by David Lodge
Conversation flagged while Kath was dancing with Vince. Greg became guarded and taciturn, as if he had no intention of wasting his witticisms on Timothy alone. When Timothy asked him about his work, he replied briefly that he was in the Real Estate Department, and declined to elaborate. When Timothy enquired about Vince’s work he replied, almost rudely, that he had better ask Vince himself. Eventually they fell silent, and watched the other two figures swaying to the music, moving in and out of the shadows and patches of light on the terrace. Timothy noticed with interest that Kath danced cheek-to-cheek with Vince; but looking through the open windows he could see that the couples on the dance floor, even quite elderly ones, danced in the same fashion. And when it was Greg’s turn, his face, too, was pressed to Kath’s.
– You should take up Kate’s offer to teach you to dance, Timothy, said Vince. She has a natural sense of rhythm.
– Does she? We always used to think she was rather heavy-footed at home. That’s what Mum used to say.
– No, she’s a great dancer. A great girl in many ways, your sister.
– She’s changed a lot, Timothy confided, since she came out here.
– For the better, I trust?
– Oh, yes. Heidelberg seems a smashing place, what I’ve seen of it. Do you like living here?
– I guess so. It gets a little claustrophobic at times. But it’s conveniently located. Yes, I like it fine.
Vince was sitting with his back to the lighted windows of the restaurant, and his face was a dark, inscrutable mask except when he drew on the cigar he was smoking. Then a faint red glow momentarily illuminated his handsome features, and tinged his blond moustache with fire.
– What’s Real Estate? Timothy asked him. Greg said that was his work.
– Oh, property. The Army has to buy up land for its building programmes, requisition accommodation, pay compensation – it’s quite a big operation. Greg’s a genius at it.
– Why do they call it Real Estate? Is there such a thing as Unreal Estate?
Vince chuckled in the darkness.
– Say, that’s good. Maybe that’s what I should go in for. Vincent Vernon, Unreal Estate Agent. Castles in the air, ivory towers . . . heavenly mansions. Unusual commission. Loans arranged.
– Do you have an interesting job? Timothy asked.
– Yeah.
There was a long silence, and Timothy had just decided that Vince was going to be as uncommunicative as Greg, when he added:
– Officially I’m a liaison official with the German government. Off the record, I’m concerned with de-nazification in this area. D’you know what that means?
– Getting rid of Nazis, I s’pose. You put them in prison, or something?
– The really criminal ones are tried and sent to prison, but there aren’t many of those around now. Mostly my job is checking on government personnel to see that they have a clean political record, and supervising re-education programmes in schools and colleges. Officially all that’s the responsibility of the Federal government now, but we like to keep a friendly eye on things. Hence my somewhat ambiguous job.
– Is it dangerous?
Vince laughed.
– Not a bit.
The music shifted into a Latin-American rhythm. Kath and Greg began to jig up and down energetically, laughing and calling encouragement to each other.
– It was difficult finding German administrators with clean records to run the country after the war. Mostly they were Communists who’d managed to survive somehow. Now, of course, the Communists are even less acceptable to Uncle Sam than the ex-Nazis.
– Weren’t there any other Germans against Hitler?
– Yeah, but most of them were liquidated after the July Plot.
– What was that? Our history syllabus stops at 1914, he added apologetically.
– Well, there were several attempts to assassinate Hitler – by Germans, I mean, but the one that came nearest to success was in July 1944. A group of German officers tried to kill Hitler by blowing him up at one of his conferences. A guy called Stauffenberg planted the bomb in a briefcase, but after he left the room somebody moved the bag with the bomb in it, quite accidentally, and Hitler survived, just badly shaken.
– Gosh! said Timothy, fascinated.
– Of course, Hitler was pretty mad. Ordered a purge of everyone suspected of disloyalty. They reckon five thousand people were arrested and executed. Just about the five thousand people best qualified to run the country after the war. Stauffenberg was court-martialled and shot immediately after the assassination attempt. Luckily for him.
