Edge of Eternity (121 page)

‘Does that mean you will?’

‘Of course. It’s what I’m longing for.’

Dave felt as if the sun had risen. ‘Well, then, that’s what we’ll do,’ he said.

‘What are we going to do about Walli? I don’t want him to die.’

‘I have an idea about that,’ Dave said. ‘I’ll tell you after the show.’

‘Go on stage, they’re waiting for you.’

‘I know.’ He kissed her mouth softly. She put her arms around him and hugged him. ‘I love you,’ he said.

‘I love you, too, and I was mad to ever let you go.’

‘Don’t do it again.’

‘Never.’

Dave went out. He ran across the grass and up the steps to where the rest of the band were waiting in the wings. Then he was struck by a thought. ‘I forgot something,’ he said.

Buzz said irritably: ‘What? The guitars are on stage.’

Dave did not answer. He ran back to his dressing room. Beep was still there, sitting down, wiping her eyes.

Dave said: ‘Shall we get married?’

‘Okay,’ she said.

‘Good.’

He ran back to the scaffold.

‘Everyone okay?’ he said.

Everyone was okay.

Dave led the band on to the stage.

*  *  *

Claus Krohn asked Rebecca to have a drink after a meeting of the Hamburg parliament.

She was taken aback. It was four years since she had ended their love affair. For the past twelve months, she knew, Claus had been seeing an attractive woman who was the membership officer of a trade union. Claus, meanwhile, was an increasingly powerful figure in the Free Democratic Party, to which Rebecca also belonged. Claus and his girlfriend were a good match. In fact, Rebecca had heard that they were planning to get married.

So she gave him a discouraging look.

‘Not at the Yacht Bar,’ Claus added hastily. ‘Somewhere less furtive.’

She laughed, reassured.

They went to a bar in the town centre not far from the city hall. For old times’ sake, Rebecca asked for a glass of Sekt. ‘I’ll come right to the point,’ Claus said as soon as they had their drinks. ‘We want you to stand for election to the national parliament.’

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I would have been less surprised if you’d made a pass at me.’

He smiled. ‘Don’t be surprised. You’re intelligent and attractive, you speak well, and people like you. You’re respected by men of all parties here in Hamburg. You have almost a decade of experience in politics. You’d be an asset.’

‘But it’s so sudden.’

‘Elections always seem sudden.’

The Chancellor, Willy Brandt, had engineered a snap election, to be held in eight weeks’ time. If Rebecca agreed, she could be a member of parliament before Christmas.

When she got over the surprise, Rebecca felt eager. Her passionate desire was for the reunification of Germany, so that she and thousands more Germans could be reunited with their families. She would never achieve that in local politics – but as a member of the national parliament she might have some influence.

Her party, the FDP, was in a coalition government with the Social Democrats led by Willy Brandt. Rebecca agreed with Brandt’s ‘Ostpolitik’, trying to have contact with the East despite the Wall. She believed this was the quickest way to undermine the East German regime.

‘I’ll have to talk to my husband,’ she said.

‘I knew you’d say that. Women always do.’

‘It will mean leaving him alone a lot.’

‘This happens to all spouses of members of parliament.’

‘But my husband is special.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I’ll talk to him this evening.’ Rebecca stood up.

Claus stood too. ‘On a personal note . . .’

‘What?’

‘We know each other quite well.’

‘Yes . . .’

‘This is your destiny.’ He was serious. ‘You were meant to be a national politician. Anything less would be a waste of your talents. A criminal waste. I mean it.’

She was surprised by his intensity. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

She felt both elated and dazed as she drove home. A new future had suddenly opened up. She had thought about national politics, but had feared it would be too difficult, as a woman and as the wife of a disabled husband. But, now that the prospect was more than a fantasy, she felt eager.

On the other hand, what would Bernd do?

She parked the car and hurried into their apartment. Bernd was at the kitchen table in his wheelchair, marking school essays with a sharp red pencil. He was undressed and wearing a bathrobe, which he could manage to put on himself. The most difficult garment, for him, was a pair of trousers.

