by Nigel Packer
‘As you wish,’ Anika answered calmly, choosing to retreat.
Letting go of the handle, she stepped forward to kiss him, formal and frosty, upon both cheeks. Then she turned and walked back to the Bentley, not even glancing back as she settled behind the wheel and shut the door. Otto sighed as he raised the handle of his case, turning and wheeling it slowly – and with more effort than he had anticipated – in the direction of the glass doors of the Departures building. They were just opening for him when a kerfuffle behind caught his attention. He turned and saw Anika running towards him, waving a holdall in her hand. It had been left on the back seat of the Bentley. She had glimpsed it in the rear-view mirror as she was pulling out.
‘Otto…’ she was calling to him.
It was unusual for Anika to forget any detail like that. Normally she organised their lives with military precision. It was a sign that she was not quite herself today. Otto waited on the pavement for her to reach him. She handed over the holdall, containing a thick ream of notepaper he had been unable to fit into his suitcase, together with a photograph of the two of them standing arm-in-arm before the Matterhorn. Anika had put it there herself.
Suddenly, she threw her arms around him in a tight and unforeseen embrace. He felt a painful compression on his midriff, weakened by the surgery, closely followed by a mysterious gurgling sound.
‘My stomach!’ he cried hurriedly (and yet awkwardly, almost an apology), causing Anika to jump back with a sudden gasp of remembrance. The handsome bone structure in her face appeared to disintegrate.
‘I can’t even hug you properly any more,’ she said, her voice now cracking completely.
It was the tipping point Anika had been working hard to avoid. She had tried throughout that day to remain composed, determined to maintain her usual decorum. But now her breath began to catch because of the tears she was suppressing, and suddenly it all went badly wrong for her. She surprised even herself with the loud and wrenching sob, a sound that was not quite her own. The emotion was released along with a great strand of mucus, which she hastily wiped from a cheek in mortification. She quickly regained her composure; it was almost instantaneous, but too late to stop the message that had been sent. For a moment Otto stood looking at her, shocked and embarrassed on her behalf. She had always been such a graceful person, an archetype of elegance and bodily control. Even in the deepest throes of their lovemaking she had always exhibited an underlying restraint. He couldn’t quite believe what he had just seen, and in a public place as well. But then he was stirred, at a deeper level, by this sudden sign of vulnerability, written across and then cleared from Anika’s face. It was a similar feeling of compassion, he realised, that had caused her to hug him so tightly just now, and it took him an effort to avoid reciprocating the gesture. Instead he gently stroked the offending cheek.
Otto’s intestines and Anika’s snot: two unlikely catalysts for the rediscovery of love. Yet each felt oddly moved now by these signs of the other’s humanity; by the body’s secrets, cruelly exposed. They stood gazing at each other in empathy – not quite sure how to express the depths of what they felt. Then a quick peck on the cheek and she was on her way back to the car.
‘Phone me when you get there,’ she called from across the bonnet.
Otto gave a little wave of acknowledgement.
Six
It was a shock when he first saw her. The same pale-blue eyes, lightly hooded, sharply intelligent; the same small crease beside the mouth as she smiled; and then a flash of teeth, behind the full lips, followed by a downward tilt of the head and an upward glance of the eyes, suggesting a well-hidden shyness. The hair was different, though – what did he expect? It was almost sixty years later. Shorter, messier, no soft wave falling across the forehead. It was uncanny, though. It was uncanny.
I think this is going to be rather difficult, thought Otto, rising to his feet for the introductions.
They were about to dine in a restaurant on the South Bank, where Angelo had suggested they meet.
Otto had felt surprisingly nervous on the plane across from Geneva; not from any fear of flying, but a fear of what he was flying to. It was twenty-five years since he had left England. He had no idea how he had managed to avoid it for so long. Or had he been avoiding it? Was it just the way things had worked out? He didn’t know the answer to that.
Throughout the short flight he experienced a strange inner turbulence. He had a queasy sensation that he was reestablishing a connection with the past; flying backwards into his own memories. He would no longer be experiencing them from a distance, but in the city where they had once been real.
At least you’ll have some time to acclimatise, he told himself. You can relax in the hotel for a couple of nights. You’re not moving into Marlowe House immediately.
As he pondered the days to come, Otto shifted about uncomfortably in his seat. The air pressure in the cabin unsettled him. He began to worry that he might encounter problems with his stomach, and tried relaxing to some anodyne music station, the most soothing thing he could find on the in-flight entertainment menu. But every few minutes he would take off his headphones and listen for tell-tale gurgling sounds. Everything was fine, it was just his paranoia, but he could tell from the glances of the air steward patrolling the aisles that he hadn’t covered his agitation as well as he had hoped.
Arriving at Heathrow, he felt a little better. The familiar rhythms of transition – escalators, ambient music, the steady churning of the baggage carousel – began to soothe him. By the time Angelo had met him at the gate and ushered him into the passenger seat of his car, Otto was feeling quite chatty. The mood stayed with him throughout that day: hotel, café, sightseeing along the Embankment. Even as they sat in the restaurant, awaiting their evening appointment, Otto found himself enjoying a light-headed nostalgia. It washed softly through him like the Thames below their window.
