by Michael Dean
The streets of the Ponte Colombo were packed, but there were plenty of cabs. Walther was about to tell the driver to go to the old town but changed his mind at the last moment. He felt a rush of sentiment bring colour to his cheeks. Hartmut spotted it, tilting his head like a curious dog, his lips waving around in a jaunty smile.
Walther ordered the cab to drive to the city gate, where he paid the fellow off with a hefty tip. The cabby was grateful.
‘Jews always tip well,’ Hartmut informed him, in German, as he clambered out.
‘This is what I wanted to show you,’ Walther said, waving at the city gate. Hartmut waited passively, ready to be filled with knowledge.
‘It was built in 1160. Can you understand the inscription?’
‘You know bloody well I can’t.’
‘Well, I thought you might be able to…You know, from Latin at school.’
‘You’re boring me already. That’s a record even for you. Usually takes at least half an hour.’
‘Alright! Don’t get worked up. Just listen.’
Walther was afraid he might simply wander off. He was quite capable of that if he became restless. If he did, he might pick someone up and take them home. That would be the end of their tryst. Walther licked his dry lips in fear, desperate to keep Bosie’s attention.
‘The inscription on the gate says “If you bring peace, you may pass through this gate; if you bring war, you will go away sad and beaten.” I shall pass through this gate now, with you. And I shall bring peace. Peace, Hartmut. There will never be a war in Europe again.’
Walther expected Hartmut Plaas to laugh at him, call him a pompous homo as he usually did. But he did no such thing. As Walther’s heart soared, he touched him lightly on the sleeve, smiling just a little.
‘Can you really do that?’ Plaas’s eyes were open wide. ‘Can you really bring peace to Germany?’
‘Yes!’
‘Then God bless you, Walther.’
Tears came to Walther’s eyes. They walked through the gate together, side by side.
When Rathenau returned to the Eden Park, just before midnight, Wirth was waiting for him. Sir Robert Horne had wanted to know if the Germans had been informed of the Russian disarmament proposal. They had not. Wirth feared bilateral talks between Russia and Britain on this vital subject, with Germany excluded.
While they were talking, in Rathenau’s room, a sailor-messenger, brought a hand-written note from Lloyd George. He wanted to see Rathenau that night at the Eden Park, no matter how late. For a moment Wirth and Rathenau stared at each other, alarmed.
Then Wirth himself suggested it would be better if Rathenau saw Lloyd George alone.
‘It’s you he wants, Walther. It’s you he trusts.’
Wirth went back to the bottle of vodka in his room. Rathenau scribbled an acceptance to Lloyd George, sending it by the waiting sailor.
Rathenau settled down to wait for Lloyd George. He did not have long to wait. Lloyd George’s arrival from his luxurious villa was rather comically preceded by two Scotland Yard detectives who searched Rathenau’s room before passing it safe for the Prime Minister to enter. Rathenau still regarded such safety precautions as overdone.
Lloyd George collapsed into one of the capacious armchairs the Eden Park had provided and sang the first two stanzas of Onward Christian Soldiers. He was clearly rolling drunk
At the end of the recital, he checked the Eden Park’s drinks supply for ‘a decent malt’. Finding none, he opened the door and sent one of his bodyguards, waiting outside, downstairs for a bottle of whisky and two glasses. Until this arrived, the Prime Minister sprawled back in the armchair, humming hymns to himself. Rathenau thought it best to remain silent.
Eventually, the Scotland Yard detective completed his mission and the largest whiskies Walther had ever seen were poured. Rathenau waited tensely for Lloyd George to explain Britain’s position on Germany’s inclusion in any talks with Russia. But Lloyd George remained silent until he had downed three whiskies – getting on for half a bottle.
Then he said. ‘There’s no reasoning with her.’
‘Who?’
‘Megan. Where that scoundrel Horne is concerned. No reasoning with her.’
‘Is Megan here?’
‘Oh yes! She insisted on coming. Because he’s around.’
To Rathenau’s alarm, Lloyd George began to cry. His shoulders heaved, thin old-man’s tears curved round his moustache on either side. ‘I still think of her as my little
girl, you know? My bay-bee.’
