Borderless Deceit (36 page)

As we went, Rachel sometimes fell silent. I wondered, was she thinking about Krause? Why was she reluctant to tell me about him? Had Anne-Marie not said she considered me her oldest friend and aren't confidences something that old friends share? I assumed that her desire for privacy was stronger. Thinking this through (in fits and starts as we passed from one Berlin monument to the next) I became uncomfortable with jabs of guilt, a slowly growing apprehension that, really, I wasn't her friend. I was more of a traitor, a traitor to the spirit in which we were spending the day. She desired to keep her affair with Krause private, yet I had stalked it. It was more complicated still. I knew Krause was a villain on a global scale and Rachel was lucky to be rid of him. So I'd committed treason to our friendship twice. Not only had I stalked, I also denied her what I knew, insight she might well have wanted to have. Good friend? I lacked the courage for being one. In this way Rachel's silent moments were torture for me, and every time she broke the stillness with a new burst of enthusiasm for an alley, or square, or building old or new, or yet another spot which had poignantly contributed to the history of our times –
Look there, Carson. Look closely. Do you see what I mean?
– I was grateful because it pushed my conscience away. And so I worked hard to match her energy. “Oh my!” I'd cry with exuberance at her remarks. Or, “How lovely!” Or, “So splendid! So fascinating!” To banish introspection I tried to keep her talking, and luckily she did.

We had dinner in a pub, then took a bus back to her hotel. Rachel proposed a nightcap.

A waiter in the hotel bar delivered two tall glasses of foaming beer. We clinked. After a satisfying draught, I said, “A wonderful day, Rachel. Thank you. I had no idea it would be so interesting.”

“It's fun showing you around. You get so involved.” There was a slight tightening around her eyes.

I took refuge in blandness. “The places you took me were rivetting. You know everything about them.”

“Do you do it often?”

“What?”

“Visit other places.”

“Not much, Rachel.”

“Why not?”

“Work, I guess. Too much of it.”

“Would you travel more if you had time?”

Rachel's ambiguous smile was unwavering. I couldn't pin it down. Was she teasing? Or prodding? Could it be, here in the hotel bar, drinking beer, that Rachel was signalling she wanted our talk to become somehow familiar? “Travel more?” I said. “I'm not sure.”

“Not sure? How so?”

I paused. “I haven't really thought about it. Perhaps nothing spurs me.”

This amused her. “Perhaps that's it,” she said.

“And you? Would you travel more? I mean, if you had time?”

Right away I kicked myself. I shouldn't have turned Rachel's question back on her. After all, she'd spent four years skipping around the world with Krause, on the fringes of his corruption. Why would I force her to think of all that again?

She reflected, the teasing giving way to weariness. “I don't think I want to travel more. I prefer to travel less. I've become too rootless. The opposite of you, Carson. You seem deeply rooted. There's something to be said for that.”

It startled me. “Rooted?” I asked. “Stuck's a better word. I'm stuck. I'm more stuck than rooted.”

“Stuck? No. That describes me.”

“Rachel,” I protested. “If you're stuck, the rest of us live entombed. You have a wonderful career. You deal with fascinating people. You have exciting friends. You travel to places with airports that don't even show up on maps.”

It was the most I'd said all day and already it was too much. I clamped up.

Rachel laughed. “What do you know about it? How much does Anne-Marie tell you?”

I blushed. “I don't know anything. It's the impression you give, the way you go about everything…with authority and confidence. And isn't it true you've been everywhere?” Rachel tilted her head, daring me to go on. “What I mean is that this last conference was probably like all the others. It probably created follow-up committees to be convened God knows where. And you've probably been asked to chair half of them. You'll have to travel to the ends of the earth.”

Rachel reached for her glass, not to lift it, but to move it absent-mindedly around, turning it left and right as if it were a wheel. She nodded. “It's true,” she said. “There'll be some of that. I can't say I'm enthusiastic about it. No longer.”

