Little Grey Mice

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Think about it,’ said Jutta. Instantly, hurried, she said: ‘I didn’t mean it like that! I meant please!’

  Pressured and on demand, thought Reimann. ‘We’ll have all day together tomorrow,’ he surrendered, knowing he had to. He’d have to call Elke: they’d made no positive arrangements but he imagined she’d expected him back. The excuse of being delayed by the assignment would be acceptable enough.

  Jutta was smiling over the table to him. She looked around, needlessly, and said: ‘Is there anything to tell me today that I should pass on?’

  Elke had seemed more forthcoming during the previous week, but it was an impression without any supportive facts. Why should he try to impress the bastards after the way they’d demeaned him at the last meeting? He said: ‘Not yet. We’ll talk again before you go.’

  ‘Something special!’ announced Jutta, momentarily obtuse, reaching across the table for him. ‘That’s what I want as a present. Something special. Like a ring or a brooch or a bracelet!’

  Not a ring, Reimann decided at once. He took her hand familiarly between both of his and, despising himself for the theatricality of the gesture, pressed it against his face to kiss it.

  Which was how Elke saw them.

  With her habitual precision, Elke had arrived at the ferry terminal by the Kennedy Bridge well ahead of time, the Volkswagen safe in a protective car-park, and had been one of the first to board. Knowing from the earlier trips with Reimann how to judge the sun, she got a seat on the port side, out of its direct glare, and for the first part of the journey sat looking out at the now well-known landmarks, smiling contentedly to herself as she let Reimann’s voice echo in her head with his mocking commentary. And she’d decided, too, that it would be better to get into the restaurant ahead of the main throng. Which was why she’d turned, to see how full it already was.

  She’d known she was mistaken at first. What else could she be but mistaken? There was the slightly distorted reflection from the window glass to be allowed for. And Otto was away from Bonn, working. So it had to be someone very like him; a look-alike, just as he was similar to someone else she’d known before. Except that it wasn’t. It was Otto – her Otto – and he was sitting intimately holding between both of his the hand of a beautiful, immaculately groomed woman, gazing at her across a table with sparkling wine already opened, oblivious to anyone else.

  There was an announcement of a stopping point, although Elke did not hear the name. She was not even, at first, aware of moving. She stumbled up, blindly, pushing frantically against the block of people which at first wouldn’t part to let her through, her mind gouged of thought or reason or understanding, wanting only to get away; to get through these people and away from the horror of what she’d seen. She couldn’t run, although she wanted to, along the narrow gangway: when she reached the jetty she continued on, not looking back, shuddering against what she was leaving behind.

  She was well into the arrival area before she focused on the destination board.

  She was at Andernach: their Andernach.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Long afterwards, when she tried to recall it, Elke found there were long periods of that stumbled arrival at Andernach that she could never bring to mind, no matter how hard she tried. It was as if she had lapsed in and out of consciousness – which she decided to be the most accurate description – sometimes with half awareness, other times totally blank. She could remember the signpost and her thought of what the town and its hidden valley had meant to her. People. Too many people, as there’d been too many people on the ferry, getting in her way when she didn’t want to be crowded by anyone: when all she wanted was to be away somewhere, in the open, with no one around her. A shout and maybe a car horn, she wasn’t sure, not where she’d carelessly crossed a road but where she’d stopped, suddenly unable to move, in the middle of a street. A hand on her shoulder there, words she couldn’t hear. Then she was at a café, at an outside table: a waitress, not polite like Clara, but impatiently demanding what she wanted when she didn’t know, couldn’t think. Walking, trying to get away again although she didn’t know where. Quiet at last. A near-empty street and a building she didn’t recognize at first, needing time to realize that it was a church. The memories became better, more coherent, now. There’d been the instinctive movement, to go in, just as quickly halted. The first positive thought. There’s nothing inside a church for me: no help. Never has been. Looking around, trying to find herself. She’d been climbing a hill, the tiny township displayed for approval below her, tied with the sparkling ribbon of the Rhine. Another positive, repeated thought. Their place: it had been their place. Not any more. What was theirs, any more?

