Little Grey Mice

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Writers aren’t tidy,’ said Kissel.

  ‘I know,’ said Reimann, colleague-to-colleague. Fuck me! he thought.

  And thought it again, constantly, when he began to read the sheets Kissel handed him. Everything Reimann purported to write was virtually already created for him, so he did not consider himself to be a writer in any respect, but what Kissel had created was appalling, a collection of clichés strung together without direction or point around parody characters.

  ‘This really is good,’ congratulated Reimann. ‘I agree it needs work. But basically it’s very good indeed.’

  Kissel smiled uncertainly. ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Most definitely,’ Reimann insisted, handing the pages back. ‘Have you ever written any short stories? My magazine publishes fiction, around five thousand words a time. They pay, of course. You’d have to accept whatever you wrote being edited: altered for style and to fit the space available, of course.’

  ‘I understand the mechanics,’ assured Kissel, eagerly. ‘Maybe I’ll try something: I could do with a break from the novel. Recharge the batteries, so to speak.’

  Reimann gave the other man his card and said: ‘Let me know when you’ve got something ready: either direct or through Elke.’

  The two women were in the garden, coffee and cups between them on the grass. With typical over-statement Kissel announced proudly: ‘Otto says his magazine would publish any short story I might write.’

  Ida began pouring the coffee, unimpressed. ‘Everyone’s getting new opportunities,’ she said. ‘Elke with her top-secret job, Horst with his short stories. I feel quite left out.’

  Elke frowned towards her sister, but Ida was bent over the coffee and didn’t see the expression. The remark did not appear to have registered with either of the two men. She made a mental note to complain to Ida when they were alone. Maybe she should not have told her in the first place.

  The afternoon passed as perfectly as the lunch for Elke. The men talked with increasing friendliness and after an hour Georg appeared with a ball and makeshift bat and asked Reimann to teach him the baseball he must have learned during an upbringing in America. Reimann escaped easily by saying the garden was not big enough to create a proper baseball diamond but positioned Georg sideways on, as he recollected from television, and pitched towards the boy. After a while he insisted upon Doris being included as well. Kissel fielded clumsily but fortunately intervened and told Georg to stop asking too many questions when Reimann pleaded he couldn’t bring to mind all the rules after so long away from the United States.

  Watching the haphazard game but out of earshot, Ida said: ‘OK, I’ll admit it! He’s fabulous. Better than I ever guessed, from anything you told me. And he is just like Dietlef.’

  ‘He’s not like Dietlef,’ Elke corrected at once. ‘Otto’s a good man.’ She decided it was not the moment to rebuke her sister for the remark about new jobs and secrets. ‘I’m glad you like him.’

  ‘Like him! I want him!’ Abruptly, despising herself for even allowing the reflection, Ida wondered what a genuinely fascinating man like Otto Reimann appeared to find in Elke, who’d always had so much difficulty with personal relationships. Ida hurriedly dismissed the doubt. All that mattered was that he did seem attracted to her.

  ‘Forbidden fruit! I told you before I’m not sharing him with anyone. And nobody’s taking him away from me.’ They were playing, joking in their special way, Elke told herself. But she hadn’t been joking then. Short though the relationship had been – inconclusive though it still was – his not being with her now was inconceivable. She was going to keep him: risk losing him to no one.

  They left Bad Godesberg later than Elke normally did by herself, just as they’d been late leaving Marienfels. From what was now her accustomed sideways position in the car, so she could look at him, Elke said: ‘You made quite a hit. Do you think Horst is publishable?’

  He had to be careful, knowing how much she read. ‘Some of it is pretty raw: it needs a good editor.’

  ‘It would be marvellous if it did happen. I think they could use the money.’

  Reimann was sure he was right about the thirty thousand Deutschmarks. ‘Surely his job is well enough paid?’

  ‘Horst isn’t a very good manager: postures quite a bit about wine, that sort of thing. That burgundy you bought today was superb, incidentally.’

  ‘It wasn’t burgundy: it was claret. It would have been better left to stand and breathe.’

