The House of Rumour (14 page)

‘I’m telling you, all this talk of invasion could be British counter-intelligence,’ Starshine insisted. ‘They want to drag us into their imperialist war. There was something else that was to come with this message, wasn’t there?’

He turned and grabbed hold of my collar.

‘What?’ I protested. I was having trouble keeping up with what they were saying. It seemed some strange game and yet I somehow knew that it was all concerned with something cataclysmic.

‘What else did the fortune-teller say?’ Starshine demanded, giving me a little shake.

‘I don’t know. Something about a contact in the Deputy Führer’s office.’

He pushed me away. ‘Well, we know what that means.’

‘Do we?’ asked Nebula.

‘Peace feelers. They’re everywhere. In Lisbon, in Madrid. In Switzerland. There are Abwehr reports that the British government is on the verge of collapse and is ready to make terms in secret.’

‘Well,
that’s
more likely to be the work of British counter-intelligence, isn’t it? To persuade Fatherland that the war in the West is nearly won and that it can turn its attention elsewhere.’

‘Perhaps.’ Starshine nodded. ‘Perhaps. But what if the British really do want to make peace?’

Nebula sighed.

‘Then we’re fucked.’

‘Well, we’re finished here,’ said Starshine. ‘Looks like this Circle is being wiped up. What do we do with this one?’

He made a terse nod in my direction.

‘I don’t know,’ Nebula mumbled, as if to himself.

‘We can’t leave him behind. He knows too much.’

The two men exchanged a glance of some shared and dark meaning. In the gloom I saw it as a combination of a grimace and a tilt of the head. Starshine touched his throat gently.

‘No,’ said Nebula.

‘It’s a security matter.’

‘Fuck that.’

‘Remember your training.’

‘My training?’ Nebula retorted scathingly. ‘Listen, comrade, I’ve been working underground for nearly twenty years. My school has been the life of a militant. Organising in Poland in the twenties. Fighting the colonialists in Palestine. Setting up fronts for the party all over Europe. That’s been my
konspiratsia
, chum. Experiences worth more than all of the espionage courses in the world. Solidarity: it’s what the struggle’s all about. I say we take this one with us.’

‘No.’

‘Yes. The Corridor can take one more. Who knows, he might come in useful.’

‘Then he’s your responsibility. You organise it.’

‘Fine.’

Starshine lit a cigarette and lay on the bed blowing smoke at the ceiling. Nebula explained to me that they were going to take me over the Swiss border with them.

‘How?’

‘Let me worry about that.’

He walked over to a dresser by the bed, pulled out a drawer, took something out and put it in his pocket.

‘I’ll go and see Schmidt,’ he told Starshine, who grunted in acknowledgement. ‘You stay here,’ he said to me.

I found a chair and sat down. Starshine stubbed out his cigarette and rolled over on to his side. All the light slowly bled out of the room. I took off my jacket and rolled it up for a pillow. Curling up on the floor I tried to sleep.

I was prodded awake by Nebula’s foot sometime around dawn. A pale light leaked around the edges of the blinds. Starshine was sitting on the edge of the bed, smoking.

‘We’re moving this afternoon,’ said Nebula.

I yawned and rubbed my face.

‘What about . . .’

‘Your family?’ Nebula read the thought. ‘You can’t go back. Even to say goodbye. Your name might have come up by now.’

‘I could see a friend.’

‘Someone in the Circle? Forget it. It’s too dangerous.’

‘No. He’s not even connected.’

I was thinking of Kurt, that I should warn him. When I explained to Nebula he sighed.

‘Be quick about it, then. And make sure nobody else sees you.’

It was still early so I decided that the best thing to do was to lie in wait for Kurt as he left his apartment to go to the university. There was a wild look about his eyes when he saw that it was me coming after him.

‘Hans!’

I put a finger to my mouth.

‘Keep quiet, Kurt. Please.’

‘I didn’t know what happened to you,’ he whispered.

