The Writing on the Wall and Other Stories

by Penny Edwards

  When the doorbell rang a couple of hours later, he was pleased that he’d managed to get a casserole in the oven, where it bubbled contentedly, and a simple pudding of fruit salad, with various creams available should anyone wish. All this despite constant interruptions from Elsa, whose interest in the television had changed to something more disturbing when the quiz had finished and Elsa had panicked because she thought she was in the African jungle of the following programme. Even her photo had failed to offer much comfort on this occasion as she convinced herself her life was at risk.

  “Hello, Helen, come on in,” he greeted his guest who immediately offered him wine and chocolates.

  “I wasn’t sure if Elsa drank wine,” she said, as if to explain the chocolates.

  “That’s so kind of you, you shouldn’t have. Thank you. Elsa loves chocolates.”

  “I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble.”

  “Oh, it’s just a casserole I’ve had bubbling away for a while. Not too much trouble at all. Just a question of chopping up a few vegetables. Have you had a good day? You’ve been very lucky with the weather.”

  “So lucky. Yes, I used the lovely weather to go to Charlottenberg. It was beautiful walking round the gardens. And so close to the river.”

  “Oh, you chose the best day for that. It’s lovely by the river there. Did you see the French paintings in the palace? Apparently, they’re the largest eighteenth-century collection outside France.”

  “Yes, I did. I enjoyed—”

  Elsa joined them. She gave a smile, a vacant sort of thing that hung on her lips reluctantly, as if not quite knowing what it was doing there. A look of vague recognition came Helen’s way as she walked towards Elsa, but it didn’t loiter for long and was followed by a lot of agitation and pulling of Peter’s sleeve.

  “Helen, I think you remember Elsa.”

  “Yes. Hello, Elsa.”

  He told her who Helen was and quickly ushered his guest towards the lounge, Elsa attached firmly to his right arm, the directions hopefully preventing Elsa’s next question, which would, more than likely, relate to absolutely nothing.

  He couldn’t help thinking what a striking woman Helen was, but this had as much to do with him still, even after a decade or so being still struck by what he called the Western appearance, which seemed to sit comfortably with an affluence, a glamour if you like, that he didn’t think Elsa, even if she were still well, would ever have done entirely, though of course he wasn’t so stupid as to believe it brought with it no pressures, as Karl had reminded him once, saying his wife seemed to have less to discuss these days, since her weight and lines on her face seemed to be her main hobby.

  Elsa, despite lacking all the riches the West had to offer, was such a beautiful woman, as true today as any other, but he missed the real beauty on Elsa’s face, when she caught him out on a white lie, told only to save her from discovering a surprise, the stifled giggle when she was still finding something funny long after others did, or her beaming smile when she bumped into him somewhere quite unexpectedly, like that last day of term when he’d taken his class to the park. But Elsa never thought herself worthy of pampering and probably would’ve felt the same if she’d lived in the West.

  Elsa made a noise at Helen’s greeting and pulled at Peter’s sleeve. He stroked her hand.

  “Shall we all sit down?” he suggested and repeated himself in German to Elsa. “Supper will be ready in about half an hour, but would you like a drink?”

  Helen said she was fine and could wait until the meal and when he mimed the idea to Elsa she just shrugged the idea away. He smiled nervously, preoccupied with his eye, which he’d seen she noticed. It would’ve been impossible not to, but the moment was fleeting and had passed, as he’d anticipated it would, without obvious shock and certainly no comment.

  “Elsa will eat with us, then go to bed. She gets tired and likes to go to bed soon after she’s eaten. Ich meine, du gehst wahrscheinlich schlafen nach dem Essen.”

  Elsa nodded and put her head to one side as if to demonstrate tiredness, then looked questioningly at Peter, as if asking him what they were discussing.

  “Her evening meal seems to exhaust her.”

  Elsa giggled a bit and then responded to something Peter said to her. She smiled, got up, tousled the top of his head and walked towards their sideboard. She collected a photo, walked back to the sofa, took her place next to Peter again and hugged what was obviously a precious possession. It seemed like a well-rehearsed activity and she began to play with it, stroking it and engaging in a one-way conversation, as if it were a favourite doll.

  “I’m really enjoying the flat,” Helen ventured. He told her it was down to an old pupil of his, a chap called Karl, whose talent and commitment for renovation knew no bounds.

  “It used to be a shop, one my mother and aunt used. The owner was a very nice man. So, what have you been doing today?”

  She told him she’d been thinking more about the tunnel and Stephen’s part in it, how strange it seemed to her. She found herself talking more about her husband than she had done for a long while. Elsa had demanded his attention from time to time, reminding her of half-finished conversations with friends when the children were young, but she felt, nevertheless, that she managed to say quite a lot, mainly because Elsa’s photo seemed to be pleasing her so much.

  Peter thought it was strange that her husband’s past appeared to be such a surprise to Helen. He was reminded of something in Dickens – which novel was it? He’d always liked it – that even in marriage every human is a profound secret and mystery to every other.

