Mark sat at his breakfast table overlooking the softly green Tiergarten, surveying the crisp white rolls and the rolled butter in a silver dish, the slices of cheese and ham and the plum jam, laid out by Frau Braun. Frau Braun came in every morning to prepare his breakfast and tidy his rooms. Sometimes he’d have liked to wander about in his pyjamas or lie on the sofa after near-sleepless nights, but at least her arrival and the smell of coffee made him get up and dress correctly. Frau Braun often asked him whether he had met a young lady and advised him that he could not do better than a nice German girl, there were so many to choose from these days. He would tell her about the parties he’d been to, and the charming girls he’d danced with, sometimes invented as he shaved. She adored these stories which became more fantastic every time he created one.
He had made an appointment to see the ambassador that week, to sound him out. If he left the Service, would he ever be able to return? What did the ambassador feel about a career as a writer? The ambassador himself was not a career diplomat, he would no doubt be sympathetic.
Frau Braun came into the room with some envelopes on a salver. One of the letters had an American stamp, and the handwriting seemed familiar.
It was from Margaret Salt. She hoped he would not be surprised to hear from her. She had completed her doctoral studies and was planning a European Grand Tour with her friend Barbara, for at least six months. She wondered if he would care to join them in Munich.
Mark decided at once to go. And ate three rolls stuffed with cheese and ham.