Out of Such Darkness (15 page)

Jay lifts his glass. He’s recalling something a friend in the UK once said to him, ‘As far as extra-marital activity is concerned – opportunity is everything’. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘We should go. We need to get it sorted.’

Teri is sitting alongside him on the flight to San Antonio, Texas. Jay has explained everything to Rachel – the necessity of the trip to extricate Straub, DuCheyne from a difficult contract – but has omitted to tell her that Teri is going as well. It’s a detail that will only cause misunderstandings.

Having been aware of the horror stories about the new security measures, Jay had arranged for them to have two hours in hand when they met at La Guardia. They were through in half that time and had spent an hour conversing while they watched the passengers collecting at each gate. Jay discovered that Teri lives with her boyfriend, Eduardo, in New Jersey and that he’s an attorney whose work mainly involves defending Blacks and Hispanics in the local criminal court system. He sounded like a saint.

When a full-bearded man appeared wearing an ankle-length shirt with a jacket and a white cotton cap, Jay sensed the people around them tense. The man passed them heading for another queue.

‘What would you have done if he’d been on our flight,’ Jay asked.

Teri shook her head. ‘Taken a later one?’

‘What if we all did that?’

She smiled. ‘Dressing like that – it’s one way of making sure you get a row to yourself.’

She’s trim and fit looking, don’t you think?

Jay nodded and blurted out, ‘How do you keep in such good shape?’

Teri smiled – did she mean to encourage him? – and said, ‘Why thank you. I work out most days in a gym near the office in Manhattan.’ On one level, the one that his body responded to, Jay saw the exchange as loaded with promise. But
had
something happened between them? If she’d brushed him off with, ‘it’s none of your business’ at least he would know.

Now they sit companionably in the stale air of economy class; they’ve used up their small-talk. Teri is reading
Corporate Law
magazine while Jay has his copy of
The British Are Coming
open on his lap. He’s struggling to concentrate because the nerve endings in his left arm are tingling – making him aware of the contact with Teri’s right arm. She isn’t moving away. He’s read the first paragraph of the book five times. He’s reached the bottom of the page twice but hasn’t retained enough information to turn over to the next one. He sighs.

Admitting defeat, he turns to the index and fingers through to the ‘Ms’. There’s one reference to Cameron Mortimer and he turns to page 233 in the chapter on Auden. Here the book’s author is describing the Brit’s hectic love life:

It is not known for certain whether Auden and Isherwood continued the sexual side of their relationship in America. Isherwood was in a stable relationship and Auden seems to have respected it – perhaps he had no choice. He has documented some affaires de coeur in his diaries and one that interests us here is with another British writer, Cameron Mortimer. Mortimer came to America in 1935 and sold the film rights of his Dexter Parnes VC mystery thrillers to Patriotic Studios. Strictly speaking, Mortimer does not fall within the purview of this work because Patriotic employed its own team of US writers to turn his thrillers into hour-long B movies.

Auden and Mortimer collaborated in creating a stage play, ‘The Few who Dare’ about an English fighter squadron in the Battle of Britain. It failed to make it even off-Broadway and they hawked it around Hollywood as a screenplay before giving up on it. According to Auden’s diary, the partnership with Mortimer was a failure on both the writing and the intimate level. He was clearly embarrassed by the relationship and his diary of this period ends with some catty remarks about ‘Mortimer living off the proceeds of his penny dreadfuls knocking about in a Connecticut mansion with his pool-boy, Willy Keel.’

The hair on the back of Jay’s neck pricks up as he finishes the section but he doesn’t know why. In the confines of a personal diary it’s reasonable for Auden to have been so negative about Mortimer’s talent even though the latter had written a very popular series and made money from the film rights. On another level, Jay is puzzled why Auden should have made the point about Mortimer’s ‘pool-boy’. This relationship wasn’t unique. Hadn’t Isherwood had a similar one in Hollywood? Perhaps Auden was so specific about Mortimer’s boy’s identity because he was emphasising the accuracy of his knowledge – and at the same time showing disdain for his ex-lover’s choice of new partner. Even as these thoughts churned over in his mind Jay knew he wasn’t close to the real reason for the unease stimulated by Auden’s words.

They’re in the cab from the airport to the hotel. All that Jay knows is that Teri has booked them into the Homewood Suites – the destination she gives the driver. Jay’s revelling in her closeness. It’s late afternoon and the appointment with Heroes of the Alamo is tomorrow morning. Teri has left the rest of the day after the meeting open – ‘in case we have to see them again to finalise a deal’. She has booked a second night so the homeward flight is an exciting 40 hours away.

