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me.’
    ‘Excellent.
Sausage
.’
    ‘Dog.’
    ‘
Dog?
’
    ‘Sausage.’
    ‘
Sausage dog
.’

    ‘When I was a boy,’ said von Igelfeld, a little later, ‘we used to live in Austria, where my grandfather had an estate near Graz. I lived there from the age of six until I was fifteen. Then I was sent to a military academy in Germany. I was very sad to leave Austria and I remember leaning out of the window to catch a last glimpse of my parents and my Uncle Oedipus as they stood on the platform waving to the train. I saw my father raise his hand and then lower it to place it on my mother’s shoulder as if to comfort her.’
    ‘Or possibly to reassert ownership,’ interjected Dr Hubertoffel.
    ‘My mother turned away and walked back towards our car and I put my head back in the carriage. I was only fifteen, you see, and I had never been away from home. Now I was on my way to the military academy and had no idea of what to expect. I had read
Young Törless
, of course, and I feared that this was what I was in for. So I sat in my seat and stared dumbly out of the window.
    ‘When I arrived at the school, I was shown to my place in the dormitory. There were forty other boys, all living in the same long room, all engaged in various initiation rituals, whipping one another with wet towels or exchanging blood-brotherhood vows. Several were cutting into one another’s hands with blades, in order to mingle blood.
    ‘I was at a loss. There seemed something strange about the dormitory. There were forty boys, but only twenty beds. We had to share, you see.
    ‘I turned to the boy with whom I had been detailed to share. He was sitting at the end of the bed, gazing glumly at his boots.
    ‘I asked him if he had a nurse at home, and he said that he had just left her. She was a girl called Hysteria, who came from a Bavarian farm, but who was a very good nurse. They had only one bed in the nursery, and he had shared with her. Now he had to share with me, and he was desolate.’
    Dr Hubertoffel was listening avidly. ‘This is extremely interesting material,’ he said, scribbling furiously. ‘I am fascinated by this. It is all very pathological.’
    Von Igelfeld closed his eyes. It was easier to make up stories with one’s eyes closed, he found.
    ‘I survived that first night, although the sobbing of my bed companion largely prevented me from getting any sleep. Then, the next morning, after we had all been forced to take a cold shower, which we shared, our lessons began. The school was very interested in the Franco-Prussian War and devoted many lessons to it. Apart from that, we were taught very little.’
    ‘And were the masters cruel?’ asked Dr Hubertoffel.
    ‘Immensely cruel,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘They used to take great pleasure in devising fresh tortures for the boys, and some of the boys simply could not stand it. Those were the ones who ran away. Sometimes they were returned, and punished all the more. Sometimes they got away and we never heard of them again. I longed to be one of them. But I did not have the courage to leave and, besides, one of the larger boys had cut the soles off my boots to affix to his. I could not have got very far with boots without soles. But there was another reason, too. I was protecting a boy who was being ruthlessly bullied. I had rescued him from his tormentors, but now he relied on me to look after him. If I deserted him, it would be like throwing him to the wolves.’
    ‘Tell me about this boy,’ said Dr Hubertoffel.
    ‘He was called Unterholzer,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Detlev Amadeus Unterholzer. At least, I think that was his name.’
    Von Igelfeld could see that what he had just said had had a marked effect on Dr Hubertoffel.
    ‘Unterholzer?’ asked the doctor. ‘You protected this . . . this Unterholzer?’
    ‘Yes,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘He was a very unhappy boy. He had been sent to the military academy by his parents, who hoped that the discipline of such a place would