Little Grey Mice

by Brian Freemantle

  Reimann let his face fall into disappointment. ‘So much for that,’ he said, resigned. Come on, woman! Come on!

  ‘You could borrow mine,’ she offered.

  Reimann adopted his uncertain, not-wanting-to-impose attitude again. ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘Of course not. I’ve read it.’ There’d be a meeting to hand it over and a meeting to retrieve it.

  ‘That really would be extremely good of you,’ said Reimann. ‘I’d take the greatest care of it, of course. Greene’s one of my favourite foreign authors. He was once a journalist too, you know?’

  ‘I think I read that somewhere,’ said Elke. It was all being so easy: so easy and so natural. Her nerves still tingled.

  ‘How could I collect it?’ said Reimann. ‘I don’t want to put you to any inconvenience.’

  ‘I’m doing something today. And tomorrow,’ said Elke. It would have been possible for him to come to Kaufmannstrasse when she returned later from Bad Godesberg, or tomorrow, after visiting Ursula, but Elke enjoyed conveying the impression of full days.

  Posturing cow, thought Reimann. He said: ‘Could I telephone some evening next week? Tuesday perhaps?’

  ‘Tuesday would be fine,’ Elke accepted, too quickly. ‘Why bother to telephone? Why don’t we agree here and now that’s when you’ll come by to pick it up?’

  She was making it simple for him, Reimann reflected. But then he’d never seriously doubted that she wouldn’t.

  The third anonymous and disguised document that arrived in Vienna was an instruction to West German diplomats in former Soviet satellites for a country-by-country assessment of any remaining allegiance to Moscow. Coupled with it was a request for any available guidance about the likely secession of Soviet republics, and indications of Soviet troop movements to quell such fresh dissent.

  ‘What the hell do they want that for?’ queried Sorokin.

  ‘What reason makes any potential enemy force want military information about other countries?’ said Cherny. ‘Inconclusive and difficult though it is to explain, we’ve got to forward reports about this information soon.’

  ‘No!’ Sorokin would not budge. ‘It is inconclusive. We’d be raising more questions than we can provide answers, which isn’t intelligence. It’s got to come from Reimann.’

  ‘Nothing is coming from Reimann,’ argued Cherny, equally insistent.

  ‘It will,’ said Sorokin. ‘In time it will.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  They each made a consummate effort, and with contrasting irony for the identical reason, to impress the other.

  It was acceptable, at last, for Reimann to take a gift. He initially disdained the obvious flowers or chocolates, but everything else he considered, in an attempt to be original, seemed upon examination to be kitsch. In the end he reverted to flowers, imagining a way to introduce them that was gauche but which he believed would appeal to her. And he bought a chewing toy for the dog, which was so appallingly kitsch that he was hot from discomfort as he made the purchase but reassured himself it was just the sort of gesture that Elke would appreciate, and use words like ‘sweet’ and ‘thoughtful’ when she thanked him. On Monday, considerately, he telephoned to ask if the following evening’s arrangement was still convenient. Elke, stomach tight at the instant apprehension that he intended cancelling, gabbled that it was fine and that she was expecting him. There’s so much more you don’t expect, thought Reimann: so very much more.

  Elke had happily begun disturbing her established routine immediately she got home from being with Ursula at Marienfels on the Sunday afternoon, starting to vacuum and polish and rearrange the apartment. It was not until Monday evening, just before Reimann’s courtesy call (so polite, but then what else has she come to expect?) that Elke attended to her own bedroom. It was here that she kept Ursula’s photographs, three individual pictures in separate frames and a collage of several different snapshots arranged in one composite group. Elke stood looking at them for a long time, easily recognizing the occasions when each one had been taken. Two when Ursula had been a newly born baby, before they’d known anything was wrong, at her mother’s house across the river, at Oberkassel; at birthdays, the second and the third, when the warnings had started but she hadn’t really believed them, Ursula still seeming so normal, so beautiful; she’d been eight when the picture had been taken of her near the roundabout in the play park, not smiling like the other children in the background, the blankness in her eyes obvious, as everything else had been obvious by then. Slowly, studying them as she did it, Elke dusted the frames and the glass. Having cleaned them, Elke remained staring down at the assembled images of her daughter. Without any positive, reasoning thought she put them all in the underwear drawer of her dressing table. ‘Don’t want to share you,’ said Elke, in one of her private conversations. ‘Just the two of us.’ There was no question – it was inconceivable – of the man seeing into the room in any case, but she didn’t want Ursula on display: it had something to do with the child’s dignity.

