The Berlin Assignment

by Adrian de Hoog

  “I mean here. We could redo it here.”

  “We could redo the whole Press Ball here. There’s enough room.”

  Hanbury began to laugh. “The quickstep? Again?” Gundula began to say something, but he told her to wait. “Stay here tonight.”

  “At last!” Gundula clapped and took her champagne glass. “Prost! To a great artist at work. Genius proceeding slowly.” She smiled winningly. Hanbury wanted to kiss her, but they clinked glasses instead.

  On the long, curving stairway to his private chambers, Hanbury held Gundula’s arm. She said, in a big mansion like this, you had to be in shape to get to bed. He replied the stairs were designed to be a warm-up. In the bedroom they embraced and kissed. She began undoing his clothes but had difficulty with the studs on the formal shirt. Bow tie, cuff links, cummerbund: more complicated than women’s wear and Gundula complained about it. To prove a point, she slipped out of her clothes so fast a horde of angels must have helped. The consul inelegantly shed socks before they embraced again. “I suppose you have a condom?” Gundula whispered.

  “Oh God!”

  “I knew it,” Gundula murmured, biting his ear. “Cowboy habits. Don’t worry. I thought of it.”

  He massaged the nape of her neck. “You know what they call it?”

  “What?”

  “Out on the range. They have an expression.” Hanbury switched to English. Riding bareback. He gave a dirty chuckle. Gundula wanted to know what it meant. “Nothing between you and the horse. Something like that.”

  “No doubt the highest form of cowboy pleasure,” she said. The condoms were in her purse by the piano, so Hanbury trundled off.

  A consul without clothes is a comical sight, hurrying down a flight of stairs with his penis flopping up and down. Hanbury was grateful Gundula wasn’t there to see it. What would she have called the apparition?A cowboy’s flaccid weapon? A diplomatic tail? With Gundula everything was possible and he loved her for it.

  Gundula had slid between the covers. He handed her the purse; she took a package. Hanbury ran a hand along the outline of her body. She had small breasts, gentle elevations, culminating in hard nipples. “Laying claim to new territory?” she murmured.

  The next hours were repetitive: bouts of intensity, quiet talk in the spaces between. The hues of love subtly woven into a tartan. Hanbury asked Gundula to tell him more about the time before she joined the paper. She described Schwerin, a place she never fitted in. She always wanted to travel, but the only place she ever got to was Ukraine. She had propped herself up on an elbow, a leg swung over him. He asked about the paper. Gundula said the atmosphere was changing. Gregor Donner Reich had been fun, but it backfired. She was now assigned to reporting on trivial stories, crime in the eastern streets. She’d been shunted aside. “Funny isn’t it. I didn’t fit in then. I don’t think I fit in now.”

  Why didn’t she turn to foreign issues, he asked. Foreign issues were safe. Domestic readers never react badly to criticism of another country. She said she lacked the confidence, not having done enough travelling, not having the language skills. Gundula began to rub his body. “Chopin,” she whispered. “Ready for an encore?” It took longer to finish. They lay still for a while. Gundula moved on to another square of the night’s rich tartan. She asked how he came to be so skilful on the piano.

  “Prairie air,” he joked.

  “Seriously.”

  “I practised.”

  “You practised a lot.”

  “When I grew up, that’s all there was.”

  “Why didn’t you stick with it?”

  “I guess, like you, some things didn’t fit.”

  A long silence set in, a dark stripe in the tartan. Gundula whispered there was a final condom, but the consul’s breathing was deep and regular. For a while she watched him sleep, got up, adjusted the cover, gathered her clothes and slipped away into a night as dark as the one that sank the Titanic. The next morning Hanbury found the condom package spread out on the night table. A scribbled sentence on it read, Vielen Dank Chopin. Es war herrlich. Thanks Chopin; it was lovely. The third condom, still immaculate, lay beside it as a gift.

