Samson 06 - Charity, page 25
Bret pointed towards the food-filled tables now, since the music stopped, obscured by eager guests piling up their plates. ‘Did you taste those homemade poppy-seed cakes?’ said Bret. ‘Wow. Looks like they are homemade. What do they call them in German?’
‘Are they called Mobnklösse?’ said Gloria.
‘Yes, but here in Berlin they call them Mohnspielen,’ I said pedantically. ”Werner is very keen on them. They say they were Hitler’s favourite snack.’
‘Yeah, well I always said he had taste,’ said Bret. ‘Werner, I mean.’
‘What does it mean: Mohnspielen? said Gloria, childishly put out by my correction.
‘Mohn; Mond. Moon; poppy. It’s some kind of Berlin double-meaning that makes it into the moon’s plaything.’
‘You are a living encyclopedia,’ said Gloria.
Having no immediate ambition to be a living encyclopedia, I sipped my champagne and nodded and smiled. And marvelled at the way in which life can go from heaven to hell in such short measure.
‘And he’s working with you now, Bernard?’ said Bret, to demonstrate the way he had his finger on the Department’s pulse. ‘On the payroll?’
‘Werner?’ I said. ‘Yes.’ And I perversely added: ‘It was all Frank’s idea.’
‘Quite a bash,’ said Bret, who knew very well how strenuously Frank had opposed Werner’s employment. ‘And the kind of old-timers’ music I like.’ I suppose it was a nice surprise for anyone expecting an evening of shoptalk and passive smoking with Frank Harrington. But there was; no mistaking the bench-mark change in Werner’s fortunes. Twenty-four hours ago I would have bet a million pounds to an old shirt-button that Bret didn’t remember that Werner Volkmann existed. Now he’s Bret’s old buddy, and getting three-star accolades for his homemade Mohnspielen.
Werner old pal, you made it, I thought. Frank might pretend this was some half-hearted reconciliation, a rehabilitation or a convenient place to dump unwanted visitors. The fact was that Bret Rensselaer - the Deputy D-G no less - was giving Werner the coveted guarantee of Good Housekeeping handwritten on parchment. And doing it in public, in a manner I had seldom witnessed.
While we were talking, Frank had approached us. He listened to Bret’s continuing appreciation of Werner’s party but, judging from Frank’s smile and nods, he thought it was Bret’s tactful way of thanking him for bringing the errant souls of Frankfurt to this golden Berlin evening.
Frank said: ‘I hear the Frogs were playing up again.’
‘It wasn’t entirely the fault of the French,’ said Bret diplomatically. ‘One of my countrymen started the row.’
‘It was filthy weather,’ said Gloria with feminine insight. ‘They were all in a bad mood.’
Bret said: ‘One of the London people had an Irish name, and our little German interpreter with the beard made a joke about the Irish Republic not being a member of NATO. One of the CIA crowd didn’t understand that it was a joke, and got defensive. He said something about France not being a member of NATO either … There was a bitter row. All bathed in smiles and nods, but they became damned spiteful. Afterwards I even heard one of the Italians saying the only way to define a Frenchman was someone who knew the difference between Hitler and Napoleon.’
The music began again, and Bret asked Gloria to dance. ‘You don’t mind me taking her away, do you, Bernard?’
‘Where did you say the poppy-seed cakes were, Bret?’
Gloria gave me a brief consolatory smile.
Isn’t it a lovely day to be caught in the rain; I always liked that melody. Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing in the rainswept bandstand where no one could get to them. I went: to eat. I didn’t waste too much time watching Gloria and Bret dancing. I didn’t want to pursue her, and if I was old enough to be Gloria’s father, Bret was old enough to be her grandfather. Anyway, she knew we could not go on. She knew it and I knew it. Her unexpected appearance had unbalanced me. I was frightened that I might do the wrong thing here; do something or say something that, instead of healing the wounds, would cripple both of us for ever.
‘Aal grün,’ called Werner from the other side of the table as I reached for potato salad. ‘Not smoked: fresh.’ He knew I liked eel. I put some on my plate, trying to keep it separate from the pan-fried slices of ham dumpling with wild mushrooms. It was a buffet dinner. Real plates and real cutlery, but wobbly tables and gold-painted chairs supplied by the catering company.
