‘Why should she do that?’ said Turev, reflectively.
‘There could be a possible advantage.’ Reimann was anxious to restore as much as possible any lost respect. ‘The woman’s husband is an executive with West German telecommunications.’
Turev nodded. ‘Leave it with us: I don’t want to risk you becoming involved in any way. And well done again, incidentally, about the Transport Minister. The resignation was disruptive.’
Reimann was still annoyed at himself, and the congratulations did nothing to ease it. He said: ‘I’m going to try to pressure the woman in a particular way. I don’t believe for a moment that she initiated the security check, but just in case I want a communication sent to me from Australia through the Press Centre. It’s to be very critical of my last article. Get a phrase inserted about being deeply disappointed.’
‘Anything on the documents coming through Vienna?’
‘Nothing,’ said Reimann, another admission of failure.
Turev stretched to a drawer on the left of the desk and produced a box. Inside was what looked like the type of pump-operated inhaler asthmatics use to relieve breathing difficulties. ‘The poison you wanted. It’s a gas that causes cardiac constriction. It dissipates within minutes of death. Is it an unpleasant dog?’
‘Appalling,’ said Reimann. ‘And it smells.’ He wasn’t at all satisfied with how the meeting had gone.
It had been the sub-committee considering the financial implications of the East German exodus, and the report and listed recommendations had not taken Elke as long to prepare as the account of the full Cabinet committee. She still cancelled the usual midweek lunch with Ida to compile it, so it was not until the Saturday that they talked, and even then not until the afternoon, when they were alone in the garden.
‘For someone with a lover as good as you say he is you certainly don’t seem very happy!’ Ida accused, although lightly. She’d listened without interruption to everything Elke had told her. Seizing the rare opportunity, Elke had gone into considerable detail.
‘I’m going to have to tell him about Ursula, aren’t I?’
‘Don’t’, if you’re so frightened!’
‘It would be worse, when he eventually found out. Why shouldn’t I, anyway? I’m not ashamed!’
‘That’s what I’m saying, for Christ’s sake!’
‘This week,’ declared Elke. ‘I’ll tell him this week.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Elke poured herself some wine before his arrival, and was lifting it to drink before she realized what she was doing, behaving like one of the ludicrous characters in those American TV soap serials she’d always disdained. She put the glass down too firmly on the kitchen ledge, spilling some. She was very frightened: empty-stomached, weak-kneed, numb-faced frightened. She’d gone through all the reassurances – too considerate, too wonderful, too long ago, wouldn’t mean anything, he’d accept it because he was so understanding – but nothing had helped. Ida had been marvellous, telephoning as she had, knowing he was coming. You’re making a drama where one doesn’t exist… it can’t matter, if he’s as good as you say … bring him to lunch next weekend… if he dumps you, I’ll have him … you can have Kurt … Kurt and Horst, with my blessing. Trying to make her laugh: unbend. Dear Ida. That hadn’t helped, either. She sipped some wine. It tasted sour, although she’d bought the bottle – six bottles, in fact – on her way home from the Chancellery that night. The spilled wine made her fingers wet. She dried her hands on a paper towel, using it to mop up the wet ring.
I want to talk. Too abrupt: too peremptory. I have a secret. Ludicrous, like a soap opera again. There’s something I want you to know. Soap opera once more. There’s something I haven’t told you. Why did everything sound so facile, so artificial? Ida was right. It wasn’t the drama she was making it out to be. Something that had happened long ago. Nothing to affect him. Nothing to affect them. She’d had a baby. So what! His choice. He could either accept it – accept Ursula – or he couldn’t. If he couldn’t then it would be over. Dear God, no! Don’t let it be over. Don’t let me be wrong, believing him to be so kind and gentle, so considerate, so wonderful! Don’t let him be offended or hurt or digusted! She loved him too much: wanted him too much. Maybe that was the way. I can say it now: want to say it now. I love you. And because I love you I want to be honest … Not quite right, but better. Definitely say she loved him. Because she did. But wasn’t that trying to trap him, imposing a burden on him, before saying what she had to say? A possible interpretation. Whatever she said, however she said it, would have more than one interpretation. Not really. Just one interpretation. I had another man’s child. I’m soiled goods. Soiled goods! They didn’t even speak like that in soap operas. She sipped more wine. How then? She didn’t know.
