Self's punishment by Bernhard Schlink

in my swimming bag. I’d inherited them from my father, a regular officer who lost the First World War with them. I bought an entrance ticket, pulled the Bermudas on and my stomach in, and stepped into the sunshine.
    I found a space from which I could view the other pool. The lawn was full of families, groups, couples, and singles, and some of the moms too had dared to bare their breasts.
    When I extracted my binoculars from my bag I encountered the first, reproachful eyes. I pointed them at the trees, at the few seagulls there were, and at a plastic duck on the lake. If only I’d taken my ornithology guide, I thought, I could use it to inspire their confidence. Briefly I got the other pool in my sights; so far as distance was concerned I could have easily tailed the two of them. But I wasn’t allowed to.
    ‘Shame on you!’ said a family father whose paunch hung over his bathing trunks, and his breasts over his paunch. He and his wife were the last thing I’d want to look at, with or without binoculars. ‘Stop it right now, you peeping Tom, you, or I’ll smash them.’
    It was absurd. The men around me didn’t know which way to look, whether to see everything or nothing, and I don’t think it’s too old-fashioned to believe the women knew exactly what they were doing. And there I was, not interested in the whole business at all – not that it couldn’t have interested me, but at the moment it really didn’t, now I only had my job on my mind. And now of all times I was suspected of lecherousness, accused, convicted, and pronounced guilty.
    Such people can only be dealt with using their own weapons. ‘Shame on you,’ I said. ‘With your figure you really ought to wear a top,’ and tucked my binoculars into the bag. I also stood up and topped him by a full head. He contented himself by twitching his mouth disapprovingly.
    I jumped into the water and swam over to the other pool. I didn’t even have to get out; Frau Buchendorff and Mischkey had lain down near the water in the baking sun. Mischkey was just cracking open a bottle of red wine so I figured I had at least an hour. I swam back. My adversary had pulled on a Hawaiian shirt, was solving crosswords with his wife, and left me in peace. I fetched a bockwurst with fries and lots of mustard and read my newspaper.
    An hour later I was waiting back at the car in front of the other pool. But it wasn’t until six p.m. that the pair of them came through the turn-stile. Mischkey’s thin legs were red, Frau Buchdorff had her shoulder-length hair loose and her tan was emphasized by her blue silk dress. Then they drove back to her place in Rathenaustrasse. When they came out again, she had on a boldly checked pair of Capri pants and a knitted leather sweater, and he was in a pale linen suit. They walked the few steps to the Steigenberger Hotel in the Augusta-Anlage. I skulked around in the hotel lobby until I saw them leave the bar with their glasses and make their way to the restaurant. Now I headed for the bar and ordered an Aviateur. The barman looked puzzled, I explained the mixture to him, and he nodded approvingly. We got talking.
    ‘We’re pretty damn lucky,’ he said. ‘There was a couple in here just now, wanted to eat in the restaurant. A card slipped out of the man’s wallet and landed on the bar. He tucked it away again immediately but I’d seen what was on it:
Inspecteur
de bonne table
with that little Michelin man. He was one of those people, you know, who do those guides. Our restaurant is good, but still, I alerted the maître d’ right away, and now the two of them will get service and a meal they’ll never forget.’
    ‘And you’ll get your star at last, or at least three sets of crossed knives and forks.’
    ‘Let’s hope so.’
    Inspecteur de bonne table
– well, damn. I don’t think there are identity cards of that sort. I was simultaneously fascinated by Mischkey’s imagination, and uncomfortable with this little con game. Also