by John Gardner
‘Dreigroschenoper.’
‘Yes.’ Boysie a long way behind.
‘That is the name of the piece. Dreigroschenoper. In your language The Threepenny Opera.’
‘Oh.’ Boysie’s voice full of recognition. ‘I know the theme song, ‘Mack the Knife.’ Hey, I know about that.’ Happily surprised.
‘Yes.’ Warbler rocked backwards and forwards, gurgling with laughter. ‘Yes. “Mackie Messer.” We thought it appropriate.’ He began to sing quietly to the tune of ‘Mack the Knife’:
‘Irish MacIntosh was discovered
With a bullet in her breast.
Boysie strolls on down the dockside
Knows no more than all the rest.
Oh, the shark has pretty teeth, dear,
and he keeps them pearly white.
But Boysie has a knife and
He keeps it out of sight.’
‘I’m not using a knife,’ Boysie bridled.
‘Poetic licence.’ Warbler tapped his knee. ‘Parody. You will enjoy this Dreigroschenoper, even though I am told the new production toes the party line. Now to work. All work and no play, you know. And do I want to play tonight! On your expenses, of course.’ He pulled a pile-of papers, a map, and some photographs from the envelope. ‘Tomorrow, as I have said, you will be shown the Wall. On Monday night you cross normally, here.’ He laid a small section of map between them. It was barely visible in the gloom. ‘Checkpoint Charlie.’
‘What do you mean, normally?’
‘Just like any other tourist. They do it all the time, you know.’
Boysie swallowed, and Warbler continued. ‘You go straight on down the Friedrichstrasse on which Checkpoint Charlie is situated, on over the Unter den Linden, and across the river. The Bertolt-Brecht-Platz is on your left. In the Platz stands the Berliner Ensemble Theatre. There is plenty of room to park your car.’ He passed over a photograph, but it was already too dark to scrutinise. ‘That is marked “Photo One.” Shows the Berliner Ensemble from the Friedrichstrasse. You should begin to cross at about six on Monday night in case there is any holdup.’
‘What sort of holdup?’ Windy.
‘Oh, they sometimes like to spin it out. You know what they’re like. Formalities, formalities. They’re not too bad with foreigners. With West Germans they can be tedious.’
Boysie nodded. ‘So I get to the theatre and park my car.’
‘The performance is scheduled for seven o’clock. It usually starts promptly at eight minutes past seven. Your ticket.’ He passed over a small envelope. ‘Take care of that. If the checkpoint officials want to know where you are going, you can show them. Good. You sit through the first half of the play. If they start on time, the interval comes at eight-thirty. And here you must move.’ Another photograph over to Boysie. This time Warbler illuminated it with a pencil torch. ‘Photo Two, you must study this with care. It is taken from the steps of the Berliner Ensemble.’
Boysie could see a tree in the foreground, then a road and fence. Beyond, and to the left, a bridge. Behind that a long five-story building of grey stone, flat roofed. Warbler talked on. ‘As soon as the interval begins you move out of the main doors, across the road, and over the bridge. You are making for the right end of the building, only about seventy metres from the theatre. A block of apartments.’
Boysie nodded.
‘Good. The door is obscured in the picture, but I have marked it.’ His index finger pointed. ‘Here.’ The torch went out. ‘You must know that picture by heart. It is essential. If you have time to spare before the performance, locate the door and do the walk from the theatre. You have a stop watch?’
‘Yes.’ Boysie flashed the Navitimer he had ‘won’ from the last operation.
‘Good. You will need it. When you get to the flats, go straight in through the door I have marked, then up to the second floor. Two flights, remember. Two flights of stairs. Flat Number 12.’
‘Number 12,’ said Boysie as though confident.
‘The door will be open and nobody will be there. Empty. Lock the door and go through to the bedroom window.’ Another piece of paper. ‘Plan of the flat. The window looks straight down on to the Friedrichstrasse. Ideal view. You are about fourteen metres from the ground. Oh, how do you work it out in your damn foots and inches? Anyway, from my notes I know your first possible shot will be from around a hundred yards.’
‘A hundred yards.’ Boysie had long learned to say the right thing at the right time when being briefed for something he knew Griffin would be doing. Suddenly he found himself again considering the possibility that he might, on this occasion, have at least to get as far as the window.
