Another Kind of Country (42 page)

The two coffee mugs sat on the counter in their own spillage. Maybe being able to splash the stuff about was a prerequisite for the job.

‘The fellow before me?’ The waiter looked at Miller’s West German Deutschmarks, nodded. ‘I think he’s gone to Hamburg, or maybe it’s Hanover – I’m not sure.’ He shrugged; his predecessor behind the counter of ZERO had, like many others, gone West.

Rosa took the coffee from Miller, gestured at the emptiness of the
cafe. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t have come here, Patrick,’ she said.

‘I like it,’ Miller said. ZERO had become their regular haunt, once or twice a week, in the months – almost a year – since the Wall had been breached. ‘This is the first place we came to together.’

Rosa laughed. ‘My sentimental lover.’

‘I’ve let go of so much,’ Miller said. ‘
Had
to let go.’ He looked around once more, wondered why he should feel any affection for this down-at-heel cafe in a sunless alley. ‘But we have to hold on to some things.’

Rosa smiled. ‘Even if it’s only a dump like ZERO.’

Miller wagged an admonitory finger at her. ‘You’re winding me up – I know that you feel the same as I do about hanging on to some of our past.’

‘I’m a scheming, devious female, Patrick Miller.’ She took his hand, stroked it. ‘I just like to hear you saying these things.’

‘One good thing about the changes,’ Miller said, ‘we don’t have to worry about what we say any more.’

Rosa lifted his hand, pressed it to her lips.

‘And yet,’ Miller added, ‘we’re beginning to feel like strangers in our own city – on our own side of the city.’

Pluses and minuses: Miller had spent much of his time the night before at the city’s giant outdoor party doing the arithmetic: the good, the bad – and the unknown. Even the past that he himself had lived through was largely unknown to him. Yes, the facts, the dates, the events of the years he’d lived in Berlin were known to him; what was unclear to him was whether what had been done and undone – what had been allowed or forbidden in the name of this country that no longer existed – was to be written as plus or minus in the equation.

Now, sitting in this deserted cafe, he said as much to Rosa.

‘You and I,’ Rosa
said, ‘are too close to this country to do that kind of arithmetic.’

Miller smiled. ‘Neither of us comes from here.’

‘That’s why we’re too close, Patrick.’

‘Is that cryptic remark intended to stimulate class discussion, Frau Professor?’

It was Rosa’s turn to smile. ‘You know what I mean.’

Miller did. Separate currents of the twentieth century had washed them up in a divided city that they had come to love – and most lovers saw only the graces of the beloved.

The previous day East Germany had assisted in its own euthanasia. The vote by parliament to become part of a reunited Federal Republic of Germany had been the almost inevitable culmination of radical changes in the country since the November night when the border crossings had been thrown open. First, old Party leaders had resigned, to be replaced by younger members. Even this was not enough for the people; in the country’s first free elections, the ruling Socialist Unity Party was almost wiped out, power went to a centre-right coalition aligned with Chancellor Kohl’s CDU in West Germany. Kohl had his heart set on reunification; East Germany was headed in one direction only.

You couldn’t ignore it. You couldn’t ignore the city-wide, all-night party of the night before. And you couldn’t ignore the emptiness of ZERO.

‘Heinrich,’ Miller said. ‘Hamburg, Hanover – why?’

‘Because he can,’ Rosa said.

‘I miss the bugger, God knows why.’

‘I know what you mean.’ The keeper of the coffee tin in ZERO had been liked by everyone yet nobody quite trusted him; you couldn’t ever ignore the possibility that anybody –
anybody
– might be a Stasi informer.

‘Maybe he’s taken
all the customers with him,’ Miller said, ‘all the way to Hamburg – or Hanover.’

‘They’ve been going ever since the Wall was opened.’

They were both silent, contemplating the changes, the exodus. Some said a generation would leave, tomorrow’s leaders lost to the lure of bright lights in the West. Some had no choice: the days of full employment under a socialist system were ended. Agencies and government ministries were shutting down, thousands of workers were workless in the reunified land.

The Secretariat for Socialist Correctness in Publishing no longer existed. A single cardboard box had been enough to hold Miller’s books and pens and stapler as he exited the building in Wilhelmstrasse along with the rest of the redundant workforce. He’d passed Frau Siedel on the stairs and she’d turned her head away. Miller understood her shame: unemployment was not part of the contract in the GDR. Maybe it was for the same reason, the same sense of angry shame, that Director Hartheim himself had asked for his personal belongings to be brought to his home by one of the front desk porters.

