The Moment (62 page)

That’s the great aspiration behind everything: the vision of life as a happy, positive enterprise. Free from tragedy and pettiness and meanness and disappointment. That too is the great hope behind love: total fulfillment with another person who becomes your bulwark against everything that human existence can throw in your path, or, at the very least, can diminish the pain of it all.

* * *

Back in Berlin. We told Alaistair about our engagement in Paris. He insisted on champagne and looked surprisingly touched by our news. I sense he still misses Mehmet.

I was very nervous before meeting the American consul today. Terrified, actually.

But the meeting was straightforward. The consul was a woman. Not someone who smiled that much, but she asked all the appropriate questions. About the reasons for my expulsion from the GDR. About the death of my husband. About how long Thomas and I had known each other. At the end she said she saw no reason why my application wouldn’t be approved—but tempered this with the statement that it wasn’t her decision.

Afterward, outside, I almost fell apart I was so tense, so frightened. I explained it away to Thomas as my ingrained fear of all bureaucracy. He kept trying to reassure me that nothing would go wrong, that there was no chance they would turn me down for a green card.

But my nervousness was rooted in something else.

I’m pregnant. I bought one of those tests yesterday, and while everyone else was out at lunch, I went into the bathroom at work and peed on the little chemical strip. Then I waited and watched as the paper turned from gray to telltale pink.

I must say that I am ecstatic. But it’s a jubilation tempered by the understanding that I must break the news to Thomas at the appropriate moment, explain it away by saying I forgot to bring my pills with me to Paris, and hope that he won’t feel too aggrieved by it all. If he does . . . if he feels I’ve entrapped him . . .

But it’s what he wants. He’s told me that several times. And he knows we will do this all wonderfully together, that having this child will be the source of so many good things, of such happiness.

Of course, I was relieved that conception happened during that six week window when Haechen was away. I couldn’t have come off the pill if I was still being forced to service him.

I mention this because I did have to see Haechen last night. There was a card awaiting me in Der Schlüssel, telling me where to meet him. One of his usual cheap hotels. As soon as I was in the door—and he was inside me—he said:

“So you ran off with your boyfriend to Paris.”

I said nothing. He grabbed my face.

“You are never to leave Berlin again without my permission. Do you understand that?”

I nodded, knowing that the only reason I was letting him fuck me right now was to let it seem as if all was just business as usual, that nothing was untoward. I wanted to make my move now—but knew it wasn’t the right setting, the right moment. So I just lay there, waiting for him to finish. Then:

“We’re going away for a weekend,” he said.

“I see.”

“Hamburg. I have business there. But I want you along.”

“Am I part of this business?”

“You will see. We travel separately, the day after tomorrow. We will stay in different hotels. But I will come and find you. There is an envelope on the dresser with your train ticket and the name of the hotel. Bring your typewriter with you. You will need to do some translation work while there. Then you will have to bring some things back to a contact of mine in Berlin. And I know that Radio Liberty is about to interview those two traitorous dancers who just defected. If you can get me the transcript of that interview well before it is broadcast, it might just be the coup that wins you back your son.”

* * *

The plan is now moving apace. Being out of town is perfect. Hamburg even more so. So too are the separate hotel rooms—and the fact that in the envelope are two hundred deutsche marks to cover my hotel costs and any basic expenses, as well as a false set of identity papers, stating that my name is Hildegard Hinckel. I have now bought everything I need for the trip—and did it in a shop on the other side of the city, away from my own neighborhood. I have told Thomas that Herr Wellmann’s usual translator is off sick and that Herr Direktor has insisted I come along with him on a last-minute trip to Hamburg, where he’s giving some lecture at a big conference and needs somebody to do simultaneous translation for him. Thomas seemed to buy this. But then he told me he’s the man who’s been asked to interview Hans and Heidi Braun, and that he’ll be working on the transcript this weekend. All right, I hate doing this one more time. If all goes to plan in Hamburg, I can return to Berlin, see my beloved Sunday night, quickly photograph the transcript while he sleeps, then leave it with Haechen’s contact, and then . . .

By the end of the week I will be Thomas’s wife. And with these much-craved documents now in their hands, who’s to say they mightn’t relent?

Thomas commented on the fact that this is the first time we have ever been apart since everything started between us.

And it will be the last time we are ever apart.

* * *

I was booked on the 12:13 from Berlin Zoo Station to the Hamburg Hauptbahnhof. I changed my ticket and took the 9:47. There was a strange moment in the journey when we reached the western border of Berlin and reentered GDR territory. The border delineated by armed soldiers and barbed wire. The train didn’t stop—but actually seemed to gain speed. Perhaps this was something the GDR authorities insisted upon—the train from West Berlin to Hamburg traveling at a certain agreed high speed through their territory so nobody can attempt to jump on it. Has there ever been a state so obsessed with keeping its citizens permanently corralled and controlled?

Hamburg. The hotel was in the red light district. The Reeperbahn. This too was good news. They let me check in early. The hotel was cheap and shabby and very transient. Hookers work out of here. People come and go all the time. The sort of place where the staff are told not to notice anything—unless it involves nonpayment of a bill—and to never ask questions or tell anything to the police.

I went for a walk in the Reeperbahn. I explored side streets and back alleys. I worked out a scenario in my head. I went back to the hotel. My sense of anxiety mounted. I smoked and studied a map of the city and its U-Bahn system. I waited for his call. It didn’t come until seven that night. He said he was in a bar across the road.

“Do you want to come up?” I ask.

“Later. I want to eat first.”

Perfect.

“I’ll be right down.”

I picked up my daypack that I had brought along in my suitcase. It was unseasonably chilly, so I put on the denim jacket I traveled in, checking my pockets. All was ready.

