A Man Lies Dreaming (26 page)

‘Wait!’ I said. ‘Mr Curtis Brown, I really must insist that the agency treat me with more respect. I have never even received payment of royalties due to me!’

‘Mr Wolf, there
are
no royalties.’ He sighed, looking suddenly old. ‘The manuscript was taken on, from the German publishers, in the good faith that it would be of general interest to contemporary readers as a view of the situation in Germany.’

‘Yes? Yes?’

‘Well, Mr Wolf, the belief was that National Socialism would win the elections of 1933, therefore catapulting Nazism into the international spotlight. This has failed to happen, and interest in the manuscript, accordingly, waned. I’m afraid there’s little to add, really. Interest currently is in material by or about Stalin, or Ernst Thälmann, the current German Chancellor. Your advance never earned out, Mr Wolf. In fact, I believe unsold copies of
My Struggle
will soon be pulped, and the title allowed to go out of print.’

‘Out of print!’ I said; deeply shocked.

He nodded sadly. ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said.

‘But that is an
outrage
! You must do something!’

‘I’m afraid there is little I can do, Mr Wolf.’ He patted me on the shoulder, awkwardly. ‘History has passed you by, old chap,’ he said. ‘But look on the bright side. You’re only – what? Fifty or so? – you’re young enough to start again. Write something new. Not another diatribe against the Jews. That stuff is out of fashion now. Of specialist interest, certainly, but not of a mass market appeal. Why not try your hand at a proper novel, Mr Wolf?’ He regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘detective tales are always popular.’

‘
Detective
tales?’ I said. I was so dumbfounded I could only echo him. ‘A work of
fiction
? Mr Curtis Brown, my book is a treatise on politics, on race; it draws from the most distinguished sources, not to mention my own autobiography – do you have any
idea
how many copies it has sold in Germany
alone
?’

‘Like I said, I am no longer involved in the day to day running of the agency,’ Curtis Brown said. ‘I wish you all the best, Mr Wolf. But a word of advice – don’t give up your day job just yet.’ And with that, and chuckling to himself, he walked off abruptly, joining a circle in which I could only identify Alan Milne, the author of a popular children’s book about a talking bear.

The outrage! The provocation!

For a few moments, I must confess, I wandered the party in a daze, seeing faces familiar to me only from their dustjackets’ photograph, yet paying them no attention. My book was to be
pulped
? My
book
?
My
book?

It was inconceivable!

Across the large room a makeshift bar had been set over cartons of books, and there I saw Isabella chatting to Lord Rothermere, the owner of the
Daily Mail
.

I needed fresh air.

Instead, as I turned, I caught a hint of perfume, the flash of gold, a breathy voice saying my name, over and over. I turned and there she was, the most real woman I had ever seen, as bright as the star that she was.

‘Leni?’ I said, in total disbelief. ‘Leni, is that
you
?’

The watcher in the dark was aware of the other watchers in the dark. There were so many eyes in the night. London was a city of watchers, all watching each other watching each other. It made him giddy just to think about it.

He knew so many secrets! He knew, for instance, that the detective was seeing the Jewish woman, and the shame of it was almost more than the watcher could bear. The detective, with a Jewess! The horror and the disgust it evoked in him were visceral, physical; he almost retched. He thought more and more of the woman, these days. She was a whore, as all Jewesses were. He thought of the knife, safe and hidden in his pocket, and how it might sing as it touched her flesh. He’d seen them, earlier, in her white car, together as they left. The whores on Berwick Street were more careful now. Some had moved away entirely, but not all. Business had to continue and this dark street was a foil for desire and a shelter for the men who frequented such creatures. Evil creatures, succubae. In ridding the world of them he was only easing their pain. And yet he could not lie, not to himself. He was not easing their pain. He was using them, if for a noble cause – using them to try and awaken the detective. Still: the whores were merely a means to an end.