The new waiter was standing at their table with two fresh mugs of coffee.

Rosa smiled at him, a question in her eyes.

‘On the house,’ the waiter said. ‘You must be regulars if you know Heinrich.’

Rosa nodded, thanked him.

‘Anyway,’ the waiter went on, ‘we have to use up that huge tin of instant coffee.’

Rosa and Miller exchanged a glance, looked at the barman.

‘You don’t know this place is being knocked down?’ The waiter was eager, pleased to pass on his information. ‘Some company from Munich has bought it – bought the whole alley,’ he spread his
arms, ‘everything. They’re going to build a nightclub here – or a car park or something.’ He shrugged. ‘Better than this dump anyway. Maybe they’ll give me a permanent job.’ He brightened at the thought. He was still smiling to himself when he took his place behind the counter, turning the pages of
Bild
.

Rosa and Miller were silent, digesting the news.

‘Some go,’ Miller said at last, ‘and others come.’

‘Like your Mr Whitacre,’ Rosa said.

T. J. Whitacre of Welwyn Garden City, would-be buyer of a sizeable chunk of the GDR’s publishing output, was a surprise to Miller. In April, weeks after the newly elected, non-socialist government took office, T. J. Whitacre had presented himself, by appointment, at the offices of the Secretariat for Socialist Correctness in Publishing. Miller had known that Whitacre was coming – had, in fact, handled the exchange of letters to arrange the visit – but was not invited to take part in Whitacre’s discussion with the Director.

That discussion seemed to go on through the afternoon in Hartheim’s office. A couple of conmen, Miller thought, bent on cheating the state –
the people
– through doctored contracts. And seemingly nothing to be done about it.

Which meant that Miller could not conceal his astonishment when, a hundred metres or so from the office, still indignant about the scam, he was hailed cheerfully by a smiling Whitacre.

‘Mr Miller,’ Whitacre spoke in English, ‘I’ve been waiting and watching for you to leave the office.’

Miller’s surprise was evident; so was his scorn.

‘I saw you arrive, Mr Whitacre,’ also in English, ‘and I’m pretty certain that you and I have little to say to each other. If we have, then you can see me tomorrow at the office.’ In for a penny, Miller
thought. ‘Although I’m sure our Director can handle the niceties – and the contracts.’

Miller made to pass by but Whitacre stepped in front of him, sleek and plump as a porpoise and smelling faintly of aftershave and deodorant. And, in his tailored, three-piece suit and shooting shirt cuffs, T. J. Whitacre looked as out of place on the Wilhelmstrasse pavement as a porpoise might in a suburban garden pond.

‘Please, Mr Miller, I really would like to talk to you.’ A smile – an engaging smile – lit the soft, round face. ‘And it might not be to your disadvantage, Mr Miller.’

Miller’s indignation turned to anger.
Does it never end?
‘You’re from Redgrave, aren’t you?’

The porpoise stepped back. ‘Redgrave? Can’t say I know any Redgrave, old chap.’

‘Really? This isn’t another of your people’s secret arrangements, all nicely legal and perfectly stitched up?’

‘Steady on, Mr Miller.’ It was Whitacre’s turn to look indignant. ‘I’ve told you I don’t know any Redgrave but,’ he lowered his voice, the aftershave leaned closer to Miller’s ear, ‘I
did
want to have a word with you about certain contracts shown to me today which, not to put too fine a point on it, leave something to be desired in the matter of legality.’ Whitacre paused for breath, the big, childish eyes waiting anxiously for Miller’s response.

‘You mean . . .’ Was it possible this Whitacre really had nothing to do with Redgrave? ‘You really want to discuss certain contracts with me?’

‘I certainly don’t want to discuss them with Herr Hartheim. The so-called amendments to contracts that I was shown today wouldn’t stand up in court for five minutes.’ T. J. Whitacre had regained his composure, his round face smiling again like a benevolent man-in-the-moon. ‘Neither
do I want to go on talking here in the middle of the street. Can’t we go somewhere for a chat?’

