Paving the New Road (24 page)

The proprietor seemed familiar with Albert Göring and showed them to a table inside the little shop.

In the corner, two old men played chess on a bench.

When the wine was served, Rowland raised his glass. “It’s an honour to know you, Albert.”

Nancy agreed heartily and Göring smiled sadly. “I thank you for your help, my friends, but you must be careful. I am protected; you are not.”

“Who were those people?” Rowland asked. “Why were they being humiliated?”

Göring drank deeply before he replied. “They were from Dachau … the re-education camp. Communists, trade unionists, Jews, Jehovah’s Witnesses … the occasional alcoholic.” He fitted a cigarette into his holder and lit it. “Hitler is going to teach them how to be German.”

“I see.”

Göring exhaled in disgust and slammed down his glass. “He’s going to create a thousand-year Reich!” he said scornfully. “Man can’t even grow a decent moustache … hangs under his nose like a limp brush!”

Nancy leaned towards the disgruntled German. “Your brother is …”

“Hermann is like many Germans,” he said. “Willing to allow Hitler his little prejudices, tolerate the Chancellor’s idiosyncrasies because inflation is under control and there is bread and sausage on the table. Hitler promises to restore prosperity and pride … for that we are willing to sacrifice the freedom and dignity of our neighbours!”

“No,” Nancy said. “Surely people will come to their senses.”

Göring shrugged. “Such is my hope.” He looked at Rowland. “We will just have to do what we can to remind our countrymen of their senses.”

Nancy did not broach the subject of his name until they had left Göring and were walking back to the Bismarck.

“And why exactly would you be using two different names, Mr. Negus?”

Rowland scrambled for a plausible story, any story. “Rowland Sinclair is my stage name.”

“Your what?”

“My professional stage name. I’m an actor—that’s why I was meeting with Mr. Göring. He’s a filmmaker, you know.”

Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re an actor. Peter never mentioned that he had a cousin who was an actor.”

“Well, he wouldn’t. I’m afraid acting isn’t really the done thing in my family.” He smiled. “I believe they’re all rather hoping I’ll give it up and go into the law.”

She studied him carefully. “Perform something.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You must have something you can perform … What did you do for Mr. Göring? How about it?” she challenged. “Surely an actor is not shy.”

Rowland tried briefly to recall some suitable passage from Hamlet or Lear but he could find nothing that he remembered well enough to pass as a thespian. “I wasn’t auditioning for Mr. Göring … just meeting with him to discuss possibilities.” Rowland lied so smoothly in the end that he was himself surprised. “A friend put me in touch.”

“And did he give you a part?”

“Not yet, but hopefully he’ll remember my name.”

“You mean your stage name?”

“Yes … of course.”

They had reached the Bismarck now. The young journalist glanced at her watch. She sighed, pulling a card from her purse and pressing it into his hand. “Very well, Mr. Negus. I have an appointment I must get ready for, so I will have to say goodbye. You
may get in touch with me at the number on that card. I might just let you take me dancing one evening.”

Rowland smiled, hoping she’d take his obvious relief as simple joy at the thought of taking her dancing. Perhaps it was. Nancy Wake was certainly beautiful. “Good evening, Miss Wake. It has been a very great pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

She gazed into the deep blue of his eyes. Her own twinkled. “Perhaps you
are
an actor. Good evening, Mr. Negus.”

Edna and Milton had returned by the time Rowland made his way back to Schellingstrasse. Richter, too, was at home and they were all assembled in the parlour, where Milton was displaying his latest purchase.

Rowland stared at the painting. It seemed to be a deformed duck walking on … well, he wasn’t quite sure. “What is it?”

Milton smiled. “A substantial investment. I’ll ship it out to the good Senator tomorrow morning.”

“This Senator,” Richter said, puckering as he cradled Stasi like a baby. “He is a client of yours?”

“Oh yes,” Milton replied. “He’s quite the connoisseur. Recently developed an insatiable taste for modern art.”

“Is this one of von Eidelsohn’s?” Rowland asked, tilting his head to one side, in case a change of perspective would help. Perplexing though it was, he quite liked the painting … it was amusing, if nothing else.

“No … this was a chap called Miró. Von Eidelsohn won’t take our cheques anymore.”

“Why?” Rowland asked, worried that the Old Guard had stopped payment on their previous purchases.

“Apparently he’s in love with my sister,” Milton replied, rolling his eyes at Edna. “He doesn’t want to tarnish the purity of his admiration with something so base as money.”

Edna smiled, curling her legs up into the armchair on which she sat. “Hans is so intense. I’ve never met anyone quite like him.”

Rowland noticed then that her left wrist was bandaged.

“What happened?” he asked, taking her hand gently to inspect it.

“It’s just a little burn,” she replied. “Nothing really.”

“She was welding,” Milton said.

“Welding?”