  Elke reached across, squeezing his hand lightly. ‘You didn’t correct him, when he called it burgundy,’ she said, admiringly.

  ‘What would have been the purpose of showing up his ignorance?’

  ‘You’re concerned at everyone’s feelings, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yours most of all,’ said Reimann, enjoying the irony of the truth. The building housing the East German mission came up on their right: Reimann didn’t even look in its direction. He said: ‘What’s your secret job?’ and was aware of the almost imperceptible intake of breath.

  ‘Nothing, really.’ Damn Ida! Damn, damn, damn her!

  Reimann gripped the wheel tighter, in his frustration. ‘Ida seems impressed. Please tell me. I’m interested in everything you do, you know that.’

  Elke shifted uncomfortably, turning away from him to stare directly ahead. ‘A committee,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m the official recorder. Nothing, really.’

  ‘A Cabinet committee?’

  ‘I honestly can’t talk about it,’ pleaded Elke, miserably. ‘There’s a security classification.’

  ‘I’m not asking any secrets, am I?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘Of course I trust you!’

  ‘I’d never let you down, you know. Take advantage of your position: do or say anything to compromise you.’

  ‘I know you wouldn’t, darling. You don’t have to tell me that.’

  ‘A Cabinet committee?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s certainly been kept secret, hasn’t it? I don’t recall anything being published about it?’

  ‘There hasn’t been.’

  Change approach, Reimann told himself. In an I-know-you-don’t-have-to-tell-me voice, he said: ‘It’s logical, of course. There’d have to be a special committee to consider all that’s happening: it’s far too much to be handled at Cabinet level in the first place.’

  Elke didn’t answer.

  ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’ Come on, you bitch!

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I understand now.’

  She came back towards him, across the car. ‘Understand what?’

  ‘Why it’s been difficult for you some evenings recently: the extra workload. I really thought a couple of times that you might have another friend … another man … you know…?’

  Elke snatched out for his hand, harder this time, so that the car swerved slightly. ‘Oh no, darling! Honestly no! There isn’t anyone else: believe me! That’s all it’s been. Work. I’m sorry: really sorry.’

  ‘It just seemed every week. But then I guess there’s a meeting every week?’

  ‘That’s all it is,’ Elke insisted. ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘I know you wouldn’t lie! Why should you?’

  Elke decided she didn’t have anything for which to rebuke Ida. If Ida hadn’t blurted out what she had, he’d have gone on misunderstanding, and that might have threatened everything. ‘I’m glad we’ve sorted it out,’ Elke said.

  ‘Tell me, so I’ll know in future,’ urged Reimann. ‘So that I won’t make plans that conflict. What days are the meetings?’

  Elke hesitated. ‘Wednesdays, usually. A couple have been convened on a Tuesday, if there’s been something particularly important to discuss.’

  There was an atmosphere growing up in the car that had to be broken. Cheerfully Reimann said: ‘Understood! No plans for Wednesdays in the future.’ At last! About fucking time!

  T
hat Sunday they discussed the idea of Ursula coming out for the day with Dr Schiller, who agreed although with some hesitation. They spent the rest of the day, after Marienfels, talking about and planning the party, going as far as to make lists of food and treats. And that night, after she had fallen into wetly satisfied sleep beside him, Reimann decided to kill the dog.

  It wasn’t difficult. He didn’t hurry to get up when Elke did the following morning, saying there was no reason for him to get to the press building before ten or eleven and suggesting that he stay, spare her the trouble of taking Poppi for his morning walk, and let himself out of the flat later. Elke agreed at once. He stood at the window, watching her get into the Volkswagen and set off for the Kaufmannstrasse junction. He didn’t hurry into the kitchen. Instead he went through her diary again, picking up from the date of his last examination, smiling at the I am in love entry, finding nothing else of interest. The gas canister was in the glove pocket of the Mercedes. Reimann left the front door of the apartment on the latch while he collected it. The dog bustled towards him, its rear moving in excited greeting, as Reimann entered the kitchen. He encouraged it back closer to its basket, leaned down and squirted the nozzle directly into the animal’s face. It whimpered, backing away, at once staggering. It slumped, shuddering, going quickly limp. There was a small bowel collapse.

