Postscripts

by Claire Rayner

  He got out of the car and walked round to the driver’s side of hers and tapped on the window. At first she sat stonily staring ahead and then with an impatient movement wound down the window.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was a bastard and I’m sorry. It’s just that — you have a bad effect on me. A great effect, but a bad one.’

  She took a deep breath and looked at him and then tried to stare ahead again. ‘Yes, well. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to that.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to say anything. Can’t you just be normal? Simply react like — just the way you want to? Do you have to think about everything, plan it, make a whole scenario out of it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I don’t know any other way to be.’

  He stood there silently for a long time and then sighed and stepped back. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, I guess we’ve got a lot to teach each other, one way and another. I can see you again?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re not too angry to allow that then? You’re not going to send me away for ever for getting fresh?’

  Now she turned and looked at him again and this time she was smiling. ‘Oh, God, do I really come across as so wet?’

  ‘I’m not sure how you come across. You’re umpteen different things all the time. I no sooner think I’m getting to know you and you’re something else again. I get so goddammed confused with you. I never know where I am.’

  ‘Is that so bad?’ She seemed genuinely interested but remote, like an intelligent student quizzing her tutor.

  ‘Well at least it’s not boring,’ he said after a moment and then they both laughed and it was as though the spurt of anger between them had never happened.

  ‘I’d better go,’ she said then. ‘I’ve got a long drive back. Thanks. It’s been — I’ve had a good evening.’

  ‘All of it?’ And she looked sideways at him and then slid her eyes forwards once more to stare out of the windscreen ahead.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘If you’ve no answer, I’m going to take it as an affirmative. Goodnight, Miriam.’ And very deliberately he bent and shoved his head in through the car window and kissed her cheek. And she said nothing, but put the car into gear and rolled forwards slowly.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said. ‘I dare say I’ll see you again soon. You’ll need to do some more digging in Geoff’s files, won’t you?’ And the car reached the gate and went through, manoeuvring carefully past his own car slewed half across the way and then turned right to the road leaving him standing in the vast country darkness and watching her red tail lights diminish and then vanish.

  He was reckless enough to ask for a room at the Old Swan, and they had one (‘a slow time of the year, sir, so we can just squeeze you in’) and though it was pricey and his budget was dwindling fast, it was worth it. He ate a vast breakfast of eggs and bacon and sausages in the coffee- and woodsmoke-scented dining room before taking to the road again. He’d be a tourist, he decided. He’d done it in London and to an extent in Oxford, and now he’d do it in the Cotswolds. What better way to stop himself thinking about Miriam Hinchelsea?

  It didn’t work. By early afternoon he was sick of driving through one picturesquely named place after another — Stow-on-the-Wold, Bourton-on-the-Water, Moreton-in-the-Marsh — sick of thatch and golden stone and sweet little tourist shops and most of all sick of himself. He plotted a route back to London that would take him the harsh way along an ordinary motorway, and got back just in time to be snarled heavily into the evening rush hour, to sit and steam furiously for an hour from the western end of the Marylebone Road to Camden Town.

  There was a message on his answerphone from Dave, reminding him of his appointment with Matthew Mayer.

  ‘He doesn’t take kindly to being kept waiting, so do me a favour and be on time,’ the tinny voice grated. ‘It’ll be my ass that’s on the line on account I was the one who fixed it. You’re wasting your time, though. The guy’s not about to hand out handfuls of gelt just for the asking.’

  He swore and switched off and went and took a shower, and then, wrapped in a bathrobe, sat at his table in the window and began to make notes of his conversation with David Lippner. And his appetite for work thus whetted, pulled a foolscap pad towards him, and began to work on a storyboard for his film. And to his joy it came easy. It was shaping up in his head so fast it was unrolling like a reel of film already in existence, and his pen could hardly keep up with it. Briefly he thought of using the typewriter to put it all directly into print, and then abandoned it. He was afraid to stop the words that were now pouring out of the ends of his fingers; it might halt the flow as suddenly as it had started.

