The Valley of Unknowing (25 page)

43

The rest of Theresa’s visit passed in an opiate fog of reassurance and hope. We talked no more about marriage or about our future together. Those issues, we had agreed, could wait a while. In the meantime I would remain in place, working on the sequel to
Survivors
, the book that would establish Eva Aden as a durable presence on the global cultural scene; not a passing sensation, but a writer of intensity and depth. Theresa’s mood lightened. She hadn’t explicitly accepted my proposal of marriage, but the fact that it was now on the record seemed to make her happy, and this made me happy in turn. At least there was no awkwardness about the matter. I was not obliged to pretend it had never happened, like some embarrassing indiscretion. By the evening of the second day – a Saturday – we were able to joke about it (more accurately, Theresa joked; I laughed obligingly). This reassured me that our eventual union, though still unscheduled, was a likely prospect in both our minds. At certain moments it even took on the tentative aspect of a plan.

I detected no insincerity in Theresa’s warmth, no hidden motive. I wanted to believe more than anything that she still loved me. With each hour that passed in her company, each smile, each caress, with the scent of her hair and the taste of her skin (sensual pleasures I had missed more than I knew) my doubts faded. The West grew distant in my mind, its powers of seduction weaker. I worried less about Martin Klaus and about Eva Aden, a being I had glimpsed only in a magazine and on a screen. She was a fiction, after all, an act. Theresa Aden was real and she was here. Nor was she so very different from the girl I had first met a year before.

In my more serene moments, when tipsy and amorous, I was tempted to confess everything. Theresa had made a confession of sorts and I felt an urge to reciprocate. If I was ever to make a clean breast of the Richter affair – by which I mean his authorship of
Survivors
– this was surely a good time to do it. Theresa would have to forgive my deception, since I had already forgiven hers. What held me back was a nagging sense of moral asymmetry. It wasn’t that Theresa’s deception had involved only silence, as she maintained; for so had mine, technically. The difference lay in motivation. Theresa’s deception was undertaken for what she considered a noble cause. She herself stood to gain nothing. I, on the other hand, had been concerned exclusively with my own interests, specifically Theresa’s interest in me. She emerged looking courageous and selfless from her confession; I would emerge looking selfish and cowardly from mine. My love for Theresa herself had inspired this ethical abasement, but was that excuse enough? Were my creative powers irrelevant to her feelings? Would she see me in the same light, knowing that I had not, in fact, written the book that she loved even more than she loved
The Orphans of Neustadt
?

In the end I decided that openness on such questions of character was a luxury I could not yet afford. When Theresa and I were together for good, when the manoeuvrings of our courtship had faded into distant memory, when our love for each other had been cemented in place by shared circumstance and habit, when Wolfgang Richter had been quite forgotten,
that
would be the time. Theresa would know who I was by then, through and through; and no amount of skeletons unearthed would have the power to undermine her confidence in that knowledge.

But for the time being Richter was still with us. Or rather, he was with me, an ever-present fly in the ointment of love – ever-present but not unchanged. He had failed in his pursuit of Theresa; perhaps that was part of it. But there was also the way she had described him. I couldn’t help thinking of his mother and father, that sad, devoted couple. Had he planned to abandon them without saying a word? I could picture their bewilderment and despair all too well. Perhaps they had embarrassed him once too often with their dearth of sophistication, their complete absence of style.

Now when I pictured him, it was always as I had seen him outside the Kulturpalast, standing beneath that solitary street light, the snowflakes swirling around us, obscuring my view, catching on my eyelashes. It is how I picture him still. He is handing over a copy of
The Orphans of Neustadt
, inside which lie hidden the photographs he will need to begin a new life. Arrogant it may have been, but the young writer did not think of himself as my rival. He thought of himself as my heir, creatively speaking, as my self-adopted son.

This was what had inspired his attacks on me, his sniping and his satire: I had disappointed him. I was not the hero he had grown up believing me to be (nor even, it seemed, the champion). Courage had given way to convenience, honesty to evasion. According to Michael Schilling, Wolfgang had written
The Valley of Unknowing
because I couldn’t or wouldn’t; and that was why I’d been afraid of him. He had written what I could have written, but hadn’t. He was everything I had been and would never be again. I was the ghost of an artist; he was the flesh and blood – or rather, had been. As luck would have it, it was the ghost who still lived.