‘Yes, I…’
‘What am I going to do, Walther? Eh? He’s shafting her, the bastard. The scoundrel. Horne by name and Horne by nature, eh?’
‘Wie bitte? I don’t quite follow…’
Lloyd George laughed a wheezing harsh laugh. ‘It’s God’s punishment on me for all the women I’ve had.’
‘Oh no, surely…’
‘I feel he’s got me by the testicles. The testicles, Walther. You know?’
‘I’m familiar with them, yes.’
‘And he knows it. The smooth sod. Bloody lounge-lizard. Do you think I should sack him?’
‘Er…On balance…No.’
‘Neither do I. You’re a good friend, Walther. Know that? You’re a good chap. You’re my friend, you are. My friend!’
Walther thought Lloyd George was about to rise and embrace him, but instead he passed out. Walther called for the two Scotland Yard bodyguards, who did not seem especially surprised, having apparently seen all this before.
Chapter Twenty-three
Over the next few days, negotiations continued over long late-starting, drink-fuelled breakfasts at the hotels or villas of the delegates. The negotiations were not going Germany’s way. Following clever French manipulation of the Russians – Poincaré from afar via the now calm teddy-bear Barthou – the emphasis had shifted from the disarmament which Rathenau had tried to pursue with the Russians.
The French had shifted the point of focus to Article 116 of the Treaty of Versailles – the war reparations clause.
Russia had been excluded from Versailles. Manipulated by the French, Chicherin was now demanding war reparations. Prompted by Barthou, he was explicitly insisting that no right of war reparations be granted to Germany. So Germany could not be and was not party to the bilateral Anglo-Russian talks at Lloyd George’s villa.
The success Rathenau assumed at Genoa looked about to be wrested from him. Germany wanted a move away from Versailles, not back to it. And the French were succeeding in detaching Russia from Germany as an ally, possibly, disastrously, even taking Britain away, too.
Raymond Poincaré knew all that perfectly well. Word reached Rathenau from the Foreign Office in Berlin that he was making a virulently anti-German speech every Sunday, as he unveiled a succession of new war memorials across France. He had also, as the Foreign Office had warned, instigated contact with Hugo Stinnes.
So it was vital for Rathenau that these private talks between Chicherin and Lloyd George fail, but for now all he could do was watch, wait and hope. But the hope had a real basis, namely that the boost to world trade represented by a Russo-German alliance – the boost Rathenau and Lloyd George had discussed at the secret meeting in London last December – was more important to the British than the ponderous and expensive procedure of doling out compensation to Russia.
This seemed highly likely and logical to Rathenau, mid-conference. But with perfidious Albion who could tell?
Meanwhile, the leisurely conference timetable not only permitted play alongside work, it virtually demanded it. Good Friday had been declared a day free from negotiation.
The day dawned fine. Many of the delegates took automobile trips along the coast to the beach at Nervi, or visited the quaint fishing village of Portofino, or motored as far as Rapallo – about an hour away by car, though visible across the bay from the port of Genoa on a clear day.
Walther had by then hired an automobile for the week – a Type 29 B
ugatti. He and Hartmut were going to Portofino, and not just for the day, at least not in Hartmut’s case. Hartmut was showing his usual signs of restlessness, peaking to agitation. Walther was afraid he may at any minute disappear with an Italian sailor, a real one or a pretty boy dressed up as one. He was to be relocated out of temptation’s way, to Portofino.
Walther had had free use of the Villa von Mumm, in Portofino, for twenty years. The owner of the villa, Walther’s friend Count Alphons von Mumm, was away at the moment, back in Tokyo where he had once been German ambassador. Perfect!
Walther had found an excellent art materials shop on the Via Cadorna. He loaded the art materials he had bought into the Bugatti – canvases, stretchers, ground, oil paint, turpentine, even a maul stick. He was excited about painting again – painting properly, not just the sketches of delegates.
And he was thrilled to the depths of his being at the prospect of painting Bosie. Up to now there had just been a couple of sketches from life, which Bosie had not enjoyed, and many failed attempts to draw the beloved in his absence.