  There was an unopened bottle of whisky and some still remained in the old one, so there was no need for more, just wine for herself. She found a new and extensively stocked delicatessen where she was able to try the snacks before buying, and waited until the Tuesday night before having fresh coffee ground from Colombian beans that the delicatessen owner personally recommended.

  Elke bathed as soon as she got into the apartment on the Tuesday, but left her hair because it looked all right as it was and might not fall as well if she washed and dried it again. She stood undecided and completely naked before the dressing-table mirror, choosing between the cologne and the scented dusting powder. Cologne, she determined, because the smell would last longer. She made up carefully and lightly before selecting her newest skirt and sweater, smiling despite her rejection at the time of Ida’s smirked suggestion after the Saturday lunch (‘Don’t wear a bra, and if you wear a skirt that’s just a teeny-weeny bit tight he could see you weren’t wearing any knickers, either’). Both bra and pants were new. The waist slip was new, too. Excellent, judged Elke, surveying the finished affect. She looked exactly as she wanted to appear: a relaxed, self-assured, career executive. She wished she were as self-assured as the reflection gazing back at her with her face and her body and wearing her clothes. This was the best she could do: the best she — anyone – could hope for. Ida would have probably recommended something else.

  She prepared the snack dishes at the last minute, preserving the dishes in clingfilm in the refrigerator and broke out the ice, recalling the convenience of doing so from one of his previous visits.

  ‘I wonder what’s going to happen, Poppi?’ she said to the attentive dog which sat ears cocked, head curiously to one side. Probably nothing, she thought, answering her own question. She didn’t want anything – whatever anything was – to happen tonight. This was virtually the first social visit: the others had been about the car, so that had been business. But tonight he was coming to call. Tonight she didn’t have to read a book or seek a radio concert: didn’t have to think. That wasn’t right: she had constantly to think, to find subjects to talk about and words to express them, to try to show she had opinions and views and character. That she wasn’t dull. But it had been an easy-reflection to have, because during the scant association that was how she had come to feel in Otto Reimann’s presence: that he would do all the thinking and make all the decisions. It was a warm feeling: one she sought.

  Would he arrive as promised? They’d arranged eight, but they’d fixed times before and he’d always been late. She took the Graham Greene anthology from the shelf and laid it on top of the bookcase in readiness. But immediately decided that was wrong – as if she had made too much preparation for his visit, which she had – and put it back. Would he want to discuss the stories? It was a long time since she’d read them, and Elke realized she’d hardly retained any of the plots. She took the book out again, beginning to flick through to remind herself, but stopped. Ho
w could he discuss novels he hadn’t read yet? Silly mistake: worrying too much. She’d have to guard against doing something like that – saying something silly – when he got here. She was nervous of doing anything that made her appear foolish: frightened of doing anything. She replaced the book again and went back into the bedroom, examining her reflection in the full-length wardrobe mirror. Elke saw she was quite flushed: no need for any further blusher on her cheeks. What about slightly heavier lipstick? Advertise your wares, Ida had urged, puckering her lips in illustration. But she wasn’t advertising anything, Elke reminded herself: didn’t consider she had anything to advertise. She’d let the make-up stay as it was. She looked at the underwear drawer in which Ursula’s photographs rested. ‘You’d understand, darling,’ she said. ‘I know you’d understand.’

  The doorbell sounded promptly at eight.

  Elke was ready, waiting. She moved at once, stopped, moved again. Not too quick: wrong to be too quick, as if she were anxious, which she was.

