Little Grey Mice

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Forgive you for what?’ Elke couldn’t guess the direction of the remark, so she remained lying as she was, with her eyes closed, sealing herself off.

  ‘Being boring.’

  Now she did stir, but only to turn her head towards him once more. ‘Boring?’ she said, disbelieving.

  ‘Talking politics: shop. You must be bored to death with it, like I am. And this is our hideaway day. So I’m sorry.’

  They were back where she wanted them to be, thought Elke, relieved. ‘Forgiven,’ she said. She believed she’d find it easy to forgive him anything. She felt something against her face and twitched away, believing it was an insect, and then realized it was his fingers, lightly upon her cheek. She stopped twitching.

  ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Do you want me to apologize for this, too?’

  ‘No.’

  He caressed on, insect-light. ‘What then?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She felt thick-throated at the intimacy of his touch, although it was hardly intimate at all: she was glad it didn’t sound when she spoke.

  ‘Would you like some more wine?’

  ‘I’d have to move to drink it. And I don’t want to move.’

  ‘I’m very happy,’ he said.

  ‘So am I.’ Elke lay with her eyes more tightly shut than ever, because people’s eyes were shut when they were dreaming.

  ‘I want to say something.’

  Elke didn’t intend to speak, but he didn’t go on, waiting as if he wanted her permission, so eventually she said: ‘What?’

  He still didn’t speak, not at once. Finally he said: ‘It would be simple – the easy word at least – to say that I loved you. But I won’t, because that is the easy word. A meaningless one, almost: polished smooth, by too much use. So I’ll use other words. I’m so completely happy, to be with you. At the moment – and I really don’t think it’s going to change – all I ever want to be is with you. I don’t get through that much of any day without thinking about you. You’re beautiful, which I suspect you don’t believe but which is true …’ Reimann let himself clog to a halt: people are rarely coherent, always clumsy, at sincere moments of emotion, the Balashikha instructor had taught. He started again. ‘I feel a fool: that I haven’t properly said what I wanted to say, although I have really. Oh Christ! I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make things awkward, like this. If you like we can blame the wine: I can blame the wine.’

  Elke lay unmoving against his leg, eyes squeezed together just short of making her face positively wrinkle. It was a dream: had lobe. A warm, floating, perfect dream from which she would awaken to find nothing, no one.

  ‘Elke?’ Reimann worked the gulping concern into his voice. ‘I’m really, really sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken like this: embarrassed you. Now I’m embarrassed. Don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Stop!’ she said, shortly.

  They remained as they were for a long time, the emotion moving through Elke so that he could feel a physical, vibrating movement against his leg. Reimann lolled patiently on his elbow. He watched the toy boats on the faraway river and the contrail of an aircraft – a jet airliner he supposed – draw an accurately straight white line across the sky above, so removed from what was happening between him and the woman using his leg as a pillow that he was actually curious where the plane was going and where it had come from and about the passengers aboard.

  ‘Otto?’

  ‘Yes?’ The anxiety was perfect, he congratulated himself.

  ‘I’m not embarrassed … I’m not …’ She couldn’t continue for several more minutes. ‘The only word I can think of is that I’m flattered but that isn’t right at all … what I’m trying to say is that I …’

  ‘Tell me how you feel!’ demanded Reimann, the bored impatience easy to be mistaken for the urgency of his emotion. ‘That’s what I want to know: how you feel!’

  There was another irritating hesitation, while she thought. Elke said: ‘I don’t know, either. Not to use that word. But I think about you all the time, too … I’m blissfully happy, when we’re together … I know nothing – nothing bad or harmful – can happen to me, when we’re together … but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘There are things … things to talk about …’ Elke stumbled. She had to be honest, from the beginning: to say nothing at this moment would be another way of lying, and if she had lied everything would be on a false basis, a foundation that would give way under the slightest pressure. She felt his finger softly against her lips.

  ‘I’m not interested in secrets from the past,’ he said. ‘They’re not important.’ Psychologically, a belated confession would be far better: she had to think she had to compensate in other ways to make amends.

