Part 7 (1/2)

Maria pulled him closer to her. ”Innocence again. You like anyone who's kind to you. If Hitler buys you a drink, you say he's a decent fellow!”

”And you'd fall in love with him if he told you he was a virgin.”

Their laughter sounded loud in the empty street. As they came up the stairs at No. 84, their hilarity echoed on the bare wood. On the fourth floor someone opened a front door a few inches, then slammed it shut. They made almost as much noise the rest of the way up, shus.h.i.+ng each other and giggling.

To make a welcome, Maria had left all the lights on in her flat. The electric heater was on in the bedroom. While she was in the bathroom, Leonard opened the wine that had been left ready. There was a smell in the air he could not quite place. It was of onions, perhaps, and something else. There was an a.s.sociation there he could not make. He filled their gla.s.ses and turned on the wireless. He was ready now for another dose of ”Heartbreak Hotel,” but all he could find was cla.s.sical music of some sort, and jazz, both of which he loathed.

He forgot to mention the smell when Maria came out of the bathroom. They took their gla.s.ses through to the bedroom and lit cigarettes and talked quietly about the success of their party. The smell, which had been in this room too, and the fragrance of the potpourri, were lost to the smoke. They were returning to the urgency they had felt at dinner, and as they talked they began to undress, and touch and kiss. Acc.u.mulated excitement and unrestrained familiarity made everything so easy. By the time they were naked, their voices had dropped to whispers. Beyond the room came the subsiding rumble of a city beginning to take itself to bed. They got under the covers, which were lighter again now that spring was here. For five minutes or so they luxuriated in the postponement of their pleasure with a long embrace. ”Engaged,” Maria whispered, verlobt, verlobt verlobt, verlobt. The very word was a form of invitation, incitement. They began lazily. She was lying beneath him. His right cheek was pressed against hers. His view was of the pillow and of her ear, and hers was over his shoulder, of the ripple and pull of small muscles in his back, and then, the darkened room beyond the candlelight. He closed his eyes and saw an expanse of smooth water. It might have been the Wannsee in summer. With each stroke he was drawn down the shallow curve of his descent, further and deeper, until the surface was liquid silver far above his head. When she stirred and whispered something, the words poured like mercury droplets, but fell like feathers. He grunted. When she said it again, into his ear, he opened his eyes, though he still had not heard. He lifted himself onto his elbow.

Was it ignorance or innocence that made him think that the accelerating thud of her heart against his arm was excitement, or that the wide stare of her eyes, the seed pearls of moisture on her upper lip, the difficulty she was having moving her tongue to repeat her words, were all for him? He dropped his head closer. What she was saying was framed in the quietest whisper imaginable. Her lips were brus.h.i.+ng his ear, the syllables were furred. He shook his head. He heard her tongue unglue itself and try again. What at last he heard her say was ”There's someone in the wardrobe.”

Then his heart was racing hers. Their ribcages were touching, and they could feel, but not hear, the arrhythmic clatter, like horses' hooves. Against this distraction he was trying to listen. There was a car drawing away, there was something in the plumbing, and behind that nothing, nothing but silence and inseparable darkness, and scratchy silence too hastily scanned. He went back over it, searching the frequencies and watching her face for a cue. But every muscle there was already tight; her fingers were pinching his arm. She was still hearing it, she was willing his attention toward it, forcing him to attend to the band of silence, the narrow sector where it lay. He had shrunk to nothing inside her. They were separate people now. Where their bellies touched was wet. Was she drunk, or mad? Either would have been preferable. He c.o.c.ked his head, straining, and then he heard it, and knew he had been hearing it all along. He had been searching for something else, for sounds, for pitch, for the friction of solid objects. But this was only air, air pulled and pushed; this was muted breathing in an enclosed s.p.a.ce. He rose on all fours, and turned. The wardrobe was by the door, by the light switch. He found his gla.s.ses on the floor. They did nothing to clarify the large dark ma.s.s. His instinct was that he could do nothing, confront nothing, submit to nothing, unless he was covered. He found his underpants and put them on. Maria was sitting up. She had her hands cupped over her nose and mouth.

The thought came to Leonard, and perhaps it was a habit from all his time at the warehouse, that they should do nothing to betray their awareness of the presence. A pretended conversation was not possible. So Leonard stood in the dark in his underpants and began to hum through a constricted throat his favorite song while he tried to think, in his terror, what to do next.

Sixteen.

Maria reached for her skirt and blouse. Her movement made the candle gutter, but it did not quite die. Leonard took his trousers from a chair. He had increased the tempo of his humming, transforming it into a cheerful tune of dotted rhythms. His only thought now was to be dressed. Once his trousers were on, he felt the bareness of his chest p.r.i.c.king in the dark. When his s.h.i.+rt was on, his feet were vulnerable. He found his shoes, but not his socks. While he was tying the laces he fell silent. They stood on either side of the bed, the engaged couple. The rustle of fabric and Leonard's song had obscured the breathing. Now they heard it again. It was faint, but deep and steady. To Leonard it suggested some unflinching purpose. Maria's body blocked the candle's light and threw a giant shadow toward the door and wardrobe. She looked at him. Her eyes were sending him to the door.