  The second café was quite clear in her mind. Pink tablecloths and lights supposed to be candles which weren’t, and a strutting, look-at-me teenage waiter with a ring like a skull on one finger. She drank brandy, which she rarely did. Two. And thought.

  She felt empty, hollowed out. And remembered, immediately and bitterly, that she was anything but that. Which added to the hopeless despair. She didn’t think, at that time, she’d ever fully be able to comprehend the betrayal, the depth of deceit. Wasn’t truly able, much later, after so many other things had happened, some of which she was never to learn. Wouldn’t have wanted to learn. He hadn’t had to tell her he loved her: make her sincerely believe it. Make her love him, too, with all her heart and all her being. It was all she had ever wanted, ever dreamed of. Being loved. And loving back. Having someone, always. Being safe. Which she wasn’t, not any more. He’d cheated. Lied. Humiliated her. He hadn’t meant any of it – couldn’t have meant it – not the caresses or the tenderness or the kindness. Had he laughed at her, amusing himself, thinking how pitiful she was? Had he said the same, cheated the same, lied the same, with the other woman? Had he fucked (our word, darling: don’t be shy. Say it) her the same? Taught her all the tricks, all the excitements, made her want it every time and made her come every time? Made her pregnant?

  What was she going to do? She didn’t know, couldn’t think, not about that. She could look backwards, with all the recriminations, but not forward, not yet. Still too much to absorb, fully to understand. Why had he done it? How could he have done it? She hadn’t cheated or lied to him. Humiliated him. She would never have done anything to hurt him, to cause him pain. All she’d ever wanted to do was please him. And she was sure she had. She’d never argued to defeat him: just sometimes to express a contrary point of view, trying to help and guide so he wouldn’t get letters threatening him with dismissal. She’d always let him make the decisions, content to follow. Never objected to any innovation or experiment in bed, although at first she hadn’t liked or enjoyed some of them, not the way she did now. Had liked and enjoyed, she qualified. So why? There was nothing more she could have done, no way she knew that could have made him happier. Why?

  The strutting teenager approached inquiringly, looking at her empty glass, and Elke thought: he thinks I’m a lonely but hopeful woman, out for adventure. Lonely, certainly. Again. But not looking for adventure. Not hopeful, either. Not any longer. She shook her head against a third brandy (why had she ordered it at all: she didn’t even like brandy!), paid, and began descending the hill towards the town. To where? she asked herself. Not to any river craft. She didn’t know what they were doing or where they were going, but she couldn’t board any steamer or hydrofoil upon which they might be returning to Bonn, still hand-in-hand, eyes still held, love still obvious between them. So how was she going to get back herself? There was probably a train. Undoubtedly a train. But there were people on trains. Crowds. She didn’t want crowds. How far was Andernach, from Bonn? Elke didn’t know, only that it was obviously a long way. So a taxi would be expensive. But she’d be alone in a taxi, apart from the driver.

  The man queried the destination and said it would probably cost more than a hundred marks. Elke said she didn’t care. At the outset he tried to talk, offering professional companionship, but abandone
d the effort when she ignored the attempt, scarcely answering.

  Soon after they cleared the town Elke considered foreshortening the journey just slightly to stop at Bad Godesberg and throw herself upon Ida. That was the actual word that came into her head – throw – and it went towards her immediately changing her mind. She might need Ida’s help with the other thing – to locate a good and discreet clinic in Cologne – but that was all. She determined, with sudden, even surprising resolve, that she had finished throwing herself at anyone. For help. Or for anything else. Whatever she had to do – decided to do – it would be by herself. Just herself. Alone. As she’d always been. Where then? She’d simply asked to go to Bonn, without a specific address. The car-park where she’d left the Volkswagen, she supposed: the Volkswagen that had brought them together in the first place. Then back to Kaufmannstrasse. Where else? There was nowhere else. Poppi wouldn’t be there to greet her, not like he’d once been. No one. More alone than ever.