  Elke raised herself, not wanting to but feeling she had to force the confrontation. ‘They are,’ she said, unhappily.

  Reimann felt out, putting his finger to her lips again. ‘No,’ he refused. ‘Not now. Let’s leave everything now.’

  His decision, Elke accepted, anxiously seeking an escape. A clumsy, tongue-tangled explanation would be as bad as no explanation at all. She needed the chance fully to consider: sort out what she was going to say and how she was going to say it. Not dishonest: sensible. She couldn’t chance the slightest mistake to risk a happiness holding her so tightly she felt she would burst.

  Reimann poured more champagne, touched his glass to hers and said: ‘Here’s to us both finding that right word, very soon.’

  Elke drank and said: ‘I don’t think it’s going to be very difficult for me.’

  ‘For me, either.’ And then he kissed her, fully. But with careful gentleness, not holding her but simply coming forward, putting his lips to hers, nudging an opening with his tongue.

  Elke was frightened. She told herself she didn’t know why but knew all the time that she did and desperately hoped he wouldn’t sense it. She allowed his tongue, wanting it, tasting the sharpness of the wine, thrusting back with hers, exploring him. He wasn’t holding her, pulling her against his nakedness, and Elke thought she was glad but wasn’t sure. When? His choice. Here? His choice again. She didn’t want to, not in the open like this, hidden away though it was, but if he did then she would, she supposed. Why suppose? Of course she would. Quite safe. She’d stopped a fortnight before. Ovulation five days after: she’d even felt the discomfort. So she was safe now: quite safe. If only she knew more: knew things he might like! Might expect. She didn’t want to disappoint him: to be inadequate. Please don’t let it hurt! He was always gentle, always considerate. So it wouldn’t hurt. Why was she so dry? It would hurt, if she was dry.

  He parted from her and said: ‘You’re shivering.’

  ‘I don’t know why.’

  ‘You’re not cold?’

  ‘Happy,’ she said. ‘So very, very happy.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Reimann, equalling her sincerity although for different reasons. Should he take her here, bare-assed in the grass? She’d probably consider it romantic, like something out of one of those books back at Kaufmannstrasse. Then again, she’d probably be tensed, nervous of discovery. He didn’t want to spoil the first time. That had to be special for her: perfect, in her memory. Which was not the only consideration: psychologically he had to do more than invade her body. So not here. Maybe some other occasion, because this tiny valley would have a significance for her and she might like it here some time. But today, for him, there would be more advantage back at Kaufmannstrasse, where he would be intruding into her personal territory. Unfortunate, really: he quite felt like a fuck.

  Elke once more didn’t know what to do, what to say. Nothing she thought of was right, and she wanted to do and say everything right. She said: ‘This is going to sound like something out of a bad film, but I don’t want today to end.’

  Most of what they’d told each other so far had sounded like something out of a bad film, reflected Reimann. He said: ‘It hasn’t got to, has it?’


  Elke’s throat moved, in her uncertainty. Softly, she said: ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘We’ll go soon,’ he decided.

  So he didn’t want to make love to her here. Elke believed she was relieved but still wasn’t sure. ‘If you say so,’ she agreed at once. Then frowned, abruptly. ‘But how? How do we get back into the town?’

  Reimann smiled his crooked-tooth smile at her, glancing at his watch. ‘I promised the taxi driver a ten-mark bonus if he came back for us at three.’

  Elke smiled back admiringly, thinking how completely capable he was in everything. ‘How did you know you’d want to leave by three?’

  ‘I did,’ he said, decisive again.

  ‘Afraid you might be bored by then!’

  He came forward, to kiss her again, and said: ‘I was never afraid of that. And don’t seek compliments!’

  ‘I like compliments.’

  ‘You’re very beautiful.’

  ‘And you’re very handsome.’

