Free A Small Death in lisbon by Robert Wilson Page A

four
petits poussins
between the two men and a flat plate of
boulangère
potatoes. Lehrer was holding a glass of Gewürztraminer and rolling the stem between his thumb and forefinger.
    'It's so good to have Alsace back in the German fold, don't you think? What magnificent country, magnificent wine. The meat of the
poussin
will be a little delicate for this, we should have ordered goose or pork, hearty Alsatian fare, but I can't have too much fat, you know. Still ... the fruits of summer in the dead of winter. Your health.'
    'Was that a particularly successful meeting, Herr Gruppenführer?'
    'Tell me what you think of the Gewürztraminer?'
    'Spicy.'
    'I'm sure you can do better than that. I was always told that you were very appreciative of the good things in life.'
    'Boldly fruity, but clean and dry. The spice holding from the top to the bottom, as long as an Atlantic cruise.'
    'Where did you get that from?' Lehrer laughed.
    'It's not true?'
    'It's true ... but not as boring or as dangerous as an Atlantic cruise,' said Lehrer. 'I think a heavenly
brioche
is called for after this.'

    They ate the
poussins
and drank two bottles of the Gewürztraminer. The restaurant emptied. They ate the
brioche
with a half-bottle of Sauternes. They ordered coffee and cognac and sat in the fading light of the darkening afternoon with cigars growing inches of concertinaed ash. The staff left them and the bottle and retired. The two men were well loosened up. Lehrer's cigar arm swung off the back of his chair and Felsen's legs were spread wide, a foot on either side of the table legs.
    'A man,' said Lehrer heading for some pontification, pointing Felsen up with his cigar, ash still intact, 'must always do his important thinking alone.'
    'What's a man's important thinking?' asked Felsen, licking his lips.
    'Where he wants to be, of course ... in the future,' he sifted through the air for some more words, 'I mean, on your way you must gather your intelligence, you may ask opinion, but when you are determining your own place in the world ... this is your private, your secret thinking ... and if you are to be a man ... a man of difference, then this thinking must be done alone.'
    'Is this the start of an essay entitled "How to become an SS-Gruppenführer " ?'
    Lehrer waggled his cigar in the negative.
    'That is my position only. A badge of the success of my thinking but it is not the ultimate purpose. A small example. You won the poker game the other night because your ultimate purpose was greater than mine. The adjutant told you to lose because I like to win. You wanted to stay in Berlin ... ergo you win. My intelligence, as you indicated to me last night, was not good enough to have played that game with you.'
    'But you
did
win. I'm here. You lost a little money, that's all.'
    Lehrer smiled broadly, his eyes glistening with drink, amusement and triumph.
    'Perhaps you're thinking now why you're so important to me,' he said. 'Don't. My ultimate purpose should be no concern of yours.'
    Except that it involves me, thought Felsen, but he said: 'Perhaps I should have one of my own.'
    'My point entirely,' said Lehrer shrugging massively.
    'This Russian campaign...' Felsen started and Lehrer held up his hand.
    'You will get your intelligence by degrees,' he said. 'Let me ask you something first. What happened in the skies over England last summer?'
    'I'm not sure we can read the precise truth in the
Beobachter
or the
12-Uhr Blatt.'
    'Well, the precise truth,' said Lehrer leaning over and whispering into his brandy, 'is that we
lost
a great air battle. Goering will tell you otherwise. Goering has
told
me otherwise, but we all know how
he
keeps his distance from reality...'
    'Excuse me, sir?'
    'Nothing,' said Lehrer, straightening himself with a belch. 'The loss of a great air battle. What does that mean to you?'
    'But we haven't been bombed in Berlin for nearly two months.'
    'Berliners,' said Lehrer, despairing, 'even new Berliners, my God, man, believe me,