‘Quick. We need to find a place to talk.’

‘Then come back to my place. Mother and Father have already left for work.’

I sat on the couch in the living room as Kurt brewed tea and made toast in the kitchen. I tried to relax, but my whole body seemed twisted up from my night on the floor. I stood up and stretched. I caught my reflection in a gilt-framed looking-glass over the mantelpiece. My face was ashen, one side of my hair flattened into an absurd crest. Kurt entered and, laying the breakfast things down, came to stand next to me in front of the mirror.

‘Dear Hans,’ he said, putting an arm around me. ‘Try not to look so gloomy.’

‘I came to warn you, Kurt.’

I told him about the Mühlbergers and that I was leaving the country. I didn’t say where I was going.

‘Yes. You take action bravely. But what does your other self do?’

He pointed to the image in the glass.

‘There is a magic mirror in Prester John’s enchanted kingdom, in which distant objects and events appear. Other realities, too, so we see what might have happened. Here we all are, after all. The four of us together. You and me and me and you.’

Kurt let out a peculiar giggle. Dizzy with fatigue and hunger, I turned to look at him. There was an absent quality in his gaze; his eyes seemed to focus on something beyond.

‘Whatever we do as one person, it is as though all of us have done it. Do you think that paradise can really exist on earth, like the communists say?’

‘I don’t know, Kurt. You must be careful how you talk about things.’

I sat down and took a sip of tea. I began to devour the toast. I was ravenous.

‘I know now what the Emperor card meant, Hans. It was a sign.’

‘You really must forget about all that now,’ I mumbled through a mouthful of bread.

‘It is the token of earthly power,’ he went on. ‘We must render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s. In this life.’

I had soon finished off my little breakfast. I fell back against the softness of the couch and let out a long yawn.

‘In our other life,’ Kurt continued, ‘we render to God what is God’s.’

I rested my head and closed my eyes. I just needed a short nap. Then I’d be ready. As I drifted off Kurt came over and gently stroked my brow.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Rest. Sleep. Sleep and have your dreams.’

I was in the court of Barbarossa, paying homage to the great Emperor. A scribe was reading out a list from Prester John’s letter, a bestiary of exotic species: hippopotami, crocodiles, methagallinnari, camethernis, thinsiretae, panthers, aurochs, white and red lions, silent cicadas, wild men, horned men, fauns, satyrs, pigmies, giants whose height is forty cubits, one-eyed men, a bird that is called the phoenix, and almost all kinds of animals that are under heaven. Barbarossa pointed down at me, demanding to know what kind of creature I was. ‘He is with the Red Orchestra, sire,’ it was announced. The Emperor stroked his crimson beard thoughtfully. Then he looked at his hand in horror. It was covered in blood.

I came to with a start, that sensation of a sudden fall. I knew at once that something was wrong. Footfalls in the hallway, muffled voices. Kurt was saying something hushed and urgent. As I stood up he came into the room. Behind him was Inspector Glockner, the Gestapo officer I had met at the Mühlbergers’.

I called out Kurt’s name.

‘I’m sorry, Hans. But you did warn me.’

‘What?’

‘When you talked of the People’s Court, the guillotine. I couldn’t let that happen to us. They said they wouldn’t punish me, Hans. If I told them all I knew. It’ll be the same for you. They promised.’

‘It’s true, young man,’ said Glockner. ‘Work for us like he has. It’s the only way.’

I looked at Kurt.

‘You informed on the Mühlbergers?’

‘At first I was just scared out of my wits. Then I realised that by betraying them here I would be setting them free in the other world. I’m just a puppet after all, Hans. But we have to go all the way. Through the whole world and all its secrets. Know everything. Tell everything. Absolute understanding. Maybe the way to heaven is through hell. And there we’ll find the back entrance to paradise.’

I let Kurt approach me. As he came close I grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pushed him hard. He fell back against Glockner and in a tangle they toppled to the floor. I turned and made for the French windows that led out onto the balcony.

