Heavenly Date and Other Flirtations Read online

  HEAVENLY

  DATE

  AND OTHER FLIRTATIONS

  ALEXANDER

  McCALL SMITH

  CONTENTS

  WONDERFUL DATE

  NICE LITTLE DATE

  BULAWAYO

  FAR NORTH

  INTIMATE ACCOUNTS

  CALWARRA

  FAT DATE

  MATERNAL INFLUENCE

  HEAVENLY DATE

  Wonderful Date

  Herr Brugli’s bedroom was in the front of his mansion, looking out over the waters of the Lake of Zürich. In the early mornings he would stand in his dressing gown at the window, sipping a cup of milky coffee, while his valet ran his bath. The valet, Markus, was Polish, and had been with Herr Brugli for fifteen years. He knew the exact temperature which Herr Brugli preferred for his bath water; he knew the precise blend of coffee which his employer liked in the morning and the place on the breakfast table where Herr Brugli expected the morning’s copy of Die Neue Züricher Zeitung to be awaiting him. Markus knew everything.

  Markus knew, too, that Herr Brugli liked Madame Verloren van Thermaat, a Belgian lady who lived two miles away, also on the shores of the lake, also in a mansion. Verloren van Thermaat – what a ridiculous name, he thought. Madame Lost Tomato, that’s what I call her!

  “Should I marry Madame Thermaat?” Herr Brugli asked him one day, as he brought in the morning tray. “What are your views, Markus? You know me well enough by now. What do you think? Should a widower like myself marry a widow like Madame Thermaat? Do you think that that’s what people expect of us?”

  Markus laid his tray on the bedside table, exactly where Herr Brugli liked it to be laid. Then he crossed the room to open the curtains, glancing as he did so at his employer’s face, reflected in the wardrobe mirror. Markus had to admit to himself that he was frightened. Everything about his job was to his liking. There was very little to do. He was paid handsomely by Herr Brugli, who never counted the bottles in his cellar, ever. He and his wife lived in a small cottage in the grounds, not more than a few paces from the private jetty. They had a small boat, which they liked to sail in the summer. Madame Thermaat might change all that. She had her own staff. She might edge them out.

  “I really couldn’t say, sir,” he said, adding: “Marriage is not always a bed of roses, of course. Some people are happier by themselves.”

  He saw Herr Brugli smile.

  “Anyway, perhaps I anticipate matters rather. Madame Thermaat is an independent person. Her life is very satisfactory at present.”

  Now Herr Brugli stood before the mirror in his dressing room and adjusted his tie. He was wearing his most comfortable suit, made, like all his suits, in London. Every year he went there for his wardrobe, ordering several suits and pairs of handmade shoes. Nobody made clothes like the English, he thought, which was rather surprising, bearing in mind what a scruffy group of people they were in general – young people in blue jeans with tears in the knees; men in shapeless, shiny jackets with zips in front; women in unflattering trousers and everyone, it seemed, in running shoes! And yet they made those wonderful clothes for other people – tweeds, cords, mohairs, checks, tartans.

  This suit was just right for the occasion. It was made of a thick brown tweed, with a double-breasted waistcoat, and would keep him warm if the day turned nasty, although that looked unlikely, he thought; the sky was quite clear and there were signs of spring everywhere. It would be a perfect day.

  He ate his breakfast slowly, perusing the columns of the newspaper, noting the obituaries – nobody today, thank God – finally turning to the stock reports. There was satisfactory news there, too. Everything was up on the previous day’s trading, which is how it should be.

  He laid aside the paper, wiped his mouth on the starched table napkin which Markus had patiently taught the Italian maid to iron in just the right way, and then he got up from the table. There was a short time to wait before the car would be at the door and he would set off. For a moment he was unsure what to do. He could write a letter, or read perhaps – he was half-way through The Magic Mountain, but he was out of sympathy with it for some reason.

  German literature was so depressing, he felt; so heavy and full of woe. What a bleak vision they have, our neighbours to the north; what a frightful group of people for the most part, terribly greedy. But they eat our chocolates, I suppose.

