The Berlin Connection (30 page)

16

"Hennessy? No, he was not here this afternoon." The guard at the gate of the studios shook his head. He did not notice that I was quite drunk. The more I had drunk the more I had thought of the telephone call at lunch.

"Are you quite sure?"

"Sure. He left at one, when everybody was leaving. What would he do here on a Saturday afternoon?"

"He was supposed to pick up some rushes but somebody had taken the keys to the cutting room by mistake and he could not get them."

"That can't be. The keys are always left here. I've been

here since eleven. I would have noticed if a key had been missing. But I'll check."

Hundreds of numbered keys were hanging from nails on an enormous board inside the guardhouse. "There you are! And that's where it was at lunchtime." He laughed, "Now I even remember who left it here, Mr. Jordan. Your stepdaughter."

17

What did I do when I saw Shirley? '

What would you have done, Professor Pontevivo? I did nothing. Shirley had lied to me. Dehberately. Since she had been capable of doing that with such blatant assurance I could expect her to continue to lie to me if I questioned her.

Now she had her secret as I had mine. She had been gone four hours on this Saturday afternoon, Joan told me. I had also been away for four hours. It was grotesque. Shirley did not ask where I h^d been. I did not ask her where she had been. She hed. I Ued. I was determined to find out whom she met and why. Were it Hennessy or some other character, I had to be careful. I had to watch her. Did she watch me too?

Perhaps she was equally determined to find out my secret?

It was inconceivable that Shirley, tormented by pangs of conscience, tortured by fear and suffering constant nausea; a good and pious girl carrying a child could deceive me with another man. Was desperation driving her to such irresponsible deeds?

No, it could not be. She could not deceive me, not now, not m her condition. It was unbelievable. Was it? Was it inconceivable to Shirley too,, that I deceived her with another woman—now, while she was with child?

Yes? No? ^

No? Yes?

That evening a small passenger steamboat took us to the Miihlenkamper Fahrhaus. We dined in a lovely old room with a heavy-beamed ceiling and comfortable red leather chairs. I don't remember what we ate. Yellow-shaded table lamps shed soft light on the faces of the two women sitting before the huge window opposite me. Two faces; so familiar.

How familiar?

Thousands of lights were reflected by the dark water of the Alster. Small boats hurried by and, on jthe other bank, the opaque candelabra formed a long bright string of pearls.

"Shirley, you're hiding something from me, That story about the key to the cutting room is not true." I might have said that if I had wanted to stop lying. What would she have replied if she had not wanted to lie any more?

"And you're hiding nothing? You don't know a woman by the name of Petrovna? You have never talked with her?"

No, No. No.

I had neither strength, courage nor moral right to begin such a quarrel. It probably wouldn't have made any difference anyway. I had to find out what Shirley was doing and why. I had to devise a plan. I had to be patient now.

Joan was gay and carefree on this evening; Shirley, friendly but solemn. Once, when dessert was being served, she excused herself. When she returned she was very pale. I knew she had not telephoned nor seen anyone but had been sick again. Strange: on this evening, for the first time, I saw Shirley not through eyes of passion and jealousy but with pity and a curiously different sense of love.

Whatever she did: it was done in anguish. I felt that now. If she had deceived me it was deceit of a special kind. Perhaps I had akeady lost her to a man, here in

Hamburg, who could release her from the torment I had brought her.

What kind of man could that be? Not the handsome, vain Hennessy or one of his good-looking friends, I decided that I must find out.

At the hotel I took the stairs again. Shirley accompanied me. Joan, poking fun at me, took the elevator.

Suddenly Shirley stopped.

"Peter—"

"Yes?"

"Do you still love me?"

"Do you have to ask?"

"TeU me."

"I love you."

She kissed me and the sweetness of this kiss swept away distrust, jealousy, logic and proof of her lie, her deceit. She had never kissed me like that before. Her kiss was tender, gentle; a dehcate emotional kiss.

Then she ran upstairs ahead of me. When I reached the sixth floor she had disappeared. Joan was waiting for me in the living room.

"Head over heels in love," she laughed.

"Who?"

