by Len Deighton
‘Bret? You mean here, in Berlin?’
‘I wish I didn’t mean here in Berlin; I wish I meant there in Timbuktu. This city is packed with visitors right now. Do you know how long my secretary Lydia spent on the phone, pleading for hotel rooms for them all? Pleading.’
‘How long?’ I said in innocent enquiry.
‘Instead of returning to London directly he suddenly decided he had to detour this way and bring his entourage with him. I suppose he intends it as a display of Yankee methodology, but I call it a pointless waste of time and effort.’
‘He eats too much sugar,’ I said.
Frank nodded without hearing what I said. ‘The Steigenberger. Bret specified the Steigenberger; Dicky demanded the Kempi.’ He gestured with his pipe. ‘They will have to put up with what hotels they can get. And they might end up in a bed and breakfast in Rudow.’ Frank always saved his most caustic contempt for Rudow, an unremarkable residential neighbourhood that formed the southeastern tip of capitalist Berlin. I wondered what caused this antipathy. Was Rudow associated with one of Frank’s unhappy love affairs?
‘Dicky Cruyer too?’ I asked. Dicky would not be happy with the sort of bed and breakfast typically on offer in Rudow. Frank nodded.
‘Yes. How am I supposed to entertain such a crowd at short notice? My cook is visiting her married daughter, and Tarrant is still recovering from this damned gastric influenza that is doing the rounds. I can’t entertain them all at the house.’
‘So you are taking them along to Werner’s party?’
Frank looked at me; I met his eye solemnly. Frank said: ‘It would solve a problem for me.’
‘They will love it,’ I said. ‘Music and dancing and champagne. Wonderful food. Werner has been talking about nothing else.’
‘I thought he was away,’ said Frank, who didn’t miss everything of what went on in the office.
‘He went away. Only one day. He’s back now.’
Frank said: ‘Bret’s NATO conference was scheduled to go on through the weekend, with a formal dinner on Sunday. But the French delegation made a fuss about the agenda and walked out yesterday morning. The Yanks released some woolly press statement about continued meetings of the secretariat – you know what bullshitters they are – and that ended the whole get-together.’
‘Most people will guess it was a French walk-out. There was an argument with them last time,’ I said. ‘Fiona was there.’
Frank sighed. Moscow’s protracted political operation that levered France out of NATO was the KGB’s finest battle honour. It was never mentioned without a resonance of our failure. ‘Yes. There must be better ways of plastering over the cracks.’ Frank was renowned for his expertise at patching over administrative disasters. ‘They will all have dinner suits and so on,’ he said, as if putting his case to me.
‘It’s brilliant, Frank,’ I said. ‘Take them to Werner’s party.’
When I got back to my own office there was a fax in my tray. It was the copy of another police report about traffic movements on the West Berlin Autobahn on the day after Tessa was killed. It described traffic accidents and abandoned vehicles and mysterious strangers wandering in the vicinity of Autobahn exits. Campers’ tyre marks and picnic remains. I had of course found everything I’d been looking for at Autobahn exits. But I didn’t want to circulate a message cancelling my requests. I didn’t even want to confide to my secretary the fact that I’d found what I was looking for. There was no way I could call off my search without being asked questions I didn’t care to answer. I put the reports and faxes in my drawer and shuffled them so it looked as if I’d been studying them.
Then I went back to my room in Lisl’s hotel to change and make myself ready for Werner’s party. It would be a dressy affair. Werner had moved into one of those grand old houses in Wannsee. A house of any shape or size was a conspicuous mark of success in a city where most people lived in apartments. This one was truly remarkable. From its terrace there was a view of the waters of the Wannsee and as far as the pretty little island of Schwanenwerder where Goebbels, the Nazi propaganda minister, lived during the war. I knew these Wannsee houses and I had visited many of them. I liked them. Sometimes I’ve thought how happy I would have been in a career such as architecture. I had mentioned that to my father during my time at school, but my father said an architect’s life was precarious. To him a government job was the epitome of security. I wondered what he might have said if he were still alive.