She’d thought she knew, when he’d called. Let’s not talk about where we’re going, what we’re going to do, until you’ve been here first. Very strong, very positive. What’s wrong? he’d said, the concern obvious. When you get here, she’d avoided. So he already knew there was something: was warned. I didn’t mean to sound dramatic. It’s just that … No! Ursula wasn’t ‘just that’ anything. Ursula was her daughter: her darling, sweet, lovely, sadly crippled daughter. Not ‘just that’. Never. If it came to a choice … Elke stopped the thought, shocked by it. There wasn’t a choice. Never had been, never would be. She would always be with Ursula, close to her, always a mother, as best she could. His choice, then. Hadn’t she concluded that already? She thought she had. It didn’t matter. Only Ursula mattered. If he couldn’t accept Ursula, acknowledge Ursula, there was no future for them. Nothing for them. She’d have to tell him that, make him understand. No! she told herself at once. That was a demand, an ultimatum. She didn’t want to present him with ultimatums: wasn’t in a position to do so. It had to remain unsaid: unsaid but inferred. I’m sorry, but if you can’t … How did she know – how could she guess – what he could or could not accept?
When she lifted her glass she discovered it was empty, so she filled it again. Poppi fussed around her ankles, but Elke ignored the dog. He had to have had other lovers, from the way he’d made love to her. Maybe he had a child, somewhere. Not a factor. Not possible, either, she decided firmly. If he had fathered a child it would be here with him in Bonn, being cared for as she knew he would care for it, doting on it, protecting it. Definitely not! Otto might have had lovers, a lot of them, but he hadn’t had children. Darling. I don’t want there to be any secrets, so you should know …
The bell sounded.
Elke jumped so profoundly that her wineglass spilled again, and for a moment she stood unmoving, staring down at the new ring of wetness, her mind blank of any thought, her body urged by no movement. The bell sounded once more, longer this time, and the dog skittered around, barking. Elke moved at last.
Reimann closed the door behind himself, after she admitted him, but remained in the hallway, solemn-faced. ‘No kiss?’ Confession time? It could be something else, but he guessed at unburdening herself being the most obvious. Good, he thought: hurry up, for God’s sake!
Elke came forward quickly, offering herself, but staying stiff, and knew he would notice. She stepped back, separating them, when he released her.
‘It seems serious?’ he said, lightly mocking. He’d hear her out, let her flagellate herself, before doing anything to assist.
‘Come in,’ said Elke, leading the way into the main room. ‘You want a drink?’
‘Not particularly.’ He presented her with the chocolates.
‘I do.’ She accepted the offering, forgetting to thank him.
‘Then I’ll join you.’
She didn’t worry about the dog, which scuttled in from the kitchen after her when she returned with the glasses. Reimann scooped the animal up, settling it on his lap. He had considered bringing the gas dispenser with him, in the event of an opportunity arising that night, but had decided against it. It had to be done to achieve the maximum possible advantage.
But soon. The dog disgusted him. Let the comedy begin, he thought. ‘Whatever it was I did, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not you! Nothing you’ve done!’
‘Why the gloom and doom?’
‘I want to talk.’ Her glass was already half empty: maybe she hadn’t filled it properly.
He’d been right, Reimann decided, confidently: as he invariably was. He sipped his whisky. The dog did smell. He said: ‘Definitely serious?’
‘Yes … no … I mean it’s important. Important for you to know, now, before …’
‘… before what?’
‘We go any further.’
‘Do you want us to go further?’ Always, in every circumstance and at every chance, she had to imagine they had a future together.
‘You know I do!’ said Elke, almost irritably. ‘You know I love you!’
‘I didn’t, not until now,’ said Reimann. ‘It’s something I have been wanting to hear.’ He wouldn’t say it back, not yet. She had to remain unsure for a little longer. Reimann waited, patiently, watching her fidget and fuss in the facing chair. ‘Well?’ he encouraged, kindly.
