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‘My tribunal is today.’
    Lysander walked round him. The uniform was black with heavy gold frogging, like writhing snakes, on the plastron front. A furred dolman jacket hung from one shoulder. His shako had a red plume matching the red facings on the jacket collar and the stripes down the side of his trousers.
    ‘Dragoons?’ Lysander guessed.
    ‘Hussar. Have you got anything to drink, Lysander? Something strong? I must confess to having some nervousness.’
    ‘I’ve got some Scotch whisky, if you like.’
    ‘ Perfekt .’
    Wolfram came into his room and sat down, his sabre clinking. Lysander poured him some whisky into a tooth glass that he knocked back with one gulp and held out at once for a refill.
    ‘Very good whisky – I think.’
    ‘You don’t want to have whisky on your breath at the tribunal.’
    ‘I’ll smoke a cigar before I go in.’
    Lysander sat down, looking at this Ruritanian ideal of a dashing cavalry officer. When he puts his shako on, Lysander reckoned, he’ll be seven feet tall.
    ‘What’s the tribunal about?’ he asked. He felt he could reasonably try to ascertain what was the cause of Wolfram’s limbo in Pension Kriwanek, now judgement day had arrived.
    ‘A question of missing funds in the officers’ mess,’ Wolfram said, equably. He explained: the Colonel of the regiment was retiring and officers had contributed to a fund to buy him a splendid present. Donations were made anonymously, money being slipped into the slot of a locked cashbox set on a dresser in the mess dining room. When the box was finally opened they found only enough money to buy the colonel ‘a medium-sized box of Trabuco cigars, or a couple of bottles of Hungarian champagne,’ Wolfram said. ‘Clearly we either gave very little money to our beloved Colonel or someone had been pilfering.’
    ‘Who had the key to the box?’
    ‘Whoever was on the rota to be supervisory officer of the mess each week. The box was there for three months. Three months equals twelve weeks, which equals twelve suspects. Any one of whom had plenty of time to make a copy of the key and take the money. I was one of those twelve supervisory officers.’
    ‘But why do they suspect you?’ Lysander felt a stir of outrage on Wolfram’s behalf.
    ‘Because I’m a Slovene in a German regiment. German-speaking Austrians, I mean. There’s a couple of Czechs but the German officers will always suspect the Slovene – so I spent six months here while they decided what to do with me.’
    ‘But that’s ridiculous. Just because you’re a Slovene?’
    Wolfram smiled at him, tiredly.
    ‘How many countries are there in our great empire?’
    ‘Austria, Hungary and . . .’ Lysander thought. ‘And Croatia –’
    ‘You haven’t even started. Carnolia, Moravia, Galicia, Bosnia, Dalmatia – it’s a vegetable soup, a great big stinking salad. Not to mention the Italians or the Ukrainians. I’ll take one more whisky.’
    Lysander poured it for him.
    ‘You have Austria.’ Wolfram moved the bottle and put down the glass beside it. ‘You have Hungary. The rest of us are like the harem for these two powerful Sultans. They take us when they want, violate us when they feel the need. So – who stole the Colonel’s money? Ah, must be the wily Slovene.’
    There was a knock on the door and Traudl looked in, blushing.
    ‘Lieutenant Rozman, sir, your Fiaker is here.’
    Wolfram stood, did up the buttons on his collar, pulled on his gloves, grabbed his sabre.
    ‘Good luck,’ Lysander said and they shook hands. ‘You’re an innocent man, you’ve nothing to fear.’
    Wolfram smiled, shrugged. ‘No human being is entirely innocent . . .’
    ‘True, I suppose. But you know what I mean.’
    ‘I’ll be fine,’ Wolfram said. ‘The wily Slovene has a few surprises up his sleeve.’ He gave a little bow, clicked his heels – his spurs rattled, dryly – and he left.
    Lysander returned to his desk and opened Autobiographical Investigations , feeling