and Robert whispered with one voice.
‘That’s the one … there are apples and pears in it, proper yellow pears with little bright-green spots and oranges –’
‘Sour green Cuba oranges?’
‘No … Nafal, or something like that. Mandarins and plums and, yes, you’ve got it: bananas! Real bananas!’ There was a tremor in Ezzo’s voice.
‘Hey, Christian, that parcel from the other side we lugged in last week, I bet the old folks have guzzled it all already.’
‘Perhaps Aunt Alice and Uncle Sandor brought that stuff …’
‘It’s a possibility … And what else did you see? Tell me’ – Robert leant back a little more; he’d spoken rather loudly, so Christian put his finger to his lips and hissed ‘Shh!’ at his brother – ‘tell me, did you just look or did you …’
‘No, I didn’t, there wasn’t enough time, just a few grains of rice andthen Theo Lingen appeared and glared at me as if I were a criminal, really, Robert.’
‘How are things at the Spesh?’
Ezzo went to the Special School for Music in Mendelssohnallee. ‘Oh, as usual. School’s a bore. Physics is the only subject that’s fun, we’ve got Bräuer, you two must know him.’
‘Why?’
‘Of course you do, Robert, he’s the strict guy who visited us a couple of years ago. The one that looks a bit like Uncle Owl, you know, on kids’ TV, in
Pittiplatsch und Schnatterinchen
.’
Ezzo smirked. ‘Yes, that’s the one. But he’s great. Does fantastic experiments. Apart from that … Christmas is coming.’
‘And the Wieniawski?’
‘Hellish difficult piece. Don’t make me think about it. On Tuesday it’s my major again, I’ve really got work my arse off.’
‘… my father gave me strength and height, my earnest application, my mother dear my humour bright and Fromme – not only him – my joy in operations …’ Müller declaimed, earning a round of applause. ‘I hope the literary specialists in the audience will forgive my distortion of Goethe’s famous lines; all I can say in my defence is that it is in a good cause. But to come to the point – and what’s the point of birthdays if not presents – we in the clinic, Herr Hoffmann, spent a long time thinking about this. We are all, of course, aware of your love of classical music – when the nurses see a trolley heading for your operating theatre, where you are about to operate to, say, a violin concerto, they say the patient is “going to face the music”.’ He cleared his throat, seeming to expect applause which he then waved down. ‘Since, as your wife was good enough to divulge to me, we will have the opportunity to enjoy a piece of classical music later on, we, that is your colleagues, the nurses and I, have thought of something different. Your love of painting and the fine arts is also well-known in the clinic, so weorganized a little collection, the result of which is the object which I now ask these gentlemen to please bring from the adjoining room.’
Two junior doctors went into the side room and returned with a large, slim, carefully tied-up parcel.
‘Dad on the throne of trauma surgery,’ Robert whispered to Christian, ‘and instead of a sceptre he’s holding a scalpel …’
Herr Adeling brought in the easel. By this time Wernstein had unpacked the picture, apart from a last layer of tissue paper, and he placed it on the easel that Herr Adeling, furiously wielding a gigantic duster, had cleared of chalk powder. Wernstein stepped back. Müller thrust out his chin and pursed his lips in a raspberry-coloured pout – a pose, well known to every junior doctor in the Surgical Clinic, with which Professor Müller would conclude the moment of hesitation to which all surgeons are subject before they make the first incision into the still-inviolate skin lying before them, pale in the glare of the spotlight. With solemn tread he made his way over to the easel and, with a vigorous but well-calculated tug, at the same time giving Richard, who
‘That’s the one … there are apples and pears in it, proper yellow pears with little bright-green spots and oranges –’
‘Sour green Cuba oranges?’
‘No … Nafal, or something like that. Mandarins and plums and, yes, you’ve got it: bananas! Real bananas!’ There was a tremor in Ezzo’s voice.
‘Hey, Christian, that parcel from the other side we lugged in last week, I bet the old folks have guzzled it all already.’
‘Perhaps Aunt Alice and Uncle Sandor brought that stuff …’
‘It’s a possibility … And what else did you see? Tell me’ – Robert leant back a little more; he’d spoken rather loudly, so Christian put his finger to his lips and hissed ‘Shh!’ at his brother – ‘tell me, did you just look or did you …’
‘No, I didn’t, there wasn’t enough time, just a few grains of rice andthen Theo Lingen appeared and glared at me as if I were a criminal, really, Robert.’
‘How are things at the Spesh?’
Ezzo went to the Special School for Music in Mendelssohnallee. ‘Oh, as usual. School’s a bore. Physics is the only subject that’s fun, we’ve got Bräuer, you two must know him.’
‘Why?’
‘Of course you do, Robert, he’s the strict guy who visited us a couple of years ago. The one that looks a bit like Uncle Owl, you know, on kids’ TV, in
Pittiplatsch und Schnatterinchen
.’
Ezzo smirked. ‘Yes, that’s the one. But he’s great. Does fantastic experiments. Apart from that … Christmas is coming.’
‘And the Wieniawski?’
‘Hellish difficult piece. Don’t make me think about it. On Tuesday it’s my major again, I’ve really got work my arse off.’
‘… my father gave me strength and height, my earnest application, my mother dear my humour bright and Fromme – not only him – my joy in operations …’ Müller declaimed, earning a round of applause. ‘I hope the literary specialists in the audience will forgive my distortion of Goethe’s famous lines; all I can say in my defence is that it is in a good cause. But to come to the point – and what’s the point of birthdays if not presents – we in the clinic, Herr Hoffmann, spent a long time thinking about this. We are all, of course, aware of your love of classical music – when the nurses see a trolley heading for your operating theatre, where you are about to operate to, say, a violin concerto, they say the patient is “going to face the music”.’ He cleared his throat, seeming to expect applause which he then waved down. ‘Since, as your wife was good enough to divulge to me, we will have the opportunity to enjoy a piece of classical music later on, we, that is your colleagues, the nurses and I, have thought of something different. Your love of painting and the fine arts is also well-known in the clinic, so weorganized a little collection, the result of which is the object which I now ask these gentlemen to please bring from the adjoining room.’
Two junior doctors went into the side room and returned with a large, slim, carefully tied-up parcel.
‘Dad on the throne of trauma surgery,’ Robert whispered to Christian, ‘and instead of a sceptre he’s holding a scalpel …’
Herr Adeling brought in the easel. By this time Wernstein had unpacked the picture, apart from a last layer of tissue paper, and he placed it on the easel that Herr Adeling, furiously wielding a gigantic duster, had cleared of chalk powder. Wernstein stepped back. Müller thrust out his chin and pursed his lips in a raspberry-coloured pout – a pose, well known to every junior doctor in the Surgical Clinic, with which Professor Müller would conclude the moment of hesitation to which all surgeons are subject before they make the first incision into the still-inviolate skin lying before them, pale in the glare of the spotlight. With solemn tread he made his way over to the easel and, with a vigorous but well-calculated tug, at the same time giving Richard, who
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