Dreams of Innocence

by Lisa Appignanesi

  Yes, she remembered that summer. How well she remembered it. She could almost touch that stiff white linen dress she used to wear.

  Suddenly the house seemed crowded with voices, the bustle of Bettina, her friends, a bearded, gangly Klaus, Bruno, burly in his driving gear, Miss Isabel, with her slightly protruding eyes, Johannes, mellow-voiced, so seductive.

  Anna gazed at the creamy page. It seemed to beckon to her. With a little shiver, she picked up the pen which stood in the inkstand and traced over the date. 1913. She had asked Johannes what to do and here was an answer. A story for Leo, a story to fill the waiting, a story she could never tell him if he were sitting there in front of her. But a story he could read, if only to make him understand, just a little, about her life, Johannes’s, Bettina’s, all their lives. His own, too.

  Scenes from the past began to race through Anna’s mind and with only a momentary hesitation, the words to fit them flowed from her pen, until dawn took her by surprise.

  Her days now shaped themselves into a new pattern. In the mornings after a dreamy canter, she worked, still dreaming, on Johannes’s stone. Worked slowly, as if unwilling that the process should reach an end. Then, after a stroll and lunch, she sat down at the desk and let her dream of the past find words.

  When her shoulders and fingers grew stiff with the writing, she went out into the gardens. Spring was now well on its way and the crocuses poked their fat purple and white heads through the grass. There was earth to be turned now, flowers to be planted, in the ever-expanding days. Around Johannes’s grave, she seeded poppies and forget-me-nots, placed little clumps of violets and primula, tiny bulbs of autumn flowering cyclamen, some rambling roses to transform the knoll into a bower. Sometimes as she worked, she would stop to look over her shoulder, as if sensing or hoping for a presence which might imminently materialise.

  In the evening, she always returned to those creamy white pages, filling them with her small, flowing script. The library had begun to grow friendly, an Aladdin’s cave replete with treasures. She had only to pen the magic words and its secrets opened themselves to her, insights she didn’t know she possessed, matter garnered from Johannes’s diary, distant conversations with Bettina. What she didn’t know for certain, she imagined - the imaginings taking on a reality as she struggled to understand, Bettina, Bruno, Leo, even Klaus, always so silent.

  These pages, she realised as she wrote, were her testament. To be bequeathed to Leo, to the house, to the future. A future, she increasingly sensed, she had no place in.

  They were also a way of defying time. While she lived in the past, the sense of lack which was overwhelmingly her present, could be kept at bay.

  When she had passed the halfway mark in that thick bound volume, it came to her that she was swiftly catching up to that empty present. Racing towards it in fact, the material of their lives too painful to dwell on.

  It was then that the pact she had made with herself but refused to voice forced its way to the forefront of her mind. ‘There isn’t much longer, Leo. Come soon,’ she murmured aloud. The saying of it to this house which seemed to carry all their secrets made her feel lightheaded. Strangely free.

  The next day, she didn’t write. She had put off the laying of Johannes’s stone too long, in the superstitious hope that Leo might arrive in time for it. But now, she felt it must be done, perhaps because the sky had such a limpid clarity, perhaps because the clouds floated with that particular laziness of early summer. Perhaps because she had reached that point in her narrative where Johannes’s despair called out to her with a bitter urgency.

  Anna summoned the men to carry the stone to the knoll. She stayed there long after they had left, fingering its cool surface, so dark as it jutted out amidst the brightness of the flowers. The layers of gold paint in the chiselled letters glinted fiercely in the light, like Johannes’s eyes when he was angry.

  She smiled at her own thought and gazed out on the green-tinged waters. Soon, it would be warm enough to swim. With a little sigh, she lay down on the sun-warmed grass next to the grave. ‘It won’t be long now, my love,’ she whispered, ‘when the grass grows high and the poppies bloom crimson. Our time. Not very long.’