  “Everyone was very fearful,” he said, “so suspicious of one another, you know, passing even what might be thought to be the most innocuous of remarks could result in strenuous questioning from the Stasi. To dig a tunnel therefore was, well…” He raised his hands in admiration. “That street where the tunnel ended up,” he continued, “Strelitzer. Funnily enough, a colleague of mine, a fellow teacher, had lived in one of those flats there. Erhard. Taught German. One year, he had a couple of particularly bright pupils. Very talented. Potentially great writers, Erhard always said, and from the little I’d seen of them when I’d had occasion to teach them, I could see what he meant. But the problem was they were what the Stasi had labelled ‘border crossers’. They were from families who’d previously worked in the West and as such were never considered to be proper East Germans. Worse still, they were regarded as untrustworthy. Consequently, these two boys were prevented from going to university and Erhard was, as you can imagine, furious.” He paused, because he could see the pupils’ faces very clearly. “Erhard was normally such a mild man, a teacher who had natural authority.”

  He paused. He’d always liked Erhard. Such an honest man. And a kind one.

  “Our job was to encourage and nurture. You can imagine how undermining it was for us to have to witness talent like that curtailed. To be fair, if fair’s the right word, Erhard was told they could apply for a course, but there were strings attached. They would’ve had to be puppets of the Stasi, basically, and neither the boys’ families nor Erhard were interested.” He got up. “Your husband was very brave, Helen. I’m sure I could never muster such courage.”

  By now, Elsa was glowering at him, wondering why this man had so much to say in a language that meant nothing to her. He knew she hated him giving others much attention, that in her diseased mind a jealousy took over and led her to anxiety or anger.

  “I hope I haven’t bored you and if I don’t go back into the kitchen, I’ll probably starve you as the food will have burnt. If you’ll excuse me, it won’t be long now. Please have a look at any of the books. The left-hand side is all English.”

  Elsa was up too, still puzzled and cross but ready to follow Peter, her toy photo carefully placed where she’d been sitting.

  “Komm, Elsa, schauen
wir ob der Eintopf bald fertig ist.”

  “Welcher Eintopf?”

  “Lass uns einfach schauen.”

  As Helen watched them disappear into the kitchen, Elsa clinging to his arm with as much tenacity as if she were about to fall off a cliff, she wasn’t so sure about Peter’s lack of bravery. It was confined in so many minds as something set against a backdrop of a wider, adversarial situation, but looking at him now, the way he listened to her talk about nothing in particular and with an injured face she was sure Elsa had caused and which she hoped she hadn’t looked as if she’d noticed, she felt as though this was as terrifying a situation as any.

  She turned round and looked at all the books, venturing towards the shelves he’d suggested and being slightly overwhelmed by the sheer number of volumes they held. There was a small, wooden stepladder for those books that seemed to be nearly on the ceiling, but she wasn’t going to attempt to get on it. Her record for the untried and untested wasn’t great and usually resulted in something breaking.

  His interests largely lay in the works of Dickens, Forster and Shakespeare, Hamlet obviously favoured if the number of texts relating to that play were anything to go by. There were many books about Britain. She picked out an expensive-looking guide to its coastline and smiled when she saw the familiar. It was funny how near the images felt, how actual distance did little to diminish an attachment to what felt one’s own. She opened the book and saw there was an inscription in English:

  Dear Herr Bayer,

  Thank you for believing in me. I know you wanted more for me, but I am happy. I hope you and Frau Bayer can go here one day.

  Karl

  “Here we are.” Peter came in with a large pot in his hands, followed by Elsa who had seen the sense in not getting too close and had put two or three steps between them. She put the book back on the shelf quickly, wrongly feeling she was prying where she shouldn’t.

  He invited her to sit at a table at the end of the room, near enough to one of the book shelves that she could still read many of the titles, and quickly put the pot on a tablemat, which along with others had been placed in an orderly fashion, but with none of the flair of Margot’s swans. A table lamp, perched at one corner of the table, which probably normally rested elsewhere because it looked distinctly uncomfortable where it was, had been placed there, she suspected, to offer warmth and enough light to ensure nothing harsher needed to be used.

  The consuming of the meal, though delicious and hot, was an uncomfortable affair, eaten as it was beside Peter’s swollen eye and Elsa’s indecision about whether she wanted to eat it. But later, when she remembered this part of the evening, it wasn’t either of these that left a lasting impression but the memory of Peter carefully placing a crisp, cotton napkin on her lap and asking her if the temperature of the room was all right.

  One by one, he put little portions from the casserole dish onto Elsa’s plate – she didn’t like it getting cold – and fed her, saying reassuring words as he did this, asking her if she was ready for more and having to put up with her sometimes firmly closing her lips and turning her head away.

  “She says she doesn’t like it. It’s one of her favourites,” he informed their guest. “Last week it had a very good review,” and he smiled, exasperated at the inconsistency of his wife, which could usually be relied upon to foil any of his attempts at perfection. During the administering of one spoonful, his English commentary for Helen meant he forgot to blow on one spoonful and this omission caused Elsa to shriek, shout at him and slap him firmly on the wrist.

