The Other Me (29 page)

I remain crouched on the wet pavement, shielded by the car. The tyre has tiny stones stuck into the thick rubber tread. I see myself reflected in the chrome centre: curled like a foetus. I nip my bottom lip between my teeth and try to picture myself standing up and walking over to the door, pressing my finger against the doorbell.

I straighten, leaning on the bonnet to steady myself. A woman hurrying past falters in her stride, startled eyes flickering towards me before she carries on. I peer up at the first-floor window again, almost hoping that one of them will be looking out. But there’s only the empty glare of reflections.

My hair’s plastered to my skull as I trudge back towards the Tube station, blinking rain-spangled lashes. A wave of dirty water swills across my feet as a car rolls past, wheels hissing.

My insides ache. None of them will want to know me as Klaudia. I’ve lied to them for months.

Cosmo. I mouth his name, repeating it like an incantation. He trusted me. He loved me.

I should have been brave enough to tell him before it got out of hand. There were so many moments in Leeds, or that day when we bumped into each other at the Smokey Quartz; I should have corrected him then, explained everything, revealed myself as my father’s daughter. The lie distorted me. It’s ruined everything. I’ve ruined everything. There’s a pain in my heart. I put my hand over the soaking fabric of my coat, and stumble down the steps to the Tube station, into the gloom of the tunnels.

ERNST

1974, Cardiff

It’s an ugly street. The narrow terraced houses have mean proportions, the windows too small to let in any decent light. I sniff, smelling drains, damp brickwork, cooking. On the way over, staring out of the cab window through the drizzle, I’d noticed gaping holes in fences, glimpsed areas of naked ground: old bomb sites, overgrown with weeds. Back at home I’d be putting in a tender for land like this, calculating how many properties I could get onto it. But I wouldn’t cram boxes together. I build good, solid houses. I’ve made my reputation on the quality of my work. Little details like verandas, and front doors with porches make all the difference.

I’ve booked into a hotel in a better part of the city, leaving my suitcase there. I’ve come to their house with empty hands, and that goes against my principles as a guest. But I don’t know how Otto and his wife will greet me. I’ve sent a telegram as a warning. Over thirty years have passed. It is time. Otto will be fifty. I don’t know if they have kids. I presume that they must have. They’ve been married since the end of the war. I put my shoulders back and press the bell.

A small woman opens the door. She has soapy hands, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows. She wipes her wet fingers on her apron and simultaneously slips her hands behind her waist to pull the apron off.

‘Oh my goodness. You must be Ernst.’

She smiles. I’d mistaken her for a young woman at first; there’s something childlike about her. Her pale skin appears unlined. But when she smiles there are fine crinkles around her eyes, a slight softening of her jaw.

I bow my head. ‘And you must be Gwyn.’

She’s busy rolling her sleeves down, and she pats her hair. Dark, thick hair twisted up into a bun. Strands hang around her cheeks and she hooks them back behind her ears.

I follow her into the narrow hall and through into a front parlour. I’m inclined to duck, even though my head clears the ceiling. It feels low and closed-in. The room is clean and tidy. Nothing out of place. As I look around at the spotless carpet, neatly arranged furniture and polished table with a fruit bowl set in the exact centre, I guess that they haven’t had children after all. I wonder why. Gwyn seems the motherly type: she’s all curves, with a tiny waist, billowing hips and generous breasts. I try not to stare, forcing my gaze to meet her eyes. I see a familiar flicker of discomfort in her face, a flush creeping over her cheeks. It isn’t to do with my admiration of her figure. She’s noticed my scar.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ She’s composed herself. ‘Otto will be here shortly. I can offer you a slice of fruitcake. Just made this morning.’

I nod and she gives me a steady smile. I know she’s looking at the bumps and folds of flesh, the milky cast to my eye. Her looking doesn’t feel intrusive or unkind.

‘Is it a war injury?’

‘In a way.’

‘I’m sorry for the pain it must have caused you.’ She shakes her head. ‘And now I’m forgetting my manners. You’ll surely be tired after such a long journey. Sit.’ She gestures towards a hard-looking sofa. ‘I’ll fetch that tea.’

