A Choice of Enemies (9 page)

That’s when Sally was introduced to a tall, silent, dusty-haired boy. “I am a student,” he said stiffly. “My name is Ernst.…”

“Are you a German?”

“Austrian.”

A few days later, nearly a month before Sally was to begin work, she ran into Ernst again. They met in the back room of Collett’s bookshop on Haverstock Hill. Ernst was there first. When Sally
entered he moved swiftly away from a shelf, then, recognizing her, he smiled ambiguously.

“Do you read very much?”

She could have kicked herself for saying that.

“Adventure stories,” Ernst said guardedly, “and books about medicine. I am very interested in medicine.”

“Is that what you’re studying?” Sally asked.

“Studying …?”

“You told me you were a student.”

“I am studying … law.”

They both recognized the lie at once. Then Sally recognized something else – there was a bulge under Ernst’s jacket. “Let’s go,” she said, taking his arm. “We’ll have tea together.”

“I have no money.”

“Come,” she said impatiently, “don’t be an ass.”

Her heart pounded wildly as they passed the bookshop manager. But they made it safely outside.

“Halfers,” Sally said.

“What?”

“We split the books.”

Ernst frowned.

“You’re not going to pretend,” Sally said, “are you?”

“No.”

He brought out the books. A copy of
Kon Tiki
and a travel book on Africa and an English-German dictionary.

“I’ll settle for the book on Africa,
O.K.?”
Sally’s smile faded. “You’re not a student.”

“No,” Ernst said. “I’m not a student.”

“I’m not a student either,” she said, as they turned down Belsize Avenue. “I’m Moll Flanders; shop-lifter extraordinary.” She explained who Moll Flanders was. “I’m being silly,” she said, “forgive me.”

“Where are we going?”

“To my place,” she said, “for tea and bickies.”

At last her meaning was clear to him. He wasn’t shocked either. Usually they were older, less attractive.

“O.K.,”
he said.

The room was in a chaotic state. Records and books were scattered all over the floor. The one hard-backed chair was smothered under a heap of clothes. But the clothes, Ernst noticed, were expensive. The leather suitcases piled slipshod over the wardrobe were of a superior quality.

“It’s not much,” Sally said, “but it’s home.”

When she turned round again Ernst had already taken off his shoes. He was unbuttoning his shirt.

“What are you –”

Ernest took her into his arms and kissed her on the mouth. Struggling free, Sally slapped him hard across the face.

Ernst didn’t move. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Yes,” he said, “I thought so.”

“You thought so! I thought you’d like a cup of tea.”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

Sally stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“What do you want?” Ernst asked.

“But I don’t want anything.”

“You mean,” he said, “that … 
tea?”

Sally held up the kettle and tapped it with her finger, but Ernst still seemed a little incredulous.

“I had thought –”

“– that I was some kind of sex maniac?”

“No, but –” He broke off with a cautious smile. “Tea. I see. Tea.”

But he didn’t see.

“I’m sorry that I slapped you,” she said.

Sally put on a record. Mozart’s Prague symphony. “Are you hungry?” she asked him. “Can I make you something to eat?”

“If it ain’t too much trouble.”

She made him an omelette. He ate six slices of bread with it. Meanwhile, Sally curled up watchfully on the bed with her legs tucked under her skirt. Mozart’s Prague symphony began to play over again.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“My name is Ernst Haupt. I am a law student. I come from Innsbruck. I am here on a scholarship.”

“Come off it.”

Ernst rose. He was taller than she had thought. More formidable looking too. A lean, lethal man, with an unnervingly sensual manner. That late afternoon sun lit his hair fiercely. She wondered how old he was. At times he seemed a boy, but right now he looked thirty or more. Thirty or more, and frightening.

“Do you mind if I turn off the record player?”

When he bent over to turn off the player she noticed the running scar on the back of his neck. A knife scar.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“According to my father I would be twenty-two now.”

“According to your father?”

“The records were destroyed in a raid.” He looked at her searchingly, his expression severe. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No,” she said too quickly, “of course not.”

“I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday noon.”

