbalist, you’re far too poetic, N,’ he said. He shut his eye again and for a moment it was as if he were drifting away. I could see him lying in a paper boat, gliding away over an unruffled lake that was red with evening sun. ‘The cake’s ready,’ I said. Zeno groaned softly. ‘Is it that time again?’ He opened both eyes, so slowly I almost envied him.
At the table the coffee had already been poured. Zelda turned halfway round in her chair and beckoned to Zeno. He sat down next to her and whispered something in her ear that made her laugh. He was the only one who could. Uncle Herman once said that Zelda’s great tragedy was that she had been born a nun in a Jewish family.
‘Hollanders!’ cried Uncle Herman, jumping up from his chair and waving the cake knife, as if he were about to make the traditional sacrifice. ‘Here we are, all together again, as we are nearly every summer, and here is the engagement cake …’
‘… as it is nearly every summer,’ I said.
Zoe smiled indulgently.
‘As it is nearly every summer,’ Uncle Herman affirmed. ‘But why, you should be asking, Zeno, why is this day different from all other days?’
‘Why should I be asking?’
‘Because you’re the youngest, you moron.’ Zeno nodded at Zoe as if to thank her.
‘This day is different from all other days, because I have a few important announcements to make. A: I’m giving up the house.’
None of us were prepared for this. My mother shrank back, her right hand on her chest, mouth slightly open. Zelda gazed intently at Uncle Herman. Zeno narrowed his eyes. I looked to the left and stared up at the sky. The dying light of the setting sun caressed Uncle Herman’s white hair, ‘the Einstein halo,’ as my father used to call it.
‘I’m too old to look after the place,’ he said. ‘And for that reason: point B, I’m leaving Nathan in charge, not only of the Fatherland …’ Cheers rose. Zeno said something I didn’t understand. ‘But also …’ He held up one hand to silence his audience, ‘… in charge of the house. That is, if he’s willing to accept the responsibility. Each of you will have the right to spend time here now and again.’
There was another burst of applause. Uncle Herman didn’t move a muscle. He waved the knife, and when it was quiet he opened his mouth again. ‘And now we cut the cake, the traditional engagement cake, in the hope that this will be the last. And finally: regards to all of you from your father. To the happy couple!’
He stuck the knife in the cake and sliced it in two, so resolutely that he really did seem to be finishing off a sacrificial beast.
Later, when the sun had gone down, we sat in the library, Uncle Herman, Sophie and I. The rest, Zoe and Alexander, Zeno, and Mrs Sanders, were in the kitchen, where my sisters and brother drank wine and the housekeeper plied Zeno with bread and cheese. Even though it had been a hot day, Uncle Herman had asked me to make a fire and move the large chesterfield over by the hearth. ‘Fire is good for books,’ he said, ‘as long as it doesn’t get too close.’ The glow of the flames enclosed us in a swaying red globe of light and shadow.
‘It’s been a fine day,’ said Sophie.
‘After a day like today, a person could die happy,’ said Uncle Herman.
‘Actually, I was thinking of trying to get some work done,’ I said. ‘One last glass of wine, cup of coffee …’
‘That’s exactly why I’m leaving you the house,’ said Uncle Herman. ‘You’re such a Calvinistic bastard.’
‘Leaving him in charge of the house,’ said Sophie.
‘Leaving him in charge. But when I die, the house is his. He’s the only one of you who has any use for it. Besides, where else would he put all these books?’
My eyes travelled from the fire to my uncle. I was aware that my mouth had dropped open.
‘You get the house, N.’
I wanted to say something, but got no further than a vague sort of stammering.
‘Herman, how can he keep up a house like this? The boy can hardly even support himself.’
Uncle Herman raised his glass and peered at the red spark floating in the wine. ‘It has always been my conviction that you should give a man bread when he’s hungry, but let him provide his own butter. Stimulates the initiative.’
My mother looked at me with a worried expression.
‘Sophie,’ said Uncle Herman, ‘if it’s the others you’re concerned about … I’m sure they’ll see reason, and if they don’t, they obviously don’t have the sense of family loyalty they should. And besides …’ He straightened up in his chair and took a gulp of wine. ‘Nathan will have to do something for me in return.’
I looked at him without saying a word. In the reflection of the flames the white wreath of hair had taken on a faint red glow. The gently hooked nose stuck out like a beak and the wilful mouth was crinkled into a benevolent smile. He wasn’t very tall, my Uncle Herman, five foot eight at most, but sometimes, like now, he gave the impression of being twice his size. Perhaps it was the coarse tweed jacket with the suede elbow patches, or his rather slow-emphatic way of moving, or his penetrating gaze. Or perhaps it was the way he spoke. The way Uncle Herman talked always sounded as if he were pronouncing judgement on the validity of the logical-positivistic viewpoint in this day and age or something similar, even if he was only asking you to put the cork down next to the bottle after you’d opened it. On the few occasions that I had accompanied him on one of his lecture tours, I’d been impressed by his talents as a demagogue. For the first time I had understood why the great minds of our time spoke with and listened to him as if he were their equal.
‘This
