The Berlin Assignment (56 page)

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “We'll get sick. I didn't feel like playing anymore.”

Gundula knocked back her glass in one smooth motion and refilled his. “I want to know.” She thrust a third whiskey tumbler at him.

“You reminded me of my mother,” he said. A sudden admission.

“I don't believe you. You jumped up like you saw a ghost.”

“I thought I had.”

“I don't believe you. Drink,” she ordered.

Hanbury took the bottle and the glasses. He said, “Let's go up. I'll tell you there.”

The tumblers on the night table remained untouched. At first there was very little talking. Gundula lay astride Tony. Under the covers he ran his hand along her back. “I can't believe I remind you of your mother,” she said.

“You don't,” he said in a whisper. “Of course you don't. For a moment only, the way you stood at the window touching your face. She used to stand like that. I spent years practising with her in that
pose. She was making mental notes. Afterwards she explained how I should improve.”

Gundula laid her fingertips against the side of Tony's head. “Mothers teach their children,” she said. “No need to get jumpy about it forty years later.”

“She went mad. She wasted away. I shouldn't play. I really shouldn't.”

“Why did she go mad?” whispered Gundula.

“The doctor said she had an illness.”

“I hope, Chopin, that when you play now you're playing for me, not her.” Gundula shifted her weight. Her hand slipped from his temple and continued a journey down. “An interesting idea you had in the kitchen, having a race.”

“I love competition,” he said into her ear.

“Ready for the starting signal?”

“Don't forget the condom,” cautioned Tony.

“Damn the condom,” replied Gundula, emboldened by the whiskey.

The hours the consul spent with his day- and night-time women were blanks on the official program and Frau Carstens viewed them with suspicion. She tried tenaciously to fill them, but an equally determined Hanbury resisted. She pondered this. Was he attending secret functions? Were important contacts being allowed to slip away?

Actually, in those easy, happy downhill months Hanbury kept much of what he did to himself. Such as the long-promised dinner on Fasanenstrasse. Being a casual affair, informally staged, it would in any case have been unsuitable for inclusion in a diplomatic program. It seemed to be an innocent enough evening. Only later, when deciphering numerous inter-connected strands, did Hanbury realize it too contributed to the unceremonious ending of his Berlin career.

It was a dinner without five courses. The food was put out in advance. Neither host nor hostess got up to serve. Baskets of bread and bowls of salads stood down the middle of a table. Surrounding them were plates of cheeses, hams, salamis, smoked fish and patés. The guests took and ate and took some more. The drink was beer. Sabine and her husband had each invited two friends plus consorts. Hanbury came at the invitation of both and was seated in the middle, halfway between the host and hostess at the ends. Schwartz's friends – two professors with earnest wives – were on the consul's right, Sabine's on his left. One was Martina, still going out with Professor Kraft, the other Lisa who had dragged her husband with her. All evening long, when Hanbury looked up, he was confronted by a knowing smile from Martina. If he turned his head right Schwartz winked encouragement at him, and when his gaze wandered left, he saw a radiant Sabine listening carefully to the learned anecdotes of Kraft. Confronted with so much friendship and good will, Hanbury drank quietly.

Lisa's husband Ulrich, a mathematics teacher, was drinking faster than the others. Stray locks of thick hair fell over heavy glasses and a walrus moustache got wiped dry each time he quaffed. Lisa watched him like a hawk. Initially Ulrich looked glum, but slowly he came forward on his chair, as if the beer was helping him out of a chrysalis. Eventually he was leaning forward on the table and mumbled something which made Kraft giggle.

“What did he say?” Lisa asked Sabine.

“I don't know. It was in Latin.”

“He only knows two Latin words,” Lisa scowled. “
Pi
and
Theta
.” A resigned Ulrich shook his black-maned head. “That's Greek,” he said sadly to his wife.

“
Ut multus e visceribus sanguis exeat
,” Kraft spouted effortlessly. “Ciceros's Disputations. We were talking about East Berliners.”

“What about them?” demanded Lisa.

“
From the flesh much blood pours forth
,” translated Kraft.