But my interest in buildings remained with me. More than once, being able to guess where an upstairs landing emerged, or the fastest route to the roof, and where to find a fire-escape back to ground level, had helped me out of serious trouble. Tonight I had no difficulty guessing the layout of Werner’s new home. I drove past a no-entrance sign, and found a place to park at the back. I let myself in through a service door on the terrace.
Werner had chosen this house not just because it was so spacious and light but because of its history. Like many of the houses in that street so near the lake, there were rumours about its history. Berlin’s real estate men had discovered that having a top-level Nazi as a one-time resident was unlikely to deter their prospective clients. It wasn’t something to be included in the prospectus, of course, but a whispered word about some notorious blackguard of the Third Reich could sometimes conclude a sale.
The stories said this particular house had once been occupied by Reinhard Heydrich. As well as being the evil spirit behind Himmler, Heydrich was a notable athlete and a fencing champion. Support for the contention that this was his former home was to be seen in the extended room that gave on to the terrace. It was said to have been built to satisfy Heydrich’s need for a fencing hall. The large room had been restored to something like its nineteenth-century origins, and could be divided in two by ornate folding doors. Or, as tonight, the whole ground floor could be made into a room into which a hundred guests could dance without knocking over the tables loaded with luxury food, or blundering into the massive flower arrangements, or getting poked in the eye by the elbows of any of the musicians. I mean: it was big.
In line with Rudi’s intention to offset part of its cost against tax, the party was described as being a celebration for the opening of Rudi Kleindorf’s new club in Potsdamerstrasse. There were signs advertising the club, which was now named Gross und Klein – ‘high and low’, or ‘adults and children’. It was also a reference to Rudi Kleindorf’s nickname: der grosse Kleine. Personally I preferred the place when it was a shady dump called the Babylon, but Werner never liked that name. He said Babylon had bad associations for a Jew. I wondered what the associations were. Or how those associations could be more disturbing than living in Wannsee, a stone’s throw from the place where the infamous conference was held, and living in a house where coming downstairs for a midnight snack you might rub shoulders with a natty-uniformed blond ghoul with blood on his hands.
I wondered if the club’s change of name was an indication that Werner had invested money in the new venture. I hoped not. The old Babylon had gone bust, owing money to most of its suppliers. I couldn’t see how the new one was likely to do much better. It was all right for Rudi: he used the club as a hangout for his cronies, and a base for his murky business activities. In the front hall there was an artist’s impression of what the new club would look like. Rudi was standing alongside it, telling anyone who would listen about his new place.
I could see all this as I stepped through the terrace window, and hear it too. The five-piece band – veterans of Rudi’s previous excursions into Berlin nightlife – was expanded by a few white-haired musicians. They were indulging themselves by playing kitsch Thirties music more in accord with their advanced age, and more in line with my dancing lessons, than their usual repertoire at the Babylon. As I closed the terrace door behind me, they were moving into the final chorus of ‘Sweet Lorraine’.
Once inside the main room, I looked around. The decoration that had been installed for this party took my br
eath away. I knew that the house was wonderful. Werner had shown me the photos, and the surveyor’s report, and discussed his offer and counter-offer. I was ready for the house but I wasn’t ready for the decorations. They had obviously been installed solely for the party, and would be torn down tomorrow. That was what I called conspicuous high living.
The theme of the party, as stated on the printed invitations, was ‘The Golden Twenties’. Its ambivalence had left the German guests uncertain of whether to respond with a fancy dress suited to Berlin in the Weimar years, or simply to wear gold. Many had done both. There were plenty of gold lame gowns, and gold jewellery was in abundance, for this was Berlin and flamboyant ostentation was de rigueur. There was even a gold lame evening jacket – although that was worn by a tenor from the opera and so didn’t count as a surprise of any kind – and there was a glittering outfit of gold pyjamas worn by a skinny old lady who did cooking lessons on TV.