Walther drove rapidly down to the port, to where Bosie was staying on the Via di Francia. To his immense relief, Hartmut was actually there, at the appointed time. Walther even laughed at his Italian sailor’s shirt and bell-bottoms, which could have been acquired only from an Italian sailor.
Then he drove them to Portofino, which is on an isthmus between Genoa and Rapallo. Bosie slept most of the way, snoring softly. Walther was happy enough at that. It gave him the chance to glance adoringly at the beloved in a state of nature, as Walther saw it, a state of innocence.
The key had been left for him, as ever, in the left-most of the massive ceramic plant pots standing sentry duty at the foot of the portico. Walther went back to the car to wake Bosie up, pulling him by the arm and half leading half hauling him into the villa. He plonked him down in an armchair, before going back to the car for the luggage.
Pleased that Bosie was still asleep, he set up his art materials immediately, in a newly-built conservatory overlooking the grounds at the back of the villa. He unpacked for both of them, then foraged for food in the huge marbled kitchen.
Just as Walther was about to serve plates of ham, salami, cheese, bread and butter, Bosie wandered into the kitchen.
‘Let’s eat in here,’ he said. ‘It’s cool in here. I’m starving.’
They ate in companionable silence, then Walther said ‘I’d like to begin painting you now. The nude study. You know?’
There was something about the way Bosie equivocated, something about the tilt of his head and the sly, half-shut, feline cast to his eyes. Walther lifted him out of his chair and carried him off to the nearest bedroom.
Chapter Twenty-four
Rathenau’s messages to Lloyd George were either fobbed off or going unanswered; attempts to make an appointment received no reply at first, later even being returned via the same blank-faced sailor. When Rathenau tried to contact Chicherin, much the same occurred.
Rathenau was becoming desperate, once again not sleeping. A total defeat at the gates of victory was unthinkable. Or was it?
Wirth was little help. With wine on tap in a way he had not experienced since his childhood, the innkeeper’s son was succumbing to near delirious alcoholism day-by-day, almost hour-by-hour.
In what he regarded as a last throw of the dice, Rathenau sent the German delegation’s Russia specialist, Maltzan, personally, to the Villa d’Albertis. This was Lloyd George’s residence for the duration of the conference, from where he dominated events. Maltzan was sent without an appointment – which smacked of desperation if not despair - but with instructions to stay there until he learned something.
Adolf Georg Otto Freiherr von Maltzan zu Wartenberg und Penzlin, known to his friends, especially those pushed for time, as Ago, was the greyest of eminence grises. Nobody was better suited than Ago von Maltzan to the task of hanging around.
He was back in twenty minutes.
He handed over a note saying Horne was coming to the garden of the Eden Park. He was coming now. Rathenau rushed down to the hotel’s elegant gardens and paced anxiously around among the palm trees, trying to minimise his massive strides so as not to appear ridiculous.
There were wooden benches in the garden. There were even writing desks, set out for the use of lower officials, so diffuse was the business of the conference. There were pergolas of glass and white steel, there was a mock-classic edifice of the sort built to house hermits in the eighteenth century and there were laid-out lawns and an ornamental pond.
More to the point, for Rathenau’s current predicament, there were high rhododendron bushes. Even Rathenau could not see over them. Suppose he missed Horne? Suppose Horne thought he, Rathenau, had snubbed him? My God, was Germany’s future for generations to be decided by shrubbery?
And then Horne appeared. There he was, hat in hand, pale grey suit, cravat, face shiny but cool in the Italian sun.
‘What ho, Walther.’ Just as if they had met by chance. Which is how it would appear to anyone watching, though Horne looked round carefully enough to make sure nobody was.
‘Hello Robert.’ Rathenau sounded tense, even to himself.
‘Can’t say long,’ Horne drawled. His Scottish accent was a little difficult for Rathenau. ‘I’m meeting Megan in half an hour.’ He smiled. This was outrageous! ‘We might push off for a while. Megan and me. I use a little hotel in Nervi. She thinks it’s forever. You know what women are like.’
‘No,’ said Rathenau, truthfully enough. ‘I don’t.’