  He went to his bureau and took out his writing case. There was a letter to be written to his cousin in Buenos Aires. She wrote to him once a month, and he always wrote back within three days of receiving her letter. She had nothing to do, of course, and her letters reflected this; but he was dutiful in family matters and since he had been left on his own the burden of correspondence had fallen on him.

  “Dear Hetta: What a gorgeous day it is today – a real peach of a day. The lake is still, and there is no movement in the air. Yet spring is here, I can feel it, or almost here, and very soon we shall have blossom in the garden again! Alas, you will slide into autumn, and winter then, but I shall think of you as I sit in the garden.”

  He paused. She knew about Madame Thermaat, of course, but he did not want her to feel that there was any understanding which did not yet exist. Perhaps just a mention then: “Today I am accompanying Madame Thermaat – I have told you of her, of course – into Zürich. We are going to take a short walk by the river, as it is such a lovely day, and I have one or two matters to attend to. Then we shall come back.” He wondered if he should say more, but decided that this was quite enough. Let them speculate in Buenos Aires if they liked.

  Markus came in to tell him that the car was ready outside. He got up from his desk and walked into the hall. There was another mirror there, and he looked anxiously at his reflection. The tie needed straightening, but he was sure he was right about the suit – it was exactly what the day required.

  “Good-bye Markus,” he said. “I shall be back at the usual time.”

  Markus held the door open for him, and the driver, seeing him emerge, started the engine of the car. They moved out on to the road, into the traffic, and edged their way up the lake to collect Madame Thermaat.

  “My dear Madame Thermaat!”

  “Dear Herr Brugli!”

  They beamed at one another.

  “Would you like the rug across your knees? There’s still a bit of a nip in the air, isn’t there?”

  She shook her head. “I am perfectly warm,” she said. “I never feel the cold.”

  “You are so fortunate,” he said. “I feel cold in summer.”

  “Thin blood,” she said. “You must have thin blood.”

  He laughed. “I shall try to thicken it up. What do you recommend? Do any of those health magazines you read tell you how to do it?”

  “Chocolate, Herr Brugli! Lots of chocolate!”

  He wagged his finger at her in mock disapproval. They were well on their way to Zürich now, and the large, high-powered car shot past slower vehicles. He asked her what she had been doing, and she described her week. It had, she said, been trying: she had two meetings of the village board, and they had ended in an impasse on each occasion, which was worrying. And then she had had three bridge evenings – three – all of which meant that she had had no time to herself at all.

  He nodded sympathetically. He had weeks like that himself.

  “And you have your factories too,” she said. “You have to worry about them.”

  “To an extent,” he agreed. “But thank heavens for my managers.”

  The car turned over the Cathedral Bridge and into the heart of the city. At the end of Bahnhof Strasse it pulled in to the side and allowed them both to alight. He got out first and
held the door open for his companion.

  “Thank you dear Herr Brugli,” she said. “Now, where shall we start?”

  He wagged his finger at her again.

  “You know very well,” he scolded. “Sprungli’s – as always!”

  They crossed the street and walked a few yards to a large glass door on which in ornate gold script the name Sprungli’s was embossed. They walked past a man sitting on a bench, whose eyes fixed on them as they went past. He muttered something, and held out a hand, but neither heard nor saw him.

  The counters in Sprungli’s were laden with bank upon bank of chocolates. He paused before a tray of Belgian chocolates, and examined them carefully. Her eye was caught by a cake, which was topped by a small icing-sugar swan.

  “Such skilful sculpting,” she said. “It seems a pity to eat such an exquisite little work of art.”

  “A trifle overdone,” he said. “I prefer a simpler approach.”

  “Perhaps, Herr Brugli,” she conceded. “Simplicity is certainly an ideal in life.”

  They passed upstairs, where the waitress recognised them and led them immediately to a table in the corner. She was particularly attentive to Herr Brugli, who addressed her as Maria and asked after her mother.

