Little Grey Mice (33 page)

‘It was a series of dictatorships in the East, wasn't it?' retorted Elke, pleased with herself. ‘And look what's happened to them! They've all crumbled into nothing.'

It could be a useful avenue, decided Reimann. He said: ‘It's changing. I am not convinced that communism has totally crumbled, not yet.'

‘Crumbling,''
said Elke, accepting the difference.

She was unwittingly perfect in providing him with openings, thought Reimann: he hoped, with sexual cynicism, she would go on doing it. He said: ‘I hope not.'

Elke twisted her head, squinting against the sun to look up at him. ‘Why ever should you hope that?'

‘I'm employed as a political commentator, right?'

‘Yes,' agreed Elke. She put her hand up, the better to shield her eyes: his features were in darkness, almost concealed against the sun's brilliance, which at the same time made it look as if he were surrounded by an aura. And in between was the hard-muscled body.

‘I've made a speculative interpretation,' said Reimann, in apparent admission. ‘I spoke to a lot of people, of course: heard a lot of theories. But one of the suggestions that emerged, one that has hardly ever been advanced, is the reverse side of the coin.'

Elke shifted, so that she could focus better upon him. Hot now, she rolled up the sleeves of her shirt: she would have been much more comfortable in something briefer. ‘I don't understand that.'

‘All the stress in the West has been upon a practically automatic assumption that those living in the East want to abandon the principle of communism, run as fast as they can through holes and walls or open checkpoints and settle in the West. Wouldn't you agree?'

This wasn't going as she'd wanted, thought Elke, her absolute contentment slipping. She had wanted to go on being pampered and cared for in a glade which no one else knew of or could enter, a magic place. But they were talking politics now: argued-for-a-compromise, adjustable-if-necessary, brutal-if-required politics. None of which had any place in her drifting, euphoric, cocooned dream. Her fault, Elke conceded at once. She'd started it, wanting to impress him: definitely her fault. ‘That would seem to be the case, publicly at least,' she admitted.

Publicly,
isolated Reimann: she spoke as if she had knowledge of a contrary, opposing assessment. ‘Who says so?' he demanded. ‘OK, so the people in the East want changes. Travel changes, electoral changes. Changes in their standards of living.'

‘So?' asked Elke. How could she stop this conversation: get back to what it had been like when they'd first arrived?

‘My interpretation,' said Reimann, in apparent explanation. ‘I don't believe everything is as automatic and simplistic as it is being analysed, so far. I've acknowledged that the East demands freedom, certainly. But definitely not a loss-of-identity absorption.' The moment to drop the stone into the water and watch the ripples, he thought. He went on: ‘And I've had people agree with me, finally: accept that the assumption of a Europe bound together is premature by years if not decades. So that's the article I have written. That the demand is for a special kind of democracy, one that doesn't abandon the principles of communism …' The ultimate pause ‘… and that the government here in Bonn privately accepts and recognizes that reality, whatever the public leaks and assurances might be. That despite all the public posturing they go along with the differing ideologies and are willing to make compromises.'

Reimann was worriedly aware that towards the end his invented argument had started to lose direction. Looking down at her – surprised at the awareness even coming to mind – he suddenly saw her as frail and vulnerable, lying as she was. He hoped she'd stay that way: but then how else could she be?

Elke's concerned reaction was that his complete assessment wasn't at all her understanding. Nor that of Günther Werle, with whom she'd discussed it more times than she could now remember, assembling their joint accounts of the Cabinet committee. Not the Bonn attitude, at least: she conceded that his modified communism thesis might be valid, but that was all. So he'd be wrong. This considerate, kind, attentive man who had done so much for her had concluded a flawed judgement: one, even, that might in its turn be commented upon, professionally ridiculing him. She could correct – avoid – that happening, Elke realized. Just a few words, a phrase:
I'm not at all sure about one aspect… have you thought out the possibility of… don't forget the Constitutional pledges …
Forbidden, Elke accepted, reluctantly: positively and unequivocally forbidden. She wanted so much for him not to be ridiculed: she felt helpless. She said: ‘It's an interesting hypothesis.'

‘Do you agree with it?' demanded Reimann. He wanted to think he had trapped her, into a box.

There was no warmth from the wine now: little, seemingly, from the sun, although outwardly it was still hot. She shouldn't be involved – forbidden, she told herself again – in this sort of conversation, absolutely innocent and safe though she knew it to be with someone like Otto. She'd never before allowed it to happen; and certainly shouldn't, now that she occupied the position she did. She was fortunate that it had occurred with Otto, with whom there could never be any danger. Elke smiled and said: ‘You're the expert. I don't have the political awareness or knowledge to agree or disagree.' She lay back against his leg, hoping he would regard that movement as an end to what they were talking about.

Shit! thought Reimann, as he concluded just that. The balance simultaneously adjusted. He'd learned something, although as yet he did not know how to assess it. And it was infantile to expect any more, at this stage. There was still the rest of the weekend, after all. Quickly he said: ‘Forgive me?'

‘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.'