As I left the hotel I noted that no desk clerk was there to see me go out. I crossed the street. I entered the bar. It was packed. Haechen was standing at the counter, watching a naked woman on a nearby stage sticking a banana inside herself.

“What do you think?” Haechen asked, nodding toward the stage show.

I just shrugged, then said: “I’m hungry.”

“We can eat here. They have food.”

“I found a little Italian place not far away. Supposed to have the best pizzas in Hamburg.”

“When did you do that?”

“When I arrived.”

“I ordered you to go straight to the hotel.”

“And I felt like stretching my legs, so I took a little walk. And found this restaurant. And saw in the window some framed review from some newspaper saying . . .”

“I don’t like you being insubordinate and disobeying my clear instructions.”

“It was a ten-minute stroll, nothing more. I promise it won’t happen again. But this restaurant does look good.”

“Expensive?”

“No.”

I could see Haechen thinking this over.

“All right. But after dinner we go back to my room. And you will need to translate these before you return on Sunday.”

He slid an envelope toward me. I immediately put it in my daypack.

“Fine, fine,” I said. “And I have some great news for you. I will be able to score the transcripts of the interview with Hans and Heidi Braun by Monday.”

“You serious?”

“Yes.”

“That
is
good news. You are certain you can get the interview transcript on Sunday?”

“My friend said he would be working on it this weekend.”

“Then you must photograph it that night. The timing is perfect. I’m staying on here for a few days, but they told me that getting that interview transcript before it is broadcast was a matter of extreme urgency. So you will need to leave the documents I’ve asked you to translate—and the photographs of the transcripts of the interviews—this Monday morning behind the cistern in the usual lavatory cubicle in Der Schlüssel. The fact that they will have it at the start of the week . . . believe me, my people will be terribly impressed with this prize you have given us. I think it will help your case enormously.”

He threw some money on the bar. The woman onstage was currently doing unspeakable things with an orange. The lights were so dim—and the crowd so tightly packed—that I doubted anyone would ever remember that we were there.

We started walking down some side streets, Haechen looking strangely relaxed, telling me he preferred Hamburg to Berlin, “because here not everybody is spying on each other.” He let me lead the way, going deeper and deeper into the labyrinth that was the Reeperbahn, passing numerous prostitutes and sex shops and loud bars, moving further into a quieter corner of the district.

“You sure you know where you’re going?” he asked as we turned a corner into an area largely inhabited by warehouses.

“Not far now,” I said.

At the next corner I steered him right, saying the restaurant was at the end of this street. I let him walk a few paces ahead of me. As he turned right I could see him realizing that we had turned into an unlit back alley. Suddenly he wheeled around toward me. That’s when my right hand sprang out of nowhere and plunged a switchblade into his heart. I’d hidden the knife in the pocket of my jacket, along with a pair of plain black gloves. As he was walking ahead of me, I’d pulled the gloves on, coughed as the switchblade flicked open with a decided snap, then waited for him to turn around toward me as soon as he saw that we’d entered the dark alley from which he’d never emerge.

Only that realization didn’t hit him until the knife made a direct hit. Using its now extended handle as a form of leverage, I shoved him up against the alley wall and immediately covered his nose and mouth with my free hand, pinching the nostrils closed, forcibly sealing his mouth with my palm, keeping my gaze fixed on him as he asphyxiated on his own blood. His eyes met mine—and I could see the shock, the fear, the terror. Then he began to vomit blood, and I had to pull my hand away. He collapsed on the ground, writhing for a few moments, before lying very still.

Luck was still with me. No one was around. Nor were there any sounds of approaching vehicles or footsteps. Quickly I reached into his trouser pocket and removed his wallet. I opened his jacket and pulled out his identity papers. I loosened his belt and pulled down his pants and his Y-fronts. Then, with an almighty yank, I pulled the knife out of his chest. Holding the wallet, the identity papers, and the bloody knife in one hand, I stepped out into the side street again, looking both ways. I had chosen this area well. No one was here after dark. I turned right, walking quickly yet calmly down the street, then turned into another side alleyway, this one as dark and unlit as the one where Haechen now lay. Quickly I stripped off the bloody gloves, then my jacket, jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers—all of which were now stained with blood. Opening up the daypack I took out an identical set of clothes bought yesterday in Berlin. I was dressed in seconds, bundling the knife, my clothes, the wallet, and the papers into the bag. Again I looked both ways before stepping out into the street. No pedestrians. No cars. I had the place to myself. Turning right I hit a main thoroughfare and walked on until I found the U-Bahn station I’d discovered earlier. I took a train across the city to Planten un Blomen—a park that, according to the tourist map I had also bought at the Hamburg Hauptbahnhof, had some forty-seven hectares and contained a lake. Emerging from the U-Bahn at the southwest corner of the park I walked into its confines, quickly finding my way to the lake, only passing one homeless man asleep on the grass. There was a bridge over a corner of the lake. The moonlight was noticeable here. I picked up a pebble and tossed it into the water. It sank quickly and, I sensed, deeply. Putting on the fresh pair of gloves that I had previously stuffed into my daypack, I then zipped open my shoulder bag, retrieved the knife, and tossed it into the water. I also pulled out the wallet—which was not that bloodied—removed the cash that was there, walked on until I was out of the park again, and dumped the wallet into a public trash can on the street. A few streets away, the identity papers went into another public receptacle. I was in an area not far from the Hauptbahnhof. Approaching the railway station I saw a huge industrial-sized trash container located in a refuse area behind its main entranceway. Fortunately the cover of this container was not locked, and it was swimming with rubbish. The backpack went in here. I moved on to the railway station. Having already balled up the gloves that had touched all the evidence, I dumped them into the first bin I could find.