And you did think about marrying Dong-Sun for those kinds of economic reasons. But it would never have worked out. Dong-Sun is a gentle soul. That’s what initially drew you to him. Your short affair began not long after you saw your files at Normannen Street. You and Dong-Sun were united in confusion. You were confused by what you’d seen in your files, and he was confused by life in the new Germany. Although Dong-Sun grew up in Germany and didn’t see his North Korean father from the age of ten, when, like so many North Korean men, he was sent home, there is a lot of the North Korean in Dong-sun. You know he misses the certainties of the old GDR. That’s why it would never have worked between you.
You rub your face. It’s been a long day. You look across at your father. He’s still jutting his chin out, looking round the table defiantly.
“You know,” he says, “when the border was sealed in 1961 people were happy. It meant no more sabotage from the West. No more doctors and dentists disappearing over the border to earn more money. No more disruptions to production because essential workers were being lured away by capitalist bribes. It gave us a firm base on which to build the fairer society we were trying to create. That’s what people wanted. You probably can’t even begin to imagine what it was like back then. We’d come through the bloodiest war in history. Our country had been brought to the brink of destruction by National Socialism. We wanted to build something better: a new Germany based on the principles of equality and socialism.”
He smiles and you try to smile back. What he says isn’t untrue. But it’s not the whole truth either.
“But you didn’t create a better, fairer society,” you say. “That’s the problem.”
“Well, I won’t deny there were problems. But there are problems in every society. At least we tried to make something that was better. At least we had something to believe in and work towards. We were working towards communism and we were happy. What do people believe in today?”
You look at the table. You don’t have an answer to that question. “Things happened that can’t be excused,” you say.
“Well, you’re entitled to your opinion.” He pats your hand. “You’ve always had firm views.”
“Huh,” says Herr Witzlack, lighting a cigarette. “All women have firm views.”
Your father appears not to hear him. Instead, he looks into your eyes and, speaking very quietly, says, “I’m sorry.”
You nod. “I know.”
Suddenly, you feel sorry for him. He’s been lying to himself all these years. Imagine the strain.
And what about you? Haven’t you been lying to yourself too. You’ve been telling yourself that you’re fine now, when you’re not. That it’s better to live privately than to confront the demons from your past. But isn’t that what you refused to do in the GDR? To live only in the private sphere. Why have you never spoken to your father about doping before? The same reason that you’ve cut yourself off from all political engagement. Because you’re afraid.
Well, maybe it’s time to stop being afraid.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,” Annabel said when she left me three weeks after I lost my job at Liebermann Brothers.
“Well, don’t do it then.”
“It’s not that simple.” She smiled sadly. “I can’t go on like this.”
“Like what?”
“You know what I mean.”
And that was it. All of a sudden after all those years of brave faces, she’d had enough. She said she couldn’t talk to me. She said she wanted a baby. She said I left the room every time she said this.
Before I was fired, she’d wanted me to go to AA. They have these special meetings in the Square Mile for City executives. They start at 6.30am so all the City alkies – and believe me, there are plenty of them – can be back at their desks flexing their Bulgari cuff links by 8am on the dot. She begged me. Please go. If not for yourself then for me. And I did go along a couple of times to please her, but it wasn’t for me.
She was very decent about everything when the end came. There was no shouting, no more nagging. She left the money for her share of the bills in the kitty jar and insisted on paying a month’s rent in lieu of notice. I never had got round to remortgaging the flat in both our names. That was something else she was always moaning about: I have no financial security.
“Financial security is like religion,” I used to say to her. “It’s all an illusion.”
Her brother Jeremy came to collect her in a hired van. He didn’t come into the flat. There had been an incident at the Bunch of Grapes when I still worked at Liebermann Brothers, and we no longer got on. Annabel assembled all her packed boxes and suitcases in the hall by the front door and took them out one by one on to the metal staircase that led down to the car park where Jeremy picked them up.
When she was ready to leave, she kissed me on the cheek and told me to look after myself. Then she picked up the one remaining suitcase and walked towards the door. She was wearing a green skirt I liked – it swished about her knees in a nice, feminine way – and a fitted leather jacket that showed off her slim waist.
“Annabel?” I said.
She held up a hand. “Please don’t, Bob.”
I heard the click of her heels on the metal staircase, and I wandered into the hallway feeling utterly desolate. A moment later she was back. I felt a surge of joy. She’d changed her mind! Then I took in what she was saying.
“Did you hear me? I said I forgot to give you the keys. I’ll leave them on the telephone table, shall I?”
I scratched my head. “You can hold on to them if you like. They could come in handy. You might want to … pop round some time.”
She put them down. “No thanks.”
That’s when I finally realised it was over. We’d been together for over ten years. We’d talked about marriage and kids, and now it was over. What was I going to do without her? She cooked my food. She cleaned the house. She kept up with our friends.
“Annabel,” I said, “listen – ”
“Shut up, Bob,” she interrupted. “Please. There’s nothing left to say.”
“What do you mean? Of course there are things left to say.”
“I have to go.”
