by Various
"Despair."
Gunther shook his head and swallowed his drink. Visions of Ulla Blau's ruined face kept rising in his mind.
"Were you in the war?" he said.
"Does it matter?"
"No," Gunther said, tiredly. "I suppose it doesn't."
They rose from their seats and stepped out into the night. It had truly fallen by then, and here and there, solitary gas lamps began to wink into being, casting murky pools of yellow light around them. Janson palmed a pill and dry-swallowed. "You want some?" he said.
Gunther said, "Sure."
During the war they had functioned as little more than animated corpses: kept alive by minimal food rations and handfuls of drugs. Gunther's memories of the march on Moscow were fragmentary. They killed for the sake of killing, killed because it was the only thing left for them to do. It wasn't glory or the Führer that kept them on that march. It was the little pills manufactured by Bayer's; that, and simple, total desperation.
The veneer of humanity was stripped off Gunther during the long march, during the slaughter and the occupation. He had never hated Jews, had no feelings at all for the Russians, but he was just one man; and when it came down to it, he wanted to survive.
In this world, I think, you do what you must to live: another minute, another hour, another day.
Sometime during that long evening they stumbled into the Berlin. It is a club situated on the Embankment, next to the gardens—or what used to be gardens before the war—and facing the South Bank. Gunther stopped outside. The Ferris wheel rotated slowly on the opposite side of the river, softly illuminated against the night sky. Gunther was drunk. His body was on fire from the methamphetamine. The Thames snaked dark and in its depths he saw Ulla's face rising up to him, laughing bubbles. He tottered.
Janson said something to the doormen and they laughed.
Money changed hands. The money was Gunther's. They went inside. It was a large room with a stage at one end. Girls danced on the stage, naked but for the fans they held. They moved about the stage in complicated patterns. A piano played, softly. Gunther heard conversation, laughter, the clink of glasses. He saw SS men in uniform sitting at one table, each officer with a girl in his lap. Important locals in last year's suits swanned about. They had bad skin and bad teeth and great big booming laughs. Gunther ordered a drink and thought he'd had enough of this town.
It was then that he saw him.
The Luxembourgian stepped out of the door marked Bathroom, his hands still wet. He dried them on his trousers. He wore a pinstripe suit and a pink shirt and a muted tie. His eyes darted nervously from side to side but he put on a smile as charming and shiny as a false diamond bracelet. Then he, too, saw Gunther.
The smile hovered but stayed in place. Gunther got up. He did not dare pull out the gun. Not with the officers present. The Luxembourgian's smile grew more assured. He passed through the throng of people like an eel until he came to Gunther.
"Sit down."
"I've been looking for you," Gunther said, and he matched the man's smile with his own, cold and hard.
"I said sit down !"
Gunther looked down. Held in the Luxembourgian's manicured fingers was a small Röhm .22 Derringer gun.
Gunther sat down. Pirelli sat on a stool opposite. He trained the gun on Gunther, holding it between his legs. "Don't bloody move, man."
"I wasn't going anywhere."
The bartender arrived. She was a young girl bare to the waist but for dark kohl painted over her nipples. She brought the Luxembourgian a drink without being asked. He kept one hand on the gun and with the other downed his scotch and grimaced. "They know me here, you see."
"You're a difficult man to find."
"Hardly!" The man's eyes kept shifting. Gunther was primed, every muscle in his body singing alertly. "Listen, if this is about the other night—"
"What do you think it's about?"
"You didn't have to kill Blucher!"
It came out almost as a shout. A couple of heads turned. Then the girls on the stage began to gyrate erotically and what attention they'd been given was gone. It was just the two of them on the bar at the Berlin. At this point, too, one of my men spotted Gunther. He did not approach but quietly went for a phone.
"I didn't kill him," Gunther said, startled.
"Didn't you? You come to town, start poking about, and two days later both Ulla and Erich are dead?"
"Who's Erich?"
"Blucher." Pirelli was sweating, Gunther saw. And he realized Pirelli, too, must be on Pervitin. He was wired worse than an S-mine. "That was his real name."
