Free Doctor Fischer of Geneva Or The Bomb Party by Graham Greene

why? At this season of the year, if the weather is fine, never mind the snow, he usually gives the most magnificent party of all the year. Soon, I expect, we shall be getting our invitations.’
    â€˜I’ve seen one party and that is enough for me.’
    â€˜I must admit that the last party was perhaps a little crude. All the same it will go down in the memory of his friends as the Porridge Party. The Lobster Party was a good deal more entertaining. But then you never know what to expect with Doctor Fischer. There was the Quail Party which rather upset Madame Faverjon . . .’ He sighed. ‘She was very attached to birds. You can’t please everybody.’
    â€˜But I suppose his presents always do, please I mean.’
    â€˜He’s very, very generous.’
    Mr Kips began to make his bent-pin way to the door: it was as though the grey moquette were a map printed with the route which he had to follow. I called after him, ‘I met an old employee of yours. He works in a music shop. Called Steiner.’
    He said, ‘I don’t remember the name,’ and continued without pausing along the route which had been traced for him on the moquette.
    That night I told Anna-Luise of my encounter. ‘You can’t get away from them,’ she said. ‘First poor Steiner and then Mr Kips.’
    â€˜Mr Kips’s business had nothing to do with your father. In fact he asked me not to mention our meeting if I saw your father.’
    â€˜And you promised?’
    â€˜Of course. I don’t intend ever to see him again.’
    â€˜But now they’ve attached you to him by a secret, haven’t they? They don’t intend to let you go. They want you to be one of them. Otherwise they won’t feel safe.’
    â€˜Safe?’
    â€˜Safe from being laughed at by someone on the outside.’
    â€˜Well, the fear of being laughed at doesn’t seem to deter them much.’
    â€˜I know. Greed wins every time.’
    â€˜I wonder what the Quail Party can have been that so upset Madame Faverjon.’
    â€˜Something beastly. You may be sure of that.’
    The snow continued to fall. It was going to be a very white Christmas. There were blocks even on the autoroute and Cointrin airport was closed for twenty-four hours. It mattered nothing to us. It was the first Christmas we had ever had together, and we celebrated it like children with all the trimmings. Anna-Luise bought a tree and we laid our presents for each other at its foot, gift-wrapped in the shops with gay paper and ribbons. I felt more like a father than a lover or a husband. That didn’t worry me – a father dies first.
    On the eve of Christmas the snow stopped and we went to the old abbey at Saint Maurice for midnight Mass and listened to that still more ancient story of the Emperor Augustus’s personal decree and how all the world came to be taxed. We were neither of us Roman Catholics, but this was the universal feast of childhood. It seemed quite suitable to see Belmont there, listening carefully to the decree of the Emperor, all by himself, as he had been at our wedding. Perhaps the Holy Family should have taken his advice and somehow evaded registration at Bethlehem.
    He was waiting at the door when we came out, and we couldn’t avoid him, dark suit, dark tie, dark hair, thin body and thin lips and an unconvincing smile. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said, winking at us, and pressed an envelope into my hand like a tax demand. I could tell from the feel that it contained a card. ‘I don’t trust the post,’ he said, ‘at Christmas.’ He waved his hand. ‘There’s Mrs Montgomery. I felt sure she would be here. She’s very ecumenical.’
    Mrs Montgomery wore a pale blue scarf over her pale blue hair, and I could see the new emerald in the hollow of her scrawny throat. ‘Ha ha, Monsieur Belmont and his cards as usual. And the young couple. A very