  PLANNING A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY

  The headline on the society page the next morning was big and bold. DIPLOMATIC GLAMOUR RETURNS TO BERLIN. The caption identified a bemused Consul Hanbury standing between an aging Heidemarie Gräfin Krauch von Hugenberg, whose great uncle had been ambassador for Bismarck, and a rotund Sigmund Prinz von Lippert, member of the board of directors of a private bank. His great grandfather had been a leading member of the German delegation at the famous conference in 1906 in Algeciras – where the German delegation (supported by Austria) took on France (with Britain on its side) in a tussle over Morocco, was quickly outmanoeuvred by Britain (who else?), and returned home in a fit.

  This judgement of history was omitted in the article; it was the pedigree of Prinz Sig that mattered. A full paragraph was devoted to the intensity of Berlin diplomatic life pre-1914. The last sentence concluded that the consul, through the rich feast in his residence, had kicked off a new era and that the presence of the Gräfin and the Prinz proved it would be anchored to the legendary past, before the century had delivered its regrettable disruptions.

  Schwartz read the article while drinking morning coffee in his university office. He called Hanbury immediately. “Herr Konsul,” he mocked. “You surprise me. I had no idea you’ve become friends with Heidi and Sig.” Hanbury replied he felt he had been adopted by the scions of Prussia. Schwartz reverted to a first-name basis. They talked easily, like two long-time drinking pals who know a thing or two about life’s stormy seas. They had been doing this for weeks. Since the success at Geissler’s, the professor often called to suggest a drink. Whenever they talked politics over a beer, Schwartz would observe the consul’s carefully crafted presence: an agreeableness mixed with restraint, plus an undercurrent of managed innocence. Acquired behaviour, he assumed, learned in diplomatic school. But the consul’s reserve also provoked. Why hadn’t he said something about his new residence, or the party, or the swarm of invited elites listed in the paper? Schwartz was piqued when he saw the picture, and now, on the phone, he made a pointed remark about being left out.

  “It was an official event,” Hanbury hastily explained. “I didn’t want to mix in the personal side. I want you and Sabine to come over another time, for Sunday coffee and cake. Bring Nicholas. And a soccer ball. There’s acres of room in the garden.” He added, “I didn’t know you’re on close terms with the Duchess and the Prince.”

  “Friends of my mother’s family. Well, never mind all that. Sabine and I want to invite you too, for dinner. Has she said anything? And there’s something else I want to ask.” Hanbury said he would drop everything at any time to have dinner with them. What else did Schwartz want to know? Not on the phone, the professor said conspiratorially. A beer? This evening? The consul said that would be fine.

  Schwartz wasn’t the only one who called. All morning the office phone ran hot. Frau Carstens took most of the calls. One thank-you after another for the fabulous party. She was radiant, as if she’d won an Oscar for best supporting actress. Actually, with the newspaper publicity, the whole staff basked in a scintillating aura. Sturm strutted about with new authority. Two hundred eleven cars! He repeated the words again and again. He got them in and he got them out. Lord Halcourt, now resting for eternity in a granite sarcophagus in the abbey near his manor, would have been pleased, had he been informed of his chauffeur’s Berlin feat. Sturm was sure of it.

  The phone in Gundula’s office rang too. The night had been too short. She felt a pressure behind her eyes. Mauve bags clung to the lower lids. But the dullness was worth it. Such nights are always worth it. Unfortunately she now faced a deadline for an article – a crime wave by North Vietnamese migrants in East Berlin – and the story wasn’t clicking. She was attacking it with an axe rather than her customary chisel.

  “Jahn,” she said into the phone closin
g her eyes and massaging her forehead.

  “Trabi got you home all right?”

  “Chopin!” She had been waiting for this call.

  “Thanks for the note. And the present.”

  “No cowboy should leave home without one.”

  “I enjoyed last night, Gundula.”

  “I thought that. You fell asleep so peacefully.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Thank you too. The party wasn’t my cup of tea, but the concert afterwards was lovely. Sometime you’ll have to show me what else is in your repertoire.” A dirty, little chuckle arrived through the phone. “I’m talking about the piano,” she said.

  “If you come, will you bring Trabi?”

  Gundula paused. “To where? Your music room?”

  “I looked for Trabi last night after everyone was gone. I wanted to see how he would look, parked in the driveway.”

  “I parked a block over.” He asked why. “That was one of the things wrong with your party. It looked as if you have something against Trabi owners.”