‘Come and sit over here,’ said Werner. ‘I haven’t seer you all evening.’
‘I was dancing.’ I looked around to see where Gloria was, and caught a glimpse of her golden head and Bret’s white hair. They made a nice couple. They would have looked like father and daughter, had they not been dancing so close.
‘With Gloria?’ said Werner. ‘Oh yes, I saw you and Gloria dancing. Wonderful, Bernard. You looked very happy, like a kid in love.’
‘Any objections?’ I said.
‘No, I suppose not. But love is like the measles; the later in life it afflicts you, the more severe the consequences.’
‘Is there anything you can take for it?’
‘Only wedding vows.’
‘Is that what Zena told you?’ I asked politely.
He gave a tiny smile to show that he forgave me for my bad temper. ‘Zena believes in marriage,’ he said. ‘All wives believe in marriage.’
‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘I don’t see Cindy Prettyman anywhere. Has she gone back to Brussels?’
‘She’s up in her room,’ said Werner. ‘She’s in a bad way. I took some food up to her but she won’t eat a thing. She said eating would make her vomit.’
‘Why is she in a bad way?’
‘Something happened at her job. A robbery. She was on the phone to her office and suddenly burst into tears. She’s been stretched out on her bed sobbing. I’ve given her a sleeping pill but it doesn’t seem to have any effect. Zena said it’s better to leave her alone.’
‘Maybe a whole bottle of sleeping pills?’
‘You don’t have to be a bad-tempered pig all the time, Bernard,’ said Werner stiffly. ‘You can take an evening off, and try being human.’
‘I tried it once; I didn’t like it.’
‘If you must be your usual obnoxious self, go and be obnoxious to the soldiers sitting around in my kitchen all dolled up in shiny belts and guns. They are getting in the way, eating all the petits fours, and annoying the people from the caterers.’
‘Soldiers?’
‘Redcaps. Do you think I should ask Bret to send them away?’
‘Not if they are redcaps,’ I advised. ‘Bret is a top-of-the-range spook nowadays. He has to be given a military and civil police escort in this sort of situation. You probably have a busload of uniformed Kripo parked on the front drive.’
‘What for? Who’s going to assassinate him?’
‘It’s not only that. They can’t risk anything happening. Suppose he was picked up by a cop … for being drunk or something. And he’s not on home ground. Your house is in the American Sector. If there was any kind of wrangle - if he got punched on the nose - all concerned might get dragged down to the barracks, and held in US military custody while IDs were examined and charges drawn up, and it was sorted out. That would be a major embarrassment for everyone concerned.’
‘Is that why you are not going to punch him on the nose tonight?’
‘Very funny, Werner,’ I said.
Werner led the way to the terrace.
Tonight the bitter winter weather was being defied in a manner typically Berlinerisch. Flowers and sunny colours recreated the outdoor parties of summer. The terrace - where now bench-style tables were arrayed - had been roofed over. It was a cleverly designed temporary structure supported by Roman columns made from hardboard faced with golden-foil. From the low ceiling, leafy creepers and real blooms trailed, reaching down to table-tops to become table-decorations. Hidden heaters made it warm enough for bare shoulders, and hidden loudspeakers brought soft, vaguely classical music.
‘Don’t mention the redcaps to Zena,’ he said. ‘I promised I’d get rid of them.’
‘No, of course not,’ I said, and took a deep breath as I saw that he was guiding me to where Zena was sitting with an elegant selection of their friends.
‘Bernard! How lovely!’
‘You’re looking ravishing,’ I told her, and nodded while she told everyone at the table that I was a very old friend of her husband’s. It was the nearest she could get to completely disowning me.
‘Beside me,’ said Zena. ‘I must have a word with you.’ I sat down at the empty seat that had obviously been reserved for Werner, while Werner squeezed himself on to a bench that was the seating arrangement for the other side of the table. I said hello to the other guests, who nodded acknowledgements. There was a ‘mergers and acquisitions man’ from Deutsche Morgan Stanley and a high-powered woman dealer from Merrill Lynch. There was a bearded man who designed costumes for the opera, the wife of Werner’s wine merchant, and a young woman who owned a fur shop on Ku-Damm. I struggled to remember their names, but I am not good at the social graces: Fiona and Gloria agreed on that.
