A Small Town in Germany

by John le Carré

  ‘It’s not my problem.’

  ‘But it is mine. Let me explain what happens. My colleagues are observant people. They look around, count heads and notice that somebody is missing. They make enquiries, question servants and friends perhaps, and they are told that he has disappeared. Immediately I am worried for him. So are my colleagues. My colleagues are compassionate people. They don’t like anyone to go astray. What could be more human? They are boys, some of them. Just boys. Harting has gone to England?’

  The last question was spoken directly to Turner, but Bradfield took it on himself and Turner blessed him.

  ‘He has family problems. Clearly we cannot advertise them. I don’t propose to put a man’s private life upon the table in order to satisfy your files.’

  ‘That is a very excellent principle. And one we must all follow. Do you hear that, Mr Turner?’ His voice was remarkably emphatic. ‘What is the point of a paper chase? What is the point?’

  ‘Why on earth are you so bothered about Harting?’ Bradfield demanded, as if it were a joke of which he had tired. ‘I’m astonished you even know of his existence. Let’s go and get some coffee, shall we?’

  He stood up; but Siebkron remained where he was.

  ‘But of course we know of his existence,’ he declared. ‘We admire his work. We admire it very much indeed. In a department such as mine, Mr Harting’s ingenuity finds many admirers. My colleagues speak of him constantly.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Bradfield had coloured in anger. ‘What is all this? What work?’

  ‘He used to be with the Russians, you know,’ Siebkron explained to Turner. ‘In Berlin. That was a long time ago, of course, but I am sure that he learnt a great deal from them, don’t you think so, Mr Turner? A little technique, a little ideology perhaps? And grip. The Russians never let go.’

  Bradfield had put the two decanters on a tray and was standing at the doorway waiting for them to go ahead of him.

  ‘What work was that?’ Turner asked gruffly, as Siebkron reluctantly rose from his chair.

  ‘Research. Just general research, Mr Turner. Like yourself, you see. It is nice to think that you and Harting have common interests. As a matter of fact that is why I asked whether you would replace him. My colleagues understand from Mr Allerton that you and Harting have many things in common.’

  Hazel Bradfield looked up anxiously as they entered, and the glance she exchanged with Bradfield was eloquent of the emergency. Her four women guests sat on a single sofa. Mrs Vandelung was working at a sampler; Frau Siebkron in church black had laid her hands on her lap and was staring in private fascination at the open fire. The Gräfin, consoling herself for the untitled company she was obliged to keep, sipped morosely at a large brandy. Her parsimonious face was lit with small red flowers like poppies on a battlefield. Only little Frau Saab, her bosom freshly powdered, smiled to see them enter.

  They were settled, resigned to boredom.

  ‘Bernhard,’ said Hazel Bradfield, patting the cushion beside her, ‘come and sit by me. I find you specially cosy this evening.’ With a foxy smile the old man took his place obediently beside her. ‘Now you’re to tell me all the horrors I am to expect on Friday.’ She was playing the spoilt beauty, and playing it well, but there was an undercurrent of anxiety in her voice which not even Bradfield’s tuition had taught her wholly to suppress.

  At a separate table, Siebkron sat alone like a man who travelled by a better class. Bradfield talked to his wife. No, she conceded, she had not been to Brussels; she did not go often with her husband. ‘But you must insist!’ he declared and launched at once upon a description of a favourite Brussels hotel. The Amigo; one should stay at the Amigo; it had the best service he had ever encountered. Frau Siebkron did not care for large hotels; she took her holidays in the Black Forest; that was what the children liked best. Yes; Bradfield loved the Black Forest himself; he had close friends at Dornstetten.

  Turner listened in grudging admiration to Bradfield’s inexhaustible flow of small-talk. He expected no help from anyone. His eyes were dark with fatigue, but his dialogue was as fresh, as considerate and as aimless as if he were on holiday.

  ‘Come along, Bernhard; you’re just a wise old owl and nobody ever tells me anything. I’m just the Hausfrau. I’m supposed to look at Vogue and make canapés all day.’

  ‘You know the saying,’ Vandelung replied. ‘What else must happen in Bonn before something happens? They can do nothing we have not seen before.’