  “Ah,” said the waitress. “She takes great pleasure in everything still. When the weather gets a bit better she will ride up to Rapperswill on the steamer to visit her sister.”

  “Marvellous!” said Herr Brugli, and turning to Madame Thermaat: “Eighty one, almost eighty two! A positive advertisement for a healthy life, is she not Maria?”

  “And schnapps,” said the waitress. “She drinks two glasses of schnapps each day. One before breakfast, and one before retiring to bed.”

  “There you are!” exclaimed Herr Brugli. “You see!”

  They looked at the menu, which was quite unnecessary, as Herr Brugli never chose anything new, and expected Madame Thermaat to do the same.

  “I think we shall have our usual again,” he said to the waitress.

  A few minutes later Maria brought them their coffee, served in tall glasses with whipped cream floating on the top. Then a plate of cakes arrived, and they each chose two. Maria returned, topped up the coffee, and cleared the uneaten cakes away.

  “Take those back to your mother,” said Herr Brugli. “Charge them to us.”

  Maria beamed. “She loves cakes,” she said. “She can’t resist them!”

  There were few people of note in Sprungli’s. There were several tables of tourists – a party of Italians and a table of sober, intimidated Americans. Herr Brugli’s gaze passed over these tables quickly.

  “Nobody’s in this morning,” he began to say. “I don’t see a soul …”

  He stopped. Yes, there was somebody, and he leaned over the table to whisper to Madame Thermaat.

  “Would you credit it?” he said, his voice barely audible. “There she is, that Zolger woman with her young friend. In broad daylight …”

  Madame Thermaat followed his gaze.

  “Eating cakes!” she exclaimed. “Look, she ’s feeding him one with her fingers!”

  Herr Brugli’s eyes narrowed.

  “He’s young enough to be her son,” he whispered. “Just look at that! Just look at the way she’s gazing at him.”

  “Eyes for nothing else,” said Madame Thermaat. “Positively devouring him, in public.”

  They looked away, thrilled by their discovery. It was wonderful to see something as shocking as that; it added a spice to the day to see a late middle-aged Zürich matron – a prominent banker’s wife – with her young lover in public, in a chocolate shop! It really was astonishingly good fortune, and cheered them both up immensely.

  They arose from their table. He left fifty francs for Maria, tucked under a plate, as he always did. Then, eyes averted from the Zolger table, they made their way out of Sprungli’s and into the street. It was even warmer now, and the city was bathed in clear spring sunlight; somewhere, over by the river, a clock chimed.

  It was gallery time now, so they crossed the river again, skirted round the cheap shops which ruined the arcade, and began to climb up one of the narrow streets that wound their way up the hill to the Church of St John. She walked beside him, on the inside, and when they negotiated a tricky corner she took his arm – which he liked – but released it later once the danger had passed.

  The Gallery Fischer was discreet. It had a display window, but only a small one, and this tended to contain some item from Herr Fischer’s private collection, and would have nothing to do with what was inside. The door was always locked, but there was a small bell, which said simply Fischer and this, if rung, produced a small, stout man wearing round wire-rimmed glasses.

  “So, Herr Brugli … and Madame Verloren van … van …”

  “Thermaat,” said Herr Brugli. “Herr Fischer, you are well, I hope?”

  “Everybody in Switzerland has a cold at the moment,” said Herr Fischer. “But I do not. So I am grateful.”

  “There are so many germs around these days,” said Madame Thermaat. “You just can’t avoid them. They are everywhere.”

  Herr Fischer nodded his head sagely.

  “I have great faith in Vitamin C,” he said. “I take Vitamin C every day, without fail.”

  They followed him into a small room behind the gallery. A young woman in an elegant black trouser suit came out from an office, shook hands solemnly, and then went off to a cupboard in the corner of the office.

  “Here it is, then,” said Herr Fischer. “It is, I hope, what you had in mind.”

  He handed the figurine to Herr Brugli, who took it in both hands and held it up in front of him. For a few moments there was silence. Herr Brugli moved the figurine backwards and forwards, the better to examine it in the light.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “This is absolutely perfect.”