And then she walked into the room.
Feeling sick as he climbed to his feet, Otto reached out a hand. He heard, as through a haze, Angelo’s voice addressing him.
‘Otto – this is Chloe, your director.’
She took his hand. The touch was different … Thank God for that. It meant he could speak, at least.
‘Delighted to meet you, Chloe.’
‘Hello, Otto.’
The voice, too, was different. Lighter, less serious. The giddiness was dispersing now.
‘These are the other members of my film crew – Simon and Paul.’
In his shock, Otto had not even noticed there were others. Now he saw their faces. Young, kind, compassionate; the eyes meeting his, the hands outstretched.
‘Hello, Otto.’
‘Nice to meet you.’
Their faces now turned away from him – the hands reaching out to Angelo.
As they retook their places and prepared for the opening volley of conversation, Otto felt her eyes upon him. But he could cope with no more than a glimmer of contact, the merest of smiles, and then he had to look away. He reached for his glass of water, welcomed its coolness in his throat … seized the chance to briefly shut his eyes.
Their switch into the preliminaries was effortless. Angelo was good at these rituals, and the others seemed practised, too. Otto felt grateful for their conversational polish. He could take a back seat in all this. Just the occasional interjection. Yes, the flight was fine – about twenty-five years now – yes, it certainly had changed – he had caught only a glimpse of the Shard earlier, but he hoped to see it properly tomorrow. He soon established his role. If they were a small orchestra, then he was the timpani player, sitting tight on the sidelines and making his presence felt with an occasional well-timed flourish. His age was a help (he didn’t often think that, nowadays) and they were perhaps a little overawed by his natural gravitas.
Otto felt so diminished, sometimes, that he didn’t realise what an impressive physical presence he remained. Very tall, lightly tanned, thin and with a full head of longish white hair, swept
back rakishly from striking brown eyes. When dressed for the occasion – today he wore a blue blazer and a silk cravat, the white hair tumbling down over his collar – he could still attract admiring female glances, much to his astonishment.
So he could take it easy, then, play the wise owl, not make too much of an effort to impress. Moreover, it was clear from the shape of the conversation, and the way that Chloe and her colleagues often finished their sentences with a quick glance over to seek his approval, that, if anything, they were here to impress him. He felt relieved about that. It took the pressure off. And it bought him some time to regain his mental balance.
Otto had arrived at the restaurant with plenty of questions. There were many things he wanted to know about their plans for the television feature, which was scheduled to begin filming the day after tomorrow. But then he had caught sight of her as she walked into the restaurant and his brain had been completely overturned. The lurching sensation had struck him like seasickness, as if the restaurant were suddenly a small ship and the Thames a raging ocean.
A waiter took their order, and with no more impending interruptions on the horizon the conversation deepened. It looked as if it would be a while until they got down to the nitty-gritty of talking about the documentary, becoming sidetracked into a general discussion about the merits of post-war architecture. Angelo could never resist the topic. Freed from any need to follow the thread too closely, Otto repeated his initial thought once more to himself, in order to confirm it.
She looks exactly like a young Cynthia.
Followed by a question.
What does that signify?
On the plane, he had been struck by that odd sense of foreboding that he was somehow flying back into his past. Now, within a few hours of landing, he had met someone whom a less rational man might suspect to be the reincarnation of his late wife.
When did Cynthia leave us again? he thought. And how old do you think this young woman is?
He caught himself making some mental calculations and stopped.
Idiot. But the resemblance is remarkable, isn’t it?
He glanced over at Angelo, who was explaining some of the central precepts of Modernism, and tried to work out whether he had spotted it, too. But from his effusive manner and gently waving hands, it appeared that Angelo had noticed nothing.
But then he had hardly known Cynthia, having been in his mid-twenties when she died. He had very recently joined the practice at the time. Besides, he only ever saw Cyn in middle age – when she was already sick and somewhat changed. He had never known her when she was like this.
As Chloe leaned forward to speak to Angelo and the others, Otto took the opportunity to study her face more closely. He still didn’t think he could handle any eye contact, and would have to glance away again if she suddenly aimed those pale-blue eyes towards him. As he had already noted, the similarities lay not just in her features – and my goodness, they are close enough, he thought – but in the gestures, the expressions. That was the most striking part. There was her mode of eye contact as she spoke, moving methodically from one face to the next, gauging and including. Her laugh, too; not so much the sound, but the little throw back of the head – delighting in the moment. And then she did something that truly floored him. As she listened to Angelo, she took off the small bracelet she wore on her left wrist (unthinkingly, as she was still intent on the conversation), and spun it between the fingers of her right hand. Three times in one direction, then three times in the other. Quickly, dextrously – no one else at the table even noticed – and then slipped it back onto her wrist.
Otto sat back in his chair.
I thought I’d never see that again.