"Our little one. Didn't you notice?"

"Oh, yes. No. Really? Do you really think so?"

"Peter," Joan shook her head. "Won't you ever grow up?"

That night^for the second time I lived through the nightmare of being locked in the elevator for thousands of years. Finally I fell down and prayed to the grating of the intercom hoping to hear Natasha's voice again.

But I did not hear it.

I awoke shaking, soaked in perspiration. I slid from the bed, fell, and crawled to the closet; to the black bag. My teeth hitting the neck of the bottle, I drank whisky. Still the horror of the dream did not leave me.

I had to get away from this room which was merely another, larger elevator. I could not breathe. Away. Away. To the street. To Natasha.

No.

I could not see her any more. I sat on my bed, the bottle in hand, and gasped for breath.

Joan?

Just to talk to someone, not to be so alone, so terribly alone.

No, not to Joan.

To Shirley!

I loved her. She loved me. I would go to her. To hold her. To kiss her. To caress her. To love her. We had not embraced since—since when? Could I still go to her? Surely. Didn't I do everything I could for her, for our love? Of course. To Shirley. Yes, I would go to her.

You lied to me. Don't argue. Don't tell me any more lies. I know everything. You are mine. Only mine. Another man? Absurd.

To hold her. To embrace her. To hear her sigh. Yes. Yes. Everything the way it used to be in my bungalow. The same. Right away! Now.

At her door I raised my hand to knock. Suddenly I saw Natasha's eyes. They seemed to say: So you are going to do another vile deed. You are doing this for your sake. Not Shirley's. It has nothing to do with love. It is fear, desperation, desire, lust. You're doing this to a very young girl who is carrying your child. Does that mean

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nothing to you? Don't you care? Is there no decency in you at all any more?

My hand dropped. I returned to my room, sat on my bed and drank. Slowly I grew calmer.

Had I gone to Shirley I would have felt ashamed though Natasha would never have known. Did I suddenly have a conscience? What nonsense: a conscience by the name of Natasha.

19

Rome, eighteenth of April.

There is much agitation atlhe clinic. A dreadful discovery has been made. The hunch-backed Suora Superi-ora Maria Magdalena, as romantic as she is gossipy, as kind as she is curious, told me about it.

"Signore Jordan, I am most upset And I thought it was love ..."

Antonio, a very strong thirty-year-old Neapolitan attendant at the clinic had been fired. It was well-known that he loved fruits and sometimes took and ate some of the fruits belonging to the patients. Fruits could easily be replaced, and since his great strength was often called upon his stealing was tolerated.

Yesterday Antonio suffered a dreadful attack. At first it was thought he was simply drunk. He floundered about, babbling incoherently; then he foamed at the mouth and went into convulsions.

Professor Pontevivo examined him. He had had an overdose of drugs, later found to be dolantin.

After his stomach had been pumped and he had sufficiently recovered he confessed to having stolen seven oranges from the young drug-addicted composer.

"He always plays better when his wife comes to see him," the romantic Suora Superiora had once told me.

Now the reason for his euphoria had been discovered. The oranges his wife had regularly brought him had been confiscated and tested by Professor Pontevivo. They were found to contain large doses of dolantin. Questioned, his wife confessed to having "filled" the fruit by means of a syringe.

"The little you gave him was not sufficient for Pierre!" she screamed at the Professor. "He could not have composed! He is a genius! His orders should be obeyed! He will live in his music when we are all dust!"

The genius has suffered a breakdown. Two attendants watch and restrain the pitiable human wreck screaming, gasping, fighting demons in this artificially produced delirium.

The piano in the music room has been closed. - Professor Pontevivo is very upset, Suora Superiora told me. "And I always thought it was love ..."

20

It is extremely difficult to find ways to keep watch on someone, especially for a visitor in a foreign city and particularly if the interested watcher is working from moiii-ing to night. Living, as I was, in a hotel, I was painfully aware that perhaps I was being watched too.

At the studios and at the hotel I confided in a few older people: Harry, my dressing-room attendant, a guard, a sound man, a white-haired waiter, the chief telephone operator at the hotel, a woman in charge of the Sixth floor.

