Diese Stadt ist schuldig. Sie sind schuldig. This city is guilty. You are guilty.
*
He was looking out of his living room window. It was like window shopping in a way, looking at things you couldn’t have, but there was nevertheless a small pleasure in looking anyway. He used to be out there, scurrying around, laughing and joking. Now he was an onlooker. After another ten minutes or so, he saw Helen walking past. He rushed to their front door and opened it wide.
“Hello,” he shouted and he beckoned her towards the house.
12
Earlier that day, Helen had bought a packet of cigarettes, which had simultaneously excited and appalled her. It was something she hadn’t done for twenty-five years, giving up after watching the slow and inglorious death of her father from lung cancer. Nothing else would’ve done it because she loved smoking – it was good for her nerves – but when her poor old dad had succumbed to the disease, or rather when the horrible little blighter had got him, after only five or six a day, she’d told herself the undeniable pleasure wasn’t worth it. So she gave them up, swapping them for worry and edginess. There was always wine; all was not lost.
The only time she’d been tempted back before was when she’d got it into her head that Stephen was having an affair. It was that vulnerable time when the children were young and there was no time for each other and he seemed to have gone into himself quite considerably. So she’d secretly had the odd cigarette and smoking them seemed to have convinced her that the only thing that was the matter with their relationship was sheer exhaustion and probably an unwilling acceptance that expectations hadn’t been quite met.
The life she’d thought they would have together involved him in a legal firm in a relatively quiet market town where they would embrace predictability rather than view it with suspicion. And where she would do a part-time admin job while looking after the children. It hadn’t exactly started out that way and life in London had journeyed with them through their courtship and into the early years of their marriage. But when children came the capital had felt hard work and hostile and they moved to what had always been her expectations: a market town she loved. A few years down the line, though, Stephen had become visibly restless in the small legal firm there and, though his apparent unhappiness completely contradicted her contentment, she supported his move to a London business, and he spent much of his time commuting there and abroad.
Thoughts of an affair became a TV programme she was always watching or a book she never put down, but the cigarettes converted them into mere adverts, forgotten as soon as seen, silly magazines that were only a contentment in a hairdresser’s salon or a doctor’s waiting room.
So here she was. Sitting on a Berlin wall, watching life go by and enjoying a smoke.
13
Audrey couldn’t help remembering a particular afternoon. It was quite a while after she’d got to know Helen and Stephen and, by then, she’d grown fond of them, so it troubled her.
She first saw Stephen when he was getting out of his car after a day at the office. At least, that’s what it looked like. They’d been away for the weekend. She tried to remember for a moment where they’d gone but couldn’t place it. She knew they’d stayed the Sunday night as well for some reason. She could see, even though he was a little distance away, that Stephen was handsome, the sort that could have easily been a film star – tall; slim; dark hair; everything you’d want – and she had him down for a businessman of some sort, but Kenneth said he thought he was a solicitor and on this occasion he’d been right. He said the slightly old-fashioned briefcase with its straps and battered appearance didn’t look slick enough for a businessman. A solicitor, though, was likely to be rather proud of his more weather-beaten holder. It was almost a requirement, he said, showed a history.
Stephen always smiled – there was nothing offhand about him – said “hello” and made some comment about the weather, particularly if it was doing something you wouldn’t expect, but he didn’t seem keen to engage in longer conversation. He was probably tired a lot of the time, she’d always said to herself. Helen was more inclined to stop and have a chat.
Their children were beautifully behaved, far better than the lot directly opposite, who seemed to be given more freedom of expression than was good for them, pestering her with far too many whys and wherefores whenever they caught her doing something in the front garden. Still, better that than silence, she supposed. Children weren’t meant to be quiet. Even she knew that. She did prefer Emma and James, though. They talked just the right amount.
Stephen was extremely helpful when a task needed to be done. It was like he needed something to concentrate on if he was ever going to get a bit closer to you and the way he mowed their lawn on the odd occasion Kenneth’s knees played him up was a godsend. Nowadays, they had to get a professional in.
It was odd. She’d only just realised the other day how much the same seasons did slightly different things to their garden each year. Take her birch tree, for instance. They’d had more winds last October than the year before, so there were far fewer golden leaves on the branches by the end of the month, as if the weather had said, “No, Audrey, you were far too nosey last year.” She was. She couldn’t stop looking at their glorious colour, especially when Mrs Hortham’s cat next door set off her burglar light. It was as if they were floodlit on a stage. She’d taken a photo on her phone. It said the 31st. Then some children had come round and trick or treated Kenneth. It was peculiar how she noticed the leaves because she wouldn’t have done when she was younger and busier. She sometimes thought she was becoming more in tune with the earth the nearer she got to being placed in it, but when she’d said that to Sean, their gardener, he’d told her to stop with the morbidity. Those were his exact words. And then she’d made them a cup of tea.
