In Babylon. Marcel Moring

got out. Nina started the car, put it into reverse, and slowly released the clutch. I leaned against the bonnet. The wheels churned through the snow, the car glided slowly backwards. When she had manoeuvred it to the middle of the path, about thirty feet back, I went around to her door and leaned over. Nina rolled down her window and began laughing. ‘You look incredible.’

      ‘We’d better walk the rest of the way,’ I said. ‘It’ll take hours to get past that bank and I think it’ll only get worse higher up the Mountain.’

      ‘What do we do with your luggage?’

      ‘I can manage, it’s just one bag.’

      She got out of the car. I took my suitcase out of the boot, and then got out the tow rope. I tied one end around Nina’s waist, the other around my own. She arched her left eyebrow, but said nothing.

      It snowed. It snowed it snowed it snowed. When we looked back after sixty feet or so, we could hardly see the car anymore. In a few hours’ time it would be a barely visible bulge in a high white bank.

      From where we were stranded the path went up and to the left. It was only recognizable as a path because it was fringed with trees. I had no idea exactly where we were or how much farther we had to walk. We waded through the knee-deep snow, hampered by our long coats and slippery shoes and the shrieking snowstorm. Now and then I felt Nina tug on the rope and I turned round and waited until she signalled for us to move on.

      After half an hour’s walking the path disappeared. In a whirling white vortex of snow, half visible, fast asleep behind the shuttered library and hunting room windows, stood the house.

      ‘Well, here we are …’ said Nina, her shoulders hunched in the snow-covered coat.

      The storm seemed to have subsided, slow fat flakes were falling, creamy tufts of white that floated down with such ease, they seemed to be saying: No need for us to hurry, there are so many of us, we have all the time in the world. I looked at the house and felt something stirring inside.

      Even though the snow lay thick upon my shoulders and was falling so steadily that it nearly robbed me of the view, my thoughts slipped readily into the lake of memories that encircled this place, and instead of white, white, and more white, I saw the long wooden table that had been set out in the garden when we spent our last summer here all together: the tablecloths hanging down in the tall grass, wine bottles here and there, half-empty, half-full, the flowers Zoe had strewn among the dishes and bread baskets, the gentle confusion of empty chairs around the table. At the back of the garden Zelda and Sophie, our mother, were playing badminton, Zeno lay asleep on the garden seat, smiling like a buddha, and Zoe and Alexander – I think it was still Alexander in those days – walked hand in hand in the soft twilight at the edge of the lawn, where the woods began. Bumblebees buzzed above the wine glasses, way, way up in the sky swallows were chasing thrips, and the smell of resin and dry wood wafted down from the treetops.

      ‘I’ll tell you what you’re thinking,’ said Uncle Herman. He blew out a grey-blue cloud of cigar smoke, a Romeo y Julietta, so fragrant it made my head swim. ‘You’re thinking, if only things could always be this way.’

      We were sitting side by side on the red-tiled verandah, a table with ice bucket and bottle between us.

      ‘If only things could always be this way, that’s what you’re thinking. You’re such a sentimental bastard. A little sun, some wine, the family in the garden, and you think: Une dimanche à la campagne. I know you.’ He puffed at his cigar. ‘Where’s Mrs Sanders?’

      I turned around and looked inside. ‘No idea.’

      ‘Are you planning to stay and work here?’

      A pretzel-shaped smoke ring floated off and didn’t dissolve until it was very far away from us.

      ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘If it’s all right with you.’

      ‘You didn’t get the key for nothing. And if you can keep your mouth shut I’ll even tell you a secret …’

      Zoe and Alexander came walking towards us. They looked like two characters in a French film. My sister was wearing a long 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