The Woman from Bratislava (36 page)

‘Who is E–?’ Toftlund asked.

‘A better man than you’ll ever be.’

‘So he does exist?’

‘Unlike you he is a decent human being. A man of principle.’

‘What is E–’s real name?’

She stared at him, crossed her arms over her chest.

‘I would like to go back to my cell.’

‘Soon, Irma. What is E–’s name and where can we find him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Irma!’

‘I don’t know. I refuse to say any more on the grounds that it might incriminate me.’

‘Where is your sister?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But she is your sister?’

‘Yes. She is my sister.’ She was almost yelling at him now.

‘What is her real name?’

‘Mira Majola.’

‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know, I tell you.’

‘Was your sister in Denmark on March 12th this year?’

‘You know very well she was.’

‘What was she doing here?’

‘Visiting me.’

‘So that you could pass top-secret information to her?’

‘Are you really that stupid, Toftlund? Where would I get my hands on top-secret information?’

‘So you could introduce her to E–, then?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Why, Irma?’

She stepped away from the wall and waggled her hands as if they were wet and she was trying to shake water or some nasty, sticky fluid off them.

‘Because I wanted the two people who mean most to me to meet.’

‘I don’t believe that, Irma.’

‘You can believe what you like. I’m saying no more. I want to speak to my lawyer. This is psychological torture.’

‘Did Mira work for the Serbs?’

‘If you say so then she must have.’

‘Did she double-cross them? Are they after her?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘We can help her.’

‘I’m not saying any more. You’re exerting undue pressure on me.’

‘So you and E– were going to help her?’

‘I have nothing more to say.’

‘But that seems reasonable enough. The world is a different place now, after all.’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘Or was it one last deal?’

‘Can’t you get it into your head – I have nothing more to say.’

‘These two were to meet because this was to be the last deal, and it was a big one, with a lot of money riding on it.’

‘I have nothing more to say.’

‘A nice retirement pension, so to speak, for both E– and little sister.’

‘I have nothing more to say.’

‘A pension for little sister Mira because time is running out for Milosevic and his gang. He’s up against NATO now, not unarmed women and children. He’s about to lose his fourth war. It’s going to be one war too many. Time is running out for the butcher. Little sister meant to cash in on his downfall. And E– wanted a piece of the cake because he has had his day too and he’s worried about what might be in the Stasi or old KGB files. I’m right, aren’t I, Irma? It’s not cheap living underground and there aren’t very many places left in the world that are still willing to give house room to the spies of the past.’

She sniffed, and sighed as if giving in, and Toftlund’s hopes rose as she lifted her toppled chair, sat down again and lit a cigarette. Charlotte Bastrup stood with her back to the wall. She was glaring at Irma. Her left eye was red and slightly swollen and wet, as if she had been crying.

‘You don’t understand the first thing about it,’ Irma said softly. ‘You see life as being black and white. You see life and existence as things that can be explained rationally. You see life as being linear, but it isn’t. It’s convoluted and inexplicable. You forget our dreams, and you forget hope. You think life is a crossword puzzle. That people will find the solution and get it to work out. You don’t understand a thing.’

‘Who is E–?’

She considered him.

‘Figure it out for yourself. Ah, but you can’t, can you?’

‘Irma. You’ve admitted that E– exists. That Mira Majola is your sister. And we know from your brothers that your father lived the life he lived. That you consort with members of the SS
veterans
’ association. That you were once a revolutionary because you hate bourgeois society. We know that you are Edelweiss. We know that you introduced Mira, a Serbian agent, to E–. Basically, all we need is a name, and for you to tell us that our information is correct. Then you can go free. You’ll be released from solitary
confinement. You can pick up the pieces of your life again. Where does E– work? Within NATO? Within the EU? Is he a Danish ambassador? Working with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs?’

‘Who said he was Danish?’ she rejoined. That cool, mocking look was, unfortunately, back in her eyes.

‘You – you wrote that he was.’

‘Maybe I’m writing a novel. To pass the time.’

‘That I don’t believe.’

‘Does Simone de Beauvoir write novels or memoirs?’

‘I’ve never read anything by her. As a matter of fact I’ve no idea who she is.’

