'I hope they behave themselves,' Trudi replied.
‘Ya, I’m sure they will' he smirked. He led her onto the thin strip of sandy beach that was the exclusive preserve of the Carlton Hotel and its guests.
The restaurant area was set back, partly under cover but most of it on the open board-walk that ran along to the long wooden jetty.
'A beautiful day. The way it should always be,' said the expansive maître d' as he recognised the Trimmlers and came forward to greet them.
'Very good, very good', purred Trimmler.
'Your guests have arrived,' the maître d' informed them, holding his arm up to show them the way as he led them to the far table nearest the water. 'Did you visit the Casino last night?'
''We did.'
'A profitable evening, I hope.'
'Profitable enough,' Trimmler lied. He looked at Trudi and smiled. The baccarat table had, in fact, cheated him of over three thousand dollars the night before. It was not something he was prepared to share with her.
Their friends, a couple similar in age and appearance, waited for them. They were a West German couple, Marta and Grob Mitzer. He was an industrialist, the main shareholder in one of Europe's largest aerospace suppliers. They had all been friends since the last days of Hitler's War; Trimmler the young brilliant scientist whilst Mitzer had helped organise the work forces at the rocket centres of Peenemünde and Nordhausen. They had escaped to the allies together and had never broken their friendship. They had met every year since 1957 for this Christmas vacation on the Cote d'Azur.
With them sat a young man, in his early forties, a native of East Germany before reunification. Willi Kushmann was now one of the country's leading corporate lawyers. The three of them were staying at the Martinez, further down the Croisette.
The two men stood up as the Trimmlers reached their table, Mitzer taking Trudi's hand and kissing it.
They welcomed each other in German, the maître d' holding out a chair for her. When they had all sat down, the maître d' signalled over a waiter to take their order and left to lead another group to the table.
'Give us five minutes,' said Mitzer. 'We will do that.' Then, as the waiter started to lift the champagne out of the bucket he snapped, 'Leave us! We will do it!'.
Kushmann leant over and took the bottle from the waiter who, confused and apologetic, bowed and walked away.
'Bloody French poodles,' Mitzer swore in German as Kushmann poured two extra glasses of champagne. When he had finished, he put the bottle back in the bucket and sat down.
'Where's Gloria?' he asked.
'Probably still in bed,' replied Trudi. Gloria was their nineteen year old daughter, an unexpected mistake that had been added to their three other children.
'To the future,' said Trimmler, raising his glass, changing the subject from his daughter who had not returned to her hotel room until five in the morning. God knows what she got up to.
'To the new future,' added Kushmann.
The five of them held their drinks aloft and shared their toast.
'Did you see the latest pictures of the Reichstag in Berlin? Did you see how it's looking on the inside? They're recreating it like it was before the Fire in 1933.'
'Which pictures?' asked Gloria.
'In Frankfurt Allegmaine. This morning's edition. And they're going to rebuild the dome as it was.'
'Which dome?' Marta asked as she sipped her champagne.
'Don't you girls know anything?' Mitzer joked. 'The one on top of the Reichstag. It was destroyed in the fire by the Communists. When Hitler had it rebuilt, he left off the dome. Big bloody thing. Almost covered the whole roof.'
'Anyway, they're going to rebuild it as it was in 1933,' said Kushmann.
'But they're already using it. For government,' interrupted Gloria.
'No problem. They'll build it round them. That's how they do it these days. But what a great centre for the government, eh? I tell you, Germany is becoming great once again. And to have such a grand building as its Parliament…,' he held up his glass. ' …to the new Reichstag and to our new Germany. It's been a long time waiting, but our time is finally near.'
They all toasted with Kushmann, the tinkle of their glasses sharp in its resonance across the wooden board-walk.
'And to the Heidi. For what it has become.' said Mitzer. The Heidi was a large expanse of land that Mitzer had started to develop in Dresden.
'A symbol to our future,' replied Kushmann. 'It is exhilarating to see so many members of the Stasi coming forward to join us there.' They were all Germans; there was no need to explain that the Stasi was the name commonly used to describe the previous German Democratic Republic's Ministry of State Security. 'Lost souls. Made to feel guilty about what they were trained to do.' He held up his glass. 'To them, and to other lost souls in Germany.'
'And one more toast,' jumped in Mitzer, when they had drunk. 'To one Germany and the end of the bad jokes about the GDR.'
They all laughed and joined in with him, once more clashing their glasses.
'But I have to tell you one. Just one,' Mitzer went on, ignoring the howl of good humoured protests that engulfed him. 'How do you double the value of a Travant motor car?'
'How? ' shouted Kushmann.
'I've already heard this,' said Marta, winking at Trudi.'
'Tell us how,' squealed Trudi.
'By filling the tank full of petrol,' finished Mitzer.
They all joined in the laughter, except for Trimmler, who brought his glass down sharply on the table, the loud dull sound surprising the others.
'You didn't like my small joke, Heinrich?' asked a smiling Mitzer.
'When is it to happen?' asked Trimmler 'When?'.
Kushmann leant forward confidentially. 'Be patient. Soon.'
Further along the thin strip of beach, eastwards towards the Martinez Hotel, an ebony black Senegalese peddler shuffled through the sand. As he walked towards the Carlton jetty, he saw the two men he was interested in still swimming at the end of the pier.
The Senegalese work the beaches with their wares, straw and leather hats, cheap sunglasses, wraps, thongs, leatherware. It is tourist trade that produces a living for these once proud warriors. Although a nuisance for most visitors, the peddlers, in their brightly coloured native dress, are part of the culture that is Cannes beach.
But that is in the high season. Most of them return to their homes in Africa during the winter months.
The peddler who worked his way along the beach in December was out of place, a lone black figure bedecked with his wares in an empty salesroom. His dress was also unusual, instead of the usual robe, he wore a green combat jacket over black jeans. The sunglasses he wore were as black as his skin, pock marked and scaly in its texture. His head was covered by a tartan beret. A man easily noticed. As he progressed towards the Carlton, he passed two young women sitting on a shared deckchair near the water's edge.
One of the women, a plump blonde, called to him, waved him over.
He paused, reluctant in his attitude, then crossed over to them.
'Show us what you've got,' the woman said in French.
He smiled, then took a six inch high rubber toy gorilla out of his pocket and held it towards the women.
They giggled, not knowing what to expect.
He grinned and squeezed the gaudy toy. A long rubber penis, bright red in colour with a black topped head, popped out of the gorilla. The toy's erection pointed straight at the women, who burst into surprised and embarrassed laughter. The peddler's grin grew bigger.
'That's not very big,' the second woman, a petite brunette, teased him. 'I'm used to bigger.'
He pushed the gorilla down and pressed the erection against her left breast. She jumped backwards and fell off the deckchair. Before the other woman could react, he rubbed the plastic gorilla on the inside of her leg, then stroked her thigh with his large coarse hand.