  The ornate and castellated Schloss Marienfels was easily visible from the river highway. Elke strained beyond, trying to see the home in which Ursula would be, protected and secure, but the tree line was thick. If she could see the river from the institution, why couldn’t she see the institution from the river? An inconsequential thought, she recognized: her brain was trying to ease the pain by intruding inconsequential thoughts. She didn’t want her pain eased. She wanted to confront it, feel it, dissect it, understand it: to answer the recurring question. Why?

  Not good enough, she told herself, attempting just such an answer. Although she’d thought she was doing everything right, everything he wanted her to do, the explanation had to be that she was not good enough: that she was inadequate. Hadn’t she always feared that – known that – in her personal life? She was inadequate and so he’d gone elsewhere, to get what he couldn’t find in her. But what? Why hadn’t he talked to her? She’d have done it, whatever it was. All he would have had to do was to tell her! That’s all.

  She wasn’t inadequate! How the hell could she be, elevated to the position she held, trusted and respected as she was? Known and acknowledged by the absolute leaders of her country when possibly her country was the most important – definitely a leader – in the world.

  How else could she attempt to rationalize it, to comprehend? By more self-critically examining their relationship, perhaps? She and Otto weren’t engaged: hadn’t discussed marriage, ever. So there was no commitment between them: no absolute loyalty he had to observe. He might have conveyed the impression that there was an understanding – misled her, which wasn’t as bad as outright lying – but he still hadn’t been bound to her, by a promise or a betrothal. Where was this avenue leading? To a choice? Elke’s examination deepened. If Otto was undecided – trying to choose – then surely she was the favourite! Didn’t he spend more time with her, during the week and at weekends, apart from the two most recent ones? Unquestionably. And some of his absences had to be genuine assignments. Lessening the other woman further. Elke didn’t like the idea of his choosing, of his making a constant comparison between herself and somebody else, but there was a surging reassurance in the speculation. It would mean, if it was correct, that she hadn’t lost him, not completely. Just that he wasn’t sure. That didn’t satisfy her completely, either, because he’d categorically said he loved her, but she could accept it. Learn to forgive him, if that was all it was – nothing more than a last-minute uncertainty.

  The counter-balance fell upon her, so heavily that it was like a weight she could feel, pressing down upon her. How could she? How could she think as she had been thinking, criticize as she had been criticizing, even come close to contemplating the change from love to hatred! What about her? What about her having an illegitimate child by a man who had abandoned her? What possible grounds did she have, to sit in judgement upon Otto? She had complete recall of that night, which had begun so dreadfully – so dreadfully in her frightened mind – and ended so wonderfully. I have a baby … no … a daughter … wasn’t married … Maybe she’d missed out some of the stumbling words. It wasn’t important. What was important was how he’d reacted. Elke had the greatest clarity of all about that. Oh, my darling. My poor frightened, innocent darling! Did you really think it would mean something? Upset me or offend me even … And more, so much, so beautifully more. 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 … I love you, Elke. I love you very much.

  How could she doubt – criticize or even imagine hating – a man who could say things like that, respond instantly like that? Elke hunched in the back of the speeding taxi, overwhelmed as quickly as most of her emotions had come that day by a feeling of shame. She had a right to be upset. To be hurt. But no cause – no justification yet – to be as devastated as she’d been, seeing them as they were. So he wasn’t sure. She could accept that: better he allay his uncertainty now than later. She was still the favourite: still the one he spent most time with. With a further mental contortion, a gymnastic backward somersault of a waverer seeking conviction, she assured herself she was positively glad at the discovery of another woman. Now she knew: she knew she had competition and that she had to fight it. And win. It was natural for any man to be unsure about marriage: one unsure man had even run out on her before. But she would win this time. She’d fight, do whatever she had to do, however she had to do it, to keep him. Wasn’t inadequate. Maybe she had been, once. Not any more. She’d grown to be in charge of herself. Confident. Sure of what she was doing, where she was going. Sure what she was going to do. I don’t intend letting anyone else have him. Sot ever. To whom had she made that insistence? Ida. And she’d meant it: meant it more deeply, more strongly, than she’d ever meant anything in her life before. She couldn’t lose: not again. She could be hard enough, when the situation demanded: very hard, quite relentless. There was a momentary dip, a flutter, in her conviction. She wished so fervently he hadn’t done it: that he hadn’t presented her, unknowingly, with something for which to forgive him. Before he had been perfect but now he wasn’t.