It was difficult in spite of the tips I handed out. They all promised to help a man worried about his young, innocent daughter. A man who did not want his wife to worry.

Most of them probably hit on the truth. Stepfather. In love with stepdaughter. Jealous of a younger man. Guilty

conscience. Very guilty conscience. Or he would not have given such large tips. Much too large.

It remained to be seen if they would help me. Would they tell me the truth even if they learned it? Perhaps Shirley had bribed them too? Or Joan? The three of us?

November fourteenth had been the Saturday I had said good-by to Natasha. Sunday it rained and I used that time to search out accomplices. At lunch Shirley again excused herself. She hurriedly left the room and I wondered how much longer before a mother would notice the recurring nausea. Sundays were the most dangerous days. They gave Joan the chance to observe her closely. I resolved there should not be another such Sunday. Or at most only one more.

Monday morning, before I drove to the studios, I delivered to Madam Misere her five thousand marks and the thirty thousand for Schauberg's bail. Shirley was not with me. She had told me, "Jaky said I need not be at the studios before ten. The bus is going to pick me up."

Really?

Jaky, when I asked him, had corroborated Shirley's words. But who drove the bus? What did Shirley do until ten o'clock? Why did Hennessy avoid me? Did he avoid me? Was I seeing things? All I could do now was wait. Shirley was being watched. Perhaps something would come to light.

I telephoned Madam Misere Monday evening.

"The lawyer is hopeful," she said.

He was also hopeful on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday. But he could not get Schauberg out on bail. New difficulties arose every time. ^'A la longue they have to let him go," said Madam Misere.

Sure.

A la longue Shirley would be in her third month. A la longue the child could not be taken care of any more. A la longue ...

A la longue my work became a severe strain although I

was treating myself according to Schauberg's instructions and had^ become quite expert at giving myself intramuscular injections. The green box was always in the trunk of my car. Wednesday the telephone operator told me Shirley had received a telephone call from a man. He had not given his name. They had made a date for four o'clock.

"Where?"

"They did not mention where. Mr. Jordan, I can understand how worried you are but this is terribly embarrassing for me .. ."But she pocketed the fifty marks and thereupon seemed less embarrassed.

The sound man and guard only knew that Shirley sometimes telephoned and left the studios when I was working and they were also very embarrassed. So was I. More tips with no results.

On the nineteenth of November I simply could not remember my lines. I was becoming increasingly exhausted. The drugs in the box would not be sufficient to see me through the movie. If^Schauberg did not soon get out . . .

Kostasch and Seaton fell back on the old treatment. Don't upset the star, don't frighten the star, don't let him see how we really feel.

"So what, Peter boy? We'll use prompt cards if you can't remember the hues!"

I read the lines. It was fortunate I was not shortsighted too.

It was on the twentieth, a Friday, when I showered, that I first noticed the rash.

21

This rash began harmlessly enough. Tiny red pustules had appeared between my toes, on my feet, and inside my legs. I blamed the excessive quan-

titles of drugs my body had to absorb. But the rash could hardly be seen by anyone.

Supposing the rash spread to my chest, my neck, my face?

Schauberg!

They had to let him out on bail. They had to, had to.

Did they really have to?

Friday night Joan again asked to go to sleep in my arms. My self-control was badly lacking and she broke off when she saw the expression on my face.

"I know your movie is the most important thing in your life right now. I can understand that. I shall never ask you again. When your film is finished we'll take a vacation and catch up on everything." She kissed my cheek and quickly went to her bedroom.

While I was debating whether or not I should follow her I heard the key turn the lock. Joan had locked herself in...

Schauberg was still in jail on Saturday. I went to see Madam Misere and told her of my urgent need of a doctor.

"That is most unfortunate. The doctor who takes care of my girls is in the hospital with pleurisy. I'll try and find someone. I'm sure you won't mind waiting one or two days."

"But no more than that. Do you think you can find a doctor at all?"

"I hope so, Mr. Jordan. Doctors who are asked for services by people such as me are always suspicious since our business is under police supervision. But I will do my best."