  He would begin with long shots of each of them as they now were, Cyril and David Lippner and Miriam. Establishing footage would show them, real people living their real lives now. He’d take them in among crowds to get the establishing shots, and then slowly pan in to concentrate on each of them, like that old silent movie The Big Parade. If it was okay for King Vidor, it was okay for Abner Wiseman.

  He chewed the pen for a moment and then scribbled on. Each would tell his or her own story in voice-over. The real voices, as unscripted as possible. He’d record them all in interviews, cut them to make a continuous narrative and then, using actors, would recreate each scene as they described it. And — here his pulse began to beat faster as the idea formed, and he knew it was a good one — the actors would not be heard. They’d be filmed improvising the action, speaking when they felt it right to do so, but all that would be on the sound track was the voices of the real people living now. Cyril and David and Miriam. No music, no sound effects, just those real honest voices.

  And then what? He didn’t have to stop to think about that. His hand and pen moved almost without his volition, as though he were experiencing automatic writing. Back to the present, to Cyril in his cold house and David in his wheelchair, and Miriam with her father’s papers and books. And his own voice, completing the voice over, telling the audience the sort of lives lived by the children of these survivors, as the camera pulled back again from shots of his three main protagonists in a crowd. Once again, a direct reference to that old silent movie he’d always admired so much.

  When he’d finished, he leaned back and stretched and let the deeply agreeable fatigue that followed a job well done seep out of him as he looked over his notes, and then set them aside ready to be typed. He’d done well, and he knew it.

  But he felt restless now, and in need of action of some sort, and on an impulse, reached for the phone. He’d call Harry Brazel now, why not? The man could have more to tell him to fill out his storyboard.

  ‘Who?’ The voice was querulous and female, and Abner said as patiently as he could, ‘Mr Brazel won’t know my name. I’m a friend of David Lippner. I’d be grateful if he could come to the phone. I have a message for him.’

  ‘He doesn’t see many people,’ the querulous voice said.

  ‘I just want to talk to him,’ he said, holding back his irritation almost physically. Christ, but why did people have to make such a drama out of everything in this stinking country? ‘A few words is all.’

  There was a long silence and then a voice said carefully, ‘May I help you?’ It was a very soft voice and the accent was very precise, very English, but he could hear the sound behind it, his father’s voice, his mother’s too, though it was a shadow of both. This man had worked at his accent, but still hadn’t been able to eradicate all traces of his past.

  ‘Mr Brazel,’ Abner said heartily, trying to sound relaxed and easy. ‘I’m so glad to have this opportunity to talk with you. I visited with David Lippner yesterday and he asked me to call you.’

  ‘Now that isn’t true, for a start,’ the voice said, silky now and with a note of amusement in it. ‘There is no way that man will ever have anything to do with me, even through a third party. Try again, mister.’

  Abner was silent for a moment and then laughed. There seemed little else he could do.
‘OK. He didn’t. He hates your guts and clearly you know it. But I’m interested in talking to you about him all the same.’

  ‘Why?’

  He sighed. It was getting wearing, this constant explanation. But he had to do it and he launched himself on his usual spiel, trying to make it sound interesting, worthwhile, exciting. Damnit, it was. Why was it getting so difficult to keep explaining it to people?

  ‘I see,’ the smooth voice said when at length he stopped. ‘And you want to put the story of poor Libby and David Lippner on the screen?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Abner said. ‘It won’t be them, in the early days, you understand. I’ll need actors. It’ll be a dramatised documentary. I make that clear in the credits — I never claim that it’s — ’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t,’ the voice said. ‘But why do you need me for this? David, I have no doubt, let you know all you needed to know.’

  ‘Not entirely. There’s a story about a boy who sold them all to the Gestapo.’

  ‘Ah,’ Brazel said consideringly. ‘Ah. That story.’

  ‘Yes. That story.’