  Herr Fischer showed his relief. “There are so few of them left,” he said. “At least there are so few of them in this condition.”

  Herr Brugli passed the small porcelain figure to Madame Thermaat, who took it gingerly and examined it closely.

  “Such lovely colours,” she said. “So true to life.”

  She passed it back to Herr Fischer, who looked expectantly at Herr Brugli.

  “I shall take it,” said Herr Brugli. “If you could ask your man …”

  “We shall deliver it with pleasure,” said Herr Fischer.

  Madame Thermaat had moved to the other side of the room and was looking at a small bronze on a table.

  “Do you have anything – some small bibelot – which Madame Thermaat might like?” Herr Brugli asked Herr Fischer. “Some little present …?”

  Herr Fischer looked thoughtful. “There is something,” he said. “A small egg, after Fabergé I’m afraid, not by him. But exquisite nonetheless.”

  Herr Brugli smiled. “She would like that.” Then, very quietly: “The price?”

  Herr Fischer lowered his voice. He did not like talking about money, even with somebody like Herr Brugli. “Eight thousand francs,” he said. “An absolute snip. If it were by Fabergé himself, then, well …”

  Herr Brugli was eager to save the proprietor embarrassment. “Perfectly reasonable,” he said. “Could we see if she likes it?”

  “Leave it up to me,” Herr Fischer assured him. “I shall fetch it immediately.” It was a minute egg, fashioned out of silver, with gold lining and encrustation. The top, which could be pushed back, was lined within with mother-of-pearl, and the rest of the egg’s interior was covered with jet.

  “I believe that this might have been a pill box,” said Herr Fischer. “It is, I believe, of French manufacture.”

  Madame Thermaat took the tiny egg in her hands and peered at it intensely.

  “So delightful,” she said. “So modest. I’ll take it please.”

  Herr Fischer seemed momentarily perplexed. He looked at Herr Brugli, who waved a hand in the direction of the egg.

  “I shou
ld like to buy that for Madame Thermaat,” he said. “Put it in my account.”

  “But I intended to buy it myself,” protested Madame Thermaat. “You’re far too kind to me.”

  “It is a little present that I already planned to buy you,” said Herr Brugli. “You were not meant to buy it yourself.”

  Herr Fischer brushed aside Madame Thermaat’s objections and took the egg from her.

  “I shall wrap it in gold foil,” he said. “Afterwards, you may press the gold foil down on some special object and gild it.”

  Madame Thermaat’s eye alighted on a small painting on one of the walls. A haloed figure appeared to be floating several feet above the ground, surrounded by admiring bystanders and several surprised animals.

  “That is most intriguing,” she said to Herr Fischer. “What is it?”

  Herr Fischer took the painting down. “Joseph of Copertino. A remarkable figure. He levitated on over seventy occasions and flew quite considerable distances on others. That, I believe, is why he is the patron saint of air travellers.”

  “A charming painting,” she said.

  “Late seventeenth century, Florentine,” he said, lowering his voice even further. “Remarkable value at nineteen thousand francs.”

  “Would Herr Brugli like it?” asked Madame Thermaat.

  “He would love it,” Herr Fischer whispered. “Between ourselves, I gather that he is just the slightest bit frightened of travelling by air. This painting will undoubtedly reassure him.”

  Madame Thermaat inclined her head slightly. “Will you send me the bill?” she said to Herr Fischer. “Madame Verloren van Thermaat.”

  “Of course,” said Herr Fischer. “And Herr Brugli – is he to know about this?”

  Madame Thermaat took the painting from Herr Fischer and handed it to Herr Brugli.

  “A little gift from me,” she said. “To thank you for all your kindness.”

  They left Herr Fischer’s shop, each carrying the present which the other had bought. It had turned slightly colder now, although the sun was still shining brilliantly, and Herr Brugli turned up the collar of his coat. Madame Thermaat took his arm again, and together they made their way down the narrow streets, back towards the river.