And so to ZERO. Miller’s joke, taken in good part by Whitacre. The cafe had its usual complement of students in jeans, T-shirts and military surplus. The two new arrivals were subjected to the usual inspection when they entered. Somebody wolf-whistled. T. J. Whitacre smiled, bowed slightly in his three-piece, pinstripe suit. After which the students went back to their own concerns.

‘Pot.’ Whitacre sniffed. ‘Is this a den of political resistance?’ Across the coffee mugs he looked seriously at Miller. ‘I wanted to see you, Miller, because we’d spoken on the phone – and, well, because you’re English. I remember reading about you when you left our shores.’

Miller sipped the instant coffee, waited.

‘I was shown some publishing contracts today for the books we’re interested in. Are you familiar with these contracts – and their amendments?’

Miller nodded. ‘You must realize that I’m not senior enough to amend anything.’

The sleek head nodded.

‘There’s an English-language market for this stuff, Miller, but everything’s got to be kosher.’

‘But,’ Miller said, ‘you want to buy them for a song.’ He hesitated. ‘Not that it’s my business.’

‘So why think the worst? You think that all businessmen are thieves?’

Miller shrugged.
Who says they’re not?

‘My company will pay the going rate, Miller, but we won’t be doing business with your Herr Hartheim, or with the publishing director next door.’

Miller wondered only why
he was being told this. ‘Business decisions like that have nothing to do with me.’

Whitacre was confident, almost brusque. ‘In the next few months, Miller, this country will become part of the Federal Republic. Agencies like yours will disappear. Business will be done with the people in Bonn – or maybe they’ll move those people to Berlin.’ He sat back in the steel-legged chair, relaxed, confident. ‘I’ll be doing business with the people in Bonn, Miller, with the new broom. All legit, all properly paid for. Believe me, it will happen.’

‘So?’ Miller made a face. ‘I believe you, Mr Whitacre, but why are you telling me all this?’

‘Because you’re going to be out of a job, Miller, and I’d like you to work for us.’

Miller was interested but his years in East Berlin, coupled with his involvement with Redgrave, had taught him to show a blank face to most situations. He waited.

Whitacre went on to point out, gently, that Miller’s years with the secretariat in Wilhelmstrasse were too few to merit any pension, even if a federal government were inclined to honour any commitments to employees of a propaganda department.

Whitacre paused. Still Miller waited in silence.

Whitacre smiled. ‘I admire your ability to listen, Miller. It’s a trait that’s gone out of fashion.’ He sipped at his coffee before continuing. ‘And I have a feeling, Miller, that your old newspaper will be reluctant to take you back on a regular basis right away, yes?’

‘You’re well-informed, Mr Whitacre.’

‘I’m not informed by anybody, Miller, just using the old nut to draw some rather obvious conclusions.’

‘And they’re not wrong,’ Miller said. ‘But you mustn’t think we’re destitute in the
old German Democratic Republic. Rumour has it that if Kohl gets his way and swallows us whole, we’ll be getting one for one on our miserable Ostmarks.’ He allowed himself a shrug, a smile: the Ostmark had never achieved parity with the West German Mark, except for tourists entering from the West, who were obliged to buy twenty-five Ostmarks (non-exchangeable) for twenty-five of the West German variety.

‘So you’re not broke, Miller, how remarkable.’ There was an edge to Whitacre’s voice now. ‘I’m offering you respectable, responsible employment which is rather well-paid.’ He looked about the gloomy interior of ZERO and smiled. ‘I don’t mind being invited into a student den for a joke, but don’t take me for an idiot and don’t waste my time if you’re not interested.’

Miller felt chastened. Besides, he was pretty sure that in a short time he
would
be looking for work.

‘I’m listening,’ Miller said.

What Whitacre wanted, he explained, was someone to oversee the English versions of the German books that would soon be his property. Miller was familiar with many of the books, he could locate translators in Berlin; Whitacre was of the opinion that Miller might want to continue living in the city which was OK with Whitacre. Was Miller interested?

Miller allowed that he was interested.

After that it didn’t take long. A salary was agreed. An official starting date would have to be postponed until the political situation was settled but Whitacre was happy to begin paying Miller if Miller was prepared to begin work on the business in his own time.

Miller was
not
prepared to do that while he was still employed at the Secretariat for Socialist Correctness in Publishing – it didn’t seem quite ethical.

Whitacre smiled ruefully
at that but said that even Communist honesty was still honesty.