Gossip from the Forest (9 page)

He beat at the door and dribbled down the woodwork.

Erzberger:
People get so depressed after influenza. I remember Paula …

Maiberling:
For Christ's sake don't be a simpleton.

Erzberger:
I'm sorry.

Maiberling:
Do you know women never blow their heads off? Ask any coroner. They prize their heads. They prize their eyes, their lips.

Erzberger:
I'm sorry, Alfred.

Maiberling:
Very few, anyhow. Very few shoot themselves in the head. Not … certainly
not
… Inga's type.

The plumbing sighed resonantly. Perhaps the ghosts were there of invalids who had died for lack of Spa water in the last four summers.

Erzberger:
What happened then, Alfred? Go on. What happened?

Maiberling:
This. This happened. Her husband runs an army corps in Latvia. A hypnotic bastard—not with women, with boys, with breathless damn subalterns. And Inga and I were not always … not always secretive. So the valiant corps commander's honor was in question!

Erzberger:
Try to be quiet, Alfred.

For the count was not chewing the partitions any more but yelling across the tiled spaces.

Maiberling:
She was shot by
his boys, his
subalterns on leave.

Erzberger:
Can you be sure, Alfred?

The count waved a fist at him.

Maiberling:
I verified it. Do you think I wouldn't verify it? For Inga?

Erzberger:
But were they seen? The housekeeper … did she see them?

Maiberling:
What do
you
think? Their training! Of course she didn't see them.

Oh Christ, he'll shoot some staff officer. For his dead love's sake.

Erzberger:
Maybe you should try to understand … the depression women suffer … they more than us.…

Maiberling:
Damn you, Matthias. How dare you humor
me
…

Erzberger:
You ought to wash the muck from your face.

Maiberling:
… how dare you treat
me
as a case!

Erzberger lost his temper and spread his thick legs.

Erzberger:
All right. What are you going to do then? Run wild upstairs? That's what worries me. You behave like a case.

The count, upright, snatched his overcoat from its hook behind the lavatory door. Sewn into its bulk, the weapon. He'll threaten me, thought Erzberger, he's quite mad. But the count walked past him, laid the overcoat on a chair by the wall and poured water for washing. He spoke in a near whisper, a mere dry flutter at the back of the throat.

Maiberling:
I know about women. I spit on all your chat about depression.

Matthias could feel the cold under his armpits; evaporating fright.

Erzberger:
Alfred, we're not private men now. We're on essential business.

Maiberling:
Are we? Four municipal cretins could manage it.

He began drinking handfuls of the water he was meant to wash his face in.

Erzberger:
Is that your attitude?

Maiberling:
If you like.

All the way upstairs Erzberger debated with himself. Will I exchange him? And, in this military ashram, for whom?

ERZBERGER FALLS UNDER SIEGE

In the lobby he saw Vanselow, still waiting where he had been left.

Erzberger:
You must forgive me.

Vanselow:
Not at all. You're an important man.

A herd of gold-buttoned staff officers moved across the lobby toward them. Soon they were encircled. An intelligence officer, about forty years old, made them a valedictory speech and offered any of his colleagues Erzberger might care for as aides.

The solemnity of the event, fat Erzberger and deep-blue Vanselow in the middle, was debased by a loud young man—a transport officer, it seemed—who argued by the elevator door with General von Winterfeldt.

Transport Officer:
Four, yes, sir. But what you ask would practically require General Groener and the Field Marshal to walk out to the château each morning.

Von Winterfeldt:
I must insist. I am the sole army plenipotentiary. I will have special instructions from General Groener that I must read and consider in private.

Transport Officer:
If you'd be so kind as to let one aide travel with you.

Von Winterfeldt:
I wouldn't expect any of my colleagues to travel under those conditions.

Transport Officer:
I can't provide five limousines till noon.

Von Winterfeldt:
Come now. You must do better. Five. And before noon.

The bland faces corraled Herr Erzberger. Many of them spectacled, and in the lenses only a small glint of their knowledge of the landslide. Choose any of us. But which of you is an assassin?

