To Auschwitz!

First, two nights in Axel's townhouse in Hamburg, on the Reeperbahn. Thom should be packing his case but in fact he is googling Hamburg and has already discovered the Erotic Musuem. He doesn't yet know that Axel owns nearly all the exhibits in that musuem. He even has sleeping quarters in the basement.

Axel  is now in his late seventies and, as one of his older friends, he once asked if I would be executor of his will after his death. I demurred, envisaging the rest of my life as an eternal battle with scholars of erotica and musuem curators with no discernible reward for me. Axel said nothing for a few weeks and, as ever, I was invited to the boat party. Feeling under the weather and not fully partaking in the activities upon the boat, Axel drew me aside. Well what about Walter's Secret Life, then, surely that interests you? In what sense? Of course, this was the greatest and longest work of Victorian pornography and I had read every word. Dear boy, I am talking about the first edition. I didn't know he owned a copy.  One of only two copies, of course. Axel was planting a seed and I knew better than to try harvesting it that night. I remember taking a keener interest in the party, all the while wondering what Axel would expect of me. And I still don't know.

It will be a private conversation. If I am to inherit Axel's copy of My Secret Life, then it will be prudent if Karen doesn't hear about it. This will mean having a few hours alone with him and I am concerned as to what Thom will do without me. I called Axel. He said that Gertrude, his housekeeper, could look after him. I was hardly expecting a soft play area and a shelf of lemonade but Gertrude sounded a bit starchy and formidable, no matter. Thom won't regret it when I am gone. He can sell My Secret Life and buy himself a second home. So could I, come to that. He rang me before bed. He's glad that England were knocked out and that we'll be seeing Italy v. Germany. Italy play more beautiful football, he said. I went to sleep happy, certain that my sons scrupulous aesthetic sense will serve him better than any patriotism.

To Auschwitz!