  He wanted to join in and shriek as well but couldn’t because of their company. It was all so embarrassing and he regretted his inability to fully accept the limitation of his life, which, in truth, couldn’t accommodate outsiders for any length of time. He didn’t really know why he bothered to try to change the tedium when he knew he would invariably end up being told off by Elsa, but conversation was a compelling thing, the prospect of which would always be his downfall. He was now feeling remorseful, though, of having drawn Helen more closely into this situation and vowed not to repeat it.

  Pudding passed without incident; it was fruit salad after all, a favourite of Elsa’s, though conversations were rarely finished and never properly explored. Elsa, with Peter’s help, said goodbye to Helen by asking her who she was and Helen, with Peter’s help, said goodnight and hoped Elsa would sleep well. He excused both of them, saying he would try not to be too long putting Elsa to bed and Helen didn’t lie when she said she was perfectly fine looking at the books because there was little she liked better than to be left alone to do something while knowing she wasn’t completely alone. It was a state of mind and being she’d always enjoyed when they’d been a family.

  “She’s quite tired tonight,” Peter said as he entered the room again. “We did quite a bit of walking today, well quite a bit for Elsa, and I think it’s made her sleepy. Goodness knows where she goes to in her dreams.”

  “You’re very patient.”

  “Well, you have to be, don’t you? I suppose you’re given something. You don’t have a choice.”

  He paused and looked out of the window. She thought he seemed tired.

  “I think a real test of character,” he continued, “is when you do have a choice.” He turned to Helen and smiled. “Like your husband, for instance.”

  She looked at his poor, worn-out face. “I really think I should be going. Elsa can’t be the only one who’s tired.”

  “No. No, don’t go. Please stay.” Peter immediately felt embarrassed at such imploring and tried to recover. “Please stay. I don’t have many conversations these days. I miss them. You’re right. I am tired. But I’m tired because I’m bored.” He felt choked. In a thousand years, he would never have thought he would’ve been bored with Elsa’s company.

  She smiled reassuringly as she felt the tedium that hung around him and the sense that nothing could change for the better. Looking at all the books on all the walls, she strongly suspected there wasn’t a thought or an idea in any of them Peter didn’t know.

  “I’d love a coffee,” she said.

  They went into the kitchen and he put two heaped spoonfuls of coffee into a percolator, which looked like an old friend, scratchy glass and a plastic top that had suffered a burn at some point because a small part of it had melted into a distorted shape.

  “You know, I was thinking about your colleague and his pupils and what a sheltered life I’ve led,” she said as he poured boiling water into the percolator.

  “Keep your innocence,” he replied. “Be at peace with it.”

  “I’ve taken it for granted.”

  “Freedom of expression’s invariably treasured most by those who don’t have it. When I was teaching I often had that desire, you know that feeling when you just want to put your hand on a hot plate to see what happens, even though you know exactly what’ll happen. Perhaps it’s about wanting to check you’re alive. Anyway, I often felt like shouting, sorry but, ‘F you, bastard Stasi’ in a park or any public place. But I never did. That burnt hand was just too painful a prospect and personal security, even of the sort offered in the East, was, at the end of the day, something to hold on to. The problem was that everything – art; literature; history – had to have a socialist message. And the East German addiction to paperwork – it’s a wonder any of us had the time to take a bath.”

  He asked her a lot about England. He always wanted information about the country he loved. She told him she lived in an area of London that was considered quite fashionable nowadays but wasn’t so much when they moved there.

  “There’s a park nearby; it’s lovely, you can see London’s skyline. It really blows the cobwebs away.”

  He smiled and thought of all the times since the wall had come down that he’d promised himself he must go to England and how often he’d discussed it with Elsa, who’d
patiently listened to him extol its virtues and agreed they must go; he suspected this was probably so he would shut up and stop endlessly talking about it. She knew, of course, it had much to do with Freddy, whose interest in him during such terrible times had never left him and was almost entirely responsible for his love affair with the country. He imagined blue and green whenever he thought of England, a place full of gardens, surrounded by sea. He couldn’t begin to think what it would be like to see the sea every day and when Helen shrugged and said you take it for granted when you live by it, he laughed and replied, take the sea for granted? No, he could never do that. Something so powerful and exciting? And its different emotions. Watch the sea, he said, and it’s like observing ourselves.

  She noticed that Peter bore no particular expression when he listened, almost as if his mind was a blank page on which anything could be written because he’d cleared it completely. He must’ve been a good teacher, sharing his passion for a subject and country that had been a foe, while genuinely interested in his students’ ideas.

  “So coming to Berlin was…?” Peter poured her another coffee.

  “I don’t know. A way of… I suppose it was a way of connecting with” – and she thought about it for a few seconds, trying to work it out for herself as much as attempting to explain it to someone else – “the person Stephen was before I met him. I’d often been curious about his time here and had suggested we come, but he never seemed very keen on the idea and the friends we knew here, the ones I saw the other night, well, Hans’s business frequently brought him to England, so we used to see them there.”

  “And you’ve remained curious. Your curiosity, as you say, got the better of you?”

  “Yes, I suppose it did. Grief, also, that sometimes seems to determine your journeys. You know, feeling closer again to someone by treading the same ground, seeing the same people. But it must seem odd to you. There are plenty of places in England where I can do both of those things.”