These thoughts disturbed my sleep and upset my stomach. During the last night of Theresa’s visit the discomfort, shifting and dyspeptic, was such that the anticipated sexual foray had to be abandoned. Only in a foetal position, with my stretched and bloated abdomen released from all tension, did I manage to fall asleep. In the morning, though the pain had receded, my guts felt tender, as if bruised. I drank black tea for breakfast and avoided any sudden movements.

Theresa must have noticed this. As we held each other on the railway station platform, the shriek of whistles and the clatter of doors echoing beneath the great canopy, she placed her hand on the flat of my stomach and said, ‘Bruno, you have to do something about that. You have to get it checked out.’

I said it was probably indigestion and nothing at all to worry about.

‘You’ve had trouble down there all the time I’ve known you. Go to a doctor. Get it seen to, please.’

I said I would, if it made her feel better.

‘You never know, Bruno, it might actually be something serious.’

Apart from some conventional words of parting, which I can no longer recall, that was the last thing she said to me.

44

The next day I telephoned the clinic in Radeburg that Barbara Jaeger had recommended and asked for an appointment with Dr Engell, her preferred physician. A woman took down my details, including the source of the recommendation, and said she would have to call me back. Several hours later she did so, informing me that Dr Engell would see me at ten o’clock the following morning. She then proceeded to give me very precise directions, as if I were in serious danger of getting lost on the way.

The Radeburg district lay on the other side of the river, close by the southernmost tip of the Heide where, in my dreams, I had attempted to bury Wolfgang Richter’s manuscript. It also neighboured Loschwitz, where my would-be protégé had last been seen alive, a fact to which I attached no great significance as I made the journey the next day on a succession of trams, finally getting off, as directed, at the corner of Bautzner Strasse. A few yards behind me stood a large, blank building clad in pale stone, which I recognised as the regional headquarters of the secret police. I wondered if this was where Herr Jaeger worked when he was not away spying somewhere, or if Herr Andrich and Herr Zoch came here to lodge their reports; but the geographical proximity of these various landmarks did not suggest to me a narrative, a chain of events, until later that day.

Angelikastrasse was a quiet street. Nobody passed me as I walked along its well-swept pavements. No cars or trucks trundled past. Large villas in spacious lots stood on either side, partially hidden from each other by stone walls and tall trees. The layout was not so different from Blasewitz, but the houses here were in a much better state of repair. Many of them appeared to be almost new. Even the grounds were neat and tidy, although strangely uniform, as if planted and maintained in concert. For a while the Jaegers had lived in a street not far away, until Barbara had insisted on a more bohemian address in the smartest quarter of the Altstadt. Russians were rumoured to live in this part of the city, KGB men and generals. Looking at the clusters of antennae sprouting from the chimneys, I could believe it.

My instructions told me to turn right at the top of the road and to count the houses on the far side. I soon realised the reason for this precision: there were neither numbers nor names on any of the buildings. If you didn’t know where you were going, I supposed, you had no business being there. I knew my destination was not a facility open to the general public. I began to suspect that it was not generally available to rank-and-file Party members either. Otherwise, why would I need an introduction from Barbara Jaeger?

The clinic was easily missed. I walked past it the first time without registering its existence. It was set well back from the road, hidden behind a line of yews and a chain-link fence. A curved driveway led up to the front of the building, which itself lay at an angle to the road, as if anxious to hide its face. A white L-shaped structure, with an exterior of prefabricated concrete panels, it was much bigger than it first appeared, one long wing extending behind. Like the houses round about, it bore no form of identification whatsoever. As I approached the front entrance, still unsure if I was in the right place, I realised that I was being watched. A large and well-groomed Alsatian was chained to a post a few yards away. It sat motionless, staring at me with its tongue out. It was the type of animal kept by policemen and border guards, and when I saw it I thought instantly of Gruna Willy, the old derelict, screaming at me about the death strip as they dragged him away. I was just at the door when a man in a khaki uniform came walking round the corner of the building.

The interior ambience was more recognisably medical. The air was tainted with the smell of antiseptic. The female staff wore nurses’ uniforms and the males wore white coats. A sprawling cheese plant squatted in the corner of a small waiting area, where a woman with a voluminous head of white-blonde hair sat reading a magazine. Opposite her dozed an old gentleman with a medal on his lapel. I identified myself to one of two nurses at the front desk and was immediately directed down an adjacent corridor. This was where the resident doctors had their consulting rooms. I counted six of them, proprietorial names displayed on brass plaques outside. Searching for Dr Engell’s room, I came across a name that seemed familiar:
Dr V. H. Gatz.
I knew I had seen it before, but I couldn’t remember where. I assumed I had consulted him somewhere else, in the distant past.