  Just like a bad film, thought Reimann. He stood, pulling on his shirt, with seeming disregard – but in fact with careful intent – unzipping his fly to tuck it into his jeans, hinting an already accepted intimacy between them. He kissed her again when he held both her hands to bring her up from the blanket, refolding it into the backpack. They walked slowly, hand in hand, back to the top of the hill and then easily made the descent. They only had to wait ten minutes for the taxi to return.

  They hardly talked on the river ferry but sat close together, thigh against thigh. In the car going to Kaufmannstrasse Reimann said: ‘We’re hardly dressed to go out again, for dinner, are we?’ He’d determined on the picnic for the clothes they would necessarily have to wear to create precisely such a situation, so they could remain in her apartment that night once they’d returned to it.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ said Elke, surprised at her own obviousness.

  ‘I’m not, either.’

  ‘We can simply stay in then?’

  She was actually dictating the pace, Reimann realized, amused at her effort. ‘I’d like that.’

  Poppi scurried and yapped around them as soon as they entered the apartment, and Elke said: ‘I should take him out,’ the irritation clear in her voice.

  He’s not going to be an interference for much longer, thought Reimann. He said: ‘Why don’t I do it, while you settle in?’

  ‘There’s no need to go far,’ she said.

  ‘I won’t.’

  Alone in the apartment Elke considered changing but decided against it, after the remark in the car. She remembered Ursula’s photographs and put them in the dressing-table drawer as she had done before, although more fully concealed beneath the underclothes. She didn’t speak aloud this time, just thought. Not ashamed. Not hiding her away. Simply a question of things being put in the correct order. Tell him first: explain. Then show him the photographs. That was the way: the correct order.

  Reimann hauled the dog along at the end of its leash on the street outside, standing impatiently when it tugged to a stop, to relieve itself. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you soon,’ Reimann talked down to it, kind-voiced. ‘A big surprise.’ The dog pawed up against his leg, scratching for attention. Reimann ignored it, hauling it back towards the apartment. He decided it would have to be quite ordinary, basic missionary position stuff, that night with Elke. He didn’t want to offend or frighten her. There had to be a gradual introduction into other more adventurous things. He’d make her like it, all of it. She was going to have to become extremely dependent on sex.

  ‘I’ve broken out some ice, in case you wanted whisky,’ said Elke, when he got back to the flat. They stood in the living-room, staring at each other.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she accepted.

  ‘Can I get anything for you?’ It was important he treat the flat as if he had every right from the beginning.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not going home,’ he announced.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Do you want me to?’ She had to come close to asking.

  ‘You know I don’t.’

  Reimann led her to the bedroom and when he kissed her, by the bed, felt the tremble moving through her. He left the light off, sure she would want the darkness tonight, undressing her by feel and quickly, not trying for any erotic slowness. He undressed quickly himself, but once in bed beside her he changed the pace, aware how much she needed to be soothed into soft acceptance.

  As Elke was aware. She lay stiff, rigid, and couldn’t stop herself doing it, legs tight together, arms glued to her sides. Do something! she mentally screamed at herself. Move! Respond! Go towards him! Do something! She was dry: so very dry. It was going to hurt.

  Reimann was patient, coaxing. For a long time he did nothing but kiss her, moving his lips to her face and her hair and her lips before going to her neck and her shoulders. There was a shudder and the smallest of whimpers when he gently trapped her nipple, with his lips at first, until it swelled large enough to bite, still gently, with his teeth. He held it in his teeth then, bringing his tongue back and forth and back and forth, hearing a louder mewing from above and feeling her stiffness seep away.

  So good! Oh dear God, so good! She felt as if her skin was burning with pain, every nerve stinging and hot. Why didn’t he bite harder! She wanted him to hurt her more. His hand was there! She could feel his finger, hard yet gentle and not trying to go in. Moving slowly, deliciously, wonderfully outside on the bud – her bud – but better, so much better, than when she did it herself. Different. Harder, please harder. Just a little. That’s right. Like that. Perfect.