  Reimann counted, guessing. Glad. Like she should have been: had to be. Trying: always trying. One minute, two minutes, three minutes. OK, you’ve made your pitiful point.

  ‘Hello.’ Standing back for him to enter. He looked so calm, so relaxed. His attention, as always, utterly directed towards her.

  Reimann offered his gifts and said: ‘I want to say thank you in advance. As we met again near the flower market it had to be flowers, didn’t it?’

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ Elke accepted. They were roses, like Günther had bought, but these were proper roses – long-stemmed, to fit in a full sized vase, not stunted, lost if they were mixed with other blooms, as Günther’s had been. Elke sought the old axiom, for the significance. Red roses for love, white roses for peace: she thought that was it. although she wasn’t sure. Reimann’s bouquet was pink, noncommittal.

  ‘And this!’ he announced, offering a gift-wrapped box.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Open it!’ ordered Reimann, moving for immediate supremacy. Elke stood disconcerted, with the flowers in one hand and the box in the other, unable to move, held by her own inadequacy, which was what Reimann intended. She wedged the bouquet on to the hall stand with difficulty, unwrapping the dog’s toy. ‘I…?’ she tried, confused.

  ‘For Poppi,’ he explained, deliberately sheepish, laughing as if unsure of the idea.

  Elke laughed with him, delighted. ‘Oh, that’s sweet!’ she said.

  So easy to anticipate, thought Reimann. He hoped it stayed that way: grew easier, in fact. ‘I hoped you’d like it: that you wouldn’t think it juvenile.’

  ‘How could anyone think that!’ said Elke, within distant view of indignation. ‘It’s sweet and it’s thoughtful. You’re very kind.’

  He’d failed mentally to predict being called kind, Reimann acknowledged. So he’d scored eight out of ten. Good enough. He stayed unspeaking in the minuscule hallway, putting the onus – the social discomfort – upon her.

  ‘Please!’ said Elke, accepting it. ‘Please come in! Why are we standing here in the hall?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Reimann. Uncertainty encourages uncertainty: one of the first psychological lecturers.

  Elke went quickly into the main room, angry at herself: self-assured career executives didn’t stand around in foyers when guests arrived at their homes. They accepted the duty tokens and showed proper – although not too much – gratitude and continued as if the gesture was their due, not the gift for which they’d pined since the previous disappointed birthday. Elke made a valiant recovery, even by Reimann’s judgement. She went most of the way through the lounge, gesturing around as she did so. Maintaining a flow of disjointed yet connected remarks, she said: ‘Sit anywhere. I’ll get the flowers in water. I know what you’ll drink …’ At the kitchen door she paused, looking back. ‘Do you want to give Poppi his present?’

  ‘You do it,’ said Reimann at once, not wanting the animal near him. ‘Let’s not divide its affections.’

  She hadn’t put out the canapes! The realization came to Elke as she opened the refrigerator and saw the plastic-enclosed dishes, like fossils preserved for a million years in a glacier. She didn’t know what to do. To carry them in with the drinks would make too much of her preparation, draw attention to the effort. Damn! Elke thought: damn! damn! damn! Leave them the first time. Suggest them casually over the second drink – would you like something to nibble on? I think I have something – and bring them in then. But not everything, not now. She wouldn’t look casual, walking in with six different selections. Damn!

  Poppi was at the door, scratching to get through. Elke ripped off the box wrappings: the toy, created from some animal by-product, was in the shape of an old shoe. She hoped Poppi didn’t reduce it to a soggy mess to trail across the kitchen floor or worse, the carpets. It must have been infused with some sort of animal stimulant because the dog leapt up against her, snuffling eagerly. She handed it down. Poppi scurried off to his basket, a four-legged miser.

  Having come into near contact with the dog’s mouth Elke rinsed her hands even before immersing the roses. She made the drinks quickly, aware of leaving her guest on his own too long. At the door, she looked briefly back towards the fridge, unsure, but carried on through. Reimann was sitting in the chair he’d occupied on the previous occasions, legs splayed in front of him, perfectly at ease.