“Haven’t you any money?”

“Money.…”

“Can’t you work?”

“I’m here illegally. I’m from East Germany. I have no papers.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Here and there.”

“You haven’t got a room. Is that what you mean?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“But what do you do?” Sally asked nervously.

“When I was fourteen they put me into the army.”

“I mean are you qualified for a job?”

Ernst smiled.

“That’s
not a job. I mean a proper job.”

“I can speak five languages.”

“That’s something.”

“There are people who can speak eight. Ten. And most of them are without work.”

“What do you want to do then?”

“I want to go to America. I would like to be rich.”

“So,” Sally said, “you’re the same as everyone else.”

“Naturally.”

“Natürlich.”

“You speak German?”

“A little,” she said.

“I hate Germany. I hate Germans.”

“So do I,” Sally said.

Outside, it was growing dark. Ernst walked over to the bureau and picked up a hairbrush. He came to her and sat down on the edge of the bed. Sally took a deep breath; she prepared to scream.

“It is so good when a girl brushes your hair,” he said.

“… what …?”

“Please,” he said.

Sally took the brush and began to stroke his hair.

“I’m warning you,” she said as lightly as she could, “I don’t like men who pamper themselves.”

“Would you like to do the back of my head now?”

He turned round. She began to do the back of his head.

“I am handsome,” he said.

“Bully for you.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Skip it.”

“I’m very good with women.”

“Do you carry written testimonials around with you?”

“I will get a rich American one and she will take me to the United States.”

“I could write to my father. Maybe he can get you into Canada. Maybe he can even get you a job.”

Ernst was encouraged. “I used to be a bigshot in the communist youth,” he said. “I could write an exposé for the newspapers.”

“That wouldn’t impress my father, I’m afraid. He’s a bit of a Red himself.”

“A communist,” Ernst said. “In Canada?”

“Not quite.”

“What do they know about communism in Canada?”

“A lot more than you’d think,” Sally said, annoyed.

“Wait.” Ernst took off a sock and held a burning match to his foot. “A whole winter without shoes. All our food went to Russia. That’s communism.”

Sally watched as he lit another match to his exposed foot. She thought it vulgar of him to be so free about what he had suffered.

“Perhaps Germany didn’t deserve better,” she said, “after what they did in Russia.”

“Me?
I
did?”

Then, briefly speechless, they both realized that they were together on the bed. Sally reached out a little frightened and touched Ernst’s face where she had slapped him. He smiled and kissed her on the throat, then behind the ear, and at last on the mouth. Oh, it was all so expertly done. Sally broke free.

“I wouldn’t want you to think that I didn’t invite you up here for tea after all.”

Ernst put his finger to his mouth and, with his other hand, pointed at the door.

“What is it?” Sally asked, alarmed.

Ernst tip-toed to the door. “He’s gone,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“There was somebody listening at the door.”

Karp, she thought. “Don’t be silly,” she said. His smile was so insufferably thick with superior knowledge that she’d be damned before she would agree with him. “This isn’t Germany,” she added.

“Perhaps I should go.”

“Why?”

“You’re angry with me.”

“I’m angry with myself.”

Sally got up, turned on the hot water faucet with a fierce twist, and smacked two blouses into the sink. Ernst watched. He and Sally were almost the same age. He was sure that rain had ruined at least seven of her Sundays, that she had quarrelled with her brother over whose turn it was to wash the dishes, and that her mother had refused to allow her to stay out late one night and, as a result, Sally had sworn never to speak to her again. She came from an ordered past. She broke and made up with boy friends and trusted strangers. He had read about such things in American books; they were probably true. Ernst got up and, too late to restrain himself, kissed Sally softly on the neck. He retreated quickly, before she could turn round to reprimand him.

“Throw me your shirt,” Sally said. “It’s filthy.”

He took off his shirt and passed it to her meekly.

“You want me to stay?”

“You’ll sleep on the floor,” she said, “but no funny stuff, understand?”

“You are very kind.”

“Have you any other things?”

“A little suitcase.”