Horne smiled. ‘Listen. The French have been bloody clever. As usual. They’ve egged the Russians on. David has no real grounds to turn down a deal.’
‘But in London…’ Rathenau was shouting.
‘Precisely. And don’t worry about a thing. All that is still what we really want. But we can’t enable a deal between you and the Russians. Certainly not from the position Poincaré and Barthou have manoeuvred us into.’
‘So you want me…’
Horne reached up and put a hand on Rathenau’s shoulder. ‘Chicherin will be at his hotel at Rappallo this afternoon. He’ll be expecting you. Get it done, Walther, that’s my advice. A bilateral deal, you and the Russians.’
‘You mean….?’
‘That’s right. Outside the framework of this conference altogether. Don’t bring it back here.’ Rathenau whistled softly, eyes wide at the audacity of it. Horne continued, unperturbed. ‘Make them feel they’ve got more than they could get from us. Seal it. Fast. David says he’ll have to pretend to be angry, to appease the French, but you always knew that.’
Relief was coursing through Rathenau. Relief and excitement. ‘Yes, of course! Thank you, Robert.’
‘Don’t mention it. Right, I’ve pleased you. Now, let’s see if I can please Lady Megan.’
Rathenau laughed. He walked off, back to the hotel to tell Maltzan, Wirth and the rest of the German delegation what had happened. On the way, he was stopped by a sailor with a note.
It was from Hartmut Plaas. Hartmut said he had to see Rathenau now. Instantly. It was a matter of life and death. He was about to kill himself.
Rathenau jumped in his car and drove hell for leather for Portofino.
As he pulled up to the villa, in a screech of gravel, he could see that one of the front windows was broken. There was blood on one of the columns of the portico.
Walther realised he had not brought a key. He could not remember where it was; probably Hartmut had got it. But the door opened when he pushed at it. He heard a murmur of drunken – male – voices, with some singing in Italian coming from upstairs.
The first figure who presented himself to Walther’s gaze was young, male and very naked.
‘Hartmut!’ Walther yelled his name.
The naked man in front of him said ‘He’s upstairs,’ in Italian. He swigged wine from a bottle.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Walther said, also in Italian. ‘You a sailor?’ The quest
ion sounded ridiculous to him.
The man laughed. ‘No, I’m a fisherman. From here in Portofino’
‘Get out. Now. Get dressed and get out. This villa is the property of a friend of mine.’
The fisherman laughed. ‘Yes, we all know Alphons. You like it the same way as him?’
Walther spoke quietly but with great authority. ‘Who else is here?’
‘My brother.’
‘Your names?’
Walther’s air of authority was giving the fisherman pause.
‘OK, OK. We’re going.’
Hartmut appeared while the two naked brothers were dressing. He looked sulky, almost sheepish. Walther felt relieved, though he did not show it. He could tell by the look on Hartmut’s face that he would not be going with them. The power, Walther felt, was with him.
He ignored Hartmut, for now at least, striding through the downstairs rooms of the villa, assessing the damage, which was considerable. A lot of the furniture was stained with wine, ornaments and crockery were smashed. They had clearly stood, or perhaps danced, on some of the inlaid tables.
He heard the door slam as the two fishermen left. Hartmut had disappeared. Without calling up to him, Rathenau ran up the curving staircase. Hartmut was in the room he had taken as his bedroom. He was standing facing Walther as he came in.
He had a small calibre Browning pistol in his hand, which he pointed at Walther’s chest.
They were both breathing heavily. Other than that there was complete silence. Out of the window, tall-masted fishing boats were visible in the bay.
‘Go on, do it,’ Walther said. ‘Get it over with.’
‘Don’t you have things to do?’ Hartmut spoke seriously. He was not high, Rathenau thought, or drunk, at least not very drunk. ‘Someone called David phoned. He said it was important.’
‘What did he want?’
‘I don’t know. He spoke English.’
Rathenau himself had told Lloyd George and Horne about the villa as far back as the London meeting. So a telephone call to the villa was no surprise on that count. But Lloyd George had phoned himself, not got Kerr or Horne to do it. That was a surprise. It must be important.