  PART II

  Chapter Seventeen

  1985

  A single table lamp lit the large rectangular room. In its immediate glow, a woman sat, her pale golden head all but buried in her crossed arms. She looked like a child who had fallen into innocent sleep, reluctantly but soundly.

  At the door of the room a tall burly man gazed at her in consternation. With swift silent steps, he crossed over to her. After a moment’s hesitation, he lifted her in his arms and carried her towards a worn leather sofa.

  ‘Let me go,’ her eyes suddenly fluttered open. ‘Let me go,’ she repeated more loudly, struggling, waving long legs in the air, landing a deft kick on his.

  He dropped her unceremoniously onto the sofa.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she looked at him with flashing eyes, brushed the sleeves of her jumper as if his hands had been covered in dirt.

  He laughed a short grumbling laugh. ‘I really think that’s my question, don’t you?’ He repeated it for her with a different emphasis, ‘What do you think you’re doing here?’

  Helena Latimer glanced around her and had the grace to look at least slightly disconcerted. ‘I… I guess I must have fallen asleep reading.’

  ‘That much I gathered for myself,’ the man’s eyes were amused.

  ‘Anna’s Book,’ Helena gestured towards the table. ‘Finished it though, if that’s all there is. Interesting. Very. Upsetting, too.’

  ‘I’m sure Anna would be grateful for the review. But that doesn’t answer my question.’

  ‘You mean she’s still alive!’ she looked at him in amazement. ‘I’d love to meet her.’

  ‘No, she’s not. Well…’ he tapped his foot impatiently. ‘I think I deserve an explanation. I don’t usually come back at night to find a stranger curled up in the library. Did you break in?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Helena leapt off the sofa and started to pace. Her eyes fell on the spectacle case with its broken glasses. She must collect her wits, proceed carefully. She had come here on business, perhaps dangerous business. In search of Max Bergmann. What was it that she had dreamt? Max calling to her from some dark dank place. She shook the image from her mind, turned towards her inquisitor. ‘A young woman let me in, told me to wait. In here.’

  ‘I see,’ he laughed pleasantly enough. ‘A long wait. Elsa can be a little forgetful.’

  ‘You speak very good English,’ Helena suddenly stared at him in astonishment. It had only just occurred to her that not only were they speaking English, but that this was odd in the remoteness of the Bavarian countryside. The confusion of her dreams was still just a blink away. But at least he didn’t look so dangerous now, despite his size and the strange shadows the light cast. A big man with tousled hazel hair and large hazel eyes.. Soft eyes. A dimple in a chin which needed shaving. A mobile nose.

  ‘Shouldn’t I speak English? I’ve had lots of practice,’ he was laughing at her.

  ‘Look, I think I’m still half asleep. Could I come back in the morning? To talk about the business, I mean.’

  ‘Not if you’re about to sell me double glazing. Or a fitted kitchen…’

  ‘No, not a thing to sell.’

  ‘In that case, you might as well spend the rest of the night here,’ he gestured toward the window.

  Helena looked out. Thick flakes of snow were falling from a steel grey sky. The ground was covered with them. She glanced at her watch. Two o’clock. She had had no idea it was so late.

  ‘Not many hotels in the vicinity open at this time of night, even if you managed to find one,’ he was wry. ‘And there are a few rooms here to spare.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ she murmured, her hesitation visible, ‘But… Is there anyone else here?’

  He shook his head, walked towards her.


  She stepped back.

  ‘I can assure you I’m not a rapist.’

  ‘I wasn’t…’ she protested, though that old sexual fear had niggled beneath the greater one.

  ‘Nor a murderer,’ he laughed loudly, the sound echoing strangely through the empty house.

  ‘No, no, of course not, I didn’t mean…’

  ‘Still, if you’d rather brave the weather, Murnau’s not that far away.’

  ‘No, no, I’d like to stay,’ Helena smoothed her jumper, her trousers, gave him a bright smile. ‘Thank you, it’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Have you got a case? Shall I get it for you?’

  ‘No that’s alright. I can get it.’