Her work, that side of her, her public self, it was safe conversational ground, so I asked about the international protocols to be negotiated, the places for that, the individuals she'd be dealing with. Over two more tall glasses Rachel described the humanitarian work ahead. The way she portrayed what she'd be doing, it seemed she was planning it scene by scene like a director of a play, anticipating the transitions, from pathos to comedy and back again. For an hour, maybe longer, from the best seat in the house I witnessed a drama unfolding.

Striding back to my hotel filled up with beer, I felt inspired. Talking to myself I punched the air to emphasize my thoughts… about a role I might assume in Rachel's play. For hadn't she asked if I might travel more? If I did, and since I was her oldest friend, surely that opened a door to my appearing in some of the scenes? As what? I stopped to think…As what? What could I contribute?…It came to me. As a tree. Rachel considered I was deeply rooted. She could place me in the middle of the drama. Rachel's script would have the standard, messy parts: petty jealousies, struggles for primacy, endless mendacity. When all that swirled around, as she orchestrated major and minor actors, my role could be simply to be there. Abruptly I decided to rehearse it. On a Berlin corner I stopped, raised my arms into two branches and remained motionless with proud defiance. This would be my contribution to Rachel's future global work.

Others on the street scarcely noticed. No one clapped. No one tapped a finger against his head. In Berlin, my brew-stoked pose didn't seem unusual or abnormal. I maintained it until my arms tired, then continued on my way to my hotel, content and ascendant. I still recall
how that evening gave me hope.

Rachel had promised a river cruise and the next morning we marched soberly to the central station, jumped on a train which rumbled through endless stretches of an uninspiring urban landscape consisting of the back ends of apartment buildings and then through miles of forest to deliver us at the end of the line to a watery idyll. The river flowing through the western part of Berlin widened here into a lake. The waterfront was lined with restaurants and marinas; yachts ferried in and out; sailboats darted with the breeze. On the quay, Rachel studied the available cruises and acquired tickets for an outing that would take us through a string of connected lakes into the surrounding countryside. We hadn't said much on the train but now, cruise tickets bought and with time to kill before departure, we loosened up.

“Almost overdid it last night.” Rachel's smirk was slightly mischievous and a tiny bit bleached.

“Guess what I did after I left.”

“You concentrated on walking a straight line.”

“Well…actually, the whole way back I tried to see myself as rooted, as you said I was, and on a corner I stopped. I tried to grow some roots right there. But no luck.”

This livened Rachel up. She laughed. “So you see, you don't have it in you to be stuck.” She spied a kiosk. “I need a coffee. And let's find a postcard for Anne-Marie.”

The choice of cards was endless: Berlin landmarks from every perspective at all times of the year. Rachel took her time, occasionally seeking my opinion. The Brandenburg Gate? The Victory Column? Graffiti which once covered the west side of the Wall? Checkpoint Charlie when it was still active?

“Good,” I said each time. “That's good.”

But Rachel wasn't satisfied. Eventually she chose one showing two brightly plumed parrots in the aviary of the Berlin Zoo. “Let's sit down.” She pointed at a bench. After a few sips of coffee, she dug out a pen. “You dictate. I'll write. Start off by saying something about the parrots.”

“I'm not good at this, Rachel,” I warned. “I don't have much occasion to write postcards.”

“Are occasions needed? Maybe people like receiving postcards even without occasions. It shows they were being thought about. I
liked getting yours. Well, what shall we write Anne-Marie?”

I thought for a moment. “Parrots?”

Rachel nodded, pen at the ready. She eyed me severely, like a school mistress.

I frowned. “How about…” I began, “how about…
Berlin is more colourful than parrots. Lots of lovely things to see. Yesterday we walked a great deal; today there's a river cruise. Wish you were here.”

Rachel shook her head. “Not even close. Lighter. It should be lighter. We're both sending this postcard. We're two and there are two parrots. Something in that direction. We want Anne-Marie to enjoy it, Carson. Try smiling when formulating the message. It helps.”

I forced a smile.

“Better already. You should smile more often. Now words. What can be said about parrots?”

“
Birds of a feather
…” I quoted, then stopped to think.

“Excellent opening. Good potential. Go on.”

“
Birds of a feather are visiting Berlin together. Wish you could trek over
.”

“Uhh…No.”

I was warming up.
“Two exotic birds we are, flitting from spectacle to spectacle
.”

“Hmm. That doesn't do it either. I've got one. Tell me what you think.
We're having some great talks…
”

It took a minute to register. “Rachel!”

“Parrots talk. In a way.”

“They don't. They certainly don't converse.”

“Can we claim we do?”

“Rachel! We can. Of course we can. What are we doing now? You're the best conversationalist I know.” Rachel shrugged. Sipping coffee, I pondered. “Listen to this one:
We're having an eloquent time
.”

Rachel considered it. “
An eloquent time
,” she repeated, studying the two parrots. “That could do it. It's enigmatic, yet revealing. A hint of a pun, a suggestion of irony – never a bad thing.”

The postcard signed, she dropped it into a mailbox on our way to the boat. As groups embarked a photographer was taking portraits on the gangplank. He snapped a picture of us too. In the photo – later acquired – Rachel was radiant as the day itself, while I in that impromptu setting
put on my astringent grin. The photo captured us, I mean our natures, and I said so when we studied the copies.
Sweet and Sour
, was how I labelled it. “You do look as though you've just eaten a green apple,” Rachel said, laughing at my strained face. “But maybe it's deceiving. People can be the opposite of how they seem.”

“What?” I replied. “Me sweet, you sour?”

She laughed again. “Or, Me Tarzan, you Jane.”

This mystified me and after the river outing, so resolutely used by Rachel to pierce my psyche, I was at a still greater loss to think what her drift could have been.

The cruise began placidly enough. We found two places on the deck close to the front. The boat cast off, setting a course through a succession of lakes with fine waterfront scenery. Gardens, mansions, parks, palaces – one delightful vista after another. After a loop past Potsdam, the route was downriver through forests and past orchards. The limpid light, the gentle air, the pastoral quiet, our princely seats – hypnotic hours. We scarcely spoke apart from some sparse remarks on the beauty of this scene or that. After lunch on the return leg Rachel ordered two glasses of a local specialty, a wheat beer, a delicacy:
Berliner Weisse
. The concoction – a sweet red extract had been added – was delivered in thick glasses with drinking straws poking up. Yet the taste suited the mood, and on the deck and in the sun the brew's effect was amplified.

“A lovely outing, Rachel,” I said, enthused. “It really is.”

“
Prost
,” Rachel said, lifting her glass. “To the world's fine places.” We continued sucking on the straws. “About the two parrots, Carson. I'm sorry I bought that card. I thought it was witty. Maybe it wasn't.”

“It was fine. Don't give it another thought.” I raised my glass to the light. “Anyway, from a distance, holding this pink beer, we're probably gaudy enough to look like parrots. And who can say the outing isn't eloquent?” Blissfully I studied the shore.

Rachel sipped some more and then, so casually it seemed she merely voiced a random thought, she said, “Carson, tell me about your wife.”

The remark froze me; the glass nearly slipped from my hands. “My wife? Why? That was long ago. We divorced. It's been ten years.”

“I know. When we met just after I joined the Service you were
married. A year or so later you weren't. I remember wondering at the time what happened.”

“No one knew about it. How did you find out?” I sucked hard, emptying the glass.

“I don't remember. There's always people handling forms that have to be submitted when our private situations change. Somebody somewhere always knows. News like that spreads.”

“I was scarcely married at all, if you want to know. It was more like a non-marriage.”

“What was her name?”

“Carmel.”

“How long did it last?”

“Seven years, but it was a mismatch from the start. We both knew it. It ended without hard feelings. Why do you want to talk about this, Rachel? It's passé. Boring, really.”

“It doesn't bore me. Do your prefer not to talk about it?”

“There isn't much to say.”

“After the split, what happened to you?”

“I don't understand.”

“How did you deal with it? What did you do?”