I stare around me. A plain wooden cross takes prime position on one wall. A carriage clock ticks solidly from the brown-tiled mantelpiece. There’s a cold gas fire beneath it in the grate. A reproduction print of misty mountains hangs next to a framed tapestry. I squint at the embroidered lines of text with my good eye, but don’t get up to peer at it, in case Gwyn finds me snooping; I presume they are lines from a prayer. A collection of wooden biblical figures jostle each other on a shelf, and the carriage clock sits next to an ugly jar with a lid, encircled with flowers and birds. It looks Chinese.

At a noise outside the door, I pull myself to my feet, thinking it will be Gwyn back with the tea. But it’s Otto. My brother still has his braced way of moving, as if holding himself to attention in a strong wind. He is as tall as I remember, and broader for being older; his body thicker, his chest almost barrel shaped. His blond hair has greyed, but rises from his scalp in a thick, vigorous thatch like an animal’s pelt.

My body clenches, all of my insides squeezing shut with panic. I wonder if I can look him in the face, if I can even stay inside the same room as him. I force myself to take deep breaths and to remember that he is my brother, my flesh and blood. After a moment’s hesitation we shake hands. He grips hard. I’m at a disadvantage with my raddled, aching fingers. He doesn’t seem to notice my disfigured grip. Close-up, I see doubt pulling at the corners of his eyes.

Gwyn bustles about setting out tiny tables and pouring tea, spooning sugar into cups. We sit balancing plates on our knees. Otto is working two jobs, he says. He is a bus conductor and a security guard at a local warehouse. Seeing their simplicity, their restricted means, I feel hesitant about explaining my wealth. I tell them I work in the building trade and leave it at that. I tug at my cuff, pulling it over the heavy silver Rolex that nudges my wrist bone. I notice the leather patches on Otto’s elbows, sewn on with neat stiches, and the worn shine on his trouser knees. Otto hasn’t lost his strong German accent.

‘Do you have many Welsh friends?’ I ask, stirring my tea.

‘Gwyn has her chapel friends. We keep ourselves to ourselves most of the time,’ Otto says. ‘We don’t go in for a social whirl, do we Gwyn?’

She wipes a crumb from her lip.

‘Where are you staying?’ Otto helps himself to a slice of cake.

When I tell them, Gwyn says that I must stay with them. They have a spare room. And I’m family. I protest. She insists, looking to Otto for support. His mouth twitches in annoyance. I put my cup down on the doll’s table next to me.

‘Then, if you’re sure. I’ll go back to the hotel and fetch my bags.’

I turn at the doorway, considering my brother. There is something else that’s different.

‘Your nose.’ I tap my own. ‘No sniffing.’

‘I was allergic to horses. Not many around here.’

We both smile and I feel a tug of yearning coming from the mire of our past. When I’d booked my ticket, I’d done so with the hopeful conviction that we were old enough, and had travelled far enough from our childhood and the war, to be able to wipe the slate clean. Standing in that little parlour, I set my hopes against the physical reality of this brother of mine. I put my hand on his shoulder; under my touch, his muscles tighten in a reflex of distrust.

Back at the hotel, as I pay for the unused room, tearing off a cheque and handing it to the receptionist, I realise what else is different about Otto. He’s in love.

My room is hardly larger than a cupboard. It has a tiny single bed. I lie down on it, remembering Otto’s long limbs overflowing the confines of his cot above the stables. A pair of orange curtains droops at the window. Tugging them to one side, I am met by a blank stare from the grimy crush of terraced houses opposite. I have a moment of longing for the generous proportions of my penthouse, with its sweep of pale carpet across the living room, and the grand piano that I can’t play; my collection of paintings and the huge bank of windows that offers a dazzle of sky, of stars, and always the tops of the trees in Central Park: the clattering of winter branches, summer’s bright green, or a riot of gold and red in the fall.

I’d arrived in Cardiff on a Saturday. The next day Otto isn’t working and Gwyn cooks a roast meal with beef and small cakes made of batter that Gwyn tells me are called Yorkshire puddings. Otto bends his head over his plate and says a prayer. I am caught out, my fork in my hand. It’s strange to hear him speaking words of thanks to a God I don’t believe in. Gwyn smiles at me, nods that I should start.

The meat is pink and tender, the Yorkshire puddings light and crispy. Gwyn hums as she eats. I fork potatoes and gravy into my mouth, eating until my belt strains around my waist, wondering how I can offer them money in return for their hospitality. We go for a walk in the afternoon, through a scrubby, hilly park. A gust of wind whips Gwyn’s dark hair across her face and she laughs and pushes it back. The light gets inside her eyes. They are violet, a colour more brilliant and intense than any butterfly’s wing. In her presence my brother is transformed. He rarely touches her. But he watches her constantly with an expression of hunger and wonderment. I envy him for the first time in my life.

