Fear of Mirrors

by Tariq Ali

  What had hurt the most was the evidence that had finally confirmed what he had always suspected. Ludwik was not his father. That he had been prepared for, but the realization that his real father was an NKVD hit man, an assassin who had impregnated his mother with false smiles and made-to-order sperm, carrying out instructions to the letter – this had added to Vlady’s torment. Was it Winter?

  In despair, he had turned to Evelyne for some physical comfort. But whatever talent the woman may have had during her student days had dried up completely. She had become an egocentric mediocrity, a bore capable of discussing only herself and her brilliant films.

  One night after she had made love to him – this, too, had become a soulless routine – Evelyne had announced that she no longer wanted him as a lover. They should simply remain friends. The news had cheered Vlady. He agreed, and they had gone to a café to seal the new pact. That’s where Kreuzberg Ley la found them. They were quarrelling and she threatened to paint a second picture of them, sitting at the counter, each with half an apple, each with a bite missing. She would call it After the Wall. They laughed and all three decamped to see the uncut English-language version of Blade Runner.

  When he got home, there were two messages on his answer machine. The first was from Winter, confirming their date and suggesting a French restaurant in Kreuzberg. The second was from Sao in Paris, demanding that Vlady ring him immediately on a matter of some urgency.

  ‘Greetings, Sao.’

  ‘I’m glad you rang. Where were you?’

  ‘Watching Blade Runner for the third time. Have you ever seen it, Sao?’

  ‘Of course. Usual money-wasting Hollywood rubbish. What do you see in it?’

  ‘Images of a decaying, authoritarian, polyglot capitalism and its state machine, which is depicted as totally coercive. Even the façade of democracy has been abandoned. It’s a vicious critique of the system, Sao, a system that’s now occupying your country. Boeing, Citibank, Mobil, Delta, Marriott, IBM, Unilever. Blade Runner is a masterpiece, Sao. Go and see it again.’

  ‘A desperate person can read anything in nothing. That is the fashion these days, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not a post-modernist zombie, Sao. And if you think –’

  ‘Vlady, stop all this nonsense. I did not ring to argue about some Hollywood movie. Listen to me. Something important has happened and I need you badly. This time you must not say no to me. I am owed money by an American shyster. You understand me?’

  ‘No,’ sighed Vlady.

  ‘Yes you do. The deal does not concern you. This guy owns a small publishing chain in North America and Europe. I can’t remember the German name, but listen. In return for the money he owes me, he has offered me his publishing empire, which he says is losing money, but could be turned round by an intelligent chief executive. Who cares? Now listen to me. I want you to run this enterprise. I’ll manage the business side. I need someone who knows something about books.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What do you mean, why?’

  ‘You don’t need someone who reads books to run an empire. Hire an arms-dealer or some overpaid accountant. It doesn’t make much difference the way our culture is going. I suppose Germany is still different, but the Anglo-Saxon end is a nightmare.’

  ‘I know, Vlady, I know. I need you. Yes or no?’

  ‘Let me think about it. I’ll ring you tomorrow. If I accept, Sao, where will I be working from? I mean which city?’

  ‘I think you’ll spend most of your time flying, Vlady. I’ll book you some office space on the Concorde.’

  When Vlady did not react to the joke, Sao panicked slightly. ‘You can work from wherever you want – New York, Paris or Berlin. Do you want to know your salary?’

  ‘No!’

  Sao laughed. ‘Have a good day, Professor Meyer. Linh sends her love.’

  ‘Is she settled now?’

  ‘Sure, but she misses the old country. Her cooking is sensational, Vlady.’

  ‘That must make you truly happy, Sao.’

  Sao laughed. ‘Come and see us soon and make sure you ring me first thing whatever your decision. And one more thing. You know my name for our publishing house?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Five Tigers.’

  ‘Au revoir, Sao.’

  Outside it had stopped raining and large patches of blue sky had appeared as a prologue to the sunshine that now lit Vlady’s study-bedroom. His mood had altered. He felt a sense of exhilaration. Blade Runner had reminded him that the culture was not without its critics. Sao had offered him a job. He could not sit still. He began to pace up and down in the apartment, whose walls were now bare. Every object associated with Gertrude had been removed. Vlady wanted to talk to Helge, to Gerhard, to anyone except Evelyne.