He went quickly, and tried to tread quietly on the bare boards. It took four steps. The light switch was right against the wardrobe. It was impossible not to sense the presence, to feel on his fingers and his scalp the force field of a human presence. They were about to give themselves away, make it known that they knew. His knuckles brushed against the polished surface as he s.n.a.t.c.hed at the light. Maria was behind him; he felt her hand on the small of his back. The explosion of light was surely more than sixty watts. He screwed his eyes up against the brightness. He had his hands up, ready. The wardrobe doors would be bursting open now. Now.

But there was nothing. The wardrobe had two doors. One opened onto a set of drawers and was firmly closed. The other door, the one that opened onto the coat s.p.a.ce, a s.p.a.ce big enough for a man to stand in, was slightly ajar. The catch was not engaged. It was a big bra.s.s ring that turned a worn spindle. Leonard put his hand out toward it. They could hear the breathing. It was not a mistake. They were not going to be laughing about this in two minutes. It was breathing, human breathing. He got his fingers and thumb on the ring and lifted it without making a sound. Still holding on, he shuffled backward. Whatever was going to happen, he wanted there to be s.p.a.ce. The greater the distance, the more time he would have. These geometrical thoughts came in hard little packets, tightly bound. Time to do what? The question too was wrapped tight. He squeezed harder on the ring, and yanked the door open wide.

There was nothing. Only the blackness of a serge coat, and a smell, a miasma, sucked outward by the door's movement, of alcohol and pickle. Then the face, the man, was right down by the floor in a sitting position, with his knees drawn up, asleep. The sleep of a drunk. It was beer and Korn Korn and onions, or sauerkraut. The mouth hung open. Along the lower lip was a trail of whitish sc.u.m, interrupted in the center, at right angles, by a big black split of congealed blood. A cold sore, or a whack on the mouth from another drunk. They stepped back, out of the immediate path of the sweet stench. and onions, or sauerkraut. The mouth hung open. Along the lower lip was a trail of whitish sc.u.m, interrupted in the center, at right angles, by a big black split of congealed blood. A cold sore, or a whack on the mouth from another drunk. They stepped back, out of the immediate path of the sweet stench.

Maria whispered, ”How did he get in?” Then she answered herself. ”He could have taken a spare key. When he came last time.”

They stared in at him. The immediate danger was subsiding. What was taking the place of fear was disgust, and a sense of violation, householderly outrage. It did not seem an improvement. This was not how Leonard had expected to confront his enemy. He had a chance to size him up. The head was small, the hair was thinning on top and was of the sandy, tobacco-stained kind, almost greenish at the roots, that Leonard had noticed frequently around Berlin. The nose was big and weak-looking. Along its sides were ruptured vessels under tight s.h.i.+ny skin. Only the hands gave an impression of strength-raw red, and bony and big at the knuckles and joints. The head was small, and so were the shoulders. It was hard to tell with him slumped down, but this was beginning to look like a runt, a bully and a runt. The threat he had represented, the way he had knocked Maria around, had magnified him. The Otto of Leonard's thoughts had been a weathered Army tough, a survivor of a war Leonard had not been old enough to fight.

Maria pushed the wardrobe door shut. They turned out the bedroom light and went into the living room. They were too agitated to sit. Maria's voice grated with a bitterness he had never heard before.

”He's sitting on my dresses. He's going to p.i.s.s on them.”

This had not occurred to Leonard, but now she had spoken it appeared the most pressing problem. How were they to prevent this further violation? Lift him out, carry him to the toilet?

Leonard said, ”How are we going to get rid of him? We could get the police.” He had a brief bright thought of two Polizisten Polizisten carrying Otto out through the front door, and the rest of the evening resuming after a calming drink and a good laugh. carrying Otto out through the front door, and the rest of the evening resuming after a calming drink and a good laugh.

But Maria shook her head. ”They know about him, they even buy him beers. They won't come.” She was distracted. She muttered something else in German and turned away, changed her mind and turned back. She was going to speak, and thought better of it.

Leonard still held to the possibility of rescuing their celebration. It was simply a matter of getting rid of a drunk. ”I could carry him out, drag him down the stairs, put him out in the street. I bet he wouldn't even wake ...”

Maria's distraction was settling into anger. ”What was he doing in my bedroom, in our bedroom?” she demanded, as though Leonard had put him there. ”Why aren't you thinking about that? Why is he hiding in the wardrobe? Go on, tell me what you think.”

”I don't know,” he said. ”I don't care for now. I just want him out.”

”You don't care! You don't want to think about it.” She sat down suddenly on one of the kitchen chairs. She was by the heap of shoes piled up around the cobbler's last. She s.n.a.t.c.hed a pair and pulled them on.

It occurred to Leonard that they were about to have a row. It was their engagement night. It was not his fault and they were having a row. Or at least she was.

