by Lavie Tidhar
And a chill grabs his heart, for they are coming directly towards him: towards the dugout shelter, where he and Mr Blur are now alone but for the corpse of that nameless gunner, may he rest in peace, forever and amen. In horror Fogg stares for one long moment at the approaching horde of Nazi living-dead, for so they seem to him, these soldiers, shambling and stumbling over the corpses of their brothers, a slow yet mad rush towards the Allied positions, so many of them, he cannot keep track of how many.
And as dread comes he realises they must move, they must act, and he cries out, Mr Blur!
And Mr Blur stops rocking, slows down to normal human speed, and looks up at Fogg with crazed eyes, with only the whites showing, and Fogg says, We have to get out of here, we can’t stop them! and, with desperation and fear, he echoes the nameless, dead gunner: They’re coming!
– I’ll stop them, Mr Blur says. He stretches to his full height, this small man, this Übermensch, this friend, and he pulls out a pistol, a huge polished-metal thing, and waves it, like an Old West gunslinger with a silver star over his breast, a sheriff come to cleanse the town, and he says, Leave them to me, Fogg. You get out. Advance backwards!
– Mr Blur, what are you doing—
– I said go, goddamn it! Mr Blur says, and turns his milky crazy eyes on Fogg and then he smiles, just like that, a normal smile in the midst of that horror, the living-dead advancing, these flightless lost boys, bombs falling and the dead gunner lying at their feet with his brain leaking out like spoiled Worcestershire sauce.
Then, before Fogg can cry out, there is that blurring in the air, that sudden bending of light, as Mr Blur accelerates into his unnatural – no, his changed, his super-human – speed, and he shoots off, up the dugout and into the no-man’s-land, almost invisible, he is travelling so fast, only his laughter can be heard and the sound of gunshots, twining together into a sort of song, a music …
– Mr Blur! Fogg cries, but even as he speaks he is advancing, as they say, backwards, and raising fog, raising fog like a storm to follow Mr Blur, to mask him, to blind the advancing Germans, but they do not see, they move without regard to maps or vision, but on blind instinct that says only forward, forward, and as Fogg climbs up from the dugout, as he turns to flee, just once he turns, like Lot’s wife or, perhaps, like Orpheus at Hades, or just like any person who would feel compelled to stop, and look back, and he sees Mr Blur, pausing in the midst of the advancing horde, slowing to normal, turning back, and his eyes find Fogg, and he smiles, and this is how Fogg always remembers him afterwards, how he stopped there and smiled, just before a random bullet found him and blew off his head.
139. THE FARM, DEVON 1936
And sometimes in his dreams it doesn’t end that way. Sometimes in his dreams Fogg stands there, watching Mr Blur’s head blown off and the very earth and air rebel against the wrongness of it, against the bloodshed and the death, and he summons the fog, it rises all around him, Fogg a lonely figure on a mound of earth, shaping out of grey fog an enormous five-fingered hand that reaches past him, past the trench and to the no-man’s land, through the shambling hordes of desperado soldiers, the hand reaching out and grabbing, trying to take hold of Mr Blur, to drag him to safety, the vast hand reaching, futilely, until Fogg wakes up, sweating …
But this is nineteen thirty-six, the Farm, Devon, the sun shines down on the grassy field, bees hum amongst the flowers, the air feels thick and heavy with promise, with spring. The pupils are lined up in their khaki shorts, blue shirts, their white socks stretched up. Bending, fingertips to toes, stretching, one, two, one, two, Tank puffing, Oblivion cool, Mrs Tinkle surprisingly agile, Spit with her serious, intent face, Mr Blur moving too fast for the eye to see, Fogg just going through the motions, hard to summon fog in this sunny weather, a part of him craves city streets, dirty pools of water, the yellow light of street lamps, the sound of hooves on cobblestones, a flash of lightning. Sergeant Browning stands opposite them, his thick moustache quivering, a whistle around his neck, his face is red and he is screaming, You will be ready, you will be soldiers, if I have to kill you myself!
Fogg trying to touch his toes with his fingers and failing, feels the blood rushing to his head, it suffuses his cheeks and lips, he grunts and someone, no one knows who, exactly, farts loudly.