  ‘They can trample all over my roses,’ Hazel remarked, lighting herself a cigarette. ‘They can steal my husband away at all hours of the night. Day trips to Brussels indeed! It’s quite absurd. And look what they did in Hanover. Can you imagine what would happen if they broke these windows? Dealing with that wretched Works Department? We’d all be sitting here in overcoats while they worked out who pays. It’s too bad, it really is. Thank goodness we have Mr Turner to protect us.’ As she said this her gaze rested upon him, and it seemed to him both anxious and enquiring. ‘Frau Saab, does your husband travel all over the place these days? I am sure journalists make far better husbands than diplomats.’

  ‘He is very true.’ The little doll blushed unhappily.

  ‘She means loyal.’ Saab kissed her hand with love.

  Opening her tiny handbag, she took out a powder compact and parted its gold petals one by one. ‘We have been married one year tomorrow. It is so beautiful.’

  ‘Du bist noch schöner,’ Saab cried and the conversation disintegrated into an exchange of domestic and financial intelligence on the Saabs’ newly formed household. Yes, they had bought a plot of land up by Oberwinter. Karl-Heinz had bought it last year for the engagement and already the value had risen four marks per Quadratmeter.

  ‘Karl-Heinz, how do you say Quadratmeter?’

  ‘The same,’ Saab asserted, ‘quadrate meter,’ and glowered at Turner in case he should dare to contradict him.

  Suddenly Frau Saab was talking and no one could stop her any more. Her whole little life was spread before them in an oriental tinkle of hopes and disappointments; the colour which had mounted so prettily to her cheeks stayed there like the warm flush of sexual success.

  They had hoped that Karl-Heinz would get the Bonn Büro of his newspaper. Bonn editor: that had been their expectation. His salary would go up another thousand and he would have a real position. What had happened instead? The paper had appointed den Flitzdorf and the Flitzdorf was just a boy, with no experience and nothing and completely homosexual and Karl-Heinz, who had worked now eighteen years for the paper and had so many contacts, was still only second man and was having to make extra by writing for all the cheese-papers.

  ‘Yellow press,’ said her husband, but for once she quite ignored him.

  Well, when that had happened they had had a long discussion and decided they would go ahead with their building plans although the Hypothek was appalling; and no sooner had they paid over the money to the Makler than a really terrible thing happened: the Africans had come to Oberwinter. It was quite awful. Karl-Heinz was always very sharp against Africans, but now they had actually taken the next-door plot and were building a Residenz for one of their Ambassadors, and twice a week they all came up and climbed like monkeys over the bricks and shouted they wanted it different; and in no time they would have a whole colony up there, with Cadillacs and children and music all night, and as for herself, she would be all alone when Karl-Heinz was working late, and they were already putting special bolts on the doors so that she would not be –

  ‘They talk fantastic!’ Saab shouted, loudly enough for Siebkron and Bradfield to look round at him sharply; for the two men had drawn away to the window and were murmuring quietly into the night. ‘But we don’t get nothing to drink!’

  ‘Karl-Heinz, my poor chap, we are completely neglecting you.’ With a final word to Siebkron, Bradfield walked down the room to where the decanters stood on their bright-cut silver tray. ‘Who else would like a nightcap?�
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  Vandelung would have joined him, but his wife forbade it.

  ‘And take great care,’ she warned the young Frau Saab in a dreadfully audible aside, ‘or he will have a heart attack. So much eating and drinking and shouting: it affects the heart. And with a young wife not easily satisfied,’ she added contentedly, ‘he could die easy.’ Taking her little grey husband firmly by the wrist, Frau Vandelung led him into the hall. In the same instant Hazel Bradfield leaned purposefully across the abandoned chair. ‘Mr Turner,’ she said quietly, ‘there is a matter in which you can help me. May I take you away a moment?’

  They stood in the sun room. Potted plants and tennis rackets lay on the window-sills; a child’s tractor, a pogo stick and a bundle of garden canes were strewn over the tiled floor. There was a mysterious smell of honey.

  ‘I understand you’re making enquiries about Harting,’ she said. Her voice was crisp and commanding; she was very much Bradfield’s wife.