‘Well, you should read her, it would do you good.’

‘That’s not what we’re talking about.’

‘It’s exactly what we’re talking about. Because what we’re talking about is liberation.’

‘Who is he?’

She leaned across the table:

‘That, Per Toftlund, you will never learn from me. My secrets are my own. And I’ll take them with me to my grave. And now I have nothing more to say. I would like to go back to my cell.’

Toftlund sighed:

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But you don’t get off that easily. I’ll be seeing you.’

‘Tell that to the judge in a week’s time.’

Toftlund glanced at his watch, stated the time and switched off the cassette recorder. Charlotte walked quietly up to the table and leaned over Irma. Then she clenched a hand round the face of the other woman, who sat perfectly still, though with fear now showing in those lovely green eyes.

‘Bitch!’ Charlotte hissed and Toftlund could see her hand squeezing tighter and tighter. ‘How can you live with yourself?’

‘For God’s sake, Charlotte,’ Toftlund broke in.

Charlotte let go of Irma’s face and straightened up.

‘Bitch,’ she repeated in the same icy tone.

‘It takes one to know one,’ Irma snapped. Bastrup, already moving away from the table, froze in mid-step.

‘Charlotte!’ was all Toftlund said.

‘I’m okay,’ she said.

She said it again after Irma had been led away and they were back in Toftlund’s office. He had dampened a piece of cotton wool and was holding her face up to the light while he tried to remove the last of the tiny specks of ash from her eye. She had tried, unsuccessfully, to do it herself. With his left hand cupped lightly round her face he dabbed the red, inflamed eye, then very gently tried to winkle out the three specks which he could clearly see, lodged under her lower lid. She smelled faintly of tobacco, but mostly of some delicate perfume. Her lips were moist. He had no luck at the first attempt, but the second time he managed to catch all three specks on the edge of the damp cotton wool and ease them out. He kept his hand curled around her face, in much the same way as Charlotte had held Irma’s, only Toftlund’s grip was gentle and his fingers began to stroke her cheek. Her skin was soft and warm. She blinked the
irritated
eye a few times and peered up at him. He ran his hand down the back of her head, over the cropped hair. His other arm slipped round her waist and when she turned her whole face up to him, he kissed her. He could feel the pent-up desire when she pressed herself against him and slid her tongue between his lips. He ran his hand down her back and over her little rump and felt her tugging at his shirt to pull it free of his trousers so that she could get at his bare skin. His own hand glided from her buttocks and under her shirt. The skin there was moist and warm as his fingers stroked her back before moving downwards, under her waistband, as far as he could reach, to her tailbone. Her breath was coming in quick, short pants, it felt hot against his cheek and he felt his own desire growing, his penis almost aching from the nudging of her pelvis and the play of their tongues. But in the midst of the longing and the aching the voice in his head said: Let her go. You have to let go of her. This is a workmate. You can’t do this to Lise. Let go of her.

He would never know whether he would have had the strength or the moral fibre to stop there, because he was saved by the telephone on the desk. He could see from the display when he removed his lips from Charlotte’s that the call was from Vuldom. He took a quick step backwards. She stayed where she was, her lips moist and slightly swollen, her shirt hanging loose over her
trousers
and her breasts rising with each breath. Did he look the same? She gave him a look that was both lustful and taunting. It seemed to say: It’s up to you. But you won’t get another chance. If you pick up that phone the spell is broken and it can never be recaptured.

He picked up the phone.

‘Toftlund,’ he said, his eyes still on Charlotte, who was idly trying to tuck her shirt back into her waistband. She gave up, undid her narrow, black belt and he caught a glimpse of her thin white panties as her trousers slid down, she slowly arranged her shirt and with languorous sensuality buckled her belt again, still with those bright, intense, provocative eyes fixed on him. Give me a sign, they said. A smile, a gesture, telling me to lock the door, or to say that very soon we’re going to go back to my place. Put a hand over the phone and blow me a kiss. Let me know that
something
earth-shattering just happened between us, and that you want it to continue. He turned his face away and proceeded to give Vuldom an account of the day’s interview. He was surprised to find how steady his voice was. He heard the click as Charlotte shut the door behind her, while he was agreeing with Vuldom that they had made some progress, but that it would still be hard to get it to stand up in court.