Gold wire and gold foil and gold ornaments of many kinds were liberally arranged on the walls. Gold ceiling hangings echoed in shape the antique glass chandelier that Werner had bought in an auction, so that it could become the centre-piece of the room. The moving beams from clusters of spotlights were directed upwards to patch the false ceiling with their light, and create golden clouds that floated overhead.
Looking around at all this I began to understand what the extravagant Zena did for Werner. Zena was the catalyst that enabled Werner to waste his money in the ways he secretly enjoyed. Such symbiotic relationships were not uncommon. Any number of middle-class husbands bought a big Volvo or Mercedes saying its impact-proof construction would protect their families. They installed top-of-the-range computers because it would help their kids at school, ear-shattering hi-fi equipment to play ‘good’ music To help their kids’ history lessons they went first class to Egypt and made sure the Pyramids were still on the Nile. So did Zena provide for Werner a rationale for his intemperate lifestyle.
There was a time when I would have been concerned at Werner spending money so recklessly. For Werner periodically confessed to me that he was on the verge of financial collapse. At first I was flattered by these confidences, as well as alarmed on his behalf. But over the years I had come to understand that Werner’s measure of poverty was not like mine. Werner became alarmed when the interest on his capital was nibbled by inflation, or when he suffered some other financial malady that periodically scourged the rich. For people like me, just getting enough in my savings account to stave off impending bills gave me a heady feeling of opulence. It was not so with Werner. Right from the time he first got a car, Werner always went into a petrol station and filled his tank to the brim. And he had the oil checked too; and frequently asked if his tyres were worn enough to need changing. Werner simply didn’t know there were people who bought petrol, beer or milk one litre at a time. Or managed with tyres that were down to the wire.
The dance floor was full and there were crowds arriving but I spotted Werner and Zena by stepping up on to a wooden pot in which a monster-sized fern plant was growing. I could see over the heads of the dancers to the front lobby. Werner and Zena were in the large oval-shaped hall, formally greeting the guests one by one as they were ushered through the front door. It made a theatrical scene. The second massive chandelier – in the hallway – had been hung in such a way that the wide staircase curved around it, following the wall up to the interior balcony on the upper floor.
Werner waved and bent down to whisper to Zena. She looked up with fire in her eyes. She didn’t approve of guests letting themselves in by the back door. She wanted guests to arrive two by two, like animals boarding the Ark. And she wanted them at the front door, where she could inspect them closely, make sure they had washed their hands and face, and tell them how lovely it was to have them with her.
They were both looking good. Zena had her dark hair coiled up and studded with jewels. She was wearing a simple cream-coloured silk dress: long and low-cut so that her diamond necklace and matching bracelet sparkled against her bronzed skin. Zena liked being sun-tanned. The darker she was, the better she liked it. She had grown up in the days when foreign travel was a sought-after rarity. But a complexion like a Malibu lifeguard was incongruous for someone dressed as a delicate Meissen figurine.
Werner was wearing a cream-coloured, slubbed-silk jacket, black pants and frilly evening shirt with a big black bow tie. I suppose he knew he looked like a band-leader from the sort of old Hollywood film they show on TV in the afternoons. This effect was further endorsed when the band struck up ‘Laura’, the schmaltzy old Mercer number. Werner looked at me again and gave a self-conscious smile. I waved an imaginary baton at him.
It was while I was moving through the dancers, to the tables where the food was arrayed, that I was suddenly grabbed from behind by two hands and someone said: ‘You don’t get away as easy as that, you bastard.’
I turned to see who it was, and came face to face with Gloria at very close range. My amazement must have shown on my face, for she laughed. ‘Didn’t they tell you? I’m with Bret. We were all at the NATO conference. Frank Harrington brought us here.’ She grabbed me round the waist and said: ‘Dance. Hold me tight and dance.’
‘Gloria …’
‘Shut up. Don’t say anything. Just hold me very tight. Dance … and don’t blunder into anyone.’
We stepped out on to the dance floor. If we had on occasions blundered into other couples, it wasn’t due solely to my clumsiness but also because she always danced with her eyes tightly shut.