  The taxi began entering the familiarly small streets of the familiarly small capital, and Elke came forward in her seat, explaining at last that she had a car to collect and directing the driver to the park. The fare came to a hundred and sixty marks and Elke gave him a fifteen-mark tip, which only left her with twenty marks. She got into the Volkswagen but made no attempt to start it, held by a further consideration. In Andernach, badly shocked (and maybe affected by the brandy) the possibility of seeing them together again had been anathema, utterly impossible. But after the reflection and conclusions in the homecoming taxi her attitude switched completely. She wanted to see them again: to see them together, to try to gauge their feelings. Old romance, new romance? Close or distant? Loving or bored? And to see her, the woman. There had been a backwards reflection from the ferry window, distorting any detailed impression. Sophisticated: a grey or possibly green V-necked sweater. Long fingers – fingers that had been held between his. But that was all. So she needed to look again. She needed to be able to guess an age. And whether she was truly beautiful, big-busted, trim-figured or sagging. How she walked. How she held herself. And other things she couldn’t think of, not at that precise moment.

  Elke left the car where it was, walking once more to the KD German Rhine kiosk below the bridge to get a timetable of the cruiser and hydrofoil service, to plan her amateur observation, which appeared to her to be quite simple. There was a high and walled park area directly adjacent to the river edge. She climbed the steep steps and realized, as soon as she reached the top, that it gave her a vantage point she hadn’t at first imagined, a high elevation from which she could see far down the river, spotting the vessels long before they pulled alongside, giving her more than suffic
ient warning.

  It proved to be a long and frustrating wait. Elke checked four crowded, bustled arrivals, straining for just two people, and became worried when the light began to dull that it might become dark and make her identification difficult, if not impossible. It wasn’t. She picked out Otto Reimann, a figure she knew so well, long before the steamer even pulled against the jetty. Tightly alongside, clinging proprietorially to his arm, was the woman, uninterested in anything around her, gazing up at him with absolute concentration. As Elke watched the woman said something and laughed, her hand on a brooch at her left shoulder, and Reimann laughed back. The woman held up her face, so that her neck was stretched taut, and Reimann bent slightly to kiss her.

  Now that it had happened, now that she had seen them, Elke didn’t know what to do next. She remained staring down, experiencing a different sensation from that first sight on the ferry, but something very similar: the same tingling-skinned numbness and some clinging disbelief, but mostly hurt, terrible hurt, because there was the confirmation of everything displayed down there directly in front of her eyes. She couldn’t remember any of the calmer reasoning or objective resolve that had seemed so sensible in the taxi on the way from Andernach.

  Far below, Reimann and the woman disembarked and began walking slowly – the slow walk of long-time lovers – parallel to the river. There was another automatic movement from Elke, as there had been on the steamer. Without positive awareness she found herself going quickly out of the grassed area and down the steps, towards the river. When she reached the bottom, entering the throng of disembarking passengers, she was just able to pick out Reimann far along the road. Unaware of the concealment the other people might provide, not ever considering the possibility of Reimann turning and maybe recognizing her, Elke set out in pursuit. Was she pursuing them? The conscious thought entered her mind, with another quick to follow. What would he do if she caught up and confronted them? Would he remain composed, as he always seemed composed? Introduce the woman and explain? Or become confused, flustered? Composed, decided Elke: she couldn’t imagine Reimann ever losing control of himself. What about her? What would she do, if she confronted them? What could she do? No engagement, no understanding, no commitment, she reminded herself again. So there were no demands she could make, no explanation she could insist upon. Elke shook her head, actually making the gesture as she continued on: she couldn’t pursue or confront.