"How did you know him?"
Pirelli was so jumpy, Gunther was worried he'd press the trigger by accident. But the man seemed almost eager to talk.
"In Luxembourg. I helped him when his trouble got bad. Helped him get out and establish himself here." He sneered at Gunther. "What are you going to do, rat on me to your pals in the Gestapo? They can't touch me. I have connections. I'm a foreign national."
"You could try telling that to the fishes," Gunther said, with a touch of cruelty. "When they dump you in the Thames."
"They wouldn't dare!" A flash of anger or defiance in his eyes. "How do I know you didn't kill Erich?"
"Why did you set me up? You spiked my drink at that godawful pub."
"The Lyric's decent," Pirelli said; almost offended.
"Why did you do it!" Gunther said.
"Listen, friend, I'm the one holding the gun," Pirelli said.
"Blucher knew something. He was going to tell me. Then someone shot him."
"Someone, someone!" But he could see it Pirelli's eyes. The man was afraid of something. He kept looking everywhere but at Gunther.
"Who are you working for?" Gunther threw at him.
"I work for myself."
"A man like you? You're just the hired help."
Gunther thought to needle the man. But Pirelli's mouth curved in a mocking smile. At that moment one of the SS officers approached them, accompanied by a woman draped on his arm.
" Signore Pirelli!"
Gunther reached between them and grabbed Pirelli's hand in a painful grip, twisting it. He yanked the gun from the Luxembourgian's hand, hearing a bone break. Pirelli cried in pain.
"You are not happy to see us?"
Pirelli put on a pained smile. "My apologies, Sturmbannführer, " he said, through gritted teeth. "I seem to have hurt my hand."
The SS officer was round and jolly. His companion was buxom and blonde.
"Let me look at that," he said, grabbing for Pirelli's hand. Pirelli screamed. The Sturmbannführer laughed jovially and called the bartender for ice. "You'll be fine in no time," he said. He turned to Gunther and studied him, and under the jovial exterior Gunther saw cold, dark eyes.
"Who is your friend?"
"Gunther Sloam, Sturmbannführer, " Gunther said stiffly.
"Sloam, Sloam," the SS man said. His companion leaned over his shoulder and eyed Gunther with interest. "Where did you serve?"
"258th Infantry Division, sir."
"The heroes of Moscow!" the Sturmbannführer declared delightedly. "Why do I know your name, Sloam?"
"I'm sure I can't say, sir."
"A drink for my friend here," the SS man called. "A true hero of the Reich. So good to hear civilized German in this godforsaken place. How is Berlin?"
"Still there, last I checked."
"Magnificent!" The man laughed. His belly shook. His eyes remained cold and suspicious. "You two appear to be having a bit of an argument."
"It's nothing, sir. A minor disagreement."
"Good, good. We do not like trouble here in London, Sloam. This is a peaceful place. The natives are most obliging." He squeezed his companion's bottom and she squealed delightedly. Gunther averted his gaze. The girl's eyes were colder even than the Sturmbannführer' s.
"So I see, sir."
"Well, Pirelli, about that thing we discussed—"
"I will have the sh
ipment to you by tomorrow," the Luxembourgian said. He was nursing a pack of ice on his broken hand and scowling.
"First thing, Pirelli. Sloam—" He nodded, cordially, and waddled off with the girl on his arm.
"Drugs?" Gunther said.
"Nudie pictures," Pirelli said. "The Sturmbannführer is a connoisseur."
"So I see."
"Give me back my gun."
"Why don't we take a walk?"
"No!"
"What is it, Pirelli? I'm not going to kill you."
"Listen to me, Sloam. It's safer in here. I don't want to die like the others."
"Who killed them?"
Unexpectedly, Pirelli laughed. "No one," he said. His whole body shook.
"Get up. We're going outside."
"You won't dare shoot me here."
"Only one way to find out. Move."
Pirelli got up. "You're a fool," he said.
"Why was Ulla killed?" Gunther said. They walked to the doors. It was cooler outside, quieter. There were few cars on the street. In the distance he could hear the clop-clop-clop of a horse and carriage. The lights of the Ferris wheel spun.