  She was soft, pliable now. Reimann was sure he could do anything with her – to her – but again decided not to, not tonight. She had her hand at his head, forcing him against her breast, and her legs were splayed in invitation. He didn’t take it, not yet. He taunted her, taking his finger from her clitoris to her dimple and back again, up and down, up and down until she snatched at his hand with hers, holding it between her legs where she wanted it.

  Wet. She was soaking wet, flooding. So it wouldn’t hurt. Couldn’t hurt. She wished he’d hurry. Should she hold him? Did he want her to do that? Expect it? She had her hand on his, still holding him between her legs: he could show her whatever he wanted. Do nothing: let him guide, in everything. That’s what she wanted, him always to guide her: tell her what to do. Elke heard herself moan, a low, near-animal sound, and didn’t care, all control practically gone.

  When he mounted her it was almost too late. They slid together beautifully, no pain, no hurt. She knew every moment of every thrust, erupting up to meet him, never wanting the sensation to end, never wanting him to pull away, trying to contract herself to hold him in, trapped forever. Marvellous – incredibly – he didn’t attempt to withdraw but kept moving, not letting her fade. She came again, lifted beyond herself: beyond her body and the bedroom and where she was. Beyond everything.

  Much later, after Reimann had caressed her and played with her and finally coaxed her down, exhausted, Elke said: ‘I have never been so happy: so complete and so happy, never in my entire life!’

  She hadn’t been a bad fuck at all, judged Reimann: with training she could become reasonably good.

  Jutta, who knew about the meeting, drove several times past the Rochusplatz apartment: once, in between, she actually stopped to eat by herself in a cafe she chose for no other reason than that it was brightly lighted and stood on the road along which she was so continuously driving and from the cars parked outside appeared popular. The veal tasted like cardboard.

  She made her last check on Reimann’s apartment at midnight. To get home she went intentionally along the Kaufmannstrasse, picking out the Mercedes long before she reached the parking bay.

  So it had happened: was probably happening, right now. A job, she told herself. Otto was doing a job. It meant nothing. So why was she doing this, ignoring every instruction she’d received in Mos
cow?

  ‘It’s got to be a salary increase,’ Sorokin decided, looking down at the print-out the Soviet computer experts had extracted from Elke’s bank account.

  ‘There’s no doubt,’ Turev agreed. ‘The deposit is on the same day and the sorting code is identical, from the West German Treasury’.’

  ‘Four hundred and fifty Deutschmarks is a substantial increase,’ said Sorokin, reflectively.

  ‘For what?’ Turev asked. ‘Why has Elke Meyer been given such a salary increase?’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Reimann had woken during the night and considered waking Elke, too – (women like being awakened after the first time and taken again quickly: makes it seem less of a one-night stand. The lecturer had been a woman) – but hadn’t because there were so many other ways to convince Elke this wasn’t going to be a passing affair. He came to the second time initially without any indication of having done so, eyes closed, still breathing deeply, listening and sensing, sure even before he opened his eyes that it was morning. He guessed it was still early from the paleness of the light filtering through the curtains. Elke had moved, while they slept: she lay on her stomach, one leg sprawled across his, so that his thigh was tight into her crotch. It was wet. Her hair was tangled and there were several tiny globules of mascara on her eyelashes: her skin was slightly translucent, so that he could see the faint blueness of a vein near her forehead. Now that it was morning it was important he did nothing to disturb her. She had to wake up herself, momentarily unsuspecting, to find him in her bed: then remember, at once, holding his hand between her legs and crying out and pulling him into her. And know she had to face him in the coldness of day.

  Reimann looked away, around the bedroom, curious what personal secrets he’d find when he looked. Evidence of the child? It was interesting there was nothing immediately obvious. Perhaps something connected with the father? He doubted that, in the circumstances of her being abandoned. Too much – far too much – to hope there’d be anything remotely official from the Chancellery, but there might be something – photographs of a government social occasion, for instance, which could include Günther Werle or a minister – that could have its use. He’d have soon to manipulate an opportunity to be here by himself. But other, more pressing things first. He was confident by now that he was actually correct in anticipating how she’d react, but today he couldn’t guess, not at all. It was going to be a revealing test.