A vocalist sang in uncertain English: She gave your very first kiss to you …
‘Is it supposed to be fancy dress?’ asked Gloria.
‘The Golden Twenties.’
‘I wish I’d known and had had time to dress up.’
‘You are the Golden Twenties,’ I said. It was true. Her hair against her dress was shiny gold and she was looking younger than ever.
She gave me a broad tight-lipped smile. ‘I’ve missed you, Bernard.’
‘It’s no use pretending any more. I must talk to you. We must …’
She reached up and pressed her hand to my lips. ‘Don’t spoil it. Just for this evening let’s pretend. No talking: just pretend.’
‘Okay.’
We danced. She was soft and warm and fragrant and slim and lovely. By some miracle my feet hit all the right places at the right moments. Neither of us spoke.
I would be dancing there still, but the music eventually ended: You see Laura on a train that is passing through …I held on to her with a desperation that I couldn’t contain. That was Laura but she’s only a dream. As the music stopped my reverie came to an abrupt end, but I remained close to her: very close.
Bret Rensselaer gave no sign of noticing my despair as he approached us, balancing his own glass against two glasses of champagne for us. ‘Isn’t this a phenomenal party? What a surprise. I was just telling my old buddy Werner that this has got to be the bash of the year.’ Bret was looking ten years younger. Those golden threads in his silver hair reminded me of the blond tough guy who had almost died after that shooting in an abandoned Berlin train station. So did the grin and the radiant self-confidence. I suppose his new Deputy’s job had given him a fresh lease of life. Or maybe he was still floating on the euphoria that came after sneaking across the Atlantic for a weekend and front seat at the Super Bowl. Or maybe he was eating too much sugar.
Bret pointed towards the food-filled tables now, since the music stopped, obscured by eager guests piling up their plates. ‘Did you taste those home-made poppy-seed cakes?’ said Bret. ‘Wow. Looks like they are home-made. What do they call them in German?’
‘Are they called Mohnklösse?’ said Gloria.
‘Yes, but here in Berlin they call them Mohnspielen,’ I said pedantically. ‘Werner is very keen on them. They say they were Hitler’s favourite snack.’
‘Yeah, well I always said he had taste,’ said Bret. ‘Werner, I mean.’
‘What does it
mean: Mohnspielen?’ said Gloria, childishly put out by my correction.
‘Mohn; Mond. Moon; poppy. It’s some kind of Berlin double-meaning that makes it into the moon’s plaything.’
‘You are a living encyclopedia,’ said Gloria.
Having no immediate ambition to be a living encyclopedia, I sipped my champagne and nodded and smiled. And marvelled at the way in which life can go from heaven to hell in such short measure.
‘And he’s working with you now, Bernard?’ said Bret, to demonstrate the way he had his finger on the Department’s pulse. ‘On the payroll?’
‘Werner?’ I said. ‘Yes.’ And I perversely added: ‘It was all Frank’s idea.’
‘Quite a bash,’ said Bret, who knew very well how strenuously Frank had opposed Werner’s employment. ‘And the kind of old-timers’ music I like.’ I suppose it was a nice surprise for anyone expecting an evening of shoptalk and passive smoking with Frank Harrington. But there was no mistaking the bench-mark change in Werner’s fortunes. Twenty-four hours ago I would have bet a million pounds to an old shirt-button that Bret didn’t remember that Werner Volkmann existed. Now he’s Bret’s old buddy, and getting three-star accolades for his home-made Mohnspielen.
Werner old pal, you made it, I thought. Frank might pretend this was some half-hearted reconciliation, a rehabilitation or a convenient place to dump unwanted visitors. The fact was that Bret Rensselaer – the Deputy D-G no less – was giving Werner the coveted guarantee of Good Housekeeping handwritten on parchment. And doing it in public, in a manner I had seldom witnessed.
While we were talking, Frank had approached us. He listened to Bret’s continuing appreciation of Werner’s party but, judging from Frank’s smile and nods, he thought it was Bret’s tactful way of thanking him for bringing the errant souls of Frankfurt to this golden Berlin evening.