Warbler was still talking. ‘On the floor by the window you will find a Mauser rifle. The 98K. You are familiar with the 98K?’
‘A Mauser 98K?’ Mild shock showing in the tone of the larynx.
‘Yes.’
‘Bit ancient, isn’t it? You haven’t got an old Winchester or something from the US Fifth Cavalry days lying around by any chance?’
Warbler grinned in the gloom. ‘The 98K is a very accurate weapon still, friend, and with the kind of bullet we are providing I don’t think you will have much trouble.’
‘Well, I suppose it is designated as a sniper’s rifle.’ Boysie grudgingly. Whatever his weaknesses, he knew guns. ‘Telescopic sight?’
‘No. It will be dark, but the area is quite well lit—those awful yellow lamps. Your weapon will have been adapted for the Hythe night-sight system.’
‘The radium cylinder on the foresight.’ Very knowledgeable.
‘That’s it.’ Warbler suitably impressed. ‘The rifle takes a clip of five rounds, as you know. There will be one spare clip in case you run into difficulty.’
Boysie made a disgusted face. Once more he had the feeling that he was really going to do this operation.
‘The switch between Warren and MacIntosh,’ continued Warbler, ‘is timed to the minute. It takes place on Checkpoint Charlie at exactly 8.35. She should pass your position at 8.38. There will be no slip-ups at that end, and you will have no real difficulty—we have arranged for a truck to break down. Your target will be travelling in the back of a black Zil III.’
‘Like a Buick.’ Boysie knew it all this evening.
‘As you say, like a Buick. It will be going quite fast but shall have to slow down for the truck. They should have the lights full on.’
‘And she’ll be in the back?’
Warbler’s body jerked in affirmation. ‘Probably with someone else. Too bad about him.’
‘No chance of them changing cars? Switching her again?’
‘Not likely. There wouldn’t be much point, and they won’t be expecting our kind of trouble.’
‘And what about the ammunition? You said something about that. What am I using? Explodable bullets or something?’
‘Plenty of time to worry about that. Tomorrow night we will go out to the field firing range at Ruhleben. They have fixed up a tower for you at approximately the height you will be shooting from. We also have a radio-controlled car for you to practice on. It will be fun.’ Gleefully.
‘I’ll bet.’ No enthusiasm from Boysie. ‘And what if things really go wrong? If the performance starts on time at seven?’
‘Then you will have eight minutes in hand. When it is all over, use your own discretion about getting away. I suggest you go back to the theatre if you can. Certainly you must stay over there until the performance is finished. And don’t panic when you cross into the West again. They will have tightened up the checkpoint control, but that shouldn’t worry you. Tomorrow I give you an address. If things get very bad, you can lie low there for a while.’ Warbler raised both hands in a manner of finality. ‘Now, my friend, put the papers away safely and work on them later tonight.’ Another envelope. ‘Just a few more details from Headquarters. Tomorrow we rehearse everything.’ He started the VW as the first drops of rain sprayed on to the screen. ‘Food,’ said Warbler, his voice crammed with gluttony. ‘Food at yo
ur hotel. They do you well there.’
Still no word from Griffin at Reception. Boysie surrendered himself to the dogma of making the most of it and joined Warbler in the polished extravaganza that was the foyer lounge. A couple of dry martinis while tropical fish did five turns around a massive wall tank and shallow fountains splashed peacefully, generating the feeling of comfort and luxury that was the Bristol Kempinski’s great selling line. Prosperity loomed large, hanging on the vicuna shoulders of the men or flashing in diamonds from the Rubinsteined necks of their women. Warbler chatted endlessly, his inconsequentialities laced with long gusts of birdlike laughter. He came more into his own when they moved into the restaurant, to a meal and service that banished all thoughts of the danger which lay only hours from Boysie. With the last sip of brandy, Boysie realised that he was unmistakably contented. Who cared about Monday night—it might never come anyway. So this was the hub of the Cold War. Bloody good place to be. So what about NATO and the Rhine Army and those bloody great Russian divisions on the other side of the Curtain?
‘Now,’ said Warbler smacking his lips, ‘now I show you some of the night life of Berlin.’