So these are my last thoughts. I’m on the ledge. Glockner approaches, a look of professional concern on his face. For a moment I imagine that I see something more: true compassion in those sad eyes of his. I remember the words of the song that I played for him.

‘Be sensible,’ he implores me. ‘Please. You’re a young soul, led astray by degenerates. Listen to your friend and save yourself.’

But I know too much. My thoughts are dangerous to others. I entrust them to you, witness from the future. Take care of my memory.

Five storeys up, I conjure thoughts of escape, of being lifted up somehow. An aria. The soul, which yearns for those heights, dreads to take its dark and awful flight. The evening star might point the way. But I think of the fallen blossom in the park. A brief shoot of life, of youth, of death. That is enough, surely. In a moment it will all be over.

5

the hierophant

The Mañana Literary Society. There was an impressive group of writers at the Heinleins’ house in Laurel Canyon on that fateful night when Mary-Lou and I attended. Jack Williamson, my great idol, shy and diffident in person; Leigh Brackett, one of the few women writing SF back then and a great inspiration for Mary-Lou; Cleve Cartmill, a newspaperman crippled with polio who had just started writing for
Astounding
; Anthony Boucher, who was more of a mystery writer; and L. Ron Hubbard, a prodigious all-rounder of the pulps who, it was said, could write two thousand words an hour without revisions. Looking back, I’m liable to put aside the sense of how star-struck I was in the presence of all this talent. I even tend conveniently to forget the miserable way (for me at least) the evening eventually concluded. Now I’m inclined to remember it as the first time I ever met Nemesio Carvajal.

He was a young and very earnest Latin-American science fiction writer who had just come from Mexico. He had contacts with the radical circle that Heinlein was still part of in those days. Tony Boucher was fluent in Spanish and able to translate for us but I recall Nemesio Carvajal as having pretty good working English even then.

‘Nemesio?’ L. Ron Hubbard asked when they were introduced. ‘That’s a hell of a name, kid. But then you Latinos have a bit of a flair when it comes to baptism, don’t you? You know the joke? If Jesus is Jewish, how come he’s got a Mexican name?’

‘Well, you’re one to talk,’ Heinlein interjected. ‘Isn’t your first name Lafayette?’

‘Yeah.’ Hubbard sighed. ‘That’s why I use Ron.’

Glasses were poured of cheap white sherry, which I soon discovered was the propulsion fuel for those evenings. A toast was proposed.

‘To all the stories that will be written tomorrow.’

‘Then this is the Tomorrow Literary Society?’ asked Nemesio.

‘No, kid,’ Hubbard told him. ‘Mañana, no translation needed. As you know, the word has another meaning. A lot of these hacks aren’t as good as me at meeting deadlines.’

Nemesio frowned. Boucher tried to explain that English speakers used the word more to mean procrastination.

‘It’s a bit of a gringo thing, Ron,’ he added. ‘You know, this easy-going Latin, always putting off today what he can do tomorrow.’

‘Well, excuse me,’ Hubbard retorted. ‘You know, I once tried to explain “mañana”, in my own gringo way as
you
have it, to an Irishman. He told me that there was nothing in the Gaelic that conveyed the urgency of such a term!’

Hubbard paused for some sporadic laughter and then tried to continue to hold the room by launching into an improbable story of a recent expedition of his to Alaska. It was clear that he liked to dominate any assembly and to portray himself as an adventurer, a fearless explorer. He had written so much outlandish pulp fiction that he was already finding it hard to distinguish it from fact.

But he wasn’t allowed to get away with it for long. The imaginative competition was far too much for him. The conversation turned to the concept of parallel worlds and alternate futures, the notion of time being non-linear, the possibilities of precognition. The world was ripe for the speculative genre with all the uncertainties of war, the bewildering potential of new discoveries in science and technology. But amid all these great events I couldn’t help thinking that my personal life was on the brink of something, that this was a crucial night in my own history.