  “That’s not true. There were several former Trabi owners there. I like Trabis. You can park yours at the foot of my front steps anytime.”

  “A fetish?” Gundula asked. “Like bare shoulders?” She still saw the sleeping consul. More than just bare shoulders. The memory helped lift the heaviness around her eyes. “Or are you looking for a marker?” she teased. “As when the flag flies on the President’s palace to show he’s in.”

  The phone line brought a sigh – the sound of someone making no headway. The same sigh was stamped on the night before, in the music room, before she forced things. He struggled when she teased him. She knew it. But he was charming when he struggled. Manoeuvring him into apparent inner anguish wasn’t something she planned. It happened by itself, spontaneously, the result of psychic waves. She got him into a corner and there he stood, defenceless, eyes pleading. Why are you doing this? But tiny wrinkles on his face signalled he was loving it. Something about all that was alluring.

  He asked outright when they could get together again. Gundula almost said,tonight, but checked herself. She took time to think about it, claiming she was looking in her diary for an opening. Finally she answered, “Next week Wednesday?”

  “That’s fine. Super,” the ardent consul said. “I’m looking forward to it.” They could go to a pub of her choosing on a street where Trabi would blend in. And, if she liked, they could run a test: had the cowboy left his homestead well-enough prepared? The offer was punctuated with a renewed chuckle.

  “Chopin,” she said lightly, “stick to what you’re good at. Your music moved me.”

  “As you wish. We shall sit at the piano until the sun comes up.”

  Gundula laughed and hung up. When she refocused on the article, the heaviness had disappeared. The axe was now a chisel. The piece emerged quickly. Once it was dispatched to editing, she had time to think.

  She kicked herself. Wednesday was six days away. Super, he said. Why wasn’t he irritated? Why hadn’t he howled?Next Wednesday? By then I’ll have forgotten what you look like! But no, no howl. The consul was polite, happy as a choirboy. In some ways he resembled Vassiliev. Vassiliev often behaved as if he could do without her. Too late she realized it was because he didn’t wish to own her. What’s best for you, Vassiliev habitually replied when she asked him what he wanted. But what sort of love is that? He could have hollered,Gundula! Stay! And if you do, I swear I’ll make you happy! But no, no demands. She misread the signals and left Kiev. He slipped away to marry someone else. Vassiliev hadn’t been the owning type and Tony wasn’t either. Something to keep in mind. But damn his patience all the same. Six days!

  The next to strike by telephone was Irving Heywood. From a snow-surrounded tabernacle radiant in a morning sun, he got through to the consul as light was ebbing from the Berlin afternoon and the consul was about to depart for his appointment with von Helmholtz. “Recognize the voice?” the Investitures priest asked playfully. The line went still. Heywood thought the connection had been broken. “It’s Irving,” he revealed. “Tony, how are you? Hiding your light under a bushel?” Another pause, then Hanbury’s voice. “Enjoying Investitures?” “You have no idea,” said Heywood.

  In truth, Bitrap was the opposite of Heywood’s idea of a good time. He was sick of soul and needed to confide in someone. But whom? Not Hannah. She would use it as pretext to urge him to take the same golden handshake he was offering everyone else. But suppose he did that, suppose he grabbed the money and left the tabernacle – forever – in an unseemly rush. What then? Days of staring at the empty crescent on which they lived waiting for the excitement of the mailman to come by? Sure, in summer, retirement might work. He would enjoy the cottage porch. He could watch the wind play in the trees and listen to loons rule the lake. But in winter? Four months when nothing stirred save a snowplough exploding into the crescent to administer two minutes of mayhem before roaring out. No thanks. Bitrap was awful, but retirement was worse. All the same, shoving his own generation over the edge was a dreadful act and he desired intimacy with someone on whom he could unburden his plight.

  “And you, Tony?” Heywood asked sweetly, “enjoying Berlin?” The Investitures priest thought he sensed a tightening on the other end. It happened all the time. No one believed a call from Investitures was ever innocent.

  “Some days are better than others,” was the reply from Berlin.