She told him immediately about Claus’s proposition. ‘Before you speak, let me say one more thing,’ she said. ‘If you don’t want me to do this, I won’t. No argument, no regrets, no recriminations. We’re a partnership, and that means neither of us has the right to change our life unilaterally.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But let’s talk about the details.’

‘The Bundestag sits from Monday to Friday about twenty weeks of the year, and attendance is compulsory.’

‘So you’d spend about eighty nights away in an average year. I can cope with that, especially if we get a nurse to come in and help me in the mornings.’

‘Would you mind?’

‘Of course. But no doubt your nights at home would be all the sweeter.’

‘Bernd, you’re so good.’

‘You have to do this,’ he said. ‘It’s your destiny.’

She gave a little laugh. ‘That’s what Claus said.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

Her husband and her ex-lover both thought that this was what she should do. She thought so too. She felt apprehensive: she believed she could do it, but it would be a challenge. National politics was tougher and nastier than local government. The press could be vicious.

Her mother would be proud, she thought. Carla ought to have been a leader, and probably would have been, if she had not got trapped in the prison of East Germany. She would be thrilled that her daughter was fulfilling her defeated aspiration.

They talked it over for the next three evenings then, on the fourth, Dave Williams arrived.

They were not expecting him. Rebecca was astonished to see him on the doorstep, wearing a brown suede coat and carrying a small suitcase with a Hamburg airport tag. ‘You could have called!’ she said in English.

‘I lost your number,’ he replied in German.

She kissed his cheek. ‘What a wonderful surprise!’ She had liked Dave back in the days when Plum Nellie was playing on the Reeperbahn, and the boys had come to this apartment for their only square meal of the week. Dave had been good for Walli, whose talent had flowered in the partnership.

Dave came into the kitchen, set down his suitcase, and shook hands with Bernd. ‘Have you just flown in from London?’ Bernd asked.

‘From San Francisco. I’ve been travelling twenty-four hours.’ They spoke their usual mixture of English and German.

Rebecca put coffee on. As she got over her surprise, it occurred to her that Dave must have some special reason for this visit, and she felt anxious. Dave was explaining to Bernd about his recording studio, but Rebecca interrupted him. ‘Why are you here, Dave? Is something wrong?’

‘Yes,’ said Dave. ‘It’s Walli.’

Rebecca’s heart missed a beat. ‘What’s the matter? Tell me! He’s not dead . . .’

‘No, he’s alive. But he’s a heroin addict.’

‘Oh, no.’ Rebecca sat down heavily. ‘Oh, no.’ She buried her face in her hands.

‘There’s more,’ said Dave. ‘Beep is leaving him. She’s pregnant, and she doesn’t want to raise a child in the drug scene.’

‘Oh, my poor little brother.’

Bernd said: ‘What is Beep going to do?’

‘She’s moving into Daisy Farm with me.’

‘Oh.’ Rebecca saw that Dave looked embarrassed. He had resumed his romance with Beep, she guessed. That could only make things worse for her brother. ‘What can we do about Walli?’

‘He needs to give up heroin, obviously.’

‘Do you think he can?’

‘With the right kind of help. There are programmes, in the States and here in Europe, that combine therapy with a chemical substitute, usually methadone. But Walli lives in Haight-Ashbury. There’s a dealer on every corner, and if he doesn’t go out and score, one of them will knock on his door. It’s just too easy for him to lapse.’

‘So he has to move?’

‘I think he has to move here.’

‘Oh, my goodness.’

‘Living with you, I think he could kick the habit.’

Rebecca looked at Bernd.

‘I’m concerned about you,’ Bernd said to her. ‘You have a job and a political career. I’m fond of Walli, not least because you love him. But I don’t want you to sacrifice your life to him.’

‘It’s not for ever,’ Dave put in quickly. ‘But if you could keep him clean and sober for a year . . .’

Rebecca was still looking at Bernd. ‘I won’t sacrifice my life. But I might have to put it on hold for a year.’

‘If you turn down a Bundestag seat now, the offer might never be renewed.’

‘I know.’

Dave said to Rebecca: ‘I want you to come with me back to San Francisco and persuade Walli.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow would be good. I’ve already made flight reservations.’