– Why?
– The other ringleaders were hanged from meathooks with piano wire. Not the quickest of deaths. Hitler had a film made of it for private viewing in his bunker. They say even Goebbels had to cover his eyes to stop himself from throwing up.
Vince drew on his cigar and the red glow came and went on his handsome, impassive features.
– Whew! Timothy whispered.
Kath and Greg came hilariously back to the table.
– Gee, I bet that samba has taken an inch off my waistline, said Greg, collapsing into a chair. And a year off my life.
– You two seemed to be very deep in conversation, Kath remarked.
– I’ve been giving Timothy a little history lesson. About the July plot.
– Oh, Vince, really!
– It was jolly interesting, said Timothy.
– Well, you’ve discovered his hobby-horse pretty quickly, Timothy, said Kath, putting a cigarette between her lips. He’s always reading about Hitler and the Nazis.
– It’s my job, honey, said Vince, leaning across the table and snapping his Ronson.
– Well, I know, but you might have picked a lighter topic of conversation for Timothy’s first evening. Who wants to think about all those horrible things on a night like this? She threw back her head and blew smoke towards the stars.
They had come to the restaurant in Greg’s enormous black Buick. Vince had a car, too, but it was, he said, a little cramped for four.
– It’s a pre-war Mercedes, a white one, said Kath. Just wait till you see it, Timothy.
The Buick was wide enough to take them all on the front seat. It purred down the twisting mountain road, tyres squealing softly on the bends, headlights tunnelling through the woods. One of the corners was so sharp, and the car so long, that Greg had to stop, reverse, and take it again. He pushed a button on the dashboard, and throbbing, squealing jazz filled the car.
– Stan Kenton! he said. Peanut Vendor. This really sends me. He took a pencil from his pocket and tapped on the rim of the steering wheel to the rhythm.
– Just watch the road, maestro, said Vince.
– Yes, be careful, Greg, Kath agreed.
– Aw, this automobile drives itself. Power brakes, power steering, automatic transmission . . .
– Why don’t you get an automatic pilot? said Vince. Then you could just sit here and play the radio.
– It’ll come, said Greg. You can’t stop progress.
He called at Fichte Haus to collect Timothy’s bag, then drove them the short distance to Dolores’ hostel.
– Well, Timothy, he said, as they got out of the car. I’ll come over here one night and we’ll organize a pantie-raid. You have pantieraids in England?
– Certainly not, said Kath. English boys wouldn’t dream of it. And Utility knickers wouldn’t be worth stealing, believe me.
Vince offered to take Timothy’s bag into the hostel, but Kath thought they would be less conspicuous on their own.
– I like your friends, said Timothy, as the Buick surged away, leaving them standing on the pavement with the bag between them.
– They’re fun, aren’t they? What I like about them is that they really make an effort to enjoy life. There’s never a dull moment.
– I can see that.
– Now, let’s see what Dolores’ room is like. Hold yourself upright and try to look as if you’re my boyf
riend. I’ll take one handle and you take the other.
The hostel was a larger, more impersonal place than Fichte Haus, with stone floors and long, rather bleak corridors. Kath said she thought it had been converted from a military barracks. As they waited for the lift, three women passed them without a second glance.
– You’re doing fine, Timothy, Kath whispered.
– Are men allowed in here, then?
– Oh, yes. There’s probably some rule about being out by midnight, but I don’t suppose anyone bothers all that much.
The lift hummed and creaked as it rose to the second floor.
– Who lives here?
– Civilian secretaries, nurses maybe . . .
– Americans?
– Mostly, but there are all sorts of nationalities working for the Americans. British, Canadians, Australians, French, Dutch . . . Like me, they started working for the Americans in the war, or just after, and hung on to a good thing. Here we are.
Dolores’ room looked more like a bedroom than Kath’s, but a very comfortable one. The bed was made, with clean sheets, but there were a few women’s things scattered around, signs of a hasty departure. Kath went round the room, tidying up, putting things away in drawers, pausing to inspect, with covetousness or curiosity, items of clothing and jewellery.