  Tony, Heywood knew, never wasted words. Tony was a listener. Would he be willing to listen now? Would Tony be prepared to share a confidence about the reasons for his torment? Heywood wasn’t sure. Prolong the pleasantries, he thought, get a better feel.

  “You must be settled in pretty well by now,” he ventured.

  “I know my way around.”

  “Busy?”

  “Overwhelming some days.”

  “Good staff?”

  “Cast in solid gold.”

  “Wonderful, Tony. Sounds like you hit the jackpot. I knew you would. You deserved it after the Priory. The years were harrowing, I know.” Heywood went through a pulpy moment recalling the fabulous days of the Cold War. The jobs in the Priory had been real. A pressure cooker, sure, but no pain then such as he had now.

  “A wonderful gang we were. Everyone has drifted off. One by one. Did you know that?” Heywood experienced a surge of affection – for the Priory, for Hanbury, for the past. “The Priory was my high water mark, Tony. Yours too?”

  “I learned a lot,” the former Priory deputy replied.

  “I appreciate that, Tony. Thank you for saying it. Well, you know, I did my best. What more can one do?” Heywood’s voice, like a teddy-bear’s, was furry and soft.

  “Not much,” said the consul.

  Heywood hoped Hanbury would say more, provide stronger hints of telephone companionship. He wanted to confess his anguish more than ever. But the Berlin end stayed silent. Heywood sighed inwardly and carried on. “I know you must be wondering why I’m calling. I couldn’t get through yesterday. I guess I tried a bit late.”

  “I was flying the flag. Hosting a reception.”

  “Went well?”

  “A line or two in the gossip column.”

  “No one could ask for more,” Heywood said gravely. Another pause, each waiting for the other. The Investitures priest cleared his throat. “The reason for my call…how shall I put it…Look, Tony, we know each other. I’ll blurt it out. Something isn’t right. There’s a few people here, they want more reporting from Berlin. Wait…I know. It sounds odd. But you know me. I won’t pussyfoot around. I’m telling you straight that’s the verdict. I know there’s a good reason for not reporting. I know you’re damn busy. But I thought, at least, you and I, we should talk about it.”

  The line once more seemed dead.

  “Hullo?” Heywood sang. The priest made it sound expectant, like calling into a burial cave to determine if a resurrection has occurred.

  “I’m here.”

  Hanbury’s calm vo
ice was so near he could have been sitting inside Heywood’s ear. “Tony. Don’t misinterpret this.”

  “Why would I?” The voice was precise. “The Zealots didn’t want me to report. There was a broomstick of a girl. Very smart young lady. Slim hips. Keen on Italians.”

  “Krauthilda?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I knew it. Her days are numbered. As Krauthilda I mean. I’m sending her to Rome. Tony, listen, I know the Zealots told you that. Fair game. It’s transpired, though, that others in town are taking an interest. Gently, nicely – I have to say that – nicely it was asked if once in a while you could, you know, send in a piece on what’s happening there. If I recall, you did a bang-up job reporting in Kuala Lumpur. It’s your reputation. A reputation doesn’t just disappear. So there’s an expectation.”

  “Send in a piece on what?”

  “Whatever you think is important. Whatever local fragrances tickle your nose.”

  Fragrances. Heywood realized all the more that his task that day would have a putrid stench. In two hours, in his war council, the Investitures priest would perform a ceremony. With a knife that would turn horribly bloody he would cut the Service body in half. The hideousness of the looming act contrasted with the easy pleasure of ruminating with Tony. And Tony was saying if that was wanted he would try his hand at reporting. Anthony Hanbury, salt of the earth,summa cum laude graduate from the Heywood school of positive thinking. The Investitures priest could have bussed the consul. Heywood began formulating a glowing report to the high priest. Sir, that little hiccup in Berlin. It’s solved. His mind wandered to the inner sanctum. The high priest would ask about Bitrap and he would have to confirm it, too, was done. Fucking good job Irv, would be the answer. Thinking this made Heywood blush. “I wish the damn pond weren’t between us, Tony,” a mushy Heywood said. “The years we spent in the Priory. We didn’t get to know each other well enough. Too damn much work, I guess. Still, we were always there, I like to think, you know, when the other needed a boost. Do you look at it that way too?”