"She was tight with the SS," Pirelli said. "She supplied this place with half the whores. And then the other half too. They turned a blind eye to the drugs. First she bought from the soldiers her girls were sleeping with. Then, when that dried out, she put the pressure on me."
"How did she do that?"
Pirelli shrugged. "Do you have a cigarette?"
Gunther kept one hand in his pocket, where he held Pirelli's gun. He offered him the cigarette case with the other. The Luxembourgian lit up and coughed. "Filthy stuff," he said.
"What did she have on you?"
"She knew about Erich. We had our own racket going before she came along. Everyone in this town has a racket. But she wanted it all."
"You don't sound as if you liked her much."
"We did business. Business was good."
"You were bringing the drugs in from Luxembourg? Shipping them inside what, old books?"
Pirelli smiled tiredly. "You're not as stupid as you look."
"You and Blucher were close?"
"What the hell do you mean?"
Gunther nodded, the pieces falling into place at last. Perhaps he'd been wrong about Ulla, he thought. Perhaps he'd been wrong all along. People changed; and she'd always had that hard, selfish core inside her, even in Berlin, during the war. He didn't hold it against her. She was just another survivor in the end, and you can only survive for so long.
"Blucher didn't know, did he?" Gunther said. "How you felt about him."
"He loved that bitch!"
He opened his arms. His mouth opened, to speak, perhaps even to smile. There was a soft pop, like a bottle of champagne was opened. Pirelli fell on Gunther, his arms enfolding him in a hug. Gunther held him. When he lowered him, gently, to the ground, Pirelli's mouth was a vomit of blood and he was no longer breathing.
8
They were down near the river by then. The shot could have come from anywhere. The Thames ran softly. The mud swallowed sound. Overhead clouds shaped portents of rain.
Gunther swore. Pirelli's cigarette was on the ground, still burning. Gunther picked it up and put it to his mouth and took a drag. He knelt beside the corpse and searched through Pirelli's pockets. He found a bottle of Pervitin and dry-swallowed a handful. The hit was almost immediate. He stood up straighter, all his senses alert. Apart from the pills he found three hundred Reichsmarks, which he pocketed; the photo of an old woman in an old-fashioned dress with her arm around a tall, thin boy; and a comb. The boy in the photo could have been Pirelli. The comb was fine-toothed and made of ivory. Gunther stuffed both back into Pirelli's pockets and added rocks—as many as he could find. Then he rolled up his sleeves and dragged the corpse by its feet into the water.
When the last of Pirelli's head disappeared into the Thames, Gunther walked away. Something kept nagging away at him. Pirelli's use of the past tense, he realized. As though their little operation here in London had already come to its end.
Had it been wound down, even before Gunther arrived? Or was Ulla's death the catalyst? And why did the Luxembourgian spike his drink at the Lyric?
He needed to find the dwarf, he thought. The last piece of the puzzle.
Instead he found himself a girl.
* * *
"She reminded me of Ulla, that was all," he told me later, in my office. "She was German, can you believe that? She was sending money back to her family in Munich. She said she was an actress, only times are hard."
"They are all actresses, Sloam," I said. "And if you can believe that, you can believe anything."
"She was a good girl!" He turned on me. He was a romantic to the core, even if he couldn't admit it, not even to himself. "She was just doing what she could to make a life."
"She'll be used up within a year," I told him. "And dead in two."
I was being harsh on him; I wanted to provoke him.
He only shook his head tiredly. Like I said, by then the drugs had worn off and he was dead on his feet; he was done. "She was a good trooper," he insisted.
"You can't fight a war on your back."
"What is it about you, Everly? Did someone you loved one day suddenly abandon you?"
"You could say that, Sloam. But then you could say a lot of things. What was her name?"
"Anna," he said.
"They're all called Anna."
"What do you want from me, Everly? Shoot me and be done with it."
"I still might," I said. "Now answer my damn questions."