– Well, you should be pretty comfortable here, she said.
– It’s smashing, he said. But what will happen if they find out I’m here?
– Nobody will find out, Timothy. And nothing terrible can happen, anyway. Don’t worry.
– I’m not worried, he lied. What about tomorrow morning? When is it safe for me to get up and go out?
– All the girls will have to be at work by 8.30, so I should say the place will be empty by 8.15. You’ll need to have breakfast and lunch . . . Here.
She took a long envelope from her handbag, and gave it to him. Inside was what looked like an identity card, with a photo of himself she had asked him to send in advance.
– That’s your P.X. card. It admits you to the Stadtgarten and all the other restaurants and canteens for American personnel. Also to the P.X. itself, that’s like a big store, and to the swimming pool. I’ll show you where all these places are at the weekend. You can use Army buses with the card, too. Don’t lose it, whatever you do.
– I’ll look after it.
– And you’ll need some money. She opened her purse.
– I’ve got some traveller’s cheques . . .
– Keep them. Or change them into Marks. You have to use scrip in the American places – special money for the occupation forces. They change the colour of it every now and then, to stop currency rackets. Here. Take fifteen dollars to start with, and let me know when you want some more.
– Thanks very much, said Timothy, examining the notes with interest. They reminded him of Monopoly money.
– And here’s a key to my room. I think you’d better not keep coming in and out of here during the day. Use my room if you want to rest or take a shower. I’ve told Rudolf. I don’t think there’s anything else, is there?
Timothy was wondering what he would do about going to the lavatory, but there was only one solution as far as he could see, and he didn’t care to discuss it with Kath.
– What will you do tomorrow? she said.
Tomorrow suddenly yawned in front of him, an awful blank of solitary time.
– I dunno. Take a walk around the town, I s’pose.
– That’s right, get the feel of the place, find your way around. Oh, that reminds me (she rummaged in her bag). Here’s a map of Heidelberg. It tells you where the interesting buildings are and so on. Why don’t you go and have a look at the Castle?
– Good idea.
– I’ll be back from work about the same time as today. Now I’ll love you and leave you.
She kissed him on the cheek.
– ’Night, Kath. And thanks for the super evening.
– I’m glad you enjoyed it. I thought you did very well.
– How d’you mean?
Kath looked a little embarrassed.
– Well, it must be all very strange to you. Lots of kids of your age and backgr . . . I thought you seemed quite grown up, she concluded, in some confusion.
Timothy shut the door behind her, locked it, and listened to her high heels click-clacking down the corridor. The lift gate clanged shut and the machinery whirred as the lift descended. Then it stopped. Silence. He was quite alone.
The first thing he did was to urinate in the sink, with taps running. There was no alternative: it would be madness to go wandering round the corridors in search of a lavatory. But if Kath escorted him to the room every night, that meant he had to make only one unprotected journey through the hostel each day, in the mornings. Otherwise he was secure.
The sense of being quite alone, and yet quite safe, was novel and exciting. He could do anything – like peeing in the sink – and no one would ever know, or find out. An unspecific licentiousness possessed him. When he had undressed for bed, he did not put on his pyjamas immediately, but walked about the room with nothing on, enjoying the coolness and freedom of his nakedness. He examined himself in a long mirror on the wall. As he looked, his thing stiffened and swelled and rose of its own accord, until it was trained on the ceiling like an ack-ack gun. He traversed to examine the phenomenon in profile. It always puzzled him. He didn’t know quite what to make of it. There was something rather impressive about the powerful, spontaneous movement of the flesh, but something rather disgusting too. It looked ugly and brutal, all flushed, with swollen veins, and wiry black hair sprouting from the root.
