Hornet Flight by Ken Follett Page B

Duchwitz family were wealthy—Tik’s father and uncle were bankers—but he was not prepared for this. He wondered anxiously if he would know the right ways to behave. Nothing about life at the parsonage had prepared him for a place such as this.
    It was late on Saturday afternoon when the carriage dropped them at the cathedral-like front entrance. Harald walked in, carrying his small suitcase. The marbled hall was crammed with antique furniture, decorated vases, small statues, and large oil paintings. Harald’s family were inclined to take literally the Second Commandment, which forbade the making of a likeness of anything in heaven or on earth, so there were no pictures in the parsonage (though Harald knew that he and Arne had been secretly photographed as babies, for he had found the pictures hidden in his mother’s stocking drawer). The wealth of art in the Duchwitz home made him mildly uncomfortable.
    Tik led him up a grand staircase into a bedroom. “This is my room,” he said. There were no old masters or Chinese vases here, just the kind of stuff an eighteen-year-old collected: a football, a picture of Marlene Dietrich looking sultry, a clarinet, and a framed advertisement for a Lancia Aprilla sports car designed by Pininfarina.
    Harald picked up a framed photo. It showed Tik about four years ago with a girl about the same age. “Who’s the girlfriend?”
    â€œMy twin sister, Karen.”
    â€œOh.” Harald knew, vaguely, that Tik had a twin. She was taller than Tik in the picture. It was a black-and-white photo, but she seemed to have lighter coloring. “Obviously not an identical twin, she’s too good-looking.”
    â€œIdentical twins have to be the same sex, idiot.”
    â€œWhere does she go to school?”
    â€œThe Danish Royal Ballet.”
    â€œI didn’t know they ran a school.”
    â€œIf you want to be in the corps you have to go to the school. Some girls start at the age of five. They do all the usual lessons, and dancing as well.”
    â€œDoes she like it?”
    Tik shrugged. “It’s hard work, she says.” He opened a door and went along a short corridor to a bathroom and a second, smaller bedroom. Harald followed him. “You’ll be in here, if it’s all right,” Tik said. “We’ll share the bathroom.”
    â€œGreat,” said Harald, dropping his case on the bed.
    â€œYou could have a grander room, but you’d be miles away.”
    â€œThis is better.”
    â€œCome and say hello to my mother.”
    Harald followed Tik along the main first-floor corridor. Tik tapped on a door, opened it a little, and said, “Are you receiving gentlemen callers, Mother?”
    A voice replied, “Come in, Josef.”
    Harald followed Tik into Mrs. Duchwitz’s boudoir, a pretty room with framed photographs on every level surface. Tik’s mother looked like him. She was very short, though dumpy where Tik was slim, and she had the same dark eyes. She was about forty, but her black hair was already touched with gray.
    Tik presented Harald, who shook her hand with a little bow. Mrs. Duchwitz made them sit down and asked them about school. She was amiable and easy to talk to, and Harald began to feel less apprehensive about the weekend.
    After a while she said, “Go along and get ready for dinner, now.” The boys returned to Tik’s room. Harald said anxiously, “You don’t wear anything special for dinner, do you?”
    â€œYour blazer and tie are fine.”
    It was all Harald had. The school blazer, trousers, overcoat, and cap, plus sports kit, were a major expense for the Olufsen family, and they had to be replaced constantly as he grew a couple of inches every year. He hadno other clothes, apart from sweaters for the winter and shorts for the summer. “What are you going to wear?” he asked Tik.
    â€œA black jacket and gray flannels.”
    Harald was