She was going to make a mess of it: Elke knew she was. It was all going to come out jumbled and nothing was going to sound right and she was going to drive him away and it would be her fault. ‘I have a baby …’ she blurted. ‘No … a daughter … grown up. No, not grown up … fifteen almost … wasn’t married … it was an accident. Well, no … becoming pregnant was an accident. Her being born wasn’t. I love her …’ Elke couldn’t think of how to go on: of what she’d said, immediately before. ‘I wanted you to know … now you do.’
‘I see,’ said Reimann, soberly. He had to treat it seriously, because that’s how she regarded it. But not for long. She had to be lifted up, reassured, quite quickly. She’d talked with her face turned away and still wasn’t looking at him.
‘Her name is Ursula,’ added Elke, lamely.
Reimann decided to urge her to talk, to purge herself further: the more she told him the closer she would consider herself bound to him. ‘Where is Ursula now? With her father?’
Still clumsily, but with improving coherence, Elke talked about the child’s autism and of the Marienfels home and twice, unaware of doing so, referred to the man who had abandoned her as Dietlef, confirming the Russian guess at that long-ago briefing session.
So maybe the physical similarities had helped, mused Reimann.
‘That was another lie,’ Elke admitted. ‘The Sunday we went to Cologne. That’s where I was going that day: I go every Sunday to see her.’ She looked at him at last, trying to gauge his feelings. He was quite impassive, showing no reaction. She wished his face would indicate something: she didn’t like it when he was so completely emotionless. It made him seen coldly distant. But then perhaps that was how he did feel about her, now.
What would she want, most of all? His forgiveness, he determined: forgiveness and understanding and to be told it didn’t affect or alter anything between them. It didn’t really matter in what order it all came: better, even, if it seemed ill-considered, without any order. He waited until she looked anxiously at him again and held her eyes when she did, smiling at her. ‘Is that it? The big, terrible secret?’
Elke nodded, tight-lipped, her head jerking rapidly up and down.
Reimann moved very fluidly, gratefully dislodging the dog on to the floor and putting his glass on the side-table as he came out of his chair towards her, but never fully standing, so that he arrived on his knees, looking up at her. He put her now empty glass aside with the same smoothness and took both her hands in his and said: ‘Oh, my darling! My poor, frightened, innocent darling! Did you really think it would mean something? Upset me or …’ Reimann allowed the pause of feigned difficulty, ‘… offend me even…?’
‘I thought it would … could …’ admitted Elke. He wasn’t shocked, closed off against her! He was kneeling at her feet, holding her hands, and being sympathetic, as if he understood!
Reimann came even closer, so that he could kiss her, a light, comforting kiss. ‘You want to know how I feel? I feel angry, that a man could have treated you like that. And sad, because Ursula is as ill as she is. But happy: selfishly happy, because if you’d got married then we probably wouldn’t have met. And I think meeting you is one of the most important things that’s ever happened for me …’ Another pause. There should be violin music, he thought: or a crescendo of drums, building up to a grand finale. He said: ‘I love you, Elke. I love you very much.’
Elke came forward against him, clinging to him, too overwhelmed to kiss or talk, just wanting to hold him. He’d said it! He’d said it and she knew he meant it! Someone loved her: a wonderful, perfect man loved her! No more loneliness! No more uncertainty, having to work out and solve her problems of everyday life! Someone to rely on! Someone who would help! She didn’t want to cry. Silly to cry. Wrong. She wasn’t sad. She was the happiest she’d ever been. How easy it was to feel like that, when she was with him!
Reimann felt her shaking, detected the wetness from her cheek to his and judged the encounter to have gone just as he’d wanted. It wasn’t the moment to spring his own little surprise. But certainly tonight: she had to know how tenuous everything was, how quickly it could all come crashing down. He had to get this tender scene over as quickly as possible; his knees were beginning to hurt, knelt as he was. And the bloody dog was sniffing around his legs and his crotch, demanding to become part of whatever was going on. Perhaps, for once, it would have a use. Reimann eased Elke away, going back on his haunches, and said: ‘Poppi’s getting jealous: I guess he’s going to have to get used to me.’