  Knowing to the moment Elke’s arrival time at Kaufmannstrasse in the evening, Reimann was waiting next to the telephone in his Rochusplatz flat when her hysterical call came. He embraced her in the hallway when he arrived and soothed her and said he’d handle it all: she was to stay in the lounge, away from it. The shit had begun to smell. He lifted the dog into its basket, distastefully clearing the mess, and disinfecting his hands afterwards. There was some major building reconstruction taking place at Nassestrase, the road narrowed by the rubbish-clearing skips along one side. Reimann took the basket and the carcase from the boot of his car and tossed them both into the one which had the greater capacity. He took his time returning to Kaufmannstrasse.

  Elke was sitting in the main room. Her eyes were wet, although she wasn’t crying any longer.

  ‘Where?’ she said.

  ‘In the Rheinaupark,’ lied Reimann. i marked the flower-bed in my mind, if you’d like to see sometime.’

  ‘I know it’s silly, to get attached to an animal. But he was … I bought him for Ursula, you see. And when she went he became special … the person … no, not the person, the thing I suppose, who was always here when I came home … like a friend … I’m being maudlin.’

  Reimann knelt before her, so he could hold her, and said: ‘You’ve got another friend now. Don’t ever forget that, will you?’

  ‘Oh God, I love you so much!’ said Elke. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you!’

  ‘You’re never going to have to find out,’ said Reimann, satisfied.

  The room was heavy with the smell of stale cigarette smoke, so Reimann knew the Russian had again been waiting for some time. As he entered Turev was lighting another cigarette from the stub of the last.

  ‘I didn’t expect this contact, so quickly after our other meeting,’ said Turev.

  ‘I didn’t expect the list of demands that Jutta presented me with!’ said Reimann. ‘It was totally unnecessary. And stupidly dangerous!’

  ‘We’ve taken note of your protests, through Jutta,’ said Turev, irritated by the lack of respect.

  ‘I would not like it to happen again,’ said Reimann.

  ‘You wouldn’t like it!’

  ‘I wouldn’t like it,’ Reimann agreed. ‘I’m the one who is exposed: no one else. Everything – anything – on those lists could have been discussed and understood between us, at one of these meetings.’ Would these encounters be recorded? Certainly the facilities would exist in a building like this. And it was the sort of precaution they would take, from what he knew – guessed – they had done so far.

  The arrogant bastard had to be deflated. Turev said: ‘Is this the only purpose of this meeting, to whine? I had hoped for something more worthwhile.’

  Reimann was anxious at last to show positive results. ‘There has been a special committee of the Bonn Cabinet set up to debate every development in East Germany. It considers – which logically entails sub-committees – and debates those developments before making recommendations to the full Cabinet, for decision. There are meetings every Wednesday: just occasionally, if it is decided to be particularly important, on Tuesdays. There have been two Tuesday meetings. It would not be something I could undertake myself, but I suggest every member of the Cabinet is put under tight surveillance: those whose movements can be accounted for on Wednesdays can be eliminated. That way we can establish the composition and named membership of the committee. Elke Meyer has started to crack: she’ll crack further, quite quickly now.’

  It looked as if Reimann had every reason for the arrogance he had earlier shown, Turev conceded. Subduing his anger, with some difficulty, the Russian said: ‘That’s good: that’s very good!’

  ‘There’s more,’ said Reimann, impatiently. ‘I am certain the thirty thousand Deutschmarks was a loan, from Elke Meyer to her sister’s family. They’re short of money. The man, as we know, is connected with the Post Office. He’s an imbecile: imagines he can write fiction. I have told him Australian magazines will publish his short stories. They’ll be rubbish: need completely rewriting. That’s not important. I’ve promised he’ll be paid. If he becomes dependent on the money he becomes capable of manipulation: we can gain access to West German communications. Whatever unlisted telephone numbers or addresses we want. NATO emergency codes. Any and all West German government numbers. And all to be tapped and monitored.’