  ‘Suit yourself. But don’t forget your reading glasses,’ he handed her the blue case she had left on the table.

  Helena blinked, scrutinized him. ‘They’re not mine. I found them here.’

  ‘Strange,’ he followed her through the door, watched as she reached for her coat. ‘I wonder who left them.’

  ‘Someone who came to visit, I imagine,’ she swallowed hard.

  ‘Now why hadn’t I thought of that?’ he gave her a sardonic look.

  She was so preoccupied with trying to read his face in the half light, that she slipped as soon as she stepped out on the first marble step. He caught her. She leaned heavily against him for a moment, then arced away from the intimacy of the touch. ‘Should have worn my boots,’ she murmured stiffly.

  ‘Why don’t you just give me your keys,’ he was eyeing her with evident impatience.

  Helena dug into her pocket, handed them over, watched while he walked the distance to the car.

  Was he lying about Max’s specs, she wondered. No, perhaps not. But then there must be someone else in the house, someone who had seen Max. Who? Her mind reeled, too full of vibrant dreams, of all those characters in the book whose lives intersected with this house. For it had to be this house. And the boy called Max who had spurred her reading. Was he her Max? It was too improbable. Her Max wasn’t German. Yet his letter had described the lay of the land in front of her, the house so exactly…

  Helena shook out her hair as if the gesture would give clarity to her thoughts. She breathed deeply of the cold moist air. It was beautiful out, the thick flakes falling from the midnight blue of the sky, the trees sparkling in their white cloaks. And so still.

  The muffled slam of her car door fractured it. In a moment the man was back.

  ‘Thank you,’ she took her bag from him.

  ‘Any time,’ he smiled. ‘Shall I get you a cup of coffee?

  She shook her head.

  ‘Tea, then, Herb tea, I imagine, for you. A tisane.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  He laughed.

  The knowingness of that laugh grated. But she followed him silently past the wide staircase, through a set of doors, then another, to a low cluttered room with a long refectory table. Funny, it was as if she had already been here. Anna’s Book. She had in a way.

  ‘Do you live here alone?’ she asked.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he was non-committal, put the kettle to boil on the old stove, warmed the teapot, brought out a tin of biscuits with practised gestures.

  ‘You’re American,’ Helena suddenly said.

  ‘That too,’ he glanced at her sardonically.

  ‘I’m sorry. Still asleep. It’s only just occurred to me. That book. It’s made me dizzy. Too much reading. All that painful history,’ she rubbed her eyes, sat down at the table, focussed on a bowl of gleaming red apples. ‘May I?’ she asked, biting in before he had a chance to answer. ‘It made me forget to eat as well.’

  ‘Another sterling review for poor old Anna. Here, help yourself,’ he put a slab of cheese on the table, cut some slices of bread. ‘Hope you appreciated my title.’

  ‘The Possessed?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Yes, it fits them all,’ Helena mused, looked up at him, ‘Your title, you say?’ Then it came to her. ‘Those people in the book, they’re your family?’

  ‘Don’t look so astonished. I’m not a ghost. You can touch if you like.’

  She let that pass, was silent for a moment. ‘Why poor Anna?’

  ‘Just a manner of speaking.’ He turned a chair round, back forwards, and sat astride it, examining her reflectively as he sipped his wine. ‘Now that we’re friends of a kind, are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?’

  Helena looked at him. He was what her friend Claire would call ‘dishy’. She could hear her uttering it, could see her sidling up to him, clinking glasses, and saying in her best Mae West imitation, eyes and hips rolling, ‘Hiya Handsome.’

  ‘I’m on holiday,’ she said at last.

  ‘Sure. And you reckoned this place was a wayward hotel, so you thought you’d just step in and stay the night.’

  She laughed. ‘Can it wait until morning?’

  ‘Okay. What shall we talk about now while you gorge yourself on the hotel food?’

  ‘How about telling me who you are?’

  ‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’ He rose and stood at mock attention. ‘Adam Peters, 34 years of age, sometime anthropologist. Six foot two, eyes definitely not blue. Will that do for a start?’