  ‘Poppi likes his shoe. He’s trying to hide it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘The Graham Greene collection is over there,’ said Elke, jerking her head towards the books as if she wasn’t quite sure exactly where the combined volume was. Should she say it? She didn’t want to appear cocky but she did want to show her intelligence. So why not? ‘And it’s not what you said.’

  ‘What?’ demanded Reimann. Whatever her qualification was it wouldn’t matter, but he was intrigued at what she might mean.

  ‘At the Bonner on Saturday you called it a compendium. It isn’t. Every story is complete and unabriged.’

  Smart-assed bitch, thought Reimann. He smiled and, lightly gallant to show he was not offended, said: ‘My apologies, madam. And I’m glad. I don’t really like digests.’

  He didn’t seem upset at all. but Elke was instantly worried at having made the correction. She didn’t know him well enough to make a criticism like that. Trying to maintain a casual attitude, she made another hand movement towards the books and said: ‘Look through while you’re here: borrow something else if you want. You haven’t had time to build up any sort of a library, have you?’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Reimann grasped the opportunity, although not with the intention Elke wanted. ‘I am still settling in.’

  ‘How are you finding it?’ Those very direct eyes had moved, just for a moment, encompassing her body as she believed he had once before. She was sure of it!

  The question paved the way for Reimann to move into the carefully rehearsed and prepared stories, obeying another Balashikha lecture on the aphrodisiac of laughter. All the stories were virtual inventions, exaggerations of the difficulties with his initial accreditation applications, the anecdotes always told self-effacingly, always mockingly against himself. He was extremely funny, and Elke found herself laughing helplessly and without any self-consciousness, which was so rare as to surprise her, because Elke never truly felt at ease even in the tightly restricted and protective social circle she occupied: self-consciousness was a feeling she always had, to some degree.

  Having recounted the fictitious difficulties of a stranger arriving in a an unknown town to an unknown job, Reimann parodied different ministers and officials with whom he’d already come into professional contact and some whom he hadn’t met but merely seen on television, or heard journalists gossip about in the Joachimstrasse bar. Because she knew most of them and because of his amazingly accurate mimicry the accounts seemed funnier to her than they might have done to anybody else.

  ‘And what about the commemorative head-and-shoulders bust of Adenauer
on the pavement outside the Chancellery?’ he demanded.

  ‘What about it?’ she asked, smiling expectantly.

  ‘Doesn’t it look as though it was designed by the man who makes garden gnomes?’

  Elke tried to imagine the outrage such a description would cause among the people with whom she worked – Günther Werle, for instance – but agreed, giggling, that it did. She pleaded with him to stop to let her recover, using as excuse the need to get more drinks – and three of the prepared dishes – from the kitchen. She did so refusing to think of anything, to consider anything, completely absorbed by Otto and happy to exist entirely – and only – for the moment. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so reposed, so happy, in another person’s company, certainly not another person who was a virtual stranger. Hardly, even, with Ida.

  He resumed the moment she returned to the main room, this time about problems with workmen and leases when he’d moved into Rochusplatz, starting her laughing all over again until, finally, she really did physically ache and begged him to stop at once.

  ‘Don’t they strike you as hilarious, all these politicians? Each trying to be more serious than the other! Whenever any of them lose an election they could go into business as professional mourners at funerals!’ It was going extremely well, Reimann decided. Although he was performing apparently with impromptu ease he remained intently alert upon the woman, trying as always to discern her thoughts and attitudes. He was sure the laughter and the amusement were genuine, with no hidden reservation. It made him doubt all the more that it was she who had initiated the security inquiry.

  The politicians about whom he was talking had never before been hilarious to her – not as hilarious as he was portraying them – but the rest of the descriptions were very apposite. She said: ‘Is this how you have to write, satirizing it all?’

  ‘Oh no!’ seized Reimann at once, welcoming the question and the direction it offered. ‘I wish it were, because it would be more fun. I’m supposed to write the inside stories, disclosing the reasons behind the publicly seen decisions: anticipate reactions and attitudes to developing situations. All very dull, I’m afraid.’