My consultation with Dr Engell, a small bald man with glasses and watchful grey eyes, was brisk but thorough. I was told to describe my symptoms and then my daily diet in detail – which provoked no reaction except the occasional raised eyebrow. I was then examined wearing nothing but my underpants and my socks, my belly and intestines being poked and prodded until they were sore.

‘So what’s the matter with me?’ I asked, when finally I was given permission to dress.

Dr Engell said it was hard to tell. Peptic ulcer, duodenal ulcer, kidney stones, gallstones, appendicitis; these were just some of the possibilities. And then there was stress.

‘Have you experienced an untypical degree of stress recently?’ he asked, his pen hovering over his notebook.

I said I had not.

‘Stress isn’t always obvious, even to those who have it. It creeps up, especially at times of change: marriage, divorce, bereavement, relocation.’ The doctor paused. I sensed that ‘relocation’ was what interested him most. ‘Have any of these been . . . on your mind?’

I shrugged and said no.

‘Travel plans?’

‘None.’

After several seconds of incredulous staring, Dr Engell made a note on his pad. ‘I shall need a stool sample,’ he said.

‘What, now?’

‘The nurse will give you a container. Ask at the front desk.’

‘I can’t
now
,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I have it in me.’

The doctor showed no sign of being amused. ‘You can bring it back tomorrow, or whenever you feel able.’ He handed me a slip of paper. ‘I’m also prescribing this. Tell me if it helps.’

I returned to the waiting area, handed over the prescription to one of the nurses and requested my container, fleetingly wondering if they came in different sizes. The nurse disappeared into a room behind the desk, where I glimpsed rows of shelves piled high with packages and bottles of pills.

A moment later a man in a white coat appeared at my side. He was taller and older than Dr Engell, with tidy grey hair and a long, lined face. A trio of gold fountain pens in his top pocket added further to the general air of rank. At the same time he was sucking a lozenge, which imbued his breath with an incongruous smell of cherry syrup. He slapped down a handful of cardboard folders. ‘File these, would you, Frau Pitmann?’ he said, his tone imperious and weary.

The other nurse, a pale, middle-aged woman with raven hair and painted eyebrows, rose to her feet. ‘Right away, Dr Gatz.’

The man was a stranger, but I knew now where I had seen his name before: V. H. Gatz had signed Wolfgang Richter’s ‘Preliminary Report of Death’. V. H. Gatz was the attending clinician. It was he whom Richter’s desperate parents had tried time and again to contact, without success; he who had ignored their messages and refused their calls. I had promised to help the Richters, to wrest from the authorities a definitive account of their son’s death. They had been counting on me, but so far I had not mustered the courage to turn over that particular stone. My
Eingaben
to the Ministry of Health had never been completed, let alone sent.

Dr Gatz sauntered off. Nurse Pitmann gathered up the files and walked away in the opposite direction, leaving me alone. I watched her disappear round a corner, her rubber soles squeaking on the flecked grey linoleum; and before I could stop myself, before I could think through the consequences or work out a strategy, I had set off after her.

I had only gone a few yards when the squeaking abruptly stopped. Peering round the corner, I caught sight of a shiny bun descending via a staircase to the floor below. This turned out to be a basement, an area lit by strips of neon, which flipped lazily on and off, revealing my surroundings in a drab, slow-motion stroboscope of brightness and shade. The smell down here was not of antiseptic, but of wet cement mingled with disinfectant and sewage. Galvanised pipes ran along the ceiling, emitting a faint trickling sound.

The smell led to the staff lavatories. Nurse Pitmann walked past them and stopped in front of a grey metal door with a glass panel near the top. Edging closer, I watched her push it open and turn on the lights. Inside were rows of filing cabinets reaching halfway to the ceiling. This had to be where the patients’ medical records were kept, where, in due course, my records would be kept; where, perhaps, Wolfgang Richter’s records were kept still.