* * *
Gunther met the girl walking back from the river. For a moment, the light framed her face and he thought it was Ulla, and his breath caught in his throat. But her nose was different and her face worn in a way Ulla's never was, though this girl was young.
("They're all young, at the Berlin."
"You sound quite the expert, Everly. Are you sure you weren't there?"
"Just keep talking, Sloam.")
He saw that she was crying. She hurried her steps when she saw Gunther. " Herr Pirelli—have you seen him?"
" Herr Pirelli has gone for a swim."
She looked up at him with dark eyes. Her makeup was smudged. "I don't understand."
"I'm sorry," Gunther said. "I was only making a joke. He had to leave. Urgent business elsewhere, he said. You look distraught."
"It's nothing, really." She tried to smile, failed.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
"That's awfully kind," the girl said. "Only I need something a little stronger first, you understand? Just to take the edge off things."
Gunther stuck his hand in his pocket, came back with a pill. The girl took it without a word. This time, she managed a smile.
("They know how to smile, Sloam, believe me. They all smile like Ulla Blau in Die Große Liebe. "
"You sound bitter, Everly."
"You're an incurable romantic, Sloam."
"You keep saying that. But it's just basic decency."
"Only you slept with her."
"It wasn't like that. It wasn't like that at all.")
Only maybe it was, a little bit. My men were only now getting there. The girl put the Pervitin pill between her teeth. She leaned into Gunther. He kissed her, hungrily. The pill dissolved between them. Her lips were hot and her eyes fevered. He imagined himself kissing Ulla. The girl threw her head back and laughed. "Let's go!"
She led him at a run and he followed like a fool. My men pursued but then lost them. It took us a while to realize what had happened to Pirelli. It wasn't that Gunther hadn't been observed. It was just that people don't willingly talk to the Gestapo.
She took him up the hill, along St. Martin's Lane where the theaters still displayed playbills from the last decade. She had a room on the third story of a boarding house in Denmark Street. There was a wilted rose in a vase on the table—"From an admirer," she said—and the bed was neatly made.
Her only books were Mein Kampf and a copy of the Bible. Her only other reading materials were several out-of-date issues of Deutsches Kinomagazin, the latest of which had a radiant Leni Riefenstahl on the cover, posed with a camera on a tripod against a gloriously empty African savannah.
"Can I offer you a drink?"
Gunther sat on the edge of the bed. The girl slipped off her shoes and her coat. Underneath it she was wearing nothing but lingerie. She moved about quite unconcerned.
"Sure."
"Scotch?"
"If you have it."
The girl laughed. "You're such a gentleman," she said. Her eyes went over his body but dawdled on his pocket; where the pills were. "I keep drinks here for, you know."
"Admirers."
"Sure." She opened a cabinet and brought out a bottle and poured him a glass and one for herself too. They clinked glasses. Gunther's body was on fire and his mind was elsewhere. He kept thinking she was Ulla, and he knew that he wanted her.
There had been other girls, other rooms like these, hurried romances carried on in the dark. He'd never really let himself feel, after the war. Love was just another kind of transaction, another kind of scam.
He left the drink unfinished. He reached for her and she came willingly. Touching her lips was like completing a circuit. Electricity burned in him. "Ulla…," he said.
The girl recoiled. Her hand was on his naked chest. He did not remember when he'd taken off his clothes.
"She's dead," she said. "She was always good to me."
"You're crying," he said, wonderingly. The girl shook her head and smiled sadly through the mist.
"No," she said. "I'm not."
Gunther touched his eyes and realized they were wet. He could not remember when he had last cried. He wondered if he should feel good for it. He felt nothing.
The girl pushed him on the bed. He lay on his back. The ceiling was cracked, the paint peeling. The girl climbed on top of him.
"Ulla…," he said.
"Shh," the girl said. "I'll be your Ulla."
Gunther closed his eyes. The girl rocked above him. Gunther wondered if he'd ever loved Ulla, or if he was merely in love with the idea of being in love. After a while, it didn't matter, nothing much did, only the slow build and the urgency, the creaking of the mattress springs, the girl's soft cries.