And they all, everyone loses discipline. Tank collapses on the grass with mammoth snorts of laughter and Mr Blur joins him, even Oblivion is smiling, Mrs Tinkle looks horrified but even Browning can’t hide, for just a moment, his smile; and Fogg, with relief, drops to the ground, and he’s giggling, he gasps, Tank, stop it, but he can’t stop, it builds up, this deep, this belly-deep laugh, and he rolls helplessly on the grass, laughing until his stomach muscles ache.
140. THE OLD MAN’S OFFICE the present
– And so we come to the final act, the Old Man says. Let’s see … He arranges the papers on his desk with an air of finality. You met Erich Bühler, codenamed Schneesturm, in the Soviet quarter. You failed to kill him. Instead, you struck a bargain. He was to take you to Klara Vomacht, codenamed Sommertag. Am I correct so far?
Fogg looks at the Old Man. Steals a glance at Oblivion. No way out, he thinks, resigned. And what does it matter, after all those years? And so: Yes, he says. You are correct.
– What happened then? the Old Man says. Gentler, now. A hunter soft-footing the last short distance to his target.
What happened then … Fogg looks down at his hands. Looks up, meets the Old Man’s old eyes. Everything started to go wrong as soon as we set out, Fogg says.
141. BERLIN. THE SOVIET ZONE 1946
Walking away from Erich’s boarding house, Henry and Erich, Schleier und Schneesturm. The night was full of shadows, Fogg says, it felt as though eyes were watching us as we walked. Everything was hazy, unreal.
– Do confine yourself to reporting on just what happened, Henry.
Fogg shrugs—
Down the ruined alleyways of this part of Berlin, where once, not long ago, the opulent homes of high-ranking Nazi officers, their families and servants sat in splendour. The two of them pass the burnt shell of a Mercedes Benz 770K, the once-beautiful chassis a rusted skeleton, and Schneesturm pauses, places a hand over the ruined car, sadly: What a waste, he says. Fogg shrugs. Does not care much for cars, perhaps. Continues walking and Erich follows. Passing a street lamp that is still functioning. The butt of a cigarette, crushed by a heel some time back, lies on the ground. They continue onwards, two travellers through the fog, two white ghosts in the grey and the black, traversing a land of the dead.
We watch. The two men move ahead, the fog parting, there is a strange sort of sound, a scratching as of a vinyl disc being pulled against a needle, skipping grooves, and then a shimmer, and a sudden loss of perspective—
– Did you feel that? Fogg says. Uneasy.
– Like a scratched gramophone record, Schneesturm says. Shrugs. They continue walking in silence.
142. THE OLD MAN’S OFFICE the present
– A sound like a scratched gramophone record? the Old Man says sharply.
– At first I didn’t think anything of it, Fogg says.
143. BERLIN. THE SOVIET ZONE 1946
Walking away from the boarding house, Schneesturm and Fogg, two shadows in a shadow Berlin, walking past a Mercedes Benz 770K, a once-beautiful car, now reduced to a burnt shell, Schneesturm shakes his head, sadly, Fogg frowns, how many of them are there, he thinks. Continue walking, through the narrow streets, past a street lamp miraculously working, Fogg looks down, sees the crushed butt of a cigarette, Fogg’s frown deepens, he opens his mouth to say something but doesn’t, they continue walking and Schneesturm begins to whistle, there is a strange scratching sound and they’re walking away from the boarding house, Schneesturm and Fogg, Erich und Henry, past a burnt skeletal car (but aren’t all cars, once burnt down, the same as each other?) and into thick fog, and a street lamp, still burning, and the butt of a cigarette on the ground and Fogg says, Stop!
They sto
p. Schneesturm’s whistle fades away into nothing. What was that? Fogg says.
– What?
– Be quiet.
Fogg stands still. Listens. Waiting.
144. THE OLD MAN’S OFFICE the present
– And then I remembered the Farm, Fogg says.
145. THE FARM, DEVON 1936
Fogg remembers that moment, for he was anxious, shy: they were all lined up before Browning and Turing, for the first time made to – asked to – show themselves.
To really be yourself. There was something terrifying about it, the way it was when the Old Man came to Cambridge, when Fogg tried to escape. To really be yourself, naked, helpless, to be judged by others. He was afraid.
– Oblivion?