I tried the eel. It was very good. ‘You should eat salad,’ said Zena.
‘I do normally,’ I said. ‘But these dumplings looked so delicious.’
‘That Berlin food was all Werner’s arrangement,’ she said. Werner caught my eye and nodded. ‘It’s not healthy - all those heavy old-fashioned German dishes. And Werner is far too fat.’
‘It’s a lovely house, Zena,’ I said. A waiter was pouring wine for everyone at the table. He looked at Zena to make sure that he was doing it right. She had them all well trained.
‘You can see the water from here,’ said Zena.
‘Yes,’ I said. I couldn’t actually see the lake. There was condensation on the windows so that the lights in the garden became coloured blobs. There were more distant lights too: lights from across the water, or they might have been boats. In daylight the view would be wonderful.
‘Cindy is here,’ said Zena. It was almost a hiss.
‘Where?’
‘She’s in bed.’ The way Zena said it, you would have thought that I knew all about Cindy and her indisposition.
‘Is she sick?’ I asked.
‘In a way. She’s very angry, Bernard. Very very angry.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said. Perhaps this expression of condolence was marred by the overlarge mouthful of Schinkenknödel I was chewing. Or perhaps Zena wasn’t listening to my replies.
‘Yes, I know all about that,’ said Zena. She gave me a look of fierce dislike before smiling at everyone around the table and asking Werner to go and get another plate of lobster salad for the elderly banker. Turning to me again she said into my ear: ‘She’s upset about what you have done.’
‘I haven’t done anything,’ I said. ‘At least not to Cindy Prettyman.’
‘Her name is Matthews. She’s not married to that ghastly friend of yours any more.’
‘Matthews, I mean … Look, Zena, I don’t know what Cindy has been telling you …’ I said.
‘When Cindy is angry … really angry, she is likely to do something desperate.’
‘Yes, I can imagine that.’
‘You must go up and talk to her. Say you’re sorry. Make amends. Give her back whatever it is her husband stole from her office.’
‘I’ll take her some eel.’
‘Finish your food and I’ll show you to her room,’ said Werner, who had come back with a plate of sliced wurst instead of the lobster, and now looked as if he was keen to escape being asked about this failure.
I abandoned the rest of my meal and got to my feet. As we went across the crowded floor, Werner said: ‘Rudi was looking for you.’
I said: ‘You haven’t put money into that damned club, have you, Werner?’
‘Only pennies,’ said Werner. ‘Rudi said he wanted a bigger number of shareholders this time. He said more people would come along and support the place if they had a stake in it.’
‘And did he find people?’
‘They all bought shares in the club,’ said Werner, waving his arm in the air. ‘Almost everyone here tonight bought at least one share. The invites went out only to special friends and to people who bought a share.’
‘You’re a genius, Werner,’ I told him as he was waving and smiling to his appreciative guests. ‘Is that why Tante Lisl isn’t here?’
‘You are in a filthy mood tonight, Bernie. You know I wouldn’t leave Tante Lisl uninvited. She wasn’t feeling well enough. And it’s her evening for playing cards.’
A string quartet had been playing Mozart while the meal was eaten. It had provided a change of pace that relaxed the eaters, and encouraged them to chew every mouthful twenty times before swallowing. But now the dance band were returning from wherever they’d been to eat dinner. There was a riff on a trumpet and it was every stomach for itself.
While the musicians were settling themselves down for an evening of hard work, the waiters were clearing the trestle tables and folding them up to make more room for dancing. The guests stood around talking and laughing and smoking and drinking and planning all kinds of other things that are bad for you. Several times Werner was buttonholed by guests who wanted! to congratulate him on the party, so it took a while to cross the dance floor. With a drink in my hand, I followed Werner from the large ballroom to the brightly lit front hall, and its wide and curving staircase. Understandably reluctant to hurry in his visit to Cindy, he frequently stopped to talk, but eventually he started ascending the main stairs and I followed him.