‘Tomorrow!’

But there was really no choice, Rebecca thought. Walli’s life was at stake. Nothing compared with that. She would put him first; of course she would. She hardly needed to think about it.

All the same, she felt sad about turning down the thrilling prospect that had been so briefly held out to her.

Dave said: ‘What did you say, a moment ago, about the Bundestag?’

‘Nothing,’ Rebecca said. ‘Just something else I was thinking of doing. But I’ll come with you to San Francisco. Of course I will.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you.’

Rebecca stood up. ‘I’ll pack a bag,’ she said.

50

Jasper Murray was depressed. President Nixon – liar, cheat and crook – was re-elected by a huge majority. He won forty-nine states. George McGovern, one of the most unsuccessful candidates in American history, got only Massachusetts and the District of Columbia.

Worse, as new revelations about Watergate scandalized the liberal intelligentsia, Nixon’s popularity remained strong. Five months after the election, in April 1973, the President’s approval rating stood at 60–33.

‘What do we have to do?’ Jasper said frustratedly to anyone who would listen. The media, led by the
Washington Post
, revealed one presidential crime after another as Nixon scrambled desperately to cover up his involvement in a break-in. One of the Watergate burglars had written a letter, which the judge read out in court, complaining that the defendants had been subjected to political pressure to plead guilty and remain silent. If this was true, it meant that the President was trying to pervert the course of justice. But voters seemed not to care.

Jasper was in the White House briefing room on Tuesday, 17 April when the tide turned.

The room had a slightly raised stage at one end. A lectern stood in front of a backdrop curtain that was coloured a television-friendly shade of blue-grey. There were never enough chairs, and some reporters sat on the tan carpet while cameramen jostled for space.

The White House had announced that the President would make a brief statement but take no questions. The reporters had assembled at three o’clock. It was now half past four and nothing had happened.

Nixon appeared at four forty-two. Jasper noticed that his hands seemed to be shaking. Nixon announced the resolution of a dispute between the White House and Sam Ervin, chair of the Senate committee that was investigating Watergate. White House staff would now be allowed to testify to the Ervin Committee, although they might refuse to answer any question. It was not much of a concession, Jasper thought. But surely an innocent president would not even be having this argument.

Then Nixon said: ‘No individual holding, in the past or present, a position of major importance in the administration should be given immunity from prosecution.’

Jasper frowned. What did this mean? Someone must have been demanding immunity, someone close to Nixon. Now Nixon was publicly refusing it. He was hanging someone out to dry. But who?

‘I condemn any attempts to cover up, no matter who is involved,’ said the President who had tried to shut down the FBI investigation; and then he left the room.

Press secretary Ron Ziegler mounted the podium to a storm of questions. Jasper did not ask any. He was intrigued by the statement about immunity.

Ziegler now said that the announcement just made by the President was the ‘operative’ statement. Jasper immediately recognized that as a weasel word, deliberately vague, intended to obscure the truth rather than to clarify it. The other journalists in the room saw it too.

It was Johnny Apple of the
New York Times
who asked whether that implied all previous statements were inoperative.

‘Yes,’ said Ziegler.

The press corps were furious. This meant they had been lied to. For years they had been faithfully reporting Nixon’s statements, giving them the credence due to the leader of the nation. They had been taken for fools.

They would never trust him again.

Jasper went back to the office of
This Day
, still wondering who had been the real target of Nixon’s statement about immunity.

He got the answer two days later. He picked up the phone to hear a woman say, in a trembling voice, that she was secretary to White House counsel John Dean, and she was calling senior reporters in Washington to read a statement from him.

This in itself was bizarre. If the President’s legal advisor wanted to say something to the press, he should have done so through Ron Ziegler. Clearly there was a rift.

‘Some may hope or think that I will become a scapegoat in the Watergate case,’ the secretary read. ‘Anyone who believes that does not know me . . .’

Ah, thought Jasper, the first rat abandons the sinking ship.

*  *  *

Maria was amazed by Nixon. He had no dignity. As more and more people realized what a fraud he was, he did not resign, but stayed in the White House, blustering and obfuscating and threatening and lying, lying, lying.