‘There’s nothing else for it – you’ll have to leave for Albania tomorrow,’ Vuldom concluded. ‘I’ll get someone onto booking the tickets right away. You’ll have to ask for assistance from NATO, or the Emergency Management Agency or one of our guys with the UN peacekeeping force down there. Take Teddy with you.’

‘What if he doesn’t want to go?’

‘He has no choice. I’ll call him shortly. I’ll hire him as an
interpreter. Threaten him with something or other. Appeal to his sense of duty, if he has any such thing. You need him with you. He knows what she looks like.’

‘There are half a million refugees down there, scattered all over a country in total upheaval.’

‘She’s the key, Toftlund.’

‘Right.’

‘You’re thinking about the baby, aren’t you.’

‘Yes, actually I was,’ he said, surprised that she should think of it.

‘When’s it due?’

‘A week’s time.’

‘We have to be in court eight days from now. So you’ll have to be home by then. For one reason and another.’

‘What about Bastrup?’

‘What about her?’

‘Is she coming too?’ he asked and waited, not knowing which answer he wanted Vuldom to give him.

‘That would probably be helpful in some ways, but you can manage on your own. She’ll have to carry on with the
investigation
at this end. In any case I think she’s better at the computer than out in the field. From what I hear Albania’s no picnic.’

‘Right you are, ma’am,’ he said, feeling more relieved than
anything
else.

He called home. Lise sounded happy.

‘Hi, sweetheart,’ she said.

‘I’m on my way home now. Have you eaten?’

‘Nope, and I’m in the mood for something really tasty.’

‘How’s about I pick up some takeaway Sticks’n’Sushi?’

‘You read my mind, honey. Hurry home.’

‘I’ll be home in about forty-five minutes.’

‘We can’t wait to see you.’

He drove home in a strange mood, ridden with guilt, but at the same time relieved that things had not gone any further – although
he was shocked by the ease with which he could be tempted and seduced, by the frailty of human resolve. He was quite sure that it would never happen again. But could he have kept that promise if Charlotte had been coming to Albania with him? He did not know how he would tell Lise that he was flying out the next day, or the day after that at the very latest. He could not expect her to have any faith in his promises now. On the other hand, she could not expect him to tell his boss that he wasn’t going? He tried to put his thoughts in order, but his mind was like a big boxful of Lego tipped out onto the floor all higgledy-piggledy by a child who cannot understand why the instructions for building the fabulous constructions pictured on the box no longer seem to make any sense.

It was still light when he pulled up outside their little red-brick house. It was not even particularly cold. The wind had died down and the sky was bright, only the last vestiges of the heavy grey clouds visible far down on the horizon. He called a friendly hello to their neighbour, his heart lifting at the thought that he had a home and a wife whom he loved waiting for him inside it, while at the same time cursing his own hypocrisy.

Lise was curled up on the sofa, watching television. He set the bag containing the sushi on the table and gave her a long,
lingering
kiss. Her lips tasted good from the white wine in the glass in front of her.

‘Hm, lovely. I think a little glass of wine is good for the baby and this is just perfect for sushi,’ she said.

‘What are you watching?’

‘It’s supposed to be a news programme, but really just another example of the prevailing ideology of the nineties: self-promotion, the cult of narcissism.’

‘God, what a lot of big words you know, Lise.’

She laughed. She knew his own vocabulary was a great deal more extensive than he let on. He stroked her neck, his eyes too on the TV screen. It was obviously news of a sort, although you
would hardly have known it: some young twenty-something guy had been voted the hottest man in Denmark. He was well-built in the standard, vapid body-building fashion which Toftlund despised. There was a clip of him standing on a stage along with other muscular young men in minuscule underpants. He was being presented with a bottle of champagne and was beaming so ecstatically that anyone would have thought he had won some really distinguished award. The other guys clapped half-heartedly and tried to smile, jealous that it was him in the spotlight and not them. Then it was back to the studio, where the young female
presenter
asked kittenishly: