Little Grey Mice (42 page)

‘Appropriate for a connoisseur!' he declared.

‘You've been far too generous,' she protested.

‘I want to impress them,' he said, which was true. To ingratiate himself with them would be to ingratiate himself further with Elke, who he knew relied heavily on Ida and her opinion.

Everyone at Bad Godesberg had tried, too, and Elke loved them for it. The children's faces shone and there wasn't a hair out of place: Georg wore what she knew to be his newest trousers, with a sharp crease, and Doris looked slightly self-conscious in a starched and pleated dress. Kissel was casual, but his trousers were freshly pressed and the new shirt still showed the creases from being packed in its box. By coincidence the predominant colours in the Hermes scarf perfectly complemented those of Ida's silk dress, which Elke hadn't seen before. Ida put it around her shoulders, completing the outfit. Throughout the greetings and the present-giving Elke stood slightly apart, preferring to watch rather than to be involved, aware of the social ease with which Reimann did everything. He did not treat Georg and Doris quite as adults, but neither did he talk down to them as children, so they confidently talked back and joined in with the gathering, without any shyness. He was attentive to Ida, but without the slightest suggestion of flirtatiousness. Elke considered him most successful with Kissel. There could be no doubt of Kissel's uncertainty at encountering someone he knew to be a political commentator for influential overseas magazines; he was loudly welcoming, drowning insecurity beneath noisy bonhomie. Reimann at once entered into conversation with the other man, and Elke quickly noticed how he was deferring to what Kissel said: once she overheard him openly ask for Horst's opinion of the developments in Central and Southern Europe, head bent in nodded concentration on the reply.

They drank sparkling wine in the shabby drawing-room, and Kissel insisted on opening the wine that Reimann had given.

‘I love burgundy,' he announced. ‘Can't get enough that's worth drinking.'

He'd gradually quietened since their arrival, Elke realized gratefully: she'd become conscious of Ida's growing irritation with her husband.

During the meal Reimann talked animatedly to everyone, going out of his way to include the children in whatever was discussed, drawing them out and amusing them. Never once did he contradict anything Kissel said: neither, when Elke cast her mind back, did he agree. He latched on to remarks from Ida – and even Georg on one occasion – and told stories against himself (none of which Elke had heard before) to make Ida laugh, which she did, genuinely. As did everyone else. Elke stayed proudly on the sidelines, not needing – not wanting – to contribute more than the occasional interjection, although she laughed a lot as they all did. That's all she had to do, she told herself. They were together, she and Otto: to admire – to enjoy – he was to admire and enjoy her. Reflected glory, which was hardly over-stressing it: just a tiny bit.
Have you seen the two of them? God they're incredible! Just so much fun! You can
V
believe the wit! The humour! But still – I know you'II find this difficult to believe – still so modest! So natural! Like they don't recognize it. Incredible! Absolutely incredible!
Not quite like that, Elke acknowledged, regaining a foothold on reality. Not yet. But close to what it could be if… Not a permitted thought: certainly not to be permitted to continue.

The second bottle of La Tour-Martillac was opened. And then, against Reimann's protest that it was a gift, the third. By the cheese course Reimann was sure he had worked out the thirty thousand withdrawal from Elke's bank account and evolved a potential benefit: it was certainly something worth initiating, because there was a simple retreat it one proved necessary. He said to Kissel, through whom he had been careful always to tell his stories: ‘Elke tells me you're writing a book?'

‘Trying,' demurred Kissel, with unaccustomed modesty in the presence of someone he believed to be a professional writer. ‘It is still very rough. Needs a lot of work.'

‘Fiction or fact?'

‘Fiction. Just fiction.'

‘Just
fiction! Don't denigrate it! It's my ambition to write a book. I'm too frightened to start!'

‘You?'

‘Why so surprised?'

‘But you
are
a writer.'

