Out of Such Darkness (5 page)

After the party, Rachel and Jay strolled back along Ponds Lane. Ben trailed behind. Jay had drunk more than he’d meant to and already the next morning’s headache was germinating behind his eyes. He groaned and a thought bubbled up from the magma flowing thickly in his head. ‘I know why it was a Thursday night “do”.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s because they’re Jews – Jewish – whatever you’re meant to say. The Edlers. Tomorrow’s Friday. The Sabbath – is that the right word? It starts Friday night, doesn’t it? And Saturday’s the holy day so you can’t have it then. So, ipso facto, it has to be Thursday.’

‘Is it
all day
Saturday? Can’t they have a party on a Saturday night?’

They turned up the path to the front door. ‘Don’t think so. It’s all day isn’t it? Anyway, Howard – old man Edler – thought we were Jewish too. Asked me which Temple we’re going to.’

Rachel opened the screen-door and fiddled the key into the lock. ‘We
are
Jewish aren’t we?’

He suddenly had the urgent need to pee. ‘Well, yes, but, like I told him, we don’t do religion. We’re not practising.’

Rachel giggled. ‘No we’re very good at it.’ She followed this with a loud extended belch. The front door opened and they tumbled inside.

‘Jay! ’ Rachel interrupts his reverie. He’s forgotten the conversation. He drags himself back to the present and recalls that he had asked her about their Jewishness.

‘I’m happy as I am. I don’t see the need for it.’ She sits next to him. They’re on the sofa that, folded-out, had been their bed at the time of the party. She reaches up and strokes his head. ‘I can understand if you need something – religion whatever – after yesterday.’

Jay laughs. ‘I’m not going to let myself turn into a basket case.’

Are you sure about that?

Leo Plomer became my Berlin fixer. Within 48 hours I had moved into Frau Guttchen’s upper property at Uhlandstrasse 187 – a building I had dubbed ‘das gruene Haus’ – ‘The Green House’. As Leo suspected, my room – evidently once the living room of the apartment – was large enough for a double bed, a sitting area with a sofa and an easy-chair, and a work space in front of the window which overlooked Steinplatz.

The windows were strange affairs – stretched vertically and arched, framed in dun ceramic tiles. The space within was busy with green-painted wood frames set with glass and strange harem-style outward-hinged wooden blinds that had no glass behind them. Leo mentioned that I should notice that the architecture was clearly influenced by Rennie-Mackintosh. Frankly, at that time I neither knew nor cared what he was talking about. I had very adequate accommodation and it was a lot cheaper than the hotel.

Frau Guttchen even provided a breakfast of sorts with a slice of bread smeared with what she called butter. This was served with cheese and a slice of ham or sausage. It was a fixed meal for a negligible price and sitting down to breakfast was a good way of socialising with the other tenants and practising my German. There were four of them with, sadly, not a Sally Bowles character among them. They were all male because Frau Guttchen didn’t take women. According to Leo this was because the sort of single woman who needed this sort of room would be earning her living on her back. So the other four tenants were men. All respectable looking with administration jobs in one or other of the educational institutions strung out along Hardenbergstrasse.

After breakfast, I worked through the day, except for my stroll down to the square for coffee. From my desk, in moments of inactivity over the next month or so, I was able to watch the trees in Steinplatz bloom and then burgeon with leaf. In the evenings Leo and I would stroll along the railway arches, dodging the beggars, and take in a low-cost meal with beer or cheap wine at one of many cafes that catered for the less well-heeled Berliners.

It took Leo a surprisingly long time to mention girls until one night, over a plate of ham, cabbage and potato, he said, “Do you have a girlfriend in Blighty, Cam?” The building shook as a train thundered overhead. The candles gutted in unison, creating a theatrical effect of the building being tossed at sea.

“Nobody special.” Luckily I was able to focus on the forkful of mashed potato in front of my mouth.

“Me too. But you must need to … relax in the company of a woman some time.”

“Not especially.” I dared not look at him. “You?”

He seemed to be oblivious to my discomfort. “God, yes. In fact, I’m thinking of taking a stroll along Potsdamerstrasse tonight after we’ve finished here.”

“Where?”