It was beyond Matthias, or so he thought. He thought Groener must choose the aides, arrange the cars. If necessary, get the count out of the lavatory.

Erzberger:
Excuse me.

He broke his way out of the siege, abandoning the Tirpitz medalist. Near the stairwell the count, his arm around a young cavalry officer. His breath reeked but he was suddenly blithe.

Maiberling:
Matthias. This is young von Helldorf. Great horseman. Steeplechaser.

The boy bowed.

Maiberling:
He wants to come.

Erzberger:
A horseman?

Von Helldorf:
Sir.

Foch was horse artillery. Weygand cavalry. So, no doubt, von Winterfeldt. Now this young man. A clutch of hippophiles. To close the war that had spewed up the image of the martial horse.

Erzberger:
I have to see General Groener. If he agrees …

Maiberling:
It'll be quite a picnic.

He was on his mad swing again, from terror to gaiety. But if he's jettisoned, Erzberger thought, I'll have no one with me that I know. God help me. For I find Maiberling's madness homely this terrible day.

By the elevator door the transport officer surrendered too hysterically to old von Winterfeldt.

Transport Officer:
All right then. Five cars. Five it shall be.

Von Winterfeldt:
And I say, you must make it soon. History, you know, is in the balance.

THE CARS MOVE OFF

At noon five limousines arrived and halted in convoy outside the front door of the Grand Hôtel Britannique. Rain polished the imperial eagles on their front doors; those parlous birds.

The Field Marshal had visited the lobby to bid the delegates good-by. He held Erzberger close to him by the elbows. The clumsy emotion of the old man, whose breath was in any case acrid with fright, made Erzberger blink.

On the wet pavement an officer told them that the first car carried a guide and the last was for aides: the count's von Helldorf and a secretary called Blauert Maiberling asked loudly if he could travel with Erzberger. Though secretly unhappy, Erzberger agreed. He hadn't wanted the count's company to that extent, had been looking forward to solitude behind the blurred panes. As of right von Winterfeldt took possession of his vehicle and, looking about him perhaps for any acceptable companion, forlorn Captain Vanselow of his.

There were blankets in the steamed-up interiors.

Maiberling:
Excellent.

He wrapped himself up and sat grunting with a sort of animal satisfaction. Not thinking of faceless Inga now, in the wet earth.

They jolted off down the polite streets of Spa. Most houses seemed shuttered. The Belgians indoors, waiting for deliverance. Soon they'd be resort people again. Soon they'd have an off-season and a season. At dark noon the mute houses wavered beyond Erzberger's rainy window in expectation of a restored clientele.

Cabbage fields appeared, sleeping gray lanes of vegetables. Erzberger sat back and shut his eyes.

Jesus, you know this place, have been here; it's the grove of olives, crab apples and agonies. What will you do for me?

In that moment however, the leading car developed a steering fault and slewed toward a high farmhouse wall. The row of impact split Erzberger's devout rest.

Roadblock, he thought. Ambush. Some imperialist remnant
are
set on stopping us. He suffered an image of blood-bespattered automobile upholstery.

Then his own car crashed. Blanketed, hat in hand, he flew against the glass partition beyond which the driver himself had thrust his head through the glass of the windscreen.

In the long silence there was only the hiss of rain and shattered radiators.

Maiberling:
Jesus.

Erzberger clung to the jump seat as to the only secure fabric.

Von Helldorf opened the door and made compassionate noises. He handed them out. They stood numbly with their mouths open to the low clouds. The first car had mounted a grass embankment and seemed about to topple.

Maiberling:
It isn't much fun, is it? Road accidents. It isn't much fun.

Erzberger's head was still floating high above flat Belgium.

Erzberger:
Why don't you shoot the driver, eh? Why not?

The count seemed somberly offended.

General von Winterfeldt had stepped down from his vehicle and marched up to them.

Von Winterfeldt:
We can send a driver back for two more vehicles. These are quite finished. While we wait you two gentlemen must feel free to share my car.