Oblivion shrugs, and Fogg envies him his cool, his calmness. Oblivion picks up a stone from the field. Examines it in his hands. Shows it to Browning and Turing. Like a magician, Fogg thinks. Performing. The same way he performed for Fogg. Oblivion gives a half-smile, shrugs, passes one hand over the other and the stone, caught in between, disintegrates. Becomes a nothingness. Browning’s face incredulous. Turing smiles, a delighted child’s smile at a magic trick. Wonderful, he breathes. Do it again!
Oblivion crouches, runs his hand over the grass, the grass, like the stone, dematerialising, obliviated. And Fogg is suddenly jealous of his friend: not of his ability, for that is not something one can control, it is just part of the change, part of the indelible re-shift of quantum probabilities in the human genome: but of his courage, his ability to stand there, cool and composed, in control. Like a real hero, Fogg thinks.
– Mr Blur?
Mr Blur grins, in his khaki shorts and his blue shirt he looks like a boy scout. He gives a mock-salute and then streaks across the field, faster than a speeding bullet, crossing it to the gate and around and back, his blurred form moving like a smudge of colour until he reappears in position in the line, still grinning, but breathing heavily.
– Impressive, Browning says.
– Are you hungry? Turing says. Mr Blur says, I could eat. Turing makes a note on his clipboard. High metabolism, most likely, he says, but to himself.
– Mr Fogg? Browning says.
And then it is his turn and he is suddenly terrified, it is like being back at school, back with Roberts and Thornton and the others, the bigger boys surrounding him, and all he wants is to flee, to hide, and without even realising he is doing it the environment responds to him, those minuscule undercurrents of observation and collapsed waves of probability, water molecules and air and there’s a wisp of fog, forming, only a wisp at first and then another, and another, beginning low, hovering on the ground, on the grass, but rising, forming, Fogg drawing it over himself, a memory of Roberts, or was it Thornton, saying, Your father’s a drunk! Someone laughing, a cruel childish laugh, before the change, before he could hide, and the fog is rising, it surrounds him, expanding, blocking out the sun, and inside it he feels safe.
– That’s enough, Mr Fogg!
Startled, the fog grows thicker, but the voices penetrate – I said, that’s enough, thank you, Fogg!
Old Browning’s voice, and Fogg takes a deep breath, forcing out the fear, letting the fog diffuse, slowly, shafts of sunlight cut through it, he begins to see again, Turing’s kind face, nodding as he scribbles away on his clipboard, briefly looking up – Thank you, Mr Fogg.
Fogg nods. The others look his way. He looks down. Already missing the comforting protection of the fog.
– Ah, yes, Browning says. Frowning. Mrs … Dinkle, is it?
– Tinkle, young man. It’s Mrs Tinkle.
– And what is your talent, dear? Turing says.
– I can do this, Mrs Tinkle says.
She raises her hand and makes a motion like scratching a record on a turntable. There is an odd, discomfiting sound, like a scratch or a tear. Fogg feels a strong sense of discontinuity, of things not fitting in.
– Ah, yes, Browning says. Frowning. Mrs Dinkle, is it?
– Tinkle, young man. It’s Mrs Tinkle.
– And what is your talent, dear? Turing says.
Mrs Tinkle smiles. A shiver runs through Fogg.
– I … see, Turing says.
146. BERLIN. THE SOVIET ZONE 1946
Fogg and Schneesturm, under the street light. The butt of a cigarette under Fogg’s foot. A clear, girlish laugh from the shadows. Fogg feels trapped under the pool of light. Schneesturm, alarmed, tries to move, but Fogg stops him with a gesture. There is the sound of approaching light footsteps. And then she’s there, under the light, looking at them like a teacher staring down two errant pupils.
– Henry Fogg, she says. You’ve been a naughty boy.
– Mrs Tinkle, Fogg says.
She smiles. Fogg, with confusion and anger intermingled: What the hell are you doing here, Mrs Tinkle?
– Language, Mr Fogg. Language!
– Sorry, Mrs Tinkle …
– Who is this woman? Schneesturm says. A look of bemusement on his face. What is she doing here?
– What are you doing here, Mrs Tinkle? Fogg says, again.
– Watching you, Henry Fogg, she says, still smiling. Who is your friend?
– He’s nobody, Mrs Tinkle, Fogg says. You really shouldn’t be here.
– Nobody? She turns slowly and looks Schneesturm up and down. He doesn’t look like a nobody to me.