“Hans has this wonderful welder that automatically feeds the fusing wire,” Edna explained, the excitement bubbling quickly into her voice. “I’d heard of them but I’d never used one before … I usually cast, you know. It’s the most amazing technology … but it takes a little getting used to.” She laughed, embarrassed. “I’m afraid I fused the welding head to the sculpture a couple of times.”

“Oh dear,” Rowland murmured, trying to look as though he knew what she was talking about. “You should be careful, though.”

Edna smiled. “Don’t worry, Robbie darling, it’s far too late for my hands … they’ll never look anything like a lady’s should.” She put out both hands to support her claim.

Rowland did not need to look. He knew Edna’s hands—he had drawn them often. They were strong and sensitive, marked with several small scars from welding sparks, or pit fires or sharp edges, which the sculptress considered marks of her trade and showed off with a kind of professional pride. Her nails were short and rarely manicured and when she was working, the skin often became calloused. They were far from ladylike hands. To Rowland they were perfect.

“Thank goodness for gloves,” he said.

“Dear Hans,” Edna went on dreamily, “he was very understanding and patient. Once I got used to the technique, it opened my mind to so many possibilities for finer, more complex pieces than I’ve conceived before. Hans may seem solemn but it’s only because he has a real vision for his work.”

“Well, my dear, you must invite him to dine here,” Richter said warmly. “He’s obviously a man of impeccable taste, but we must meet him to decide if he’s good enough for our Millicent.”

“Do Dadaists have dinner?” Clyde muttered. “Surely dinner is just an archaic social tradition? Who can say if dinner really exists?”

Rowland laughed.

Edna laughed too. “You are becoming part of the artistic establishment, Joseph,” she needled. “You’ll be joining the Country Party next.”

Clyde snorted.

They spent that evening quietly in the company of Richter and Stasi. Rowland pulled out his notebook, drawing from memory as Clyde and Edna argued over whether the modernist movement had gone too far. Their host discussed the problems he was having with the black uniform of the SS, which he maintained was a maudlin atrocity. “If Göring had retained the SS, my pleas for colour might not have fallen on deaf ears,” he complained. “But Himmler is a boorish Prussian peasant.”

Rowland contemplated the other Göring as he sketched a man kneeling in the plaza in the shadow of a Brownshirt. The filmmaker had surprised him with his open subversion of the regime in which his brother served. Rowland could not help but admire the man.

He didn’t speak of the incident, however, until Richter and the servants had retired and they were alone.

Edna perched on the arm of his chair, looking curiously over his shoulder at the notebook. He looked up, distracted by the lingering scent of roses, the familiar smell of the sculptress’ perfume.

“You’re quiet, Rowly,” she whispered. “Where were you today?”

Rowland stood and shut the door. He recounted the events of the day.

Edna clapped her hands softly as he told them of Göring’s stand.

“So he’s a good bloke?” Clyde said.

Rowland nodded.

“And this Nancy Wake … she’s the woman Bothwell was involved with?”

Rowland dragged a hand through his hair. “She certainly knew him, but it might not have been anything improper. Albert appeared before I could find out.”

“And now she thinks you’re an actor?” Milton laughed. “Gotta hand it to you, mate, that’s one way to impress a girl.”

Rowland groaned. “I couldn’t think of anything else to explain why Albert was calling me Rowland Sinclair instead of Robert Negus. To be honest, I felt like a jolly fool. And I’m not sure she believed me.”

“Do you think she had something to do with Bothwell’s death?” Clyde asked.

Rowland shrugged. “I rather like her.”

Clyde shook his head. “That doesn’t mean anything, mate.” He glanced at Milton, who was turning the Miró upside-down to see if it improved. “You’ve been known to display unfortunate lapses in judgement when choosing your friends.”

18

HECKLING THE YOUNG MASTER

A certain Duke’s son, very young, was finishing his campaign by addressing the electors near his father’s estates, when at question time an old man at the back shocked everyone by asking, “Sonny, does yer mother know you’re out?”

“Yes,” shouted back the candidate with a show of anger, “and she’ll know I’m ‘in’ tomorrow.”

And she did.

The interjector proved to be the old gardener at home, whom the young man had paid one guinea to ask the question.

Advocate, 1933

A
lastair Blanshard was not happy.

“You were given clear and specific instructions,” he spat, staring at his newspaper. “You were to lie low.”

Rowland was not entirely sure how Blanshard knew he had scrubbed the plaza with Göring, but it seemed he did.

“They called it off before I gave my name,” he said.

“And if it hadn’t been called off? If you’d been arrested by the Nazis you would have been of no use to us whatsoever!” He flicked the paper angrily. “That’s what those bloody fools get for sending me some idiot playboy.”

Rowland stood. He wasn’t about to let Blanshard dress him down like a child.

“Sit down!” Blanshard turned the page. “I’m not finished.”

“I am.”

“Sit down, Mr. Negus. I do not have time for your wounded feelings. I have a job for you.”

For a moment, Rowland considered telling Blanshard what he could do with his job.

“This is not a game, Mr. Negus,” Blanshard murmured. “You cannot take your ball and go home.”