She turns to him, ‘When you saw Heroes, where did you stay?’

‘I didn’t. I flew into San Antonio, saw Heroes and then went on to Houston to see Lone Star. I stayed in Houston.’

‘So you didn’t see the Riverwalk?’

‘Riverwalk?’

‘Hey! Great! I’ll be able to show you round. San Antonio is
so
fun.’

‘Good.’ He relaxes into the seat.

‘The hotel I booked – it’s on the Riverwalk, not far from the Alamo.’

‘
The
Alamo – Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, Laurence Harvey. That Alamo?’

‘Didn’t you know?’

He shakes his head. ‘I must have made the connection somewhere but–’

‘Laurence who?’

‘Laurence Harvey. No … hold on. He was the actor. He played … Colonel Travis?’

She pushes his arm. ‘You Brits. It was real, you know – part of America’s history. Not just a movie. You’ve gotta lot to learn, boy. I’m gonna show you some things.’ A flush breaks out on the dark skin of her throat.

‘Okay, folks. You arrived,’ the cab driver calls.

Teri has a Hilton loyalty card and organises everything at the express check-in. As they make their way to the elevators, she holds up a single key card. ‘We have a two-bedroom suite. Suites here are no more expensive than standard rooms in other places but you have more space. We can use the living room to work in.’

This is it. She’s throwing you together.

Jay’s breathing quickens. Or is this really the most cost-efficient and business-like approach? In the lobby waiting for the elevator they study the floor indicator in silence. The air fills with Teri’s perfume. His nostrils flare as he breathes it in.

She’s studying his face. ‘You okay? You don’t got an elevator phobia, do you?’

He forgives her use of English. He’ll do nothing to diminish their familiarity.

The bell tings, the lift doors open and he follows her in. They turn their backs to the mirror and, standing alongside each other, they watch the lights as they change. He wants to brush the back of his hand accidentally against hers but holds back. What if it’s the wrong move?

Teri turns her head. ‘It has two en-suite bathrooms – his ’n hers. What say we freshen up and go down for the manager’s reception? We can plan tomorrow over a drink, leaving the evening to explore the Riverwalk.’

‘You’re the boss.’

She stops in the open doorway. He nearly bumps into her bag. ‘Actually, you’re the boss, Jay.’ She turns away and leads him to their suite.

Look. I swear she’s putting extra juice into the swing of those hips.

I became obsessed with Wolf and as summer turned into autumn and then winter, he would spend his weekdays at school but on Wednesday evening each week and on Saturday morning, on the pretext of English lessons, we would have ninety minutes together in the my room in the Green House as lovers. Frau Guttchen knew everything and was discreet. I no longer felt the desire nor need to frequent the clubs in the Nolli on a Friday night – I had to conserve my energy to keep up with Wolf.

When the weather turned warmer in March we started venturing out. Wolf would come to the Green House straight from his Gymnasium and we would walk together along K-Damm to Kaufhaus des Westens, the department store. After passing through the Nazi picket, because KaDeWe was owned by Jews, we would wander through the exotic food halls before sitting down to coffee and cake. I can picture Wolf now offering me a finger covered in whipped cream in a moist suggestive way, which I had to take in my mouth.

It was strange what I had become inured to by then. All along K-Damm and Tauentzienstrasse, the shops, even the smaller emporiums owned by Jews, sported the long Nazi regalia hanging from their upper stories like Christmas bunting. It was so normal that we only noticed its absence. The facades of KaDeWe, stretching for a block in each direction, were among those few that remained naked and unadorned. “It is only time and this monument to Jewish greed is taken over,” said Wolf as he tucked into his pastry.

It was during one of these afternoon forays in May that Wolf sat uneasily opposite me. I could sense from his squirming that he had something on his mind. Like any older, less attractive person in any pair of lovers I felt a sense of dread. “What is it, Wolf? You are sitting there as if you have ants in your pants.”

He laughed. “Yes, ants in the pants. It is very good. A good idiomatic saying, no? I will use it. Ants in zer pants.”

“Ants in
your
pants. I think you are trying to avoid answering my question.”

He fiddled with the paper that had been used to separate the pre-cut slices of the torte he had chosen. “I have a confession, Cammie.”

This did nothing for my wellbeing. Had he grown tired of me already? Was he seeing someone else? “What is it?”

He sighed. “I have confess for something.”

“Do you mean own up to something?”

“Ja, own up. I have been very bad for doing something you will not like for me.” Wolf’s English was always more ragged when he was emotional.

“I’m sure it can’t be that bad. Tell me.”