The table was quiet, and Reimann was aware of the concentration upon what he was saying. ‘There's an important difference,' he insisted. ‘A vast difference. For a journalist, the story already exists: is there. They have to tell it: report what happened …' The listening Elke, he thought: he shouldn't forget for a moment the listening Elke. He continued: ‘Even for a political commentator, an interpreter like I am supposed to be, the basic framework exists. But fiction is
real
writing: starting with nothing but a blank sheet of paper and creating something that might possibly
move
people: change real events in the world, even. That's impressive.'

‘Well… yes … of course I understand what you're saying …' said Kissel, with head-waving modesty.

Cretin! thought Reimann, gazing admiringly at the other man. ‘I don't suppose I could see something of it?'

For a few seconds Kissel, the would-be writer, couldn't find his way. Then he said: ‘But like I say, it's rough … a very rough draft. Needs so much work …'

‘Why so hesitant, darling?' said Ida. ‘You've been telling me for weeks how good it is, even in rough draft.'

‘Well … maybe a sheet or two …'

Elke thought Kissel was flushed. It would be the wine; it really was superb.

‘Why don't Elke and I clear away and make some more coffee for the garden while you and Otto go upstairs and look at the book … or rather rought draft?' encouraged Ida.

Before Kissel could think of any avoidance Reimann said: ‘Why don't we do just that: top up our glasses and go upstairs and have a look!'

Which is what they did, glasses in hand, the reluctant Kissel in the lead. On their way up Reimann noted the further signs of impoverishment: the frayed, sometimes cheaply repaired stair-carpet, chipped paint everywhere, heavy, permanently draped velvet curtains that would have collapsed if there had been an attempt to draw them, faded wallpaper so sun-bleached it was hard – sometimes impossible – to distinguish any original design or motif. The bedroom was neatly tidy— no discarded clothes, the bed properly made, the coverlet taut, without creases – but just as it was outside, the overall aura was of shabbiness. The only exception to the attempted neatness was Kissel's put-you-up, baize-topped table. It was a chaotic jumble of disordered papers and pencils and pens and writing paraphernalia: paper-clips and rubber bands and a stapler and a metal-framed, three-decked file holder from which more papers were suspended, jammed from being completely disgorged by those which had escaped and built up below, creating a frozen paper waterfall.

‘Writers aren't tidy,' said Kissel.

‘I know,' said Reimann, colleague-to-colleague. Fuck me! he thought.

And thought it again, constantly, when he began to read the sheets Kissel handed him. Everything Reimann purported to write was virtually already created for him, so he did not consider himself to be a writer in any respect, but what Kissel had created was appalling, a collection of clichés strung together without direction or point around parody characters.

‘This really is good,' congratulated Reimann. ‘I agree it needs work. But basically it's very good indeed.'

Kissel smiled uncertainly. ‘You really think so?'

‘Most definitely,' Reimann insisted, handing the pages back. ‘Have you ever written any short stories? My magazine publishes fiction, around five thousand words a time. They pay, of course. You'd have to accept whatever you wrote being edited: altered for style and to fit the space available, of course.'

‘I understand the mechanics,' assured Kissel, eagerly. ‘Maybe I'll try something: I could do with a break from the novel. Recharge the batteries, so to speak.'

Reimann gave the other man his card and said: ‘Let me know when you've got something ready: either direct or through Elke.'

The two women were in the garden, coffee and cups between them on the grass. With typical over-statement Kissel announced proudly: ‘Otto says his magazine would publish any short story I might write.'

Ida began pouring the coffee, unimpressed. ‘Everyone's getting new opportunities,' she said. ‘Elke with her top-secret job, Horst with his short stories. I feel quite left out.'

Elke frowned towards her sister, but Ida was bent over the coffee and didn't see the expression. The remark did not appear to have registered with either of the two men. She made a mental note to complain to Ida when they were alone. Maybe she should not have told her in the first place.

The afternoon passed as perfectly as the lunch for Elke. The men talked with increasing friendliness and after an hour Georg appeared with a ball and makeshift bat and asked Reimann to teach him the baseball he must have learned during an upbringing in America. Reimann escaped easily by saying the garden was not big enough to create a proper baseball diamond but positioned Georg sideways on, as he recollected from television, and pitched towards the boy. After a while he insisted upon Doris being included as well. Kissel fielded clumsily but fortunately intervened and told Georg to stop asking too many questions when Reimann pleaded he couldn't bring to mind all the rules after so long away from the United States.