Both Erzberger and Maiberling had begun to accede and limp toward the general's limousine. Then Erzberger stopped. To him it seemed that by physical effort he forced his gaseous brain back under the tight control of his skull.

Erzberger:
We have to get on. We have to get away from Spa.

Von Winterfeldt:
That isn't reasonable. Such cramping.

Erzberger:
It isn't a ride through the Bois de Boulogne.

All the time he was taking account of himself. That concussion, he thought, I shall never get over. All my talents are lying about loose in my too-big body. All off their shelves. Tangled, tangled.

Von Winterfeldt:
I need a vehicle to myself.

Erzberger:
Count Maiberling and I will share the first car with the guide. You, General, will either ride with Captain Vanselow or remain here.

The count was kicking at shards of glass with the toe of his shoe. Frankly desolated.

Maiberling:
A disaster this. An omen. A rotten omen.

Erzberger:
Nonsense. They say in Swabia broken glass means good luck.

Maiberling:
Fuck what they say in Swabia.

The general coughed.

Von Winterfeldt:
You leave no choice. I shall join Captain Vanselow. But I cannot pretend to give General Groener's instructions full attention under these circumstances.

So it was done. Three cars edged round the wreckage and whirred away to the east. Two bloody-headed drivers were left standing numb on the wet pavis. With accidents to report.

WEMYSS READS HIS DOSSIERS

At Senlis they had boarded the armistice train.

The First Sea Lord found his cabin spacious. He called to George Hope next door.

Wemyss:
Not bad, George.

Hope:
No. Splendid. Just the same … there's nowhere to bathe.

Wemyss:
Isn't there?

Hope:
No. Nowhere. Marriott's done a thorough search. Just those finicking little washbasins. Art Nouveau.

Wemyss:
Get Bagot to arrange something when we arrive. Eh? A tub …

Hope:
Maybe the Marshal has one in his wagon-lit.

Wemyss:
Maybe. Can't very well ask though. If he hasn't, criticism's implied.

He took a wing collar from his suitcase and rubbed it with his thumb, speaking dreamily.

Wemyss:
A bit musty, the old boy. I noticed it in the office.

Hope:
Weygand too.

Wemyss:
Oh yes. An eau-de-Cologne boy, that one. Long time since I unpacked my own kit, George.

Hope:
Would you like help, sir? Ring for someone.

Wemyss:
No, just reflecting. In any case, can't have those bilingual stewards hanging about.

He caressed a shirt.

It was so quiet in Senlis station that you could hear the shunters calling to each other through the rain.

Wemyss:
You've got those dossiers?

Hope:
Yes sir.

Wemyss:
Remiss of Political Section. Been waiting on them a week. Bring them in here, will you? I've an excellent reading desk.

Hope:
I as well, sir.

Wemyss:
Please call me Rosy.

Hope:
Rosy.

Wemyss:
Hate working alone. Bring in Marriott will you? Very much concerns him.

Waiting, dinner shirt laid out on the bed, Wemyss made a hole in the condensation on his window. He saw two old women sitting on quai three beneath furry lamplight.

One nattered, the other nodded, nodded, nodded. Telling and heeding some eternal woman's story: first he says he loves and must have you, then you bud with children and he's off with low women, so next you're both old and veins show and he dies of his excesses and your womb is shrunken to a split pea and your sons' sons are imperiled in strange wars. A tattered man in a veteran's cap limped over the tracks pushing a handcart full of brushwood. Wemyss felt a schoolboy's pleasure at seeing while unseen.

If those people knew what this train was for, the lame man would walk straight, the old women hug and dance quaint measures. The Château-Thierry local would hoot all the way to Senlis and the driver and all the passengers get drunk in the railway bar. It would be Breughel stuff.

He shivered. Hope and Marriott were at the door.

Hope:
Cold, sir?

Wemyss:
Not exactly the Gulf of Arabia, George. Is it?

Hope:
Indeed not.

Marriott came forward with his face of grammar-school-prefect reliability.