The night was full of eyes and they made the watcher in the dark apprehensive. There were the American shadows, for instance. They were good; he had missed them entirely at first, and he suspected they may have seen him, the way shadows can see the other shadows in the night. He was worried about that. No one should have been able to see him. He watched one now, young but hard-faced, the way he melted into the night; the way he, too, was watching the detective’s office. Earlier the watcher saw him break in, with far more ease than the watcher himself had mustered. The American had slipped in as easily as a ghost. Now that he knew they were there the watcher found it easy enough to avoid them, but he had the feeling they had been there when … at the time of that unfortunate incident with the fat whore, and when he ran. He was reasonably sure he had shaken off any pursuers, overt or covert, by the time he changed his clothes in Soho Square, but he couldn’t be positive. They might still come for him. Or maybe they didn’t care. Or they even thought they could use him, now or later; but in that they were sorely wrong.

The detective was away with his Jew whore but sooner or later he would return and when he did the watcher would be ready. But not tonight. Tonight he only watched, and touched the knife, and he thought, suddenly and inexplicably, of the Alps, in winter, which he had never seen; and of the snow, falling and falling down on the slopes, until the whole world was white and pure.

*    *    *

In another time and place Shomer lies on the bunk bed as the snow falls outside; it falls and falls, as if, by its mere presence, it could silence the world. There is no work to be done in the infirmary, no hard labour, only time. And time is dangerous. It is a space in which to think. All is silent, until the doctor comes, walking past each patient, marking in his little black book. The doctor is a tall skeleton, with no face. He is dressed in a long black leather coat that rustles by his ankles as he walks. His pen is black and he examines each man with a cursory glance, checking each man against his number, in his little black book. A cross, a cross. And the men with the crosses rise without a murmur, without a murmur they walk to the gas chambers. The doctor like Death walks the rows of beds until at last he finds Shomer, and he gives him with a cursory glance and his diagnosis, what of his diagnosis? And he nods, once, and says, ‘You’re fit to leave,’ and so with these words Shomer is once again saved; for a little while longer he’s saved.

‘Wolf!’ She leaned in to the shorter man, kissing him on both cheeks. She smelled intoxicating to him. ‘Darling, where have you
been
? Have you simply dropped off the face of the
Earth
?’

‘
Leni? Leni Riefenstahl? My God!’ Wolf said
. He could not take his eyes off her, she was radiant, a star. ‘I thought you had been caught behind, in the Fall!’

‘You silly man,’ she said, laughing, ‘do you not read
Photoplay
? I’m in Hollywood now!’

‘Leni, but that is incredible! Let me look at you!’

He held her at arm’s length, admiring her cool Germanic glamour; she was the most perfectly Aryan woman he had ever known.

‘I remember seeing you speak in ’32,’ Riefenstahl said. ‘You were incredible, amazing. The most magnetic man I’d ever met.’

‘You’re too kind.’

‘And
My Struggle
! The book made a
tremendous
impression on me, Wolf.’

‘You were always faithful to me, Leni. To the cause. Remember Nuremberg?’

‘But of course.’ Her face clouded. ‘But what a terrible time it’s been. I was all set up, mein kleiner Wolf. Ready to film the glorious victory of National Socialism, its inexorable rise to power!’ For a moment she almost looked like she would cry. ‘I would have called my documentary film
Sieg des Glaubens
, the Victory of Faith. But it was
der Verlust des Glaubens
, the loss of faith, instead. How could Germany do this, Wolf? How could history turn out so different than it should have?’

Wolf shook his head. ‘Let us not speak of these things,
meine liebe
. I had thought many things impossible, yet here you are, and here I am—’

‘Isn’t London wonderful?’ Riefenstahl said. Wolf said, ‘I would not say it is wonderful, exactly.’

‘But Wolf, what do you do here?’

‘I’m a private investigator, Leni.’

For a moment she looked stunned; then she exploded in laughter. ‘A private eye? A shamus? A
dick
? You, Wolf?’

‘I believe in law, in order. There must always be order, Leni. There must always be an account.’

‘Then you may as well become an accountant,’ she said, dismissively. ‘Oh, Wolf! You were meant for better things. You were meant to shape the future in your hands, to mould it like clay! You break my heart.’