The door swung shut. I took a few steps closer. Through the glass panel I could see Nurse Pitmann’s head, partially silhouetted against the naked breeze blocks of the far wall. The filing took a long time. I heard heavy metal drawers rolling back and forth, a single impatient sigh. Either the files were not well organised, or Nurse Pitmann was bad at filing. At last the light went out again. I took cover in the nearest lavatory, which turned out to be the women’s. This was a mistake. Nurse Pitmann’s footsteps came back down the passage, slowed, then stopped. With a rush of panic it came to me that she planned to make use of the facilities before returning to her post.

I dived into one of the cubicles and locked myself in, jumping on to the seat so as to hide my conspicuously unfeminine footwear. Nurse Pitmann was already in the room. Her shadow drifted across the floor. She was sure to have heard me, but had she seen me too? If so, how would she react? What was the established procedure regarding such instances of cross-gender intrusion?

After half a minute of chilling stillness, followed by several further sighs (it was her reflection that displeased her, I suspect), Nurse Pitmann went into the adjoining cubicle and sat down. It was then, as I crouched on the slippery black toilet seat, listening to my neighbour’s sibilant and lengthy evacuation, that I hit upon a plan. It was a naive and reckless plan, one better suited to the
Factory Gate Fables
or
Two on a Bicycle
than a work of greater seriousness. I knew if I stopped to think about the risks, I wouldn’t go through with it. So, once again, I didn’t think. I pondered neither the dangers nor the literary/aesthetic shortcomings. I used the little time available to study the cistern above my head, the type and model, calculating approximate volumes and rates of flow. Could I make sabotage look like a natural systemic failure? Could I cause inconvenience that fell short of disaster?

As soon as Nurse Pitmann had completed her ablutions, I rolled up a sleeve and set to work. There were three lavatories in the room, three cistern lids to lift, three floats to unscrew so that the fill valves no longer fully closed. Fortunately I could make these adjustments with my eyes shut, the mechanisms being of the standard
Kombinat
variety. Less than two minutes later I was on my way up the stairs again.

I arrived back at the waiting area just as the first nurse emerged from the pharmaceutical store behind the desk. She handed me my prescription and a small glass jar with a plastic lid. My heart was beating so fast that I found it difficult to breathe. ‘Sign here,’ she said.

An hour later I returned wearing blue overalls, a cap and a pair of reading glasses that a myopic sleeping partner had left in my apartment years before and never returned to collect. With me I carried my tools in their heavy metal box and the air of insouciance common to those who clean up messes their supposed betters can’t clean up for themselves. By that time, if things had gone to plan, a minor flood should have been in progress in the lower quarters of the building.

Nurse Pitmann was on the telephone at the front desk.

‘Someone call a plumber?’ I said without waiting for her to finish.

Nurse Pitmann looked confused. Maybe there was no flood. Maybe they had a plumber in house. Or maybe, like citizens generally in the Workers’ and Peasants’ State, she hadn’t expected anyone to turn up for a fortnight.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said down the phone. ‘Someone’s here already.’ She replaced the receiver and turned back to me. ‘Women’s toilets. End of the corridor, down the steps. The janitor just went to shut off the water.’

‘Did he now?’ I said as I walked away, feigning mild resentment at this lack of respect for professional boundaries.

In the basement the janitor was nowhere to be seen, but someone had been busy. A sign on the door of the women’s lavatory read OUT OF ORDER, and a heap of towels and old newspapers had been arranged across the threshold. Even so, a pool of water occupied most of the passage. I went inside and checked the cubicles. All three cisterns were still gently but noisily overflowing, the floor now being completely submerged to a depth of half an inch. I didn’t waste time correcting the problem but went straight away to the records room, which was unlocked just as it had been earlier. Rather than turn on the lights, I took a torch from my toolbox and began the search.

It was just as I’d feared: the drawers were not labelled alphabetically. Instead, some opaque system of numerical classification had been deployed. I began with the nearest drawer, pulling out file after file, trying to work out the system, the principle of organisation. It took me a moment to realise that the patients I was looking at were all women. I moved to the next row of cabinets, opened another drawer. Here the files all referred to men. I was getting somewhere. I examined the data more closely, found immediately another connection: all the patients in this drawer were born in the same year: 1949. I pulled out another stack. The order was clearly chronological: the eldest were at the back of the drawer, the youngest at the front. To find Richter’s file, all I needed was to know when he’d been born.

But I didn’t know. I knew that he was young. I could narrow down the date of his birth to maybe three or four years. But that still meant a lot of searching.