  There was a long silence and Abner held on, praying it would work. It often did; just staying quiet made the other person feel driven to talk.

  ‘Why ask me about it?’

  ‘David said I should — ’ Abner began.

  There was a soft sound, a laugh Abner thought, but he couldn’t be sure. ‘Mr Wiseman, you’re lying again.’ The voice sounded almost playful. ‘David Lippner may have told you about me, but he’d never tell you to ask me anything. No, let me have the truth, hmm?’

  ‘Oh, dammit,’ Abner said. ‘OK, Mr Brazel. He didn’t. He said there was this man who was a friend of his mother — he doesn’t like you, you’re right about that. Hates your guts, frankly. But he said you told his mother about the boy and the apples and I want to know that story in the worst way. So I managed to get the information to find you from the home. OK? Now, will you see me? I’m a persistent man, Mr Brazel. I’ll go on trying so you might as well say yes now.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I say yes? Now you’ve come clean. Isn’t that what you Americans say? Now you’ve come clean. Shall we meet then?’

  Abner caught his breath. ‘Well, sure. Where and when?’

  ‘How about tonight? At the Savoy? I can manage a little supper at the Savoy. I’ll be there at around nine or so. They’ll show you to my usual table. É bientôt, Mr Wiseman. So interesting to talk to an honest man — ’ And the phone clicked as he hung up.

  Twenty-four

  Even the glitzy hotels in this country are unique, Abner decided as he stood in the lobby of the Savoy hotel. He’d stayed in hotels in a good many different places, and always the expensive ones had smelled the same, looked the same, been the same. He could have been anywhere from Maine to Albuquerque, Rio de Janeiro to Toronto, in them. Only the cheap and doubtful places ever had any individual personality, like the little joint in Bayswater he’d stayed in when he’d first arrived here. But this was different. This looked old and genuinely elegant, smelling of coal fires and cream cakes and hot tea. Abner relaxed, took off his leather jacket to hook over his shoulder on one finger and made for the main lounge, which was where he’d been told by the hall porter Brazel was waiting. Small low tables with peach coloured lights; a central wood framed bandstand where a bored pianist pretended to be Cole Porter as the soft hum of well-bred voices competed with his desultory notes, and people hugely pleased with themselves combined to create an aura that was, to Abner, pure cinema, and he relaxed even more, felt more than ready to enjoy the meeting ahead of him.

  But his anticipatory pleasure withered fast, as an impeccably tailcoated head waiter came and looked at him consideringly, taking in his open-necked shirt and jeans, and was clearly about to send him away as unsuitable to occupy his domain, even though Abner said firmly that Mr Brazel was expecting him, until a soft voice on the other side of the bank of flowers that flanked the entrance to the lounge said something and the man looked over his shoulder, lifted his hands in a way that clearly relinquished any responsibility and turned away. And Abner followed the sound of the voice and went round the flowers.

  In the very centre of the sofa that was fitted into the embrasure there, there sat a small man in a very precise pose. His hands were neatly folded on his knees and his head, which was sleeked with dark grey hair, was held slightly to one side. He had very large, very bright dark eyes, and they glittered at Abner above the smallest and neatest line of black moustache Abner had ever seen off a Thirties movie screen. He was wearing a suit of so deep a black that the fabric almost shone and his shirt was as white as a TV soap ad. And Abner thought: My God! David was right. He does look like a bluebottle, a shiny bloated creature with a tough and gleaming carapace, which, for all its odd beauty, looked menacing — and the thought filled him with a sudden gloom.

  The man on the sofa smiled, showing incredibly even white teeth and lifted one small and obviously well manicured hand to indicate the armchair to the side of the long table that stood in front of him. It held a bottle of champagne in a dewy ice bucket and a couple of glasses, one of them already filled with amber fluid, and as Abner sat down Brazel leaned forwards and lifted a finger; a waiter came at once and filled the other glass.