“You can go and get it tomorrow morning. Tomorrow I’ll speak to Karp about a room for you. We can go shopping for some clothes in the afternoon. I’ll lend you the money.”

No sooner had she made her offer than Sally took fright. A whole night with him on the floor. He might be dangerous, she thought.
“I may be able to get you into Canada,” she said, “but I’m not a rich one.”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

Sally smiled. “Would you like another omelette?” she asked.

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah. But would you brush my hair again?”

“Nothing doing.”

“Tomorrow morning,” he said eagerly, “I will wash and wax your floor for you. I will put your room in order.”

Tomorrow morning, she thought with sudden anger, out you go. I swear it. Enough, she thought, is enough.

K
ARP WAS SURPRISED TO SEE NORMAN. HE HADN’T
expected him back for at least another month.

“You look well,” Karp said. “Are you glad to be back?”

“I can’t tell you how glad.”

Karp spread himself out on the edge of the bed, holding his ham sandwich in his saucer and watching Norman shave. There were four back copies of the Saturday edition of the Montreal
Star
stacked on the bed; Karp forwarded the rest of Norman’s mail.

“And the room,” Karp asked, “it pleases you? I had it painted.”

Norman, who had just arrived that morning, grinned through his shaving lather. “The room looks wonderful,” he said, “and I feel wonderful.”

Karp ripped off a corner of his ham sandwich; he fell on his food like a conqueror. Norman, however, couldn’t tell whether this was a true characteristic of Karp’s or simply another way of ridiculing others. “French bread is bad for me,” Karp said. “One is obliged to open one’s mouth too wide. But ham is first-rate. It doesn’t jam in one’s teeth like cheap cuts of beef.” Karp prodded a tooth with a stubby forefinger and freed a sliver of bread from a cavity. “Why don’t you ask me about Sally? Isn’t that why you rushed back?”

“All right. Where is she?”

“Out for a walk. She’ll be back soon, I suppose. I told her you were here. Can’t you wait?”

Norman laughed.

“And your trip,” Karp asked. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Yes and no.”

After a few days in Paris Norman had gone to Toulouse, where he had spent a week with Pepe Santos. Santos, formerly a colonel in the Spanish Republican Army, had been an intimate friend of Norman’s father. The two men had talked endlessly about Dr. Max Price.

From Toulouse Norman had gone to Madrid.

And there, leaning against the trunk of an olive tree at the University City, there, watching the indifferent young pass hand-in-hand over the indecently green meadow where, it seemed to him, the best blood of his generation had been spilled, he pondered over Nicky, his desire for a family of his own and, ultimately, the death of his father.

Max Price, the surgeon who had given up a spectacularly lucrative practice in Montreal to go to Spain, had been killed during the defence of Madrid.

Great he was, Norman reflected, and quick to act. Not a hesitant, self-indulgent oaf, like me.

But in those days, Norman remembered fondly, the choice of enemies had been clear. Today you were no longer altogether sure. You signed the petitions, you defended Soviet art to liberals, and you didn’t name old comrades. But your loyalties, like those of a shared childhood, were sentimental; they lacked true conviction.

From Madrid Norman fled to Mallorca.

A sum of lazy, sunny days on the beach helped to seal, if not exactly heal, the wound caused by Nicky’s death. Norman wrote a long letter to his Aunt Dorothy thanking the Singletons for all they had done to educate Nicky. During his stay on Mallorca he also wrote three voluminous letters to Sally and then tore them up and sent her a postcard
instead. But he bought her a mantilla and an album of flamenco records and a suede jacket, which he hoped was the right size. And then, even though his money was running out, he was still not ready to return to London. He took the boat to Ibiza instead.

The cracked brown island of Ibiza rises out of the calm blue sea like a blister evoked by the sun. Norman arrived early one morning when the port town itself, a hill bandaged round and round with bony white houses, was held in a haze of orange heat. For one delightful week he swam every morning in the bay and explored the Phoenician ruins. Then he began to drink a lot and had an affair with an American girl who wrote pornographic novels under the pseudonym of Baron von Kleeg.