The Neruda Case (29 page)

The man in the raincoat shook his head and looked at his shoes, which were speckled with dirt.

“The fact that you’re being followed by spies from the Chilean military, which is plotting a coup against Salvador Allende, at the very least means you’re in a predicament.”

“Do you think they can?”

“Neutralize you?”

“No. Succeed in a coup.”

“You want to know too much. But no one can force the hand of history. Events occur when they have to, not decades before, and not after. Chile will return to its path, the same one as always, and pay a high price for it. But let’s leave speculation to historical philosophers. Right now, you’re in trouble with the military.”

“I’m not losing sleep over them. They have no power. But if you’d lend me a hand with them, I’d be grateful. Perhaps you could stop them from following my trail.”

“We’ll see,” Markus said pensively.

“I’d be very grateful, though my task is still to find the actress’s mother.”

“You are exasperating me, Mr. Brulé. How do you need me to say it? Tina’s mother died years ago. She was German, a decorated member of the resistance against the Nazis. She never lived in Mexico. She was a citizen of East Germany. I doubt she ever left the republic.”

If Tina’s mother was dead, then his investigation was a sinking ship, Cayetano thought bitterly. He stroked his mustache, which was damp from the cold drizzle. At some point in the journey, he’d lost his way, like one of those mountaineers who vanished in the Andean winter, only to reappear with the spring thaws as a rigorously preserved cadaver. Perhaps the poet’s old lover still lived in Mexico. He decided to make another concession, and said, “If circumstances are as you say, and those officers are following me, I’ll promise you one thing in exchange for a single guarantee from you.”

“What does Mr. Brulé wish to promise me in Treptower Park?”

“That I’ll go, and leave your actress from the Berliner Ensemble in peace forever.”

“In exchange for what?”

“For a guarantee that I’ll be able to leave the German Democratic Republic, but that you’ll give me a few more days’ stay …”

“To spend them with the young woman from Bernau?” he asked sardonically. “Don’t tell me you’re the kind of man who falls in love so fast.”

“I want to say good-bye to her,” Cayetano replied seriously.

Markus turned on his heels and stood gazing out over the first timid glow of dawn, which tinged the horizon between the birches. His cheeks dimpled when he turned back to Cayetano with a smile.

42

H
e had thirty-six hours left in East Germany, he thought the next day at noon as he waited for Margaretchen at the
Mokkabar
in Alexanderplatz, perusing a
Neues Deutschland
that bore disheartening news from Chile regarding shortages and the truck drivers’ strike against Allende. At midnight, when it was early evening in South America, he’d called the poet to tell him the investigation was progressing, though he didn’t say he may have found his daughter in East Berlin. He was extremely cautious about what he said, as he now suspected, or, more accurately, knew without a doubt, that his conversations were being spied on. He didn’t even dare mention the spies in the photographs Markus had shown him, or his guess that they foreshadowed an imminent counterrevolution as bloody as Jakarta’s.

Margaretchen arrived at the café, tense and exhausted. She hadn’t been able to sleep for fear the Stasi would break down her door and arrest her. As he finished his tea, Cayetano gave her a summary of what had happened the night before. It clearly scared her. They took a taxi to Leipziger Strasse, near the building where Tina Feuerbach lived. He’d gotten the address by phone that morning from a secretary at the Berliner Ensemble. He’d pretended to be a Mexican diplomat who needed to deliver flowers to the actress, and this was
enough to get the address. Leipziger Strasse was the most exclusive commercial avenue in Eastern Europe. Mere meters from the Wall, it boasted tall buildings full of shops, cafés, and luxurious restaurants named after the capital cities of socialist states.

“Are you sure this is the right address?” Margaretchen asked.

“Absolutely sure,” Cayetano replied as they passed a store window displaying Thuringian vases and Bohemian glassware.

They entered the building. The doorman wasn’t at his counter. Instead, he was in a small adjacent room, dozing in front of a chattering television. The room smelled of coffee, and the desk was cluttered with magazines and a bottle of
Doppelkorn
. He was an old man, with white hair and a beard. The PSUA symbol was attached to his lapel.

“We’re looking for Miss Feuerbach,” said Margaretchen.

The old man sat up, unsure whether he should be annoyed by the strangers’ interruption or glad that his boss hadn’t caught him watching television from the West. He cleared his throat and said, “She lives in 1507,
gnädige Frau
. But she’s never here at this hour. How can I help you?”

“We have an official gift for her in the car,” Cayetano said.

“What institution sent you?”

“The Cuban embassy. The gift must be kept extremely safe for her. When will she be back?”