”It matters to me. I was married to this pig. It matters to me that when I am making love to you, this pig, this piece of human s.h.i.+t, is hiding in the cupboard. I know him. Do you understand that?”

”Maria-”

This time she raised her voice. ”I know him.” She was trying to light a cigarette and making a mess of it.

Leonard wanted one too. He said soothingly, ”Come on now, Maria ...”

She got hers alight and inhaled. It did not do her any good, she was still close to shouting. ”Don't talk to me like this. I don't want to be calmed down. And why are you so peaceful? Why aren't you angry? There is a man spying on you in your own bedroom. You should be breaking the furniture. And what are you doing? Scratching your head and saying nicely we should get the police!”

It seemed to him that everything she was saying was correct. He had not known how to react, he had not even thought about it. He did not know enough. She was older than him, she had been married. This was how you were when you found someone hiding in your bedroom. At the same time it irritated him, what she was saying. She was accusing him of not being a man. He had hold of the cigarettes now. He took one out. She was still going on at him. Half of it was in German. She had the lighter in her fist and she was barely conscious of him taking it away from her.

”You're the one who should be shouting at me,” she said. ”It's my husband, isn't it? Aren't you angry, just one little bit?”

This was too much. He had filled his lungs; now he expelled the smoke with a shout. ”Shut up! For G.o.d's sake, shut up for one minute!”

She was instantly quiet. They both were. They smoked their cigarettes. She remained in the chair. He went and stood as far away as was possible in the tiny room. Presently she looked at him and smiled an apology. He kept his face neutral. She had wanted him to be a little angry with her; well he would be, for a bit.

She spent some time stubbing out her cigarette and at first did not look up from what she was doing when she spoke. ”I'll tell you why he's in there. I'll tell you what Otto wants. I wish I didn't know, I hate knowing why. But, so ...” When she began again, her tone was brighter. She had a theory. ”When first you know Otto, he is kind. This was before the drinking began, seven years ago. At first he is kind. He does everything he can think of to please. This was when I married him. Then slowly you see that this kindness is possession. He's possessive, he thinks all the time you are looking at other men, or they are looking at you. He is jealous, he starts. .h.i.tting me, and making up stories, stupid stories about me and men, people he knows, or people in the street, it doesn't matter. He always thinks there's something. He thinks one half of Berlin has been to bed with me, and the other half is waiting. About this time the drinking gets worse. And finally, after all this time, I see it.”

She was reaching for another cigarette, but she shuddered and changed her mind. ”This thing, me and another man, he wants wants this. It makes him angry, but he wants it. He wants to watch me with another man, or he wants to talk about it, or he wants me to talk about it. It excites him.” this. It makes him angry, but he wants it. He wants to watch me with another man, or he wants to talk about it, or he wants me to talk about it. It excites him.”

Leonard said, ”He's ... he's a sort of pervert.” He had never actually said the word before. It was satisfying.

”Exactly so. He discovers about you, that's when he hits me. Then he goes away and thinks about it, and can't stop thinking about it. This is all his dreams come true, and this time it's real. He thinks and he drinks, and all the time he has a key from somewhere. Then tonight he drinks even more than usual, comes up here and waits ...”

Maria was beginning to cry. Leonard crossed the room and put his hand on her shoulder.

”He waits, but we are late and he falls asleep. Perhaps he was going to jump out while, when ... it was happening and accuse me of something. He still thinks he owns me, he thinks I am going to feel guilty ...”

She was crying too much to speak. She was fumbling in her skirt for a handkerchief. Leonard gave her his big white one from his trouser pocket. When she had blown her nose, she breathed deeply.

Leonard started to speak, but she spoke over him. ”I hate him, and I hate knowing about him.”

Then he said what he had been going to say. ”I'll take a look.” He went into the bedroom and turned on the light. To open the wardrobe he had to close the bedroom door behind him. He stared at the voyeur. Otto's position was unchanged. Maria called from next door. He opened the bedroom door an inch or so. ”It's all right,” he told her. ”I'm just looking at him.”

He continued to stare. Maria had actually chosen this man as her husband. That was what it came down to. She might say she hated him, but she had chosen him. And she had also chosen Leonard. The same taste exercised. He and Otto had both appealed to her, they had that in common-aspects of personality, appearance, fate, something. Now he did feel angry with her. She had bound him by her choices to this man whom she was pretending to disown. She was making out it was all an accident, as if it really had nothing to do with her. But this voyeur was in their bedroom, in the wardrobe, asleep, drunk, about to p.i.s.s on all the clothes because of the choices she had made. Yes, now he really was angry. Otto was her responsibility, her fault, he was hers. And she had the nerve to be angry with him, Leonard.

He turned out the bedroom light and went back into the living room. He felt like leaving. Maria was smoking. She smiled nervously.

”I'm sorry I shouted.”

He reached for the cigarettes. There were only three left. When he chucked the pack down, it slid to the floor, by the shoes.

She said, ”Don't be angry with me.”

”I thought that's what you wanted.”