The ugliness and the size worried him somewhat. It was bound to happen when he finally did it with a girl, when he got married, or whenever it was. When he was alone with her, in a bedroom, and they undressed, it was bound to happen, because it happened just thinking about it, and she would be disgusted and frightened and it would hurt her.
He had formed the theory that you slipped your thing into the girl’s while it was small and limp, then it got big inside her; otherwise it would hurt. A girl’s was so pretty in comparison, pale pink and smooth and hairless.
On impulse, he took a pair of nail-scissors from the dressing table and snipped away at the hair at his crotch, throwing the black, wiry clippings into the sink. He nicked his skin painfully once or twice, but he persevered, until there was only a sparse, whiskery stubble left. It didn’t look much better. He tried to flush his hairs down the sink, but they wouldn’t go, so he lifted the soggy tangle out, sealed it in an envelope and placed it carefully at the bottom of the waste paper bin, under a number of lipstick-stained tissues.
He put on his pyjamas, but still felt restless and indisposed to sleep. He wandered round the room, examining Dolores’ possessions boldly but circumspectly, opening drawers containing scarves, sweaters and underwear, but not disturbing the contents, sniffing bottles of perfume and sampling jars of face cream, but replacing the lids carefully. In one of the drawers there was a white box with the cryptic legend, Countess Comfort Extra, that provoked his curiosity. He opened it and discovered inside a number of white, sausage-shaped bandages like the ones he had seen in the train W.C. They had little loops at each end. His mind, rapidly associating a number of hitherto unconnected observations and enigmas – remarks overheard at school, perplexing advertisements in his mother’s magazines – began to formulate a theory, hesitated, tried again, and retired baffled. He closed the box and the drawer.
He looked at himself in the mirror again, drank a glass of rather tepid water, opened and shut drawers abstractedly. He pulled open a cupboard door and looked inside. It was a deep walk-in wardrobe: a room within a room, a shelter within a shelter. He stepped inside and pulled the door almost shut behind him. It was dark and smelled of mothballs. Rows of wire hangers clashed softly as he moved further in. A man’s voice said distinctly:
– Is that your neighbour?
Timothy’s heart seemed
to stop. His thing shrivelled and wilted. A woman’s drowsy voice said:
– What, honey?
– I thought I heard somebody next door.
– No, I told you, she’s on vacation. That’s why I let you come up this evening. Oh!
The Oh seemed to have nothing to do with the words before it. It was a sharp exclamation, a mixture of surprise and pleasure and pain. Timothy’s flesh began to stir again. He heard the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings, grunts from the man, and gasps from the woman.
– Hold on, baby, I’m coming, said the man hoarsely.
– No, don’t, not yet . . . Oh!
– Coming . . .
– No! Oh! Oh!
– Now.
– Oh! Yes! Now! Fuck me now! Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh!
Timothy ejaculated uncontrollably into the close, mothball-smelling darkness of the cupboard. The sensation brought him neither pleasure nor relief. His pyjamas were soaked in a cold sweat. He felt sick and very frightened. Slowly, with extreme caution, he bent his knees until he was crouching on the floor. He stayed there for what seemed an age, until all was quiet behind the back wall of the cupboard. Then he crept out into the room, shut the door quietly behind him, and crawled into bed. He turned off the bedside lamp and covered his head with the blankets. He wished he was at home.
THREE
Out of the Shelter
1
THE PICTURE POSTCARD was divided into six small sections. There were views of the beach, the promenade, the bowling green, the pier, the flower-gardens and the war memorial. In the middle, inscribed in capital letters, was the name WORTHING. The photographs, in smudgy black and white, appeared to have been taken before the war; for on close inspection it could be seen that the male bathers had tops to their swimming costumes, and the cars were of antique design, with spare wheels strapped to their sides. It was an ugly and unprepossessing card – the fussy little segments distracted and repelled the eye – but he could mentally trace the motives behind its purchase with perfect confidence, for it was just the sort of card he had bought himself in past years to send to friends or relatives. Six pictures for the price of one was good value for money and eliminated the problem of choice.