She was crying. Wolf put his arms round her. People looked their way, then looked away. ‘Come,
meine liebe
, come. Tell me of yourself. Tell me of Hollywood!’

‘Oh, Wolf.’ She pulled away, dried her tears with the tips of her fingers, began to tentatively smile. ‘I went to America shortly before immigration out of Germany became impossible. I had friends, a director who wanted to work with me. I’d been offered a job with the studios in the past, but had turned them down. This time I accepted. I work for the Warner brothers now, in California.’

‘Warner?’ Wolf said.

‘Jews,’ Leni said. She shrugged apologetically. ‘It is an industry dominated by Jews, Wolf. But it is what I do. We must all make a living.’

Wolf briefly thought of Isabella, on the other side of the room; pushed her out of his mind. ‘I do not blame you, Leni,’ he said. ‘It is as you said: we must all make a living.’

‘Oh, Wolf.’ Her eyes filled with tears again. ‘You don’t know how much it means to me, to hear you say that.’

‘Please! No more tears.’ He put his arm round her waist. ‘Let us go outside,’ he suggested.

She acquiesced. Outside the rain was still falling, but softly, a London drizzle. The poet Stephen Spender was arguing loudly with Christopher Isherwood. Isherwood ceased abruptly and was violently sick on the pavement. Spender held his head gently, encouraging him to ‘Let it all out!’ to loud cheers from the assembled smokers and drinkers. ‘Artists,’ Leni said, as though that explained it all.

They had shared a powerful attraction, though it was never more than that; there was never talk of Wolf leaving Eva, for instance. They were two strong and charismatic people and their auras intertwined, for a while, and what they did behind closed doors was nobody’s damn business.

‘But what are you doing here?’ Wolf said. ‘In London?’

‘You really don’t read the film magazines,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why that should surprise me – why should you? It’s just that, in Hollywood, everyone knows your business in advance, before even you do. It’s a city of hustlers, Wolf. Hustlers with big dreams.’

A small smile played on Wolf’s lips. Leni always brought out his softer side. ‘One could say the same of me.’

Leni laughed. ‘It’s a city of dogs,’ she said. ‘And you’re a wolf.’

Wolf was touched. ‘But you didn’t answer my question,’ he said. ‘What are you doing in London?’

‘We’re filming!’ Leni said. She saw the surprise on Wolf’s face and laughed again. ‘It’s a wonderful picture,’ she said. ‘It really is. It’s about Germany, in a way, you see. About the war. Everyone in America is convinced there is going to be a war, and soon.’

‘Yes,’ Wolf said, thinking of Virgil. ‘But I hate the idea of my Germany at war, even a Germany fouled and abused by communism.’

‘A war for the liberation of Germany,’ Leni said. ‘Surely that would be a good thing? Communism is an international threat.’

Wolf shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, slowly. ‘But I do not trust the Americans.’

Leni shrugged. She lit a cigarette, blew smoke as blue as a bruise into the cold humid air. ‘But tell me about your film,’ Wolf said. ‘Your … your
picture
.’

Like all actresses, she was essentially shallow and self-involved, with the attention span of a child, he thought. She liked bright things and dominant men and an easy life. But she was charming, enchanting, with that ill-defined quality of the movie star about her: as if she could only ever truly exist on the silver screen, beyond the reach of mere mortals. There was something of the
waldelfen
, of the fey, about the screen folk like Leni, something ethereal and strange.

‘Do you know the writer, F. Scott Fitzgerald?’ Leni said.

‘Not personally,’ Wolf said.

Leni smiled tolerantly. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘Scott was on contract to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, but Jack Warner stole him from them, and to be honest I think they were glad to be rid of him. He drinks, you see. And his health is quite poor as a consequence.’

‘A wonderful writer,’ Wolf said. ‘
The Great Gatsby
?’

‘Yes,’ Leni said. ‘Well, it is about Gatsby, you see. Jack – Mr Warner – he’s been after Scott for years, for a sequel.’