The streets seemed to contain nothing but clubs—Rififi, Club Sexy, Rio Grande, Rialto, The Berlin Hotpoint. They spun out on either side in a blast of crimson neon, winking in a montage, flooding fire over the death-mask faces of occasional girls haunting doorways or passing the time, with uniformed commissionaires, between clients. The rain had turned to an apathetic drizzle, cold for late spring. Warbler stopped at the Ritz Kursal, the small entrance belying the opulence of its name.
‘They tell me there is a very original girl here,’ he said as they passed from the relative brightness of the street into the heavy murk that pervades this kind of club from Brewer Street to Brazil. Warbler was obviously expected—a table by the small dance floor, a bottle, glasses.
Boysie’s eyes gradually adjusted to the smoky lack of light. They were in the original L-shaped room, low-ceiling, the walls half panelled in a cheap stained wood. Near the door two girls, isolated and for hire, sat at the bar. On the dais in the adjacent corner a trio throbbed an unmerciful beat, making the Rolling Stones sound like the London Philharmonic. It was the clientele which made Boysie do a double-take in quadruplicate. Sedate at the tables tightly packed around the floor, sat family after family of solid citizens, the men upright in Sunday suits, with their womenfolk, some of whom still sported the tough huntin’ and shootin’ type headgear. Only two other tables were occupied by unattached, lonely young men, eyed expectantly by the brace of tarts at the bar.
‘Ach.’ Warbler doubled up with laughter. ‘You are surprised. Here it is not just for the tourists. I know what you call in England the middle-class people would not come to a club like this. We come for the family outing. Very healthy. A few glasses of beer. An eyeful of the girls. Stimulating for the marriage. A song. Nice. Gemütlich.’ He looked around, nodding approval. ‘I have known this place for a long time. Ach—’ Falling apart at some hidden hilarity to be told.
A very funny fella, thought Boysie.
‘Here,’—Warbler choked—‘here, there used to be a stripper called Sexy Hexy. Too fond of the drink, Hexy.’ He mimed with a trembling hand. ‘One night in the winter, Sexy Hexy had too much. She went upstairs, slipped, and fell out of the window. So there she was, on the pavement outside, in the rain, twenty-one years old, dead. Sexy Hexy.’ Paralysed with mirth. ‘Sexy Hexy.’
Boysie gave a little polite laugh. Very funny fella, he thought again. Funny sick.
There was a roll on the drums. The lights dimmed, which was more than Boysie thought possible, and a single spot ripped through the smoke. Into the illuminated circle strode a heavily dyed blonde wrapped skilfully in gold lame. She greeted the audience in German, wooing them with a series of leers and winks understandable in any language. Then, like a Lufthansa hostess, she switched on her English.
‘Good evening, ladies and genellmen. We are glad you have come to our club and hope you will leave with some stirring memories. My name is Merry Fern. A happy name, no? First, as an apéritif to our main act of the evening, I like to introduce Margot. Here she is, give her a big hand. Margot.’
Margot needed a big hand. She looked on the grubby side and was about four stones too heavy with breasts like hybrid breadfruit. The trio banged away at the bumps and grinds while Margot slowly uncovered down to the last minute G-string, doing some highly obscene things with her stockings on the way. A second aperitif followed—Heddi, as skinny as Margot had been plump. Heddi did odd things with her off-white suspender belt. Boysie had seen better performances in Soho, but the audience seemed to like it.
Heddi had barely scampered from the floor before Merry Fern was back in the spotlight. Through the murk Boysie could see the trio creeping away from their dais. An attendant pushed a low, heavily decorated sofa on to the floor. At one end was a neat pile of what appeared to be clothes. The attendant completed his scene setting by placing a pair of high-buttoned Victorian ladies’ boots and a silver button hook by one leg of the sofa. The audience shifted with expectancy.
‘Here it comes. The new act,’ whispered Warbler with an elbow jab to Boysie’s ribs. Merry finished her German introduction. The audience buzzed appreciatively.