* * *
The first time he had done so – the first time they had spoken – was in a student café in Bloomsbury in the mid-1950s. But they had already spotted each other some weeks before, at the Architectural Association on Bedford Square, a prestigious college with a reputation for cutting-edge design where the two of them were working towards their professional qualifications. Otto had already been studying there several years. She was newly arrived from the United States. Strange, now, to think that he had ever lived in this city without her.
Cynthia was impressed at first sight by the rake-thin young man with the luminous skin and soulful eyes, whose presentation on Le Corbusier confirmed for her the reputation she had already heard about from others. She and her friends would track around the library the progression of this enigmatic figure, who apparently preferred to live among the poorer communities of Lambeth, rather than take his rightful place among the fashionable young bohemians of Bloomsbury. Otto’s evasiveness, together with his obvious intelligence, only added to his allure, and within a few weeks of Cynthia’s arrival at the college, he was already firmly established on her radar. For the time being, however, she kept her distance, knowing she was not short of allure herself.
It was common knowledge that Cynthia had taken her first degree at New York’s Columbia University. It was also known that she had lived for a while in fashionable Greenwich Village. Rumour had it that she once drank coffee just two tables away from James Dean. The first thing that drew Otto’s attention, however, was her headwear. Most days she wore a stylish black beret, tilted down slightly to the left, which she could use very effectively to either shelter from view, or offer up for contemplation, the blue eyes beneath the auburn wave. With the smoke from a cigarette curling constantly around her face, she had all the credentials of an authentic beatnik. Not only was she the kind of person who could appreciate Abstract Expressionism, she looked like someone who might understand the complexities of modern jazz.
Walking alone into the café that particular day, Otto spotted her at a table by the window. She was reading a dog-eared copy of Orlando, pausing now and then to stir her coffee with a silver spoon. Settling down at an adjacent table, and calculating the best strategy for interrupting her reading, he was spared further anguish by her glance, smile of recognition and offer of a place at her table. He was impressed at once by her confidence and maturity, if a little taken aback by her cut-glass English accent.
‘You’re not from New York, then?’
‘No, I’m Home Counties born and bred. My spell at Columbia was the first time I’d ever been to the States. My father has business contacts in America, you see, which is how I came to study there.’
‘New York must have been exciting.’
‘Yes, I enjoyed it, greatly. But I decided to come back home to complete my studies. And you’re Austrian, I hear?’
‘Technically, yes, although I haven’t actually lived there since I was young. German remains my first language, however, and the accent I have kept, or so I am told. Are you living near to the college?’
‘Not too far away. I have a place on Marchmont Street – just up the road from here.’
‘And you are renting there?’
She looked a little awkward.
‘No, it’s a family heirloom. My parents have owned it for years. It’s convenient for my studies and great for the West End. I’ve heard a rumour that you live somewhere in the far south, is that right?’
‘It’s not so far, but it is south of the river. I have a room in Lambeth.’
‘And what drew you down there?’
‘At first, there was a mixing-up with the accommodation. This was a few years ago, when I first came to study here. The forms I filled out for the college were lost, and so I had to find somewhere quickly. And then, once I was there, I grew to like it. The atmosphere is different. They are maybe more like human beings down there.’
They both laughed.
‘You will have to excuse me. My English is still not always so good. I express myself a little oddly on occasion.’
‘It’s okay. I understand what you mean. And I think there is probably more truth to your words than you intended. Bloomsbury can feel a little artificial sometimes, although it’s a shame that you’re so cut off from everyone. You�
�re missing out on a lot – there’s quite a vibrant community up here. You should think about leaving the human beings and coming up to live with the Bloomsbury Set. We don’t want you sitting down there all alone, brooding away in your attic like some mad genius. You’re clearly well ahead on your reading – well ahead of some of the lecturers, from what I’ve heard. Come north and broaden your scope.’
‘My scope?’
‘Your outlook – your potential.’
‘You think I have potential?’
Cynthia gave him a look, then, holding his eyes with confidence as she drew on her cigarette, the smoke wreathing sensuously around her face.
‘I think you have lots of potential, Otto.’
She paused and stubbed out her cigarette into the ashtray. Her restless hands detached the silver bracelet and spun it between her fingers …
* * *
Otto’s throat began to tighten at the memory. He was becoming emotional. Tears were squeezing their way out of the corners of his eyes.
Steady, you old fool. Calm yourself. Start blubbing now and the game is up. They’ll lock you away for ever.
With a considerable effort, he forced his attention away from the bracelet – how many times he had seen that, in so many places, but don’t give in to it, not here – and back to the conversation taking place around him. He was relieved when the food arrived shortly afterwards, and they moved on to the business in hand.
Otto voiced some of the concerns he had previously mentioned to Angelo, but this time only in the most cursory of ways. All pride and suspicion seemed to have drained from him as if the evening’s events had sapped his will. He had seen enough to convince him that these young people had sufficient integrity to do their job properly. He should leave them alone to get on with it. Besides, in a sense he felt that he had no choice but to go along with whatever came his way. The bizarre coincidence that he had just come to terms with over dinner seemed to have effectively ruled out any alternative. There was no backing away now, even if he wanted to.