Little Grey Mice (38 page)

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.
Poor 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.

He waited.

She moved.

‘I want to understand what you're saying,' Elke insisted.

‘If I keep getting it wrong – in their opinion – I'll no longer be the leading European political commentator for the magazines, will I?'

‘What would that mean?'

‘They'd replace me, I suppose.'

‘You'd have to leave Bonn!'

‘What else?'

‘I don't want you to leave Bonn.'

‘I don't want to leave, either.'

Günther Werle was unhappy that so far he and Elke were not personally closer, but professionally she had proved herself superbly. Not that he'd ever had the slightest doubt about Elke's ability to rise to the challenge. It was just that it was never completely possible to gauge how a person would respond to promotional responsibility, and any failure would have reflected upon him, because he was the one who had sponsored her so strongly. But she hadn't failed at all. She'd conducted herself with complete propriety in everything, deferential although not subservient, hardly a single minute or memorandum or report needing his slightest correction.
No
correction, he acknowledged: merely suggestions, a small shift of emphasis here, the simplest change of phrase there. So any – and every – reflection upon him had been favourable.

She'd seen him in action, too. Seen how he was included in everything, deferred to by the most powerful men in the country: knew the influence he had at the very pinnacle of German politics. He was sure she admired it all, although she was far too controlled, far too composed, ever to show it. But she knew. He'd expected a much greater change, between them personally. He called her Elke all the time now, but she only called him by his Christian name occasionally, and then rarely unless he prompted her.

He determined to make the outing to the Viennese recital different than before. Better. Their difficulty that first time had been predictable enough. But now they were closer: more personally familiar. He'd get some more recommendations and go to the restaurants first, so that he would know what to expect: behave as if he knew the place well. And order some champagne in the interval, even though he didn't like it himself because it gave him embarrassing flatulence.

He smiled up, as Elke entered for the day's diary discussion. ‘I've been lucky,' he announced. ‘I've managed to get some excellent stall seats for the Vienna Boys' Choir.'

Elke had completely forgotten. She said: ‘I'm extremely sorry, Herr Werle. But I won't be able to join you.'

‘I see,' said Werle. He tried to avoid swallowing heavily, in his disappointment, but couldn't. Herr Werle, she'd said: not Günther.

‘Please forgive me. I should have spoken before.'

‘It's quite all right,' said the man, shortly. His throat moved, as he swallowed again. Why wouldn't she come? he thought, desperately. Why?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Her period coming that Saturday evening was an advantage to be used. Anticipating her discomfort from his first inspection of her bathroom cabinet, Reimann cancelled the dinner reservation and prepared steak in her own kitchen with an expertise derived from Jutta's indifference to cooking. He refused her help to clear away, settling her with her feet lifted upon the couch while he did it alone. He reappeared with coffee and a supply of analgesic pills, insisting she tell him the moment she felt she wanted more. He sat at one end of the couch, so that she could remain with her feet up, her back against his chest. Pointedly he watched every newscast on television, remarking with apparent casualness that he couldn't afford to miss out on the slightest political development, and particularly not on any interpretation from another commentator. It was understood without it being discussed that he would sleep with her, but that night he let her go into the bedroom ahead of him. When he followed she was already in bed. She wore a high-necked nightdress.

‘You don't mind do you? It's just …'

‘Why should I mind?' said Reimann.

She fell asleep with both his arms around her. It was too uncomfortable to remain that way but he woke up ahead of her the following morning, so he was holding her again when she stirred. Her first act was to feel for his arm, for reassurance.

Reimann made her stay in bed while he made the coffee. When Elke went into the kitchen, there were pills waiting beside her place.

‘It's never too bad, the second day.'

‘Take them, just in case.'

‘Where did you learn to do everything right?'

‘I took lessons,' said Reimann, in an unusual moment of truthfulness.

He did not question the time she insisted on leaving Kaufmannstrasse, although he knew it would get them to Marienfels far too early. Elke sat half turned in the passenger seat, looking more at him than at anything outside the car. Please let it be one of Ursula's good days! She'd considered calling Dr Schiller, but had been unable to phrase the question in a way that would not sound strange: perhaps what he regarded as Ursula's good days wouldn't be the same as hers anyway. Reimann didn't seem to want to talk, so Elke didn't either. She was quite content – more than contect – just to be with him, near him.

Reimann recognized the layby on the final ascent towards the institution from the Russian photographs.

‘I usually stop here: let Poppi out for a run,' said Elke, so he did. He gazed around the wooded hills, idly speculating where the surveillance team had concealed themselves. They had been long-lens shots: there was adequate tree cover and coppice all around.

‘Sometimes Ursula can be difficult,' warned Elke, feeling there should be some preparation. ‘Resistant. She's particularly strong: too strong for me, if she's determined to do something. And she's not very communicative.'

Reimann smiled at her. ‘It's all right,' he said, kindly.