  ‘Well, well, Mr Wiseman. You will have even my status at this establishment called into question, dressing like that. We seem old fashioned here, I dare say, to you Americans, but — ’

  Abner glanced round at the other people there, in their neat grey flannel suits and carefully knotted ties over polite white shirts, and lifted his brows.

  ‘Half the people here are Americans, I’d say, looking at ’em,’ he said a little scornfully. ‘A stuffed shirt is a stuffed shirt in any country. Me, I dress comfortable. Always have.’

  ‘And a very estimable choice that is. I was not criticising. Merely making a point. And it amuses me to have so — louche a guest. It pleases me to show the staff here that they make rules for other people, not for Harry Brazel. Well, now, you are making a film.’

  ‘Indeed I am.’ Abner took a deep draught of the wine, and it was agreeably smooth with a hint of sweetness that he liked. The man has taste as well as money, he thought, noting the label on the bottle — Moët et Chandon, and a vintage year. Very nice too. He drank some more.

  ‘And you are, of course, fully financed? We are not wasting our time here just talking about projects? I like projection, you understand, but I also like to know to what I am committing my time.’

  Abner scowled. He couldn’t help it, feeling the lines digging into his cheeks without his volition.

  ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Not quite yet.’

  ‘I see,’ Brazel said comfortably and sipped his own champagne. ‘Not at all, that means. Well at least we know where we are. You wish to do the research and write your script first and then seek the money? This is after all the usual manner.’

  Abner glanced at him sharply. ‘You have some knowledge of the film business?’

  The man’s smile widened, again displaying those even white teeth and Abner thought: Capped Teeth and Caesar Salad, hearing the song’s melody in his head. Was this guy really a Californian in disguise, after all?

  ‘Of course I have,’ Brazel said. ‘In my business it is necessary to have a smattering of information about all sorts of activities. Especially those which use a lot of money and make even more, sometimes. Very much the film business, that, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Very much,’ Abner said and looked at him directly, staring into the big dark eyes as though he were looking for words written there. ‘Will you help me?’

  ‘With money or just with information for your script?’

  Abner caught his breath. ‘You could help with…’ and then shook his head. ‘No, that’d be too easy altogether. Information was what I came for, though later perhaps we could talk money.’

  Brazel made a small grimace. ‘It’s up to you to do as you think best. So
, you want information about the Rats of Cracow?’

  ‘Yes. You were one of them, I understand.’

  Brazel smiled again, that same glittering smile and Abner thought; he’s hiding behind it. The more amiable he seems, the more watchful he’s being, and settled down to a fencing session. This man was going to be a difficult one.

  But he didn’t seem so after all. As they talked he displayed such an air of disarming honesty that Abner had to work hard to prevent himself being beguiled. David Lippner had hated him, he reminded himself, and Lippner was no fool. He’d had very good reasons, surely, to be as filled with rage at this man as he so clearly was.

  ‘It is a story that is both uplifting and very unedifying,’ Brazel was saying in his smooth but precise voice. ‘The image of human beings having to hide like rats in a reeking network of sewers — this cannot but disgust a fastidious mind, and this I always had, coming as I did from a family of some standing in Poland.’ Again that wide smile. ‘My father, you understand, was an academic, a Professor at the University of Cracow.’

  ‘Indeed,’ murmured Abner and thought somewhere deep in his mind — like hell he was. This is pose, pose, pose. The father of this one was lucky if he was a gate porter at a university. There was, for all his elegance and veneer of expensive clothes and cologne — for Abner could smell him from where he sat — a vulgarity about Brazel and a guttersnipe sort of self-assurance that came from a quick mind rather than a thoughtful or original one. And for a moment he was amused at himself; in England so short a time and yet thinking of such matters as vulgarity?

  ‘But the Germans — the Herrenvolk, the Master Race — they were lower than the rats, all of them. When you are overrun by one species of vermin where better to hide than with another set of them? And I preferred those with four naked feet to those with two in jackboots.’