“You never know. But my office, the office of Kurt Plenzdorf, your humble servant”—he gave a slight nod—“is as secure as the vault of a bank. So no need to worry. Nothing’s ever gotten lost here. The Cuban embassy, you say?”

“That’s right. The island of rum and music, my friend.”

“There are so many Cuban bands playing rumbas on TV, and many Cuban workers in state factories, but it’s been years since I’ve even smelled the label of a Cuban rum here in this country,” the doorman complained, gesturing with his hand. Cayetano noticed he was missing his right pinky finger.

“Well, if you’re patient, Kurt, I’ll bring you a bottle right now. No, not one, but two. One white rum and one amber. Havana Club, the best of the best. And listen to this: the bottles will be signed by none other than Mauro Triana, ambassador extraordinaire, plenipotentiary for Cuba in the German Democratic Republic, direct descendant of the first European to see the land of the Americas.”

“With two bottles of rum, a box of chocolates, and a crystal vase, our problems will be solved,” Cayetano said to Margaretchen as they stood in line at the Intershop of the Stadt Berlin Hotel.

The shop, which sold goods only in Western currency, smelled of perfumes and detergents, and was filled with people who admired the wares, timidly asked about prices, and then bought nothing more than a paltry chocolate bar, a pair of stockings, or a packet of vacuum-packed Melitta coffee.

“I don’t really understand, but whatever you say,” murmured Margaretchen.

“The bottles are for Kurt, the chocolates are for his wife, and the vase is for Tina Feuerbach. And ask them to wrap each item as a separate gift, except for the rum, which I want in a bag.”

“How can you think of approaching Tina again? Wasn’t it enough to get picked up by the Stasi?”

“I just need to go inside her apartment …”

“Have you gone crazy? The
Genosse
doorman would never allow it.”

“Just help me with this and follow my lead. You’ll see how I get in.”

43

W
hen they returned, the doorman was dozing again in front of an episode of the American sitcom
Mister Ed
. The horse was plaintively telling his owner how he longed for a girlfriend. Cayetano sympathized with Mister Ed. He seemed like a noble and decent horse, more sensible than a lot of people he knew, a wise and privileged witness to a United States that was steadily disappearing. On the doorman’s desk, the
Neues Deutschland
was lying open to the sports section. He woke up and smiled when he saw Cayetano remove the bottles from the bag.

“These are from Cuba, Grandpa. This bottle is yours, carte blanche,” Cayetano said. “And I also have this gift for your wife.”

Kurt rushed to close the door of his office, invited them to sit, opened the bottle, and poured the rum generously and diligently into glasses marked with the insignia of the Dynamo Football Club. His cheeks reddened as he savored the distilled liquor and launched into a description of his responsibilities in the building.

“Minor things. A blown fuse, a leaky valve, a stuck window.” He took another sip, then procured a Hungarian salami from the key closet, cut a few pieces, and placed them on the
Neues Deutschland.
“It’s ideal work for a retired lathe operator. And everyone here is very nice to me.”

“This is the gift from the minister of culture, for Tina Feuerbach.” Cayetano placed the largest package on the table. “Where can I put it?”

“Right here is fine. What is it?”

“We ourselves don’t know. A present from very high up, if you understand me,” Cayetano said in a dramatically solemn voice, pretending to stroke his nonexistent beard. “But you have to place it somewhere very safe because it’s expensive, fine, and fragile.”

“Nothing’s ever gotten lost here.”

“It’s not a matter of getting lost,” Cayetano said as he filled Kurt’s glass again, “but of breaking. It would be an irreparable loss, not only because of its cost and quality, but also because it’s an official package from far away. I’m sure you understand what I’m saying. There could be consequences, for us, and even for you …”

“Kurt Plenzdorf knows exactly what to do.”

“What will you do, Grandpa?”

“I’ll go put it in the apartment right now. That way you can go in peace and I can have a calm conscience. I don’t want any problems with the commander.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer for me to carry the package?”

Kurt’s eyes scrutinized his mustachioed guest as Mister Ed went on lamenting the monotony of his lonely stable life. Someone emerged from the elevator, walked past the door with clacking heels, and continued out to Leipziger Strasse.

“Could it be that you don’t trust me?” Kurt protested, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Not at all. But perhaps you’ve had a little too much to drink.”

Kurt guffawed and drained another glass in defiance. “This is nothing for Kurt Plenzdorf, former lathe operator at Wehrmacht, the Nationale Volksarmee, and the factory owned by the people of Narva,”
he muttered, shielding a burp. “You two stay here and don’t worry. I’ll leave this in Frau Feuerbach’s apartment and come right back. But only on one condition,” he added with a mischievous look.