I grabbed her arm. “Look, Annabel, I’ll sort myself out. I promise. I know I’ve been a pain lately, but now I’m out of Liebermann Brothers things are going to change. That place was getting me down. I’m going to cut down on my drinking and make a fresh start.”
“Cut down on your drinking? Don’t you understand, Bob? You can’t cut down on your drinking. You need to stop. You’re an alcoholic!”
I glared at her, hurt. “All right, all right. I’ll stop drinking altogether then if that’s what you want. It’s whatever you want, sweetheart. Just say the word.”
She sighed. “I need to go. Jeremy’s waiting.”
“Don’t do this to me, Annabel.” My voice cracked. “I can’t manage without you. I need you, for fuck’s sake. I love you.
“If there was any hope, I’d stay, but there isn’t.” She picked up her suitcase and left.
A month later, I put the flat on the market. I couldn’t stand living there without her. It was like a ghost flat. Lighter squares on the walls where her pictures had been. Empty drawers and hangers in the bedroom. Rotting food in the cupboards and fridge.
After the sale went through, I rented a bachelor pad on Noel Road in Islington. I liked it because it had a garden, it looked on to Regent’s Canal and it was near The Island Queen pub. The Island Queen is the kind of pub that makes you feel good about drinking. It was full of arty types lubricating their creative machinery.
I added the money I’d made from the sale of the flat to what was left of my pay-off from Liebermann Brothers and opened a business account. It came to a tidy sum, which is why the bank allowed me to have a business account. Apparently, my credit rating was shot to pieces because of some unpaid bills.
“It’s been a di
fficult time,” I told the business account executive. “My fiancée and I have unfortunately split up.”
“I understand,” he said, ogling the zeros on the cheque.
I bought a state-of-the-art iBook laptop and got some business cards printed in the name of City Savvy Translations. Managing Director: Robert J McPherson, they read. That sounded good. For a couple of weeks I stayed moderately sober during the day and sometimes spent several hours at a stretch sitting in front of the iBook tap-tapping on the keyboard, formulating a business plan.
But it didn’t last long. Pretty soon, I was desperately lonely. And when you’re lonely, you need a friend; you need your best friend. In the flat on Noel Road, I began to drink more than I’d ever drunk before.
It all came to a head one early spring evening. I’d begun to feel embarrassed buying booze in my local off licence, and so I was on my way to Sainsbury’s in the car. I didn’t see the Range Rover bowling down Colebrooke Row, and I smashed headlong into the passenger door. It was a woman driver. She took one look at me and got straight on her mobile to the police.
“He’s drunk,” I heard her screaming. “He’s not fit to drive. My son could’ve been killed. Killed!”
“She was going too fast,” I told the police when they arrived.
“Have you been drinking, sir?” asked one of the officers, a tall sandy-haired Scot who looked about 19.
“I had one glass of white wine with dinner. That’s not a crime, is it?”
“White wine is alcohol, sir. Could I ask you to step into the back of the car for me?”
They did a breath test, and I was charged with drink driving. It was a second offence, so I knew I’d lose my licence. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was when I looked out of the police car window and saw the woman I’d driven into comforting her wee boy. He was shaking and his face was smeared with tears, and it was all my fault.
The following week, my cleaning lady resigned. Radojka was a good-looking young Serbian woman with long black hair and dark soulful eyes. I looked forward to her visits. She called me Mr McPherson and smiled sweetly when I paid her.
She came on Tuesday mornings and I was always careful to take it easy on Monday nights so I could be up and at the iBook when she let herself in. But that week I forgot and spent Monday evening with a bottle of whisky. The next thing I knew Radojka was slapping my face and saying, “Mr McPherson, are you okay?”
Slowly I came to. What is Radojka doing here in the middle of the night? I thought. For a brief moment, I thought I’d got lucky. Then I saw the sun slanting through the blinds. It was daytime. I looked down. I was lying on the bed half-naked. I pulled the duvet up and fumbled for the alarm clock on the bedside table: 11 am, the time Radojka came round each Tuesday.
“Mr McPherson?” Radojka said.
“I’m, eh … Christ.”
I tried to sit up. Then something happened. Maybe I reached out a hand to her, and she got the wrong idea. I don’t know. Her tone changed. Suddenly, she was putting on her coat and swapping her work trainers for her high-heeled street boots.
“Where are you going?” I asked as she headed out of the bedroom door. I pulled the duvet round me and scrambled out of bed.
“Stay where you are,” she ordered, grabbing her bag from the hall table.
She marched to the door. I stumbled after her, tripping over the duvet and banging hard into the wall.
“I haven’t paid you,” I said.
“I didn’t do the job. I don’t want to be paid.”
She let herself out, slamming the door behind her. My keys came flying through the letterbox, and I heard her thumping down the stairs in her sexy boots. Radojka has left the building, I thought, slumping to the floor, and that’s pretty much the last thing I remember about that week and the one that allegedly followed.
*
I woke feeling like someone was shaving bits of bone off my skull with an angle grinder. A woman I didn’t know was bending over me. She was young and sweet with a shiny complexion and fine blonde hair cut in a short bob.
“Can you hear me, sir?” she asked.