‘And now, ladies and genellmen, what you have been waiting for. The toast of the evening. Our flower from the Orient. Our China doll. Miss...Rosy...Puberty.’ Deafening applause. From somewhere a stereo player poured liquid Eastern noises into the haze. The spotlight whipped from the floor, faltered, then settled on a door at the far end of the bar. The door opened, and out came Miss Rosy Puberty, somewhere around five feet tall, jet shining hair piled high over a strong oval face, dark eyebrows above perfect lashes and deep dark almond eyes slanting away from the elegant nose, nostrils flared for a fraction, while, below, her mouth mixed generosity in equal portions with that kind of sensual promise which is the sole copyright of young Chinese women. Miss Puberty was stark naked, the light from the spot striking off her smooth olive skin, making it glint around the wonderful curve of her neck and the upthrust circlets of young breasts, each centred with a wide brown bull’s-eye of nipple. The body hair had been shaved below the tiny dark cavern of her navel, and she walked with a slow careful pleasure, an ease, in flowing movements of her thighs, as though it was complete happiness for her to bring joy to the audience, who sat silent as animals watching some unobtainable prey.
Boysie was unaware of the music, of Warbler, of anything but the graceful girl moving towards the sofa. As she reached it she turned with arms outstretched and feet slightly apart; then, rocking a little, she completed the circle so that the whole of her body passed before the eyes of everyone in the room. The music softened, and Miss Puberty bent to take, from the piles of clothes, a wisp of black, a tiny pair of sheer panties, into which she placed first one foot and then the other, slowly pulling it up tight around hips and buttocks. She turned full circle again, hands spread wide across her flat stomach. Then one hand drifted away to take from the pile a corselet, fragile and frothed with lace, small, bowed suspenders hanging from the one-piece garment, which nipped in her waist and cupped the lower halves of her breasts.
Despite the intricate fastening, Rosy Puberty made this business of clothing her body, from thighs to breasts, an infinitely more stimulating moment than most strippers can manage during the final seconds of their divesting. She now sat on the sofa to pull on her long black silk stockings, her fingers caressed the silk and flesh in a manner that conveyed the sense of touch to every man in the room, the fastening of each suspender a moment of pure delight. Garters, narrow rose lace, delicate and precisely placed. Then the buttoning of the boots, the body undulating into a different position with each subtle move of the button hook. Boysie could hardly breathe; the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention like the Royal Marines Queen’s Squad. He had not seen anything so blatantly sexy and off-beat since Albert Finney had done the eating b
it in Tom Jones.
Rosy Puberty was now stepping into an ankle-length grey skirt, fastening the side buttons with a deft one-handed flick of finger and thumb, the ball of the thumb, kneading each button into place. Last a lacy blouse, with leg-of-mutton shoulders and a collar up to the chin. Rosy folded her hands and lowered her head. Coyness. Innocence. The complete Victorian governess from China. The lights went up, and the audience screamed their heads off while Rosy walked to the bar where Merry Fern stood with a waiting drink.
‘Good.’ Warbler nodding with all the seriousness of a professor vetting a pupil’s essay.
‘Good?’ said Boysie, wiping a film of perspiration from his brow. ‘She’s bloody marvellous.’ He looked up to see Merry Fern approaching their table, leading the handsome Miss Puberty by the hand. Warbler and Merry Fern greeted each other like old sparring partners. Boysie rose and stood grinning like a goat, not knowing what to do with his hands, embarrassed and submerged in a glut of German. Warbler was nearly on his knees, offering Miss Puberty his heart, wealth, the whole quota. Then Warbler came to his senses and turned to Boysie.
‘Ach, my friend here is English. Please, Mr. Oldcorn, meet my old and intimate friend, Fraulein Fern.’
‘Hello.’ Boysie beamed, wiggling his fingers.
‘And Miss Puberty.’
Boysie took her hand and tried to will charm from his fingertips into her palm. Play it cool, carefully, buster, said the nasty, whispering voice in his head. Pretend you do not want it. Rosy was even more gorgeous at arm’s length than onstage. There was a gentle pressure between their hands with her eyes looking hard into his.
‘Care for a drink?’ Boysie making it casual.
‘Ver’ kin’ off you.’ Moving towards him as she spoke.
The foursome rearranged itself around the table, Warbler well away with Merry Fern, Boysie the envy of every lecherous eye in the place. A waiter descended like a white owl. He did not have to ask either Fern or Puberty what their liquid would be.
‘Liked your act.’ Boysie using all his self-discipline. ‘Thank you. It is a way of making money. I do not choose it myself. But girls cannot always choose.’