“Potsdamer – the Bahnhof Bulowstrasse part. Where the … ladies are to be found. The ones you’d want to spend time with, anyway.”

“Right.”

“Mind you. It’s best not to hang around too late. The Brownshirts get a bit lively later on. Strutting up and down as if they own the place.” He looked round to make sure we weren’t being overheard. “Between you and me, if the National Socialists ever get into power, I’ll have to bail out of Germany.”

“Mmm.” I nodded as if I knew what he was talking about. I did understand fragments of the political state of the nation but it was mostly too complicated and transient to bother with. You would invest time in finding out which of the minority parties was forming the government and in what proportions and when you had it all off pat another election would come along and change everything. There seemed to be no prospect of one party taking control – not in the foreseeable future.

“Are you totally blind? My name, Leonard Plomer – what does that tell you?”

This was just the situation where my eyes go starey and my mind goes blank. I shook my head.

“My mother’s maiden name is Cohen,” he whispered. “Get it now?”

“Right. Yes, I see. But the National Socialists aren’t going to get in, are they?”

“Do you go around with your eyes shut? Why d’you think they have put out all these flags and march up and down all over the place? They’re in the middle of a Presidential election, for God’s sake.”

I took a drink of beer. “I did actually.”

“Did what?”

“Think the flags were all part of being in Berlin.”

“Sometimes, Cam, you strike me as terribly naive. What date did you arrive?”

“March 21st.”

“Well, a week before, the 13th, if I remember, they had an election which Hindenburg won easily but with just under 50%. So there’s a run off with one candidate dropping out. Basically, it’s Hindenburg against Hitler. The next round is April 10 – Sunday week.”

I shook my head. “Sorry, I don’t read the papers. I’m writing or teaching all day.”

“Look, all the action – the non-violent action, that is – happens on a Sunday. I’ll take you to a rally and you can see for yourself. OK?”

“Thank you.”

He stood up and handed me some notes to pay his share of the bill. “Glad to be of service. As for me, I’m heading into the arms of a young lady. Sure you don’t want to come?”

I shook my head.

The following Sunday morning, after Frau Guttchen’s special breakfast (which was the weekday one with the addition of a boiled egg) Leo led the way out onto Steinplatz. We waved at Ernst in the cigarette and newspaper kiosk – I had by now developed a taste for Enver Beys with the Turkish flavour – and being reminded of our habit we both stopped to light up. The sun was shining and we both sported brimmed felt hats set just-so. I was wearing a light-grey worsted suit with an open-necked white shirt. Leo, rather ostentatiously, wore dark blue but unmatching cotton jacket and trousers with a grey-striped, collarless shirt. This attire made him look for all the world like a train driver. We swung along Hardenbergstrasse under the Zoo Station bridge and on past the Kaiser Wilhelm Church.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“I’m taking you this way so as you remember it but there is a short cut.”

“To where? Short cut to where?”

“It’s a lake on the edge of the Tiergarten near here. Look.” he waved in the direction of a pagoda-roofed entrance with elephant statues standing guard on both sides. “The Zoo.”

I nodded. My shorter legs were struggling to keep up with Leo’s stride.

“We’ll cross the canal in a minute.”

Immediately we were on the far bank we turned left so that we were alongside the water. Looking across the canal beyond the fencing, I spotted an ostrich pecking at the ground while three long-horned deer stood impassively beyond. I could hear to our right the oompah-oompah of a Bavarian-style band.

“Hear that? It’s the Biergarten.” We were approaching another bridge. Leo pointed at it. “See that? It’s known round here as Rosa’s Bridge.”

“Rosa?”

Leo stopped, took a last drag of his cigarette and ground the stub into the gravel path with the sole of his canvas shoe. “You are dangerously ignorant of Berlin politics, Cam. Rosa Luxemburg. She and Karl Liebknecht declared Germany a communist republic in an attempted coup after the war. She was murdered and they say she was dumped into the canal from here.”

The music was louder as we turned right under the bridge and now the scene in front of us was a riot of black, red and white. Long vertically strung flags hung from flagpoles all around and swastika bunting swaddled the trees. There was a cordon of Brownshirts in front of us.