  Too conceited! thought Turev, triumphantly: it was going to be good to puncture this man’s pretentiousness. ‘That won’t work, will it? As the introduction is through you, you’ll be identified for what you are, once the pressure starts!’

  Reimann sighed loudly, hoping there were microphones. He said: ‘My introduction is to the money available from writing. After he’s become used to it, why can’t he be approached by a magazine or an organization quite independent of me? It admires his work, it wants to poach him for even larger sums of money. He’s greedy and he’s a fool. He’ll go for it, particularly if we synchronize the approach with a rejection of something he writes for Australia. When the pressure comes it won’t be through anything remotely connected with me. I’ll actually be the person he’s let down, going to a higher bidder.’

  ‘You’ve thought everything out very carefully, haven’t you?’ said Turev, defeated.

  ‘Far too carefully possibly to fail,’ Reimann replied.

  Using their special dialling code to identify herself, Jutta tried unsuccessfully three times during the evening – the last attempt close to midnight – to contact Otto.

  He had to be with her. The job, she repeated to herself like a litany: he was doing the job. So why did she feel…? Feel what? It wasn’t jealousy. It was inconceivable for her to be jealous. She was far too professional – knew Otto far too well – for that ever to arise. What then? She was lonely, Jutta decided. Miserable and lonely. But definitely not jealous. There was nothing to be jealous about. A job: Otto was just doing a job.

  Chapter Thirty

  Elke hunted for the words to express her feelings but couldn’t find them. No superlative, no hyperbole, came remotely close: she was inflated, blown up, with an incredible happiness. But happiness didn’t fit, not properly: it was insufficient for the morning-till-night sensation that was permanently with her. It left out contentment, for instance, and she was absolutely content. Pride, too, because she was fiercely proud of him, and there was a division here: fiercely proud of everything about him but proud also of herself for being with him, a reflected gratification. Hope entered into it: hope that as well as everything was going her relationship with Otto would progress to the ultimate, although she didn’t like thinking that far ahead. She still did, of cours
e. Which created another impression, perhaps more important than any of the others. That of security. She vaguely remembered it being an early half-thought, one of no longer being alone: maybe not even that positive, not in the early days. But certainly now.

  Loneliness had always been with her, a wearing-down affliction for which there had seemed no remedy, no cure: and like someone with an incurable affliction she had become reluctantly reconciled to suffering from it, always to living alone, always to being alone, to growing old alone and inevitably to dying alone. But not now. Although they’d never talked of the ultimate, of marriage, Elke didn’t believe she would ever again be by herself. He would always be with her. Protecting her. Looking after her. Thinking for her. Guarding her. She was safe: secure and safe, cocooned against any hurt or harm. Which encouraged another word. Luck. How unbelievably, amazingly lucky she was that it had happened to her: that he had happened to her! Elke considered herself the luckiest woman in this or any other world: euphoric though she was she came near to feeling guilty, at the same time, because no one deserved the luck she’d had.

  There was nothing – very little, anyway – to mar it. And there had been so many changes it was difficult to realize it had all occurred in such a comparatively short period of time.

  She’d never expected, for example, that Kissel’s short story would be good enough to be published: never truly expected the man would get around to writing it at all. But he had and it had appeared in the Australian magazine which Reimann had produced, with champagne and congratulations, at a Saturday lunch. Kissel had complained of bad translation, which Elke inferred to mean heavy editing, but the five thousand Deutschmark cheque had arrived within a week, and Ida had offered the same sum as the first repayment of the loan at a regular weekly lunch. And now Kissel was writing more, the novel abandoned.

  Unquestionably the highlight of the most recent weeks had been Ursula’s visit from Marienfels for her birthday. Elke had become desperately worried about it as the anniversary approached, checking with Dr Schiller to guarantee that the doctor genuinely considered it was a practicable idea and putting to Reimann the suggestion, which he ignored, during the run-up that it might be advisable to cancel the outing after all. How glad she was that he had ignored it.