It was all unspeakably divine for Greta von Ribbentrop, formerly of Buenos Aires and Luderitz, and now of Oranjezicht. She had found that in Africa people did not ask nasty pointed questions about the granddaughters of high-ranking Nazis, and she was free to enjoy her extensive collection of French and Russian art, in the family since 1943, in peace.
It was her first Met, and as they drew nearer she could no longer contain her excitement and began to belabour her chauffeur around the head with an ornamental riding crop given her as a christening present. Suddenly she gave a shrill cry, her nose pressed to the glass.
‘Gustav! Look! Blacks! Stealing horses!”
‘Those are their owners, ma’am,” said Gustav. ‘Observe, if you will, their tuxedos.”
‘I’m sure I’ve seen that one on Crimestop. He looks so familiar!”
‘He’s the deputy president, ma’am.”
‘It’s still so confusing,” sighed Greta as they swung through the gates of the Kenilworth racecourse. A fresh breeze was ripping in off the South Atlantic, and someone’s hat — a crimson replica of Westminster Abbey — went rolling away through the gathering crowd, breaking legs and hips before it smashed through a brick wall and was gone.
Her own hat, a scale model of the Cologne cathedral, had deflated during the ride and needed some attention with a bottle of compressed air, and while Gustav reinforced some of its flying buttresses with duct-tape and hair-spray, Greta took in the scene around her.
‘What I need is an Irishman or a Jew to tell me which horses to bet on,” she mused. ‘They know about that sort of thing.” Just then somebody walked past who looked ideal. She clutched his sleeve. ‘I say, you look just like Shylock. Are you a Jew?”
Gustav hastily disentangled himself from the hat and bowed.
‘Miss Greta von Ribbentrop, may I introduce you to Mr Trevor Manuel, the Minister of Finance?”
‘Finance, eh? So you are a Jew!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands with joy. The man excused himself graciously and sprinted for the cover of some distant parasols.
There was still no sign of her girlfriends, so she took a tour of the grounds. It was terribly exotic. There were students from the university all wearing hired suits, vomiting spectacularly behind the beer tent, and their dates, a miserable gaggle of blonde 15-year-olds who had stolen their mothers’ make-up in an effort to look 18. However, a layer of red dust and an hour’s worth of sweat had conspired to leave them looking like 62-year-old Neapolitan prostitutes.
Suddenly there was a thundering sound, and some people began to cheer. The public address bellowed.
‘And they’re off,” it said, ‘and it’s Flaming Goiter leading Armadillo Lust by a length, and it’s Glue on Legs closing fast on the outside but it’s Moonlight Apocalypse making his move on Armadillo Lust and Manchurian Chastity is fading fast, it’s Moonlight Apocalypse and Flaming Goiter, it’s, it’s — ”
There was a gasp and a thud.
‘And Moonlight Apocalypse is down! He’s fallen and it’s Glue on Legs by a nose!”
Greta’s phone rang. It was Adelheid Himmler and Heike Goering arriving. Adelheid was hysterical.
‘The blacks are stealing horses in the parking lot!” she yelled. ‘And Heike’s not getting out of the car because she says there’s real poop lying around that might get on her Manolo Blahniks.”
‘Come and find me,” said Greta, finding a sign that read ‘Retired horses this way”. ‘I’m at the retirement paddock. It’s sponsored by a dog-food company, you can’t miss it. Moonlight Apocalypse has just arrived. They’re measuring his haunches and there’s a sort of mincing machine standing in the corner.”
‘I can’t see you,” said Adelheid. ‘Is that you? Oh, no, that’s a hat-stand. Oh god, Heike’s fur sombrero just blew off.”
Greta craned to see whoat looked like a small grizzly bear flying north.
Gustav suddenly appeared at her side.
‘Your hat, ma’am. I’m afraid there is a beetle in the nave and the south bell tower has been punctured by a bee, but the rest is splendid.”
‘Oh Gustav!” she cried. ‘Thank God you’re here. I’m so tired. I’ve seen so many things. Take me home.”