“The day after today —”

“Tomorrow.”

“Ja, tomorrow — is the anniversary of when we burned the books in Operplatz. It was May 10.”

I looked at my watch in reflex and then shook my head. “So it is.” I looked around and put my hand over his for a second before withdrawing it. “So much has happened to make me happy since then.”

“Yes, me also. But you are not so happy to hear what I have to say.”

“Go on.”

“On that night my job with many other Hitler Youth boys was to take the piles of books from the Humboldt University to the Opera House for the SA men to throw them on the fire.”

“Yes, it is a terrible thing to burn books but I understand that you were only doing what your leaders had told you. I don’t blame you for it. You were following orders.”

“It is not the main thing. The main thing is that I put your books on the pile.”

“What?”

“Do you remember early you gave me copies of your Dexter Parnes books one and two? You wrote a very nice thing in each one.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, I am now ashamed to say that because Dexter Parnes is a hero against Germany of the Western Front that I must burn this books as well. So I took them to the Opera House that day and added your books to the pile. I burned your books, Cammie. I am so sorry.”

His eyes were downcast and I knew from the way his face was flushed that he was close to tears. I could feel a huge guffaw of laughter building inside of me which I knew I had to control.

“This is terrible news,” I said, trying to swallow back my amusement. I put my finger in front of my lips as if I was trying to take in the enormity of his confession. “Are you telling me that my books were burned alongside those of Ernest Hemingway, Jack London and H G Wells?”

“Yes, it is true. I am so sorry.”

I took my hand away and released my widest smile. “Don’t you see what this means, Wolf? In other countries when they denounce the burning of the books I can say
I
was a victim too. In England I can boast that my books were burned alongside HG Wells and some of the greatest writers in German literary history. This can be very good for me. Are you sure my books were burned?”

“I took them to the fire, myself.” Wolf’s brow was furrowed.

“My books were destroyed in the infamous Berlin book-burnings. It has a wonderful ring to it.”

“So you are not angry with me, Cammie.”

“How can I be? You have put me on a pedestal with some of the finest writers in Europe. Hurry up with that cake. I want to take you home!”

Within a week or so of Wolf’s ‘confession’ he told me we were only two weeks away from the final Hitler Jugend weekend camp and his recruitment into the SA. I joked about how I preferred the SS uniform but he was adamant that his future was with the Brownshirts who were, after all, the true holders of the National Socialist flame and that this was his father’s chosen route for him. He was a privileged young man to be able to take up this apprenticeship on the fast-track officer course in the SA which would be a stepping stone to a career in the party hierarchy.

“But this weekend we have the rally at the Neuen See Biergarten. Will you come to see me again, Cammie?”

“Of course. Will you be leading the singing?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll be there.”

But on that Sunday morning I woke with an interesting plot development for Dexter Parnes VC in my head. I sat at my desk and wrote and wrote. Lunch time came and went and it was only when I ran out of steam that I realised that I was late for the rally in the park. I washed and shaved hurriedly and took the short cut alongside the overhead railway to Rosa’s Bridge. As I passed the cafes in the arches the smells of cooked meat and vegetables reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything. I resolved to have some Wurst when I arrived at the Biergarten.

The rally was in full cry. I passed under the Nazi flags catching in a quiet breeze from across the Neuen See where boaters were rowing. A band played oomphah-oompah music as I made my way to a space near the front. Wolf was there seated on the stage and we nodded in recognition.

I had my first beer while the band played on and the second while they relayed a Goebbels speech over the loudspeakers. Finally, it was the turn of the choir and I decided to put off ordering some food until they had finished.

The choir went through its repertoire of traditional songs and ended with the one where Wolf stepped forward and sang the solo. His voice was clear and strong. As he sang, members of the audience stood to join in and for the final verse, when the choir joined in as well, there was a strong feeling of camaraderie between everybody in the Biergarten which culminated in a flurry of Nazi salutes as the song finished. I stood to applaud and a cold clamminess broke out on my skin. Then it all went blank.

Wolf told me later that I had been unconscious for only a few seconds. I had fallen sideways and was lucky not to have banged my head on the way down. Wolf had been the first to reach me and, as I regained consciousness, he came into my blurry vision. His strong left arm cradled my neck and the swastika on his right arm was prominent in my view.

Most of the crowd had dispersed by the time I recovered, and Wolf and I were able to leave the park together. We crossed Rosa’s Bridge and made our way back to the railway arches where we found a cafe to give me my first meal of the day. Then we went back to the Green House and made love in my room.

The following weekend Wolf arrived at my door having escaped from the massacre at the SA Barracks
.