Watching the haphazard game but out of earshot, Ida said: ‘OK, I'll admit it! He's fabulous. Better than I ever guessed, from anything you told me. And he is just like Dietlef.'

‘He's not like Dietlef,' Elke corrected at once. ‘Otto's a good man.' She decided it was not the moment to rebuke her sister for the remark about new jobs and secrets. ‘I'm glad you like him.'

‘Like him! I
want
him!' Abruptly, despising herself for even allowing the reflection, Ida wondered what a genuinely fascinating man like Otto Reimann appeared to find in Elke, who'd always had so much difficulty with personal relationships. Ida hurriedly dismissed the doubt. All that mattered was that he
did
seem attracted to her.

‘Forbidden fruit! I told you before I'm not sharing him with anyone. And nobody's taking him away from me.' They were playing, joking in their special way, Elke told herself. But she hadn't been joking then. Short though the relationship had been – inconclusive though it still was – his not being with her now was inconceivable. She
was
going to keep him: risk losing him to no one.

They left Bad Godesberg later than Elke normally did by herself, just as they'd been late leaving Marienfels. From what was now her accustomed sideways position in the car, so she could look at him, Elke said: ‘You made quite a hit. Do you think Horst is publishable?'

He had to be careful, knowing how much she read. ‘Some of it is pretty raw: it needs a good editor.'

‘It would be marvellous if it did happen. I think they could use the money.'

Reimann was sure he was right about the thirty thousand Deutschmarks. ‘Surely his job is well enough paid?'

‘Horst isn't a very good manager: postures quite a bit about wine, that sort of thing. That burgundy you bought today was superb, incidentally.'

‘It wasn't burgundy: it was claret. It would have been better left to stand and breathe.'

Elke reached across, squeezing his hand lightly. ‘You didn't correct him, when he called it burgundy,' she said, admiringly.

‘What would have been the purpose of showing up his ignorance?'

‘You're concerned at everyone's feelings, aren't you?'

‘Yours most of all,' said Reimann, enjoying the irony of the truth. The building housing the East German mission came up on their right: Reimann didn't even look in its direction. He said: ‘What's your secret job?' and was aware of the almost imperceptible intake of breath.

‘Nothing, really.' Damn Ida! Damn, damn, damn her!

Reimann gripped the wheel tighter, in his frustration. ‘Ida seems impressed. Please tell me. I'm interested in everything you do, you know that.'

Elke shifted uncomfortably, turning away from him to stare directly ahead. ‘A committee,' she mumbled. ‘I'm the official recorder. Nothing, really.'

‘A Cabinet committee?'

‘I honestly can't talk about it,' pleaded Elke, miserably. ‘There's a security classification.'

‘I'm not asking any secrets, am I?'

‘No.'

‘Don't you trust me?'

‘Of course I trust you!'

‘I'd never let you down, you know. Take advantage of your position: do or say anything to compromise you.'

‘I know you wouldn't, darling. You don't have to tell me that.'

‘A Cabinet committee?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's certainly been kept secret, hasn't it? I don't recall anything being published about it?'

‘There hasn't been.'

Change approach, Reimann told himself. In an I-know-you-don't-have-to-tell-me voice, he said: ‘It's logical, of course. There'd have to be a special committee to consider all that's happening: it's far too much to be handled at Cabinet level in the first place.'

Elke didn't answer.

‘That's right, isn't it?' Come on, you bitch!

‘Yes.'

‘I understand now.'

She came back towards him, across the car. ‘Understand what?'

‘Why it's been difficult for you some evenings recently: the extra workload. I really thought a couple of times that you might have another friend … another man … you know…?'

Elke snatched out for his hand, harder this time, so that the car swerved slightly. ‘Oh no, darling! Honestly no! There isn't anyone else: believe me! That's all it's been. Work. I'm sorry: really sorry.'