Gwyn keeps asking me about New York. I tell her about my bus journey from the docks through Lower Manhattan when I’d first arrived, and how I’d peered up at the skyscrapers, thrilled by their beauty and power. I tell her about the horses that pull open carriages through the park, and how I carry carrots in my pockets when I leave my apartment, in case I have the chance to feed one of them. I describe the palatial shops on Park Avenue, the streets busy with yellow cabs and buses. Steam rising from gratings. Jazz. Hot dogs.

She is like a little girl being told fairy stories. Otto frowns disapprovingly. ‘You never married?’ he asks.

‘No. I’ve had girlfriends, of course. But I never got married. Maybe I’ve been focused on my career too much. No time for anything else.’

‘You just haven’t met the right woman yet,’ Gwyn says in a conspiratorial tone.

I think about Sarah. It isn’t often that I allow myself that torture. She stands knee deep in brambles, raising her finger, a frown plucking at the space between her eyebrows as she examines the pulse of red. She was a girl, not a woman. I see her by the gaping entrance of the cattle car, passing her case to her brother, climbing in with the hem of her blue coat swinging. Bodies press after her, pushing her out of sight.

I put my hand over my eyes, wiping away the images. When I turn to the other two, Gwyn has stopped next to a woman with a pram; she bends to look inside, cooing at the unseen baby; and I wonder again why Gwyn and Otto have no children.

‘You could come to New York, you know,’ I say casually. ‘I’d help you. I could arrange to get Otto a job…’

‘We don’t need your charity.’ Otto takes his wife’s arm, linking her hand through his hooked elbow. ‘We are happy here. We have a home.’ He pauses. ‘We have Jesus.’

It sounds odd. As if Jesus is a useful possession. Like central heating, or an insurance policy.

I’ve been with them a week. The night before I leave for home, Otto goes off to his job as a security guard. He’s been out of the house before, but not at night. I feel awkward with Gwyn, anxious to show her that I’m not going to be a nuisance. I offer to help with supper, but she laughs and makes me sit.

While she cooks, I show her a few snaps of Manhattan and one of a building site with the sign that says ‘Meyer Construction. A Name You Can Trust.’ She admires the photos and congratulates me on the company. She wants to know how I worked my way up from construction worker to manager and then owner. I’m not used to anyone showing such a genuine interest, and her expressions of admiration and praise embarrass and please me.

I get a bottle of Scotch and a couple of jazz records out of my suitcase. We have cold ham and mashed potatoes at the kitchen table and I pour a tumbler of whisky.

I toast her. ‘For your kindness, Gwyn. My brother is a lucky man.’

She blushes. The sudden pink makes her eyes look more vivid. The drink slips down my throat. I smack my lips together. ‘That’s good.’ I pour another one. ‘Just say the word. If you’d like some.’

She shakes her head.

‘Did you know that you hum when you eat?’ I ask.

She laughs. ‘I hum whenever I’m happy.’

I put Sarah Vaughan on the turntable singing ‘Misty’, and turn it up loud. We sit opposite each other under the glare of the electric light and she puts her head on one side, listening. ‘I like it. You feel it here,’ she pats her chest, ‘don’t you?’

I nod. ‘That’s what I like about jazz. It’s visceral. And this song… well, I guess this is a little sentimental…’

‘It’s beautiful. Otto feels the same way about his opera records.’

‘Did Otto tell you much about his life before the war?’

She fixes me with that steady gaze. ‘I know about the Hitler Youth. He regrets it all. He understands how evil it was. He was looking for somewhere to belong.’ It sounds like a speech she’s used before. She smiles. ‘Finding faith in Jesus saved him.’

‘I think it’s you he’s found faith in.’ I stop. I have to be careful. The whisky is loosening my tongue.

She glances away, swallowing. Her cheek flickers with a twitch of muscle.

‘How did you get your scar?’

‘I was taken prisoner by the Russians. At the end of the war. I took a beating from some of the guards for trying to escape.’

‘Oh!’ She puts her hand over her mouth. ‘Does Otto know that you were a prisoner of war?’