– Who is this woman? Is she a changed? An Überfrau? The term seems to amuse Schneesturm. We must go, he says.
– You must be Erich Bühler, Mrs Tinkle says. The famous Schneesturm.
Schneesturm loses the grin. Looks at her again as if seeing her properly for the first time. Inclines his head. I was, he says. I am in the process of retiring.
– Retiring? Mrs Tinkle inclines her head as if puzzled, or merely, subconsciously, echoing Schneesturm’s body language. We do not retire, she says. We serve, or we die.
Schneesturm shrugs. Smiles. Doesn’t know how to take her. Well, he says, I do not wish to die.
– Too bad, Mrs Tinkle says.
Schneesturm frowns. Mrs Tinkle ignores him, turns to Fogg. He is the one who got Tank, is he not, Henry? she says.
Fogg, put on the spot: Yes, he is. But things have changed!
– Not for Tank, they haven’t, Mrs Tinkle says.
– Tank is alive! Fogg says.
– Not thanks to this man, Mrs Tinkle says. Really, Henry. I am disappointed in you. Consorting with enemy agents? I will have to report this to the Old Man. After I deal with this one.
– How did you find us? Fogg says, stalling for time. Trying to think what to do.
– I was out hunting, Mrs Tinkle says, and smiles: she reminds Fogg of a predatory bird. There are many of us out tonight, she says. Now … she raises her hand, as if to scratch again, somehow she is able to affect temporality, causality, Fogg knows if she uses her power they would be helpless, trapped in her loop, he says, desperately, Mrs Tinkle, please, we can talk about this—
– You crazy old woman, you will not take me alive! Schneesturm says, and he too raises his hand, and the wind howls, a gust of cold Arctic wind and snow comes out of nowhere and hits Mrs Tinkle, she gives a surprised gasp and falls back on her arse, knocked back in the street under the street lamp, and Fogg, horrified, shouts, Stop it!
– Nazi scum, Mrs Tinkle says, her voice muffled by the wind and snow and then there’s a gun in her hand, she aims it with an unsteady hand and a shot goes off with a bang, Fogg cringes, but the shot has gone wide; and then Schneesturm, too, has a gun. Mrs Tinkle squints at him from her kneeling position, and she takes aim, carefully, but Schneesturm raises his hand again and ice forms over Mrs Tinkle, a sheen of it over her skin and over the gun, her finger tightens on the trigger but slowly, so slowly, and Fogg can do nothing but watch and then there is the sound of a gunshot.
– No! Fogg cries, sees Schneesturm drop his gun and curse, clutching his shoulder, blood soaking his coat, his sleeve, but he’s all right, he’s alive, a
nd Fogg turns back to Mrs Tinkle with a sigh of relief that turns to horror when he sees her; and he realises it was not one gunshot but two.
She lies in the street, in the pool of light, on the edge of the darkness. A sheen of ice covers her face, but it is hissing as it melts, for the blood, her blood, is warm, and it is gushing out of her chest where she’s been hit. Mrs Tinkle! Fogg cries, running to her, crouching by her side. She looks up at him, for just a moment. Her lips move, trying to form a word. Then her eyes lose their humanity; her life is gone; and Fogg is left stroking the hair of a dead old woman in the melting ice of a cold Berlin street.
147. THE OLD MAN’S OFFICE the present
– You killed Mrs Tinkle?
For the first time since the interview started the Old Man sounds shocked. This, Fogg realises, is a part the Old Man did not already know. He says, Schneesturm did. And – We didn’t have a choice.
– She was a little old lady!
– She was an assassin, Old Man, Fogg says, remorselessly. She was your assassin.
The Old Man sits back in his chair, sinking into it. Looks this way and that, almost blindly; Fogg almost feels sorry for him. At last the Old Man lets out a breath. I knew she disappeared, of course … he says, softly. I always had her down as a defector to the Russians. She had communist sympathies, you know.
Oblivion stirs. I didn’t know that, he says.
– Yes … she came from a mining community. Welsh. There were rumours she was seen in Moscow, after the war … I never trusted the Welsh.
Fogg and Oblivion exchange an uneasy glance. The Old Man smiles wryly, shrugs, and seems to pull himself together again. He drums his fingers on the desk top. Well, well, well, he says.