  Some hours later, in desperation, he rang Karl to tell him about the offer he had just received from Sao.

  ‘What do you think, Karl?’

  ‘It is very good news, Vlady. You must do as you think best.’

  ‘What do you think your mother would have advised me?’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Karl?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here. I don’t know. Can I ring you later? It’s just that there’s a crisis on here. The Party is going to dump Scharping and go for Lafontaine which could be a disaster. He’s too left for the present climate…’

  ‘I disagree. He’s the best you’ve got. I might be needed to write his speeches, and you could work for Sao. Karl? Are you there?’

  ‘We’ll talk soon, Vlady. I’ll ring you tomorrow. I promise.’

  What a desolate conversation, thought Vlady. He decided that this was the time to send Karl his manuscript. Let the boy read while he, Vlady, was still alive to argue with him. He packaged the manuscript carefully and enclosed a handwritten note:

  When I called you about the job Sao offered you were cagey as usual. There’s no point in our spending the rest of our lives at arm’s length. I’ve been putting together part of a family history, researching Ludwik and Gertrude, looking at what happened between me and your mother and debating whether or not to send this to you. Don’t open it if you feel you’re better off just leaving the past behind you. I wouldn’t argue with that decision. But if you open it, promise that you will read it through till the end. I hope you’ll want to talk about what’s in here.

  Thirty

  HE WOKE UP just before noon, unprepared for the shock awaiting him. At first he couldn’t believe his eyes. It must be a dream. He covered his head with the blanket and emerged slowly, sure that the apparition had gone.

  She was still there, sitting on her favourite armchair. ‘Hi, Vlady. I let you sleep.’

  He jumped out of bed. ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’

  ‘You might have run away.’

  ‘I might have run away! Has New York made you crazy, Helge?’

  He sat on the edge of the bed looking at her. Her eyes were soft again, lacking the hostility of their last encounter. Her voice, too, which had been full of tense, restrained anger, was back to normal. He sat on the floor at her feet, burying his head in her lap.

  Old recollections flooded back. They talked about themselves, about Karl, about their lives during the separation. Helge confessed that she could no longer stand living in the United States because she was white. She regaled him with stories of her friends who went to inordinate lengths to conceal their ‘whiteness’. Even the Italians were now referring to themselves as the ‘Olive Nation’ and a close friend of hers, a fellow psychoanalyst, had returned to southeast Kentucky and was now writing a book on the Melungeon people.

  Vlady sat up in amazement. ‘The what people?’

  ‘The Melungeons.’ Helge patiently explained that whereas mythology proclaimed that everyone in the Kentucky mountains was of Scottish or Irish origin with the odd splattering of Cherokee blood, the truth was otherwise. Melungeons were the descendants of various ethnic groups who came to the interior of the continent before the English.
Many were from Spain and Portugal. Thus, her friend had now demonstrated the genetic linkage between Appalachian ‘whites’ and Spanish and North African Moors and Jews. There was even evidence of links with Turkish communities.

  Vlady was fascinated and bewildered. ‘Why,’ he wondered. ‘Why the obsession, and why now?’

  Helge smiled at his curiosity. It was like the old days, when she would recount some psychoanalytic discovery that had totally escaped him. ‘I suppose they want to challenge the notion of a hegemonic northern European racial base in the American South and Appalachia.’

  ‘Make sure your Melungeon friend sends us a copy of the book. I suppose it was difficult for you. Your genealogy can’t be improved. A white Protestant from Saxony. I’m glad, because it’s brought you back.’

  ‘It wasn’t just that. I missed you, Vlady.’

  After they had made love Helge told him that she, too, had read the manuscript he’d sent to Karl.

  ‘What did Karl think?’

  ‘He was shaken by Gertrude’s story. Even I was, Vlady, and I had no time for her. It must be unbearable for you. Karl arrives in Berlin tomorrow. He will tell you what he thinks himself. I’m glad you wrote it all down.’