“Say nothing unless you’re spoken to,” Leo said out of the corner of his mouth.

It’s mid-morning on the day after 9/11 and Jay judges it’s time to tell the world that he’s alive. There’s a contact number scrolling across the bottom of the screen as soon as he turns on the TV. In the few moments that he watches, Jay establishes that Usama Bin Laden is behind the attacks and that all the airlines around the world are closed down. The skies are empty.

He calls the number. The woman who answers already sounds tired.

‘I think I ought to report that I’m
not
missing.’

‘Sorry?’

‘This is the line for missing persons, right?’

‘Yes, for people to report that somebody who may have been caught up in what happened has not come home.’

‘Well, I should have been in the building and I
have
come home.’

‘That’s good for you, sir, but I don’t think you need to tie up one of our lines telling me.’

‘Even if everybody thinks I was in the North Tower when it was hit?’

‘Do you work for Cantor FitzGerald by any chance, sir?’ There’s a change in the pitch of her voice and Jay pictures her moving the headset microphone closer to her mouth.

He marks her use of the present tense. ‘No, why?’

‘It’s just that Cantor FitzGerald is the biggest employer of people who work above the ninetieth floor. We’re anxious to trace anybody who worked there. Everybody is listed as missing. You being English …’

‘Is Straub, DuCheyne one of the companies on your list?’

She asks him to spell it. ‘It’s not on our list.’

‘We had offices in the North Tower – on the 95th floor.’

There is a heavy silence, a sigh, then: ‘I’m so sorry, sir.’

Jay shrugs and stiffens as if he’s receiving an unwelcome embrace and reaches for a chair. ‘My name is Halprin, Jay Halprin.’

‘I’m so sorry, Jay.’

He’s surprised that she uses his first name. Before he can react, the woman explains that because of the special nature of his call she’s going to pass him to her supervisor. When the man answers, Jay has to repeat his reason for calling.

‘And your company, Straub, DuCheyne …’

Jay presses an open palm to his forehead. Every muscle in his body is straining. His laboured breathing communicates his frustration.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Halprin. I was reading from Joy’s note.’

The man’s voice fades as Jay processes this information. The name of the woman he spoke to is Joy. They have a line for bereaved people to call and one of the women operating it is called Joy. Did they not think it might be a good idea if she used another name, just for the duration?

The MC sniggers.
What about Joy’s human rights? This is America in the 21st Century.

Jay tunes into the telephone receiver again. ‘… on the ninety-fifth floor. Is that right? We don’t have any North Tower survivors above ninety-one. How did you get out?’

‘I was never in. I was late.’

Silence again. Jay hears what he thinks is the man choking back a sob. ‘I’m going to have to be honest here, Jay. I don’t know what to say.’

‘That’s all right. Don’t say anything.’

The conversation proceeds with the man, Tony, asking for a full list of the other employees. Jay’s mind flashes to his customary arrival in the office. He throws down his briefcase onto the meeting couch and turns, knowing that Nancy has followed him in.

The MC gatecrashes the scene, pursuing Nancy. He presses close against her back with his tongue lolling, imitating her walk with a piston strut of his thighs. He licks his fingers and pretends they sizzle when he touches them to her sheathed backside. He turns to Jay:
Nancy! She’s put the wares on show for you since your first day. You’re not immune; I know you’ve filed away all the ‘indiscreet’ flashes of lace-edged bra as she leant forward to point out a detail on your papers. You’ve marvelled at the way her hinterland stretches the seams of her pencil-skirt when she sashays out of the room. You poor sap. Didn’t you know she was as prepared to have an after-work liaison as a puppy is prepared for a biscuit. She was showing you the green light and you didn’t even see the traffic signals.

It was something Jay innately knew to be true. He wipes away tears. It feels as if his Adam’s apple is choking him.

‘Mr Halprin? The other employees?’

Jay tells him what he knows: that there were seventeen of them including two full partners and they were all scheduled to be present in the office yesterday morning. The only way of escaping was to have been ill or late as he was. ‘Can you let me know if you hear that anyone else has survived, Tony?’

‘I have your number, Jay, and I’ll make that call, with pleasure. Do you think there’s a way we can get a list of employees?’