Elke’s nose was red and shiny, where she had been crying, and her eyes were red, too. ‘I need to go and …’ she said, leaving the sentence unfinished.
‘Why don’t you, while I get more drinks?’ Going to the kitchen gave him an excuse to get rid of the dog. By the time she came from the bathroom, her face washed, her nose without its shine, Reimann was ready. He asked to see photographs of Ursula, sending Elke into the bedroom to fetch the pictures he had already studied, and remarking how pretty she was, and asked, as if he didn’t know, how far Marienfels was from Bonn.
‘Could I come to visit?’ he inquired, suddenly.
‘You … but…?’ questioned Elke, first surprised, then pleased.
‘Don’t you want me to?’
‘Of course! It’s just … I hadn’t thought about it. Imagined you would like to.’
‘I would.’
‘Then I want very much for you to come.’ She hoped Ursula would not be in one of her difficult moods. Elke wanted him to get the best possible impression: to love Ursula, even, if he could. Maybe that was too much to hope: like her, then.
‘What about next Sunday?’ Moscow’s insistence was on speed, so the quicker he ingratiated himself in everything the better. He was already calculating how to manipulate the situation into superb advantage.
‘Next Sunday will be fine.’ She knew Ida had meant the luncheon invitation too. But not yet. She didn’t want to crowd him with her family. Soon. But not quite so quickly. Elke was very proud, anxious to show him off, to boast at last. Look! Mine! Isn’t he fantastic! She knew Horst and Ida would love him: admire him. Right that they should. She hoped Horst wouldn’t try to inflate his own importance, as he normally did.
Why hadn’t she found a man? Reimann wondered, curious at the intrusive thought. She was attractive. Dressed well. Inexperienced in bed, maybe, but that could be corrected. Lacked confidence, perhaps, but so did millions of women, all of whom were married at least, if not blissfully happy. Who was blissfully happy? No one: not truly, not deep-down. So what was the answer to Elke? One that slipped through the net, he concluded: someone always in the wrong place at the wrong time. One of the instructors – an American defector – had actually used an American cliché to describe someone like Elke Meyer. One of life’s losers. Can’t help it. Whatever happens, they fall back into the shit. Poo
r Elke: poor permanent loser. He said: ‘We could go out, if you’d like.’
‘I don’t think so.’
Bring her down: degrade her, he remembered. He said: ‘So you want to fuck?’
She coloured, brightly, but she didn’t try to look away. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I want to fuck.’
Reimann reasoned that Elke had moved the guidelines further, made a declaration, and he was more adventurous, using his mouth much more – bringing her off the first time without entering her – but careful against urging her to match him, not the first time. Later, from the way she convulsed, he was sure from the clinical training and films that she had achieved a multiple orgasm. It was working out to be an extremely successful evening, at every level. It certainly took her a long time to calm. Reimann was patient, unhurried.
She was actually breathing deeply, near sleep, when he said: ‘It hasn’t been a good few days.’
‘What?’ Her voice was heavy, weighted with drowsiness.
‘It seems the magazines aren’t pleased.’
‘What?’ she said again, but differently this time, concentrating through the fog.
‘You remember the piece I talked to you about? The interpretation?’
‘Yes?’ Elke was quite awake now, listening intently.
‘They didn’t believe it: thought the political reasoning wasn’t sound.’
‘So what’s happened?’
‘They’re not using it,’ said Reimann, simply. ‘The most important, ongoing political story in Europe for the past forty-five years, I’m supposed to be their leading commentator, and they’re not trusting my judgement!’
‘Is that serious?’
You’d better believe so, thought Reimann: you’d better believe you have to save us both. He said: ‘Professionally it’s a slap in the face. But it happens: that’s what the job is all about. But I can’t afford it to happen too often.’ According to the psychological teaching she now had to move slightly away from him in the bed, the better to concentrate.
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