  It was when Helge suggested they eat at an old haunt that he remembered he had a dinner engagement with Winter. At first she was taken aback.

  ‘A few minor and one major question still need to be answered, Helge. Come with me. Please.’

  She shook her head. The thought of him dining with Winter on her first day back in Berlin had changed her mood. He detected this, but carried on pleading till she agreed to accompany him that evening.

  Vlady had not been as happy as this for a long time. As they stepped outside, he took her arm and kissed her hair. The street seemed strange compared to earlier that afternoon. The wet pavements were dry and the sky had cleared. As they walked towards the Brandenburg Gate, he saw a flurry of colour. Groups of gays, in festive mood, were returning to the East after their day-long fest, ignoring the hooting of car horns as they crossed the Unter den Linden. Older couples dressed in their Sunday bests tried their best to ignore the revellers.

  They exchanged smiles. This was the Berlin they both liked. Clouds were beginning to cross the sky again. Pleased that they had worn their raincoats, they quickened their pace, caught a bus to Kreuzberg, and by the time they reached the restaurant it had begun to drizzle again.

  The place was crowded, surprisingly for a Sunday evening. Winter was seated at a corner table. They approached him; if he was surprised at Helge’s presence he hid the fact remarkably well and immediately set about charming her.

  ‘I just wish to warn both of you that there’s a man present here who has not yet seen me. He’s sitting in the other corner with his wife. If he does come and harass me, just remain calm, and do not attempt an intervention.’

  ‘Who is he, Klaus?’

  ‘A fool of no importance. Damn his soul. His wife has seen me. Fasten your seat-belt, my dear fellow.’

  An elderly man dressed in a faded green silk suit was approaching their table. Winter’s face turned to stone.

  ‘Good evening, Klaus. It has been forty years. Have you still not forgiven me?’

  Klaus Winter did not reply.

  ‘Look at the menu, Helge and Vlady. What do you want to eat? This disturbance will soon pass.’

  The stranger’s eyes filled with sadness. He did not persist, but walked away slowly, his shoulders drooping.

  ‘Klaus,’ said Vlady, fearing the worst, ‘I will not discuss anything with you or even stay here unless you tell us about him. Is he a former agent who betrayed you?’

  ‘Much worse, Vlady. Much worse.’

  ‘Like what? I insist, Klaus.’

  After the orders had been taken and a bottle of claret uncorked, Winter told the story of his relations with the man in the green silk suit.

  ‘His name is Walter. He’s my first cousin – our mothers were sisters. He’s a year older than me, but the bastard is much better preserved. We quarrelled nearly forty years ago.’

  Slowly the story unfolded. The two cousins had grown up in the same house in Wedding and had become very close friends. The only time they had been separated was when Klaus had gone to Italy for a year to study art history. He had stayed as a lodger in Lucca, and while there he had learnt how to cook.

  ‘And I became a fanatical cook. Everything had to be perfect. When I came to Berlin, I cooked for Walter and everyone else. They were amazed but delighted. One winter, Walter and I went skiing in the Swiss Alps. I was tired and stayed at home one day. I told him not to be late because I was preparing a special sauce for the pasta, my own invention, which would be ruined if overcooked. He came back after a whole day’s skiing and demanded supper immediately. I told him it would be another five or ten minutes. He said “fine”. I carried on cooking. The next thing I see is that Walter has surreptitiously unwrapped a large bar of chocolate and is eating it like a wild animal. Naturally, by the time my sauce for the pasta is ready, Walter has lost his appetite. I went mad, Vlady. I kicked him out. Nobody had ever insulted my cooking like that before. We have never spoken since that day.’

  ‘I can’t believe this, Herr Winter,’ interrupted Helge. ‘You’ve made it up.’

  ‘Is that the truth, Klaus?’

  ‘I’m warning you, Vlady. Don’t provoke me on this subject. You know full well I have written a book on Italian cuisine. I’m working on a new one about food in the former Soviet Union. I take food very seriously, Helge. Walter knew that well. He chose to belittle my cooking. Now, tell me what’s happening to you. And why haven’t I seen you for over a year?’