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Rawley’s worrying himself to death. I’m convinced that Leo Harting’s at the back of it.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He doesn’t sleep and he won’t even discuss it. For the last three days he’s hardly spoken to me. He even sends messages by way of other people. He’s cut himself off entirely from everything except his work. He’s near breaking point.’

  ‘He didn’t give me that impression.’

  ‘He happens to be my husband.’

  ‘He’s very lucky.’

  ‘What’s Harting taken?’ Her eyes were bright with anger or determination. ‘What’s he stolen?’

  ‘What makes you think he’s stolen anything?’

  ‘Listen. I, not you, am responsible for my husband’s welfare. I have a right to know if Rawley is in trouble; tell me what Harting has done. Tell me where he is. They’re all whispering about it; everyone. This ridiculous story about Cologne; Siebkron’s curiosity: why can’t I know what’s going on?’

  ‘That’s what I was wondering myself,’ Turner said.

  He thought she might hit him, and he knew that if she did, he would hit her back. She was beautiful, but the arch corners of her mouth were drawn down in the frustrated fury of a rich child, and there were things about her voice and manner which were dreadfully familiar.

  ‘Get out. Leave me alone.’

  ‘I don’t care who you are. If you want to know official secrets you can bloody well get them at source,’ Turner said, and waited for her to rise to him again.

  Instead, she swept past him into the hall and ran upstairs. For a moment he remained where he was, staring confusedly at the muddle of children’s and adult toys, the fishing rods, the croquet set and all the casual, wasteful equipment of a world he had never known. Still lost in thought, he made his way slowly back to the drawing-room. As he entered, Bradfield and Siebkron, side by side at the French window, turned as one man to stare at him, the object of their shared contempt.

  It was midnight. The Gräfin, drunk and quite speechless, had been loaded into a taxi. Siebkron had gone; his farewell had been confined to the Bradfields. His wife must have gone with him, though Turner had not noticed her departure; the cushion where she had sat was barely depressed. The Vandelungs had also gone. Now the five of them sat round the fire in a state of post-festive depression, the Saabs on the sofa holding hands and staring at the dying coals, Bradfield quite silent sipping his thin whisky; while Hazel herself, in her long skirt of green tweed, curled like a mermaid into an armchair, played with the Blue Russian cat in self-conscious imitation of an eighteenth-century dream. Though she rarely looked at Turner, she did not trouble to ignore him; occasionally she even addressed a remark to him. A tradesman had been impertinent, but Hazel Bradfield would not do him the compliment of taking away her custom.

  ‘Hanover was fantastic,’ Saab muttered.

  ‘Oh not again, Karl-Heinz,’ Hazel pleaded, ‘I think I’ve heard enough of that to last for ever.’

  ‘Why did they run?’ he asked himself. ‘Siebkron was also there. They ran. From the front. They ran like crazy for that library. Why did they do that? All at once: alles auf einmal.’

  ‘Siebkron keeps asking me the same question,’ Bradfield said, in an exhausted moment of frankness. ‘Why did they run? He should know if anyone does: he was at Eich’s bedside; I wasn’t. He heard what she had to say, I suppose; I didn’t. What the hell’s got into him? On and on: “What happened at Hanover mustn’t happen in Bonn.” Of course it mustn’t, but he seems to think it’s my fault it happened in the first place. I’ve never known him like that.’

  ‘You?’ Hazel Bradfield said with undisguised contempt. ‘Why on earth should he ask you? You weren’t even there.’

  ‘He asks me all the same,’ said Bradfield, standing up, in a moment so utterly passive and tender that Turner was moved suddenly to speculate on their relationship. ‘He asks me all the same.’ He put his empty glass on the sideboard. ‘Whether you like it or not. He asks me repeatedly: “Why did they run?” Just as Karl-Heinz was asking now. “What made them run? What was it about the library that attracted them?” All I could say was that it was British, and we all know what Karfeld thinks about the British. Come on, Karl-Heinz: we must put you young people to bed.’

  ‘And the grey buses,’ Saab muttered. ‘You read what they found about the buses for the bodyguard? They were grey, Bradfield, grey!’