Stephen was one for preoccupied thought. When he ploughed up and down their lawn, he’d look as if he was miles away, so much so she would worry that he might have an accident because she could see his mind was nowhere near their garden. He perhaps found their garden a bit tedious. Kenneth often said he probably worked as much in his head at the weekend as he did at his desk during the week.
She hadn’t really got to know him any better through her conversations with Helen either. During them, they were more likely to talk about her children, things in the news and, of course, the weather. When she asked about Stephen, all Helen offered was that he was fine, working hard and often she’d say he was away somewhere on business.
Both she and Kenneth were very sad when their neighbours told them they were moving and, as with these things in life, it was only then that she began to fully appreciate what she was going to miss.
On that particular afternoon, she was doing a bit of weeding at the front of the house. She did that from time to time, usually when Sean wasn’t due for another few weeks. She saw Stephen get out of his car, so she went over to him. She knew he didn’t like conversations much, but she was determined to say thank you for everything he’d done for them over the years. She probably went over too soon because he was still trying to gather up his work things from the back of the car. A photo had fallen out of his briefcase and she’d gone to pick it up, even though she risked doing her back in. He’d insisted, though, brusquely as it happened, on picking it up himself. But before he did, she’d caught a glimpse of it.
It was quite dated. The woman had a beehive hairdo, the sort Kenneth had guarded her against, and heavy mascara. The style had come around again in some circles, mostly pop stars, but this woman looked more soberly dressed. The photo seemed very dog-eared and looked as if it had been for a very long time.
14
Helen lay in bed, eyes wide open. It was as if it was first thing in the morning, rather than last thing at night because sleep felt a long way off. She was remembering something and she kept remembering it again and again, like she was trying to learn the lines fr
om the particular scene, making sure they came back to her the same as they did the time before.
She was twenty-four, slimmer, bubblier and with more energy and naivety that were all bundled up together. There was an added confidence of having just started dating Stephen Thompson and thinking he might be falling for her, especially as she was pretty sure she was for him.
He was at some conference or another for work and had suggested she join him at the end of it, so she travelled to see him. It was the first time they were away together and it was all very new.
“Can you tell me Stephen Thompson’s room number, please?”
“I’ll call his room for you, madam. Could you give me your name, please?”
“Just say it’s Helen. Thank you.” A call was made.
“Room 210, madam. Just go to the top of the stairs, turn right and it’s about the fifth door on the left. Room numbers are signposted.”
“Thank you.”
She walked up the grand stairway of the hotel, feeling quite tired from her journey. The carpet underfoot was plush and the handles on the doors round and gold. She walked along the corridor and counted until she reached five. Room 210, as the receptionist had predicted. After putting her weekend bag on the ground, she banged the door with her knuckles as hard as she could.
“Hello, Helen. Good to see you.” And for a few moments they hugged one another. “Let me have your bag.” He bent down to pick up the bag from the ground. “Come on in.”
It was a large, comfortable room with latticed windows. There was a cushioned window seat that spanned the width of the windows, two easy chairs and a spacious table. She fell into one of the chairs and kicked off her shoes. “At last,” and she threw back her head. “Coffee, please, sir.”
Stephen smiled. “Coming up.”
She watched him make the drinks. Everything was done carefully and with great precision. He turned round and held up a small carton of milk. “One or two?”
“One, please.”
Having regained some strength, she got up and walked round the room. On the corner of the table poking out from underneath a pile of law books she could see something glisten in the sunlight. She walked towards it and picked it up. It was a hair slide made of black velvet with three small diamonds in the centre. She held it in her hands and walked nearer to Stephen.
“Who is she?” she asked mischievously.
He turned from stirring her coffee and paused a second.
“It’s for you, actually.”
She said nothing.
“I thought you might like it.”
She brought it towards her in a cupped hand and stroked it with the forefinger of the other.
“Turn round,” and he took the slide from her hand. Gently, he gathered up a few locks of her hair and manoeuvred it into place. “Beautiful.”
It’s for you, actually. Beautiful.
*
She thought she must’ve drifted into a sleep as she felt heavy and disorientated. She could hear the same footsteps as she’d heard on other nights, the sharp but definite sound of a stiletto heel with its purposeful rhythm. They probably woke her. She got up and walked as quickly as her sleepy state would let her and slightly drew her curtains. She was intrigued by these feet. Walking towards the end of the street was a young woman scantily clad and in heels so high they would’ve challenged most women. Yet she walked fast and with confidence. Helen watched her turn into the next road and, as she did, saw from the woman’s profile that she was probably about the same age as Emma.
She got back into bed and tossed the duvet off as she lay down, leaving her with just a sheet. It was another warm night and she could hear distant cars and an occasional ambulance. There was the odd conversation and, because she couldn’t understand a word, they seemed less intrusive, leaving no queries behind them.