  Vlady told him everything. The discovery that Gertrude had helped murder Ludwik, that Winter had been involved in the affair, and that for that reason he wanted to ask him a few questions.

  Winter’s face did not register any surprise at the revelation.

  ‘I knew about her. You know, till the end she was working for Moscow, not us. I knew that and one night – we were both drunk – she told me the whole story. She was crying like a child, Vlady. I was not involved in that affair, not that I did not commit other crimes, probably worse. You know that. She loved Ludwik, but he was not interested in her like that and this was her revenge. She told me that if she had not been pregnant she would have killed herself.’

  ‘I wish she had. Strange way of showing her love for Ludwik!’

  ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, Vlady. Surely you –’

  ‘How long were you lovers, Klaus? I know you seduced her in England in the same year that Ludwik was killed. Did it last?’

  Winter shrugged his shoulders, a frown crossed his face. ‘I’m not your father, Vlady.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘She was sure it wasn’t me, but the Englishman. He was an old lover before he married Olga. One day, or so she told me, he came to her bed at night and they revisited old times. She was convinced that Sir Christopher Brown, as he later became, was your father.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Yes. For a time he served as their ambassador to the Soviet Union. Both Gertie and I laughed about that a great deal.’

  ‘You mean that he and Olga were never uncovered.’

  ‘Of course not. We didn’t expose them, and the only Englishman who knew they were on our side was Philby. I think Christopher and Philby met in Moscow on more than one occasion.’

  Underneath the table Helge clasped Vlady’s hand. Nobody spoke for a while.

  Winter tried to lighten the mood. ‘Would you rather I had been your father, Vlady?’

  ‘No!’ The reply was abrupt and speedy. ‘My preferred choice is still Ludwik, but failing that I’d rather Mr Brown than anyone involved in killing. I wish Gertrude had killed herself.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Vlady, very wrong. Just because history continues to commit outrages, you must not give up.’

  ‘History’s outrages are carried out by thinking human bein
gs, are they not Klaus? Intelligent, cultured human beings like yourself. You were always a master-chef, weren’t you, Klaus? Human meat. Animal meat. Same for you?’

  ‘Calm down, Vlady,’ Helge cautioned, even though she was pleased that he was angry.

  ‘Human beings who profess to believe in noble ideologies,’ Vlady continued. ‘Look where it’s got us now. The slate has been wiped clean.’

  ‘Nonsense. Our time will come again. Not in the same way, of course. We’ve all learnt very bitter lessons, but we have not been wiped off the map. Can’t you see what is happening in the world?’

  ‘Only too well. Fascists in an Italian government, where the men who control the videosphere run the country. In Moscow the criminals run the politicians…’

  ‘Straws in the wind, Vlady. Everywhere else the people are returning to the fold. They are not looking for grand designs. All they want is a decent welfare state and some degree of egalitarianism. Who else will give it to them? The Socialists are floundering everywhere. Post-Communist capitalism is like a steam-roller, crushing everything in its path. Is it capable of solving the problems that Communism failed to solve? Only ideologues driven mad by triumphalism can think that poverty or the thirst for justice no longer matters. In Europe it might be the two-thirds who rule and prosper, but on a global scale the ninetenths are on the other side. Communism is dead, but something will rise from its ashes. This is the wrong time to give up, Vlady. You need a Party.’

  ‘Your party’s over, Klaus. Just accept it. That world has gone for ever.

  I tell you what: your groping theorist

  Is like a beast led round and round and round

  By evil spirits on a barren ground

  Near to the verdant pastures he has missed.’

  Winter chuckled. ‘Mephistopheles to Faust. Good. Winter to Meyer: Too rash as always, my friend. At a time when capitalism is truly global the people will need new political institutions to protect them against its savagery. I’ve just returned from Beijing. My Party is not doing too badly there, you know. In Eastern Europe and Moscow we are rising again – not because we were good, but because the shock therapists are worse. The space is limited. But it’s there all right. We’re beginning to grow here again, without the dead hand of the DDR. Why don’t you join the PDS, become active again? You mustn’t wither away before the state, Vlady.’