  ‘Is that significant?’

  ‘It was, Bradfield. About a thousand years ago, it was damn significant, my dear.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m missing the point,’ Bradfield observed with a weary smile.

  ‘As usual,’ his wife said; no one took it as a joke.

  They stood in the hall. Of the two Hungarians, only the girl remained.

  ‘You have been damn good to me, Bradfield,’ Saab said sadly as they took their leave. ‘Maybe I talk too much. Nicht wahr, Marlene: I talk too much. But I don’t trust that fellow Siebkron. I am an old pig, see? But Siebkron is a young pig. Pay attention!’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I trust him, Karl-Heinz?’

  ‘Because he don’t never ask a question unless he knows the answer.’ With this enigmatic reply, Karl-Heinz Saab fervently kissed the hand of his hostess and stepped into the dark, steadied by the young arm of his adoring wife.

  Turner sat in the back while Saab drove very slowly on the left-hand side of the road. His wife was asleep on his shoulder, one little hand still scratching fondly at the black fur which decorated the nape of her husband’s neck.

  ‘Why did they run at Hanover?’ Saab repeated, weaving happily between the oncoming cars. ‘Why those damn fools run?’

  At the Adler, Turner asked for morning coffee at half past four, and the porter noted it with an understanding smile, as if that were the sort of time he expected an Englishman to rise. As he went to bed, his mind detached itself from the distasteful and mystifying interrogations of Herr Ludwig Siebkron in order to dwell on the more agreeable person of Hazel Bradfield. It was just as mysterious, he decided as he fell asleep, that a woman so beautiful, desirable and evidently intelligent could tolerate the measureless tedium of diplomatic life in Bonn. If darling upper-class Anthony Willoughby ever took a shine to her, he thought, what on earth would Bradfield do then? And why – the chorus that sang him to sleep was the same chorus which had kept him awake throughout the long, tense, meaningless evening – why the hell was he invited in the first place?

  And who had asked him? ‘I am to invite you to dinner on Tuesday,’ Bradfield had said: don’t blame me for what happens.

  And Bradfield, I heard! I heard you submit to pressure; I felt the softness of you for the first time; I took a step in your direction, I saw the knife in your back and I heard you speak with my own voice. Hazel, you bitch; Siebkron, you swine; Harting, you thief: if that’s what you think about life, queer de Lisle simpered in his ear, why don’t you defect yourself. God is dead. You can’t have it both ways, that would be too medieval …

&
nbsp; He had set his alarm for four o’clock, and it seemed to be ringing already.

  11

  Königswinter

  It was still dark when de Lisle collected him and Turner had to ask the night porter to unlock the hotel door. The street was cold, friendless and deserted; the mist came at them in sudden patches.

  ‘We’ll have to go the long way over the bridge. The ferry’s not running at this hour.’ His manner was short to the point of abruptness.

  They had entered the carriageway. To either side of them, new blocks, built of tile and armoured glass, sprang like night weeds out of the untilled fields, crested by the lamps of small cranes. They passed the Embassy. The dark hung upon the wet concrete like the smoke of a spent battle. The Union Jack swung limply from its standard, a single flower on a soldier’s grave. Under the weary light of the front porch, the lion and the unicorn, their profiles blurred with repeated coats of red and gold, fought bravely on. In the waste land, the two rickety goalposts leaned drunkenly in the twilight.

  ‘Things are warming up in Brussels,’ de Lisle remarked in a tone which promised little elaboration. A dozen cars were parked in the forecourt, Bradfield’s white Jaguar stood in its private bay.

  ‘For us or against us?’

  ‘What do you think?’ He continued: ‘We have asked for private talks with the Germans; the French have done the same. Not that they want them; it’s the tug-of-war they enjoy.’

  ‘Who wins?’

  De Lisle did not reply.

  The deserted town hung in the pink unearthly glow which cradles every city in the hour before dawn. The streets were wet and empty, the houses soiled like old uniforms. At the University arch, three policemen had made a lane of barricades and they flagged them down as they approached. Sullenly they walked round the small car, recording the licence number, testing the suspension by standing on the rear bumper, peering through the misted windscreen at the huddled occupants within.