Lisa thought about this. Ulrich continued the hushed exchange with Kraft. “I don't think that's suitable for East Berliners,” said Lisa. “That's West Berliners. We're the ones bleeding.” Suddenly there was a yelp from Ulrich. He raised a bottle. “To mistresses,” he shouted. He had just learned that Martina and Professor Kraft were unmarried. The academic end of the table fell silent. All eyes were on Ulrich who tipped the bottle so that beer flowed freely down his throat. “And to the men that love them,” Martina added warmly. She lifted her glass too. Ulrich turned to her. “Madam, you deserve to be kissed.” The edges of his words were becoming slightly indistinct. “Ulli,” Lisa threatened. “You don't have one?” Kraft asked, egging Ulrich on. “Of course,” Ulrich continued, his pouchy black eyes more resigned than ever. “Berlin is my mistress. She's not beautiful, but she is intense.” “Stop it, Ulli,” Lisa said. “She is inspiring,” Ulli continued, now viewing his wife. “And she's always there.”

The other end of the table had been shifting in their seats. Something Ulrich said touched one of the professors. He admitted he didn't know much about it – he could only make assumptions about what it was like to have a mistress – but if they were moody and fickle and different every day, he would have to agree with Ulrich's vision of Berlin. “Right now, though, she's getting her plumbing readjusted,” he added, smirking.

“A temporary stay in the intensive care unit only,”proclaimed Ulrich with authority. “When she's out, she'll be more licentious than ever.” Here and there a titter could be heard around the table.

Martina, with eyes not quite synchronized, asked Hanbury a direct question. “Do you agree with that, Herr Konsul?” Attention around the table shifted to the consul as if a piece of exotica had been discovered.

“What fascinates me is to see the two halves coming together,” he said blandly.

“Exactly!” said Ulrich with triumph. “Berlin is coupling.” He held his bottle towards the consul in salute.

Professor Kraft was quick to pick up. “And what fascinates
me
,” he said, once again giggling, “is that it's impossible to know which side is getting screwed.” Ulrich began to shake and Sabine, her husband and even the two professors' wives were now laughing. Only Lisa remained stern.

One of Schwartz's professor friends said he'd heard a joke about the East-West cleft. “Tell us,” commanded Ulrich.

“An Ossi and a Wessi meet under the Brandenburg Gate right after reunification. The Wall is gone. They look past each other into the other part of the city. The Ossi says:
Isn't it wonderful? We're one People again
. The Wessi replies:
I'm so happy for you. That's what we are too
.” Kraft loved it and Ulrich clapped before he grabbed another beer. “You've had enough, Ulli,” said Lisa. “It's good beer,” he told her. Kraft said, “We had some good stories in East Germany, but telling them was a crime.” “Tell the one about God, Helmut,” Martina prompted. “I'm not good at it,” Kraft protested. But Schwartz from the far end demanded to know about God and the GDR.

Kraft relented. He described a scene where the heads of state of the USA, the USSR and the GDR – Reagan, Gorbachev and Honecker – were having a summit with God. Each asked God about his country's prospects for the next millennium. “Ah, yes,” said God, “early in the next millennium the USA will become socialist.” Reagan, dumbstruck, turned around, covered his face with his hands and cried. “And what will happen to the Soviet Union?” Gorbachev wanted to know. God sighed. “It won't exist anymore.” Gorbachev's head sank, also unable to keep his tears from flowing. Now it was Honecker's turn. He asked what was in store for the GDR. God was silent for a moment, then turned away and wept.

Ulrich hooted. With his shoulders shaking he began polishing his
glasses with his serviette. Everyone, even the two earnest wives, loved Kraft's story. Kraft said he had one more. “Honecker is visiting the Kremlin,” began Kraft. “He sees a black telephone next to the famous red one and immediately inquires what it's for. A direct line to Hell, is the explanation. Honecker wants to try it, but is advised not to speak long – the call costs 100 rubles per minute. Back in East Berlin, Honecker insists a phone just like it be installed at his desk. Once hooked up he wants to try it. He asks about the cost. The reply, fifteen pfennigs a minute. So cheap? he asks, adding in Moscow it was 100 rubles. A pause, then the answer:
Here it's a local call
.”