‘I’ll talk with the other partners’ relatives today and see if there are any papers in their homes.’

‘That would be good, Mr Halprin. We have you and your company logged. Thank you for calling.’

In the hiatus that follows, Jay senses the man swallowing the automatic final words he always hears as,
‘Have an iced A’
. A long time will pass before anybody says them again.

Jay decides to take a walk to work out what’s going on in his head. He has to make some sense of it before making the two calls he’s dreading. Rachel asks if she can join him. He weighs up what’s more important, clarifying how a fictional character has set up home in his brain or staying on the right side of Rachel.

Don’t even think about me. We can get cosy any time. Go with Rachel.

They turn left in front of the house, following Ponds Lane away from Route 22. Ignoring the entry to the park, they walk on through the Ponds estate of mock-colonial houses with their porches and dormers. There’s a gap on their right, through which they can see the lake with bulrushes on the margins. Small birds cling on with claws encircling the stems and their bodies whip as the rushes swirl. The breeze picks at the birds’ feathers with a violinist’s pizzicato touch.

Jay and Rachel turn into the park at its farthest entry from the house. The ozone freshness of clear-running water has the effect of de-fogging Jay’s mind. The sun is high over a row of poplar trees and he looks across expecting to see a pillar of smoke or dust. But there’s no sign of what they now call Ground Zero.

The MC’s voice is scolding:
Don’t go looking for torture. The dread will come to you at a time of its choosing.

Rachel reaches for his hand and entwines her fingers in his. ‘You know what you were saying about whether I think about us being Jewish? Well, if you need something like that …’

‘I know. You said.’

She snaps back immediately, her voice encouraging, upbeat. ‘You know that place we’ve been to on a Sunday – the beach where we had to pay.’

‘In Greenwich?’

‘That’s it, Greenwich Point Park. Well, at the pool one time, the girls told me how it’s free to get in after Labor Day. Do you remember we could see Manhattan from the beach there? The Empire State Building and … well, we could see the Twin Towers.’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps … I thought … you and I could go there this afternoon. Maybe take a wreath and float it out on the water. You know, for the people at the firm.’

The MC is skipping and clapping his fingertips under his chin.
A wreath for the people at the firm! Wreaths are good. I like wreaths.

Jay presses his forefingers against his temples as if he can bore through the hollows to relieve the pressure.

‘I know it’s a terrible Americanism, this thing they call “closure” but it could help. Quite honestly, doing anything, however futile …’

There is no ‘closure’ for you, Jay, actually. You survived. Rachel believes that ‘saying goodbye’ will bring you to a conclusion? I don’t hear the fat lady singing.

Involuntarily, Jay nods at the logic of the MC’s words. But he’s aware of Rachel’s tone of voice and persuaded by her concern. He takes her hand. ‘It’s a good idea, Rache’. She moves his hand to her waist. They finish the walk joined at the hip.

‘Hello? Is this Mrs DuCheyne?’

‘I shall ask her if she wants to take the call. Whom shall I say is calling?’

‘It’s Jay Halprin. I’m her husband’s English business partner.’

‘I shall tell her.’ Jay hears footsteps click-clacking on marble followed by two sets of heels sounding in unison accompanied by muffled conversation. Somebody lifts the receiver as the first voice is saying, ‘It can’t be him, then.’

‘This is Francois DuCheyne’s mother.’ This new voice has an accent. Jay is trying to place it – possibly South African? She curtails her vowels as if she has cut them with shears and she hammers her consonants into place.

‘I’m calling to offer my condolences, Mrs DuCheyne, to you of course but also to Mr DuCheyne’s wife.’

‘Thank you. She is here but I am sure you will understand that she is unable to take calls.’

‘Of course.’

‘And you are?’

‘My name is Jay Halprin. I work with your son.’ He emphasises the present tense.

‘My daughter-in-law remembers you but …’

‘I wasn’t in the building.’

Her voice emerges as a feeble, high-pitched whisper. ‘What?’

‘I missed my train. I was still Midtown when it happened.’ He counts to twenty beats before the response comes.

The voice regains its edge. ‘You have been very fortunate.’