From halfway up the staircase I looked down. I spotted Frank Harrington near the band. He was standing with Zena: she looked ravishing tonight, her dress and jewellery transforming her into a fairy princess. Not a real princess: Berlin was well provided with such nobility, and none of them looked like Zena. Zena had all the glitter of Hollywood, and she had the imperious bearing; of a film star that made her the centre of attention. Frank was laughing with her. She was showing him the palm of her hand as if it was something to do with fortune-telling. I wondered what she was telling him. Frank didn’t usually laugh like that.
‘What a crowd,’ said Werner.
‘It’s like the last reel of Sunset Boulevard,’ I told him in a meaningless attempt to think of something to say to someone who is watching his wife so obviously enjoying the company of another man.
‘What?’ said Werner.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
Then, as if in fulfilment of my remark, a woman started down the staircase, stepping with the slow and deliberate manner of someone under the eye of a movie camera.
‘Scheisse!’ said Werner.
Then I recognized her. Her hair looked like hell but it was no more untidy than hair I’d seen coming out of ex pensive hairdressers. Her nightdress was thin and frilly and filmy with an elaborate pattern of orchids. It could easily have passed as the most expensive of evening gowns. She was; barefoot but I’d seen at least one guest dancing without shoes. Even the sleepwalking manner of this woman’s, movements was not unique to her. The only thing thai distinguished her from the other guests was the shiny pistol she was holding high in the air as she came down the stairs.
‘Cindy!’ said Werner.
‘Get out of my way,’ called Cindy. Her voice was croaky. She waved the gun at him. It was a Walter. I recognized it as a Model 9 that Werner had bought for Zena but never given to her. That model was always in demand because the smart alecs in the Ku-Damm bars sold them to credulous tourists together with all kinds of cleverly forged documentation to prove that this one was the gun that had once been owned by Eva Braun.
‘Put it down,’ Werner called to her.
She was at the top of the stairs. Beyond Cindy’s shoulder I could see guests standing along the upper-floor balcony. Sensing danger, they began to move back out of sight. Below, in the hallway, guests were also alarmed at the sight of Cindy brandishing the gun. From the corner of my eye I saw the crowd crushed back upon one another, as they sought the protection of the wall or doorways.
I halted and froze. So did Werner. Cindy brought the gun to eye level with care and precision. It was only a handbag gun, but I’ve looked down more gun barrels than the Lone Ranger, and I knew that a hole measuring only 6.35 mm could, at this range, end a promising career. ‘You, and that damned husband of mine, got together, did you?’ Cindy yelled at me.
Werner moved closer to the wall, trying to get to the side of her, so that he could grab the gun. But she wasn’t going to let that happen. She put her back against the wall and was moving down the stairs a step at a time. I moved down a step too. Werner did the same. We all moved together. I would have thought it comical had I not been almost scared to death.
Without warning she pulled the trigger. I had hoped it wasn’t loaded but it fired, and then; was a crash of broken glass somewhere below and behind me.
‘You’ve got what you want now, have you?’ Cindy shouted hoarsely. Her eyes were red and bloodshot. She looked ferocious now that I was closer to her. She had lots of make-up on her face but the paint-job wasn’t completed. Tears had made the mascara run, so that her lower face was marbled with grey and black wavy streaks. ‘You thief! Are you satisfied now? You swine. I’ll kill you.’
‘Listen, Cindy …’ said Werner. She swung round to him and pulled the trigger. He was close to her but she was too hasty and the shot missed him. The round hit the wall alongside him and broke off a large chunk of moulding. The plaster shattered and its pieces went spinning away to land with loud noises on the marble floor of the hall below. I heard a distant scream, a man’s shout and the soft sounds of a woman sobbing hysterically.
Without taking proper aim, I threw the glass in my hand at her. My action was completely instinctive, and like most completely instinctive actions it was ineffective. The icecubes bounced out, and the whisky came splashing over me. The glass didn’t cut Cindy, but that was because she saw it coming and ducked to avoid it before firing again.