I blinked and tried to bring her into focus. She was wearing a white coat and a badge that read: Dr S. J. Henderson. I glanced round. I was lying on a trolley between two green screens in the middle of a noisy room.
“I don’t feel well,” I said.
“That doesn’t surprise me, sir.”
“Where am I?”
“Homerton Hospital, sir. You were admitted to accident and emergency at – ” She consulted a chart. “2.35am.” She smiled brightly. “Are you able to stand up, sir?”
“What day is it?” I asked, easing my legs over the edge of the trolley.
“Friday.”
I put my feet on the floor and heaved myself up to standing. I was as weak as a kitten. I stood by the trolley clutching on to my trousers, while the doctor listened to my heart beat and took my blood pressure.
“I meant what’s the date?”
She gave me a sharp look. “10th of March. Any blood in your stools, sir?”
10th of March. I tried to work back. What was the last date I could remember?
“Sir? Any blood in your stools?”
“No. Eh … I don’t know.”
She looked at my chart again. “Your friend who called the ambulance told the paramedics that you’re an alcoholic and had been on a drinking binge. How much had you been drinking, sir?”
“I … eh …. I’m not sure, doctor.”
“A bottle of spirits a day? Two bottles?”
“A bottle,” I lied.
She made a note on the chart. “Right, sir. Your friend said that you had been vomiting blood. You have stated that you are uncertain if there has been blood in your stools. A rectal examination is therefore indicated to rule out an anal fissure. I’ll just pop outside for a minute. If you’d like to remove your trousers and lie face down on the trolley, we’ll get that done.”
She began to pull the screens. A rectal examination? I didn’t want some young girl shoving her finger up my arse.
“Is that really necessary?” I asked, tears forming in my eyes.
She smiled grimly. “Yes, sir, it is.”
After the examination, I was left on a trolley in A&E for three and a half hours before an orderly arrived to take me upstairs. I was put in a ward full of old men with bladder problems. I have never felt so ill or so ashamed. The DTs were starting, and although the doctor had given me a Diazepam, they were still pretty bad. My mouth felt like a gerbil cage, but I wasn’t allowed a drink because I was nil by mouth until they could work out why I’d been vomiting blood.
I was seeing things I knew weren’t there. Spiders the size of a cat crawling up the screens. Maggoty creatures erupting from the skin on my arm. Hallucinations. I wanted to scream, but forced myself to stay quiet. I didn’t want that girl doctor to come back. The determined look on her face as she pinged on her latex gloves had made me shudder. As I lay on the trolley, weak, dehydrated and juddering from the DTs, snatches of memory from the previous days came back to me. Lying on the living room floor at Noel Road, wet and shivery with a paramedic crouching beside me saying, “I’m concerned about your heartbeat, sir. It’s very fast.” Jeremy standing in the living room door, his lip curled in disgust, saying, “Christ, he’s not even dressed. Get him some trousers, would you, Bel?” And behind him, Annabel, pale and anxious, asking the paramedic if I was going to be all right.
Two days later, Chris visited me in hospital. I hadn’t seen him in over a year. I must have been asleep when he arrived because I woke to find him pacing by my bed.
“Big man!” I yelled.
“Hiya!” he replied with manufactured brightness. “How are you?”
“How do I look? I saw myself in the mirror yesterday and I looked like an old jakey. Too bad because they sent this girl round to see me and she was quite fit. Sally her name was. But I’ve had some nutritionally complete drinks since then. Ma
ybe things have improved?”
“To be honest, you don’t look too good.”
“Suppose not. How did you know I was here?”
“Long story. Here’s the short version: Annabel phoned your mum, and your mum phoned me.”
“My mum phoned you?”
“Yup.”
“Why did she do that?”
He pulled up a chair and sat down by my bed. “She was worried, wee man.”
“Annabel shouldn’t have phoned her. I’m going to have a word with her about that when I get out of here.”
Chris rubbed his face. “She didn’t know what else to do. You know it was her who called the ambulance? She’d been phoning you and getting no answer and she got worried. She went round to the flat with Jeremy and he broke the door down. Apparently, it was a bit of a mess in there. Piss and puke everywhere. She was quite upset.”
I stared at the bedclothes. “She shouldn’t have phoned my mum,” I repeated.
“I don’t think she felt she had a choice.”
I swallowed hard. “Didn’t you bring me any grapes?” I asked.
Chris didn’t smile. “Wee man, we need to talk.”
He told me that he wanted me to try AA. He had some leaflets with him and everything. Fucking AA. It was everyone’s solution to everything. No one understood. Like the alcohol counsellor who’d come to see me earlier with her swishy blonde hair and shapely tanned legs. She’d looked impossibly healthy, like a visitor from another world. What could she possibly know about the dark places I’d been on the bottle? How could she counsel me?
“Who put you up to this?” I asked.
“Nobody.”
“Look, I don’t want to go to AA. It’s full of crackpots. It’s not for me. And you don’t need to worry about me. This whole business has been a massive wake-up call. Did I tell you they gave me an endoscopy? It was horrible. I thought I was going to choke. There’s no way I’m going through that again. I won’t be drinking again when I get out of here. That’s it. It’s all over.”
The Leipzig Affair Page 18