  Helena grinned, nodded. ‘And what are you doing here?’

  ‘Working.’

  ‘As an anthropologist?’ she was sceptical.

  ‘We’re a wandering breed. Your turn now,’ he deflected the question poised on her lips.

  ‘Helena Latimer, 28 years old,’ she paused wondering whether to say it, decided to prevaricate, ‘writer, five foot six. Eyes definitely blue and brain definitely fuddled.’

  ‘Hello there,’ he stretched out his hand.

  She took it a little shyly.

  ‘Glad that you’re staying the night. Though if we don’t catch it, it’ll soon be morning. Now let’s see, which room shall it be?’ he gestured grandly, then chuckled, ‘I guess it will have to be the clean one. And don’t worry, there’s a lock on the door.’

  It was already eleven o’clock when Helena woke the next day. The unusual lateness of the hour, the strangeness of her surroundings made her want to prick herself to see if she were properly awake.

  She looked round the little room she was in. A girl’s room, a maidenly room, she thought, remembering that she had had the same thought the night before. A room with bright yellow curtains tied with white bows, daisy chain wallpaper and a narrow frilled bed.

  The view as she looked out the window was breathtaking. Young Anna’s room, it came to her. The pages she had read the day before haunted her again, like a prior existence over which her own was being played out.

  She snuggled back under the warm duvet. She had to think. Think about Max Bergmann, not about those ghosts from another time with their exorbitant passions and ravaged histories. Max, like a clever Hansel, had laid out a trail for her, gleaming pebbles in a dark wood. She had only to find them and the paths that led home to him would be clear. So far, she had located only the first.

  He must definitely have come here to this house. But had he met Adam Peters who pretended not to have recognized the spectacle case?

  The man was American which made things harder, meant she had to be more careful. Adam Peters would certainly know the name of Max Bergmann, sage of Orion County, campaigner on environmental issues. And so? If Max had chosen not to identify himself, had chosen not to name names and places in his letter to her, that could only mean there was danger of some kind.

  She couldn’t allow herself to trust this Adam Peters too quickly, whatever his easygoing charm: he could be anyone. He could be an agent. A CIA agent. The thought tumbled into her head with the force of a revelation.

  But no, she was letting her imagination run away with her again. She must keep calm, must find out what this Adam Peters knew before giving anything away. She would check with the Greens in Munich, see if they had anything on him, on this house. Perhaps there was some kind of farm
attached to it that Max had been interested in, some breeding ground for new species. And he had been caught out spying. No, that didn’t hang together either. He wouldn’t have had to keep that from her.

  Helena rubbed her eyes, started slowly to dress.

  She had dreamt about Max again last night. She was wandering through the streets of Munich, but the men were all frightening, dressed in uniform, like in Anna’s book. But then Munich had somehow merged into Bhopal - streets of pain under reddened skies, and she was stumbling amidst the afflicted. She was just a small girl and on the other side of a flaming pyre, she saw Max. She screamed out to him. And he came, came running. He sat her on his lap and talked to her in that special voice of his. Talked to her like a father until the cries around her and in her ceased. But she couldn’t remember his words, only that she had thrown her arms around his neck and wept.

  Helena shook the image away. Arriving at the place Max had described, seemed only to have made her thoughts more chaotic, her dreams more vivid, her actions more like those of a somnambulist. The disaster at Bhopal had shaken her more than she liked professionally to admit. And Max’s disappearance on top of it, that uncanny notice about his presumed death had toppled her self-control. No wonder her editor had been urging her to take a break - though she sensed a holiday was not what was in order. She would find her balance again when she had found Max.

  Ever since Emily had died, it was Max who had been her still centre, the pole around which everything revolved. He was her mentor, her ideal reader, her guide. Without him, it was as if the earth had grown fluid beneath her feet. One couldn’t walk on water, let alone run which was what she preferred to do. She had to find him. And quickly, for her sake as much as for his.