The MC interrupts:
Fortunate is not the word I’d use.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry, I have to ask this because I haven’t heard from anybody. Is Mr DuCheyne missing?’

‘We are assuming he is. We have been told that there are no survivors from the ninety-first floor and above. We are thinking that the worst has happened. But we are planning to go to Ground Zero and post a “missing person” notice.’

‘Of course …’ Jay doesn’t know how to proceed – how to change the subject to the business. He decides to be direct. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs DuCheyne … but, because of your son’s … absence, there are things to do with the firm I need to attend to – perhaps with your son’s attorney?’

‘We don’t have to do that with any haste, though, do we?’

‘Perhaps only for the peace of mind of the employees – and their families.’

‘Let us leave it until next week, shall we? Call again then.’

‘I’ll do that. And I’m so sorry, Mrs DuCheyne.’

‘For what? You have nothing to reproach yourself for.’

But Jay is thinking, as he replaces the phone, that he would feel more comfortable had she rebuked him.

The call to Glen Straub’s house follows the same pattern except that he speaks to the presumed widow. Again, Jay is guarded and sticks to the present tense. Again, news of his survival seems to disconcert rather than be the cause for celebration. As he finishes, Rachel signals that she’s ready for their trip to the beach.

They stop at the florists in the nearby mall. The shop has sold its stock of wreaths. The lilies are expensive but Rachel purchases six and they head for Greenwich.

The kiosk is at the end of a two-hundred-yard-long causeway that joins mainland Greenwich to its residents’ beach park. The border-crossing barrier is raised and unmanned; anybody can enter now that the season has finished. Rachel drives the VW through and turns left into the car park that overlooks East Beach. The roof is down and they sit for while watching the steel-grey water lapping against the coarse sand. It looks as if the ocean is washing up to a construction site. There’s no wind but the maritime smell is tainted with the tang of smoke from a distant fire. Or is this Jay’s imagination?

‘Come on!’ Rachel opens the car-door and swings out her legs. Jay turns to the back seat and picks up the lilies. He sighs. He catches up and takes her hand as they reach the beach.

They turn right and head almost due south trudging along the strand between the timid waves and the high-water line. Their shoes make dry impressions as they head towards the wooded knoll about half a mile away which marks the end of the beach. They walk in silence but there is no silence for Jay:
Both the women you spoke to are bereaved but they haven’t admitted it yet. They can’t accept that Francois and Glen, leading lights in global brand management, are nothing but dust, leaving only you. As if the world needs a brand-recovery expert any more than it needed Straub DuCheyne. As if your life, Jay, was worth any more than the thousands of Americans who perished. As if there is any justice that you are here when the fire-fighters and police officers of Manhattan have lost their lives.

His head is down. The tears are starting. He slaps the flowers against his thigh.

‘Don’t do that!’ Rachel says and she releases his hand so she can climb up to join the sandy path that takes them past the salt-water lake and on towards the western end of the park.

As they emerge from the trees and the vista opens up, they stop. On the south-west horizon a column of smoke rises above the end of the smudged strip of land that is Manhattan Island. They can see the seat of the smoke. Jay’s chest constricts.

Which way was the wind blowing yesterday?
The MC asks.

‘Which way was the wind blowing yesterday?’ Jay repeats.

‘I don’t know. Why?’ Rachel answers.

Where did all that dust end up?

‘If it was this way …’ He looks down and shakes his head. His face is contorted as he swallows his sobs. One part of him is thinking he should kneel and sift the sand through his fingers, the other that he shouldn’t make an exhibition. His stiff upper lip wins and he stays upright. ‘Look!’ He points to where the beach ends and the land turns back on itself to form the tip of the promontory. A group is huddled there – possibly fifty strong. They stand at the extremity of the park, as near as they can get to the distant funeral pyre. ‘I’m not going down there,’ Jay says.

‘We can go a
bit
closer,’ Rachel says and she leads him along the path to a break on the left where there is a shallow beach. It’s dotted with random sculptured cairns where amateur artists have piled single rocks one upon the other until each tower is a millimetre below its tipping point. ‘Come on.’ She holds out her hand. He follows her and stands at the water’s edge.