She thought about the conversation she’d had with Peter that afternoon. It was so good to have someone she could talk to in English apart from Margot and Hans. It felt like she’d made her own discovery in Peter, her own friend, and she didn’t feel she was annoying him in any way. He said he was always excited to have the opportunity to speak her language and she had no reason to disbelieve him. There was an enjoyment in his face when he both spoke and listened that made it obvious he relished conversation. It was a rare gift, she thought, to enjoy being the narrator and audience in equal measure.
So she’d told him about Tunnel 57, about Stephen’s bravery and how such courage in her husband had surprised her, not because she’d thought him a coward but because she’d never seen him as someone who’d be prepared to sacrifice everything for an ideology.
“It was a funny time,” he’d replied. “A very frightening time. Sometimes I feel as though being able to think for myself properly is something that’s come very late in life. This restaurant here” – he’d pointed across the road to where she’d told herself she must go sometime – “has an interesting past. It was a place of” – he’d smiled – “shall we say, independent thought. Many cultural figures, people with opposing views, met and dined there, but it became too much for the Stasi, who had it closed.” Pausing, he’d shook his head gently from side to side, uncomprehending such a violent reaction to the fear of conversation. “Elsa and I used to enjoy eating there and the atmosphere was, well, vibrant, exciting; it almost made you tingle but realise also, I suppose, what you were missing. This, after all, was what most people in Europe could experience all the time.”
He’d then looked at his watch and it was only then that Helen saw how bruised his arm was.
“Would you like to come round for a meal tomorrow evening?” he’d ventured. His tone was uncertain; it was clear he didn’t want to impose on her.
“Yes,” she’d found herself answering and hours later, she wasn’t regretting her answer.
15
Peter wiped his eye. At this moment, he just wished he could wear make-up because he could disguise himself and pretend Elsa was as sweet as she used to be. He felt nervous now about having invited Helen round on what had been something of a whim, he supposed, a moment of excitement that had excluded all his worries and woes and had placed him in a make-believe world where there was normal social interaction, where he invited people to his house to share food and tell stories. He’d loved telling her about the history of the restaurant; it was the same exhilaration he used to feel in front of an attentive class.
He looked at his face again. He knew these bruises. They usually took a week or so to clear properly. He took the towel from its rail and dried his face. He looked awful. There was a greyness in his face he hadn’t noticed before. He dried his hands and placed one half of the towel over the rail and pulled it down so it met the other half. Helen was a polite woman, discreet enough not to mention anything she saw, either to him or others. He just had to be resolute, possess a determination to put everything aside for a few hours, convince himself, more than anything, that nothing was amiss. Then they could talk as they had done yesterday morning, pleasant exchanges in his beloved English. He stared at his face again and suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to cry but instead took a deep breath and swallowed so hard he hurt his throat. He must start cooking. She’d be here before he knew it.
Elsa had calmed down. Even when she’d struggled to break free so she could give him another hard slap, he’d managed to be quietly firm. “No, Elsa,” he’d repeated softly several times and while they’d both fought for their competing desires, his mind had exchanged her slaps for her caresses and he could see the way she used to stroke his right cheek – it was always the right side of his face – after a bad day at school, then gently touch his nose with her left forefinger. “Forget them,” she’d say. How could he? He had at least a couple of hours’ marking ahead of him.
As often happened when things were difficult, he’d suggested a television pro
gramme, one that she often seemed to like, a quiz programme that had sometimes managed to elicit a correct answer from his wife, who drew on parts of her brain less damaged and quite in tune.
She smiled, giving her permission for him to pursue this idea, and they’d walked slowly into the lounge, until Elsa had found a seat she wanted. These days she didn’t have a favourite chair, she had no memory from one hour to the next of what such a thing was, and in fact the chair they had taken as being hers, with its soft, velvet feel and its seat so frequently used it had only a fraction of its old depth, had been long abandoned by its owner, who frowned at its discomfort and shuffled in it whenever she did find herself there, as if it caused great offence. So it stayed in the corner of the room, an old relic, unused and, like a church without parishioners, only comforting the bones of the odd visitor, like Karl, who was young enough to care little about the varying degrees of comfort offered by chairs.
She’d settled into another with an obedience he could’ve expected only from his most nervous pupil and, catching the moment, he’d dared to tell her he had to go to the bathroom and, because the TV programme seemed to be pleasing her in some way, there had been no reaction.
Now, as he walked past her to the kitchen, there was laughter from the TV but not from Elsa, who looked at it with the face she now wore more often than not: free from expression, a dummy in a shop window. She was, and this had become a way of her life he would never get used to, holding her precious photo; it seemed to offer her more comfort than he could, and she stroked it as she might a teddy bear.
He went into the kitchen and reached for the chopping board. It was an old one, wooden and heavy, and, as he felt its weight, the task ahead of him seemed daunting, for he was beginning as he might end, with every drop of energy taken from him, but as he began to chop vegetables and his focus shifted, he began to feel revived and he began to look forward to the evening ahead of him.
The Writing on the Wall and Other Stories Page 8