When laughter subsided a second time, Martina said, “You see, Herr Hanbury, how preoccupied we are with ourselves. Is it like this in your country? Do you endlessly analyse yourselves too?” Hanbury smiled evasively. “Tell us a Canadian story,” cried Ulrich, his black hair ever wilder, his glasses askew. “Lift us out of navel-gazing.” Hanbury caught Sabine's look. She signalled him part apology for what was being done to him and part encouragement to bear it.

“We don't have too many good ones,” said Hanbury.

“A bad one will do,” said Ulrich impatiently.

“A Berliner's addiction,” explained Lisa.

“I heard one from an academic once,” Hanbury said.

“His field?” asked one of the wives who believed it mattered.

“Philosophy,” Hanbury replied.

“Escape artists, every one of them,” growled Ulrich. “I bet it's an escape story.”

“Sort of,” Hanbury said carefully. “Imagine the French Revolution. It's in full swing. Citizens' committees are in charge. They have taken the law into their hands.”

“Sounds familiar,” sniggered Ulrich. “Come around to our apartment when Lisa has her meetings.”

“Shh,” said Lisa.

“Three men are arrested,” continued Hanbury, “an American, a German and a Canadian. They're accused of spying, tried, found guilty and sentenced: death by guillotine. In the market square, thousands looking on, each is allowed a final statement.”

“Mercy in my apartment would be no better,” Ulrich said, but this time Sabine motioned that he remain quiet.

“The American stands tall on the platform, steps forward, rests his eyes on the crowd and shouts:
Motherhood, Baseball and Apple Pie!
He goes to the guillotine and puts his neck on the edge. The instrument of death sparkles in the sunlight. The blade swishes down. Miraculously, it halts just above the neck. There is a cry in the crowd: A sign! He's innocent! Let him go! So the American goes free.

“The German is next. He comes forward, slightly dazed because everything's been happening fast. His last chance to speak. With glazed eyes he recites:
Sauerkraut, The Beer Purity Law, No Speed Limits on the Autobahn
. He shuffles to the guillotine. The blade speeds down. Again, it stops just short. The German too is free.”

“Bad news,” mumbled Ulrich.

“The crowd – one last chance for blood – concentrates on the Canadian. He comes forward thoughtfully, as if working through a problem, his attention fixed on the upper part of the death machine. He begins to nod and points at the mechanism.
I think I've figured it out, he says. If you give that screw up there a quarter turn…
”

Ulrich was the first to laugh. He couldn't stop; tears rolled down his cheeks; he wiped his mustache without interruption. Others grinned. “Good,” said Kraft. “Admirable. What a culture. What a national type!” “Are you really like that?” asked one of the wives from down the table. “Selfless white knights, all of us. The truth first, self-preservation second,” responded Hanbury. “It doesn't surprise me,” said Martina, “with your
spectacular gene pool.” “A country of uncommon wealth,” the consul affirmed. “I do hope you're taking steps to share them,” said Martina.

After more anecdotes, the dinner party settled into a quieter phase. Ulrich seemed to go to sleep. The academics complained about university administration. The consul was entertained with stories about the days when Sabine, Lisa, and Martina were girls. Schwartz brought out a bottle of schnapps. Sabine brought in coffee and herbal tea for Lisa. One by one, the couples produced reasons to depart. Only Lisa, who was with Sabine in the kitchen, and a quietly snoring Ulrich were left. Schwartz refilled Hanbury's glass. “Sorry to talk business, Tony, but I've studied the material you obtained the other day. Fascinating. Did it take long?”

“It was slow going…” Hanbury admitted.

“I hope it isn't an imposition. I know you're busy.”

“Oh no. After what you've done for me, I'm happy to do it.”

“I appreciate it.” They clinked glasses.

Hanbury described the latest afternoon he spent in the Normannenstrasse complex searching through the files. The main problem was scheduling enough time away from the office. Schwartz said the information dug out by Hanbury contained new leads. With Stobbe's people focussing solely on screening public figures for their Stasi links, requests like Schwartz's for historical research wouldn't get attention for years. “The potential information on Nazi war criminals is rich. I'd like more digging on that.”

Hanbury said it would be difficult to schedule more than an afternoon a week for the files. How long might it take to pursue all the leads?