The car pulled up outside a town house in better condition than the other homes. ‘Maud’s daughter seems to be more affluent than her neighbours,’ Fitz remarked.
Dave explained. ‘Walli’s father owns a television factory in West Berlin. Somehow he manages to run it from here. I guess it still makes money.’
They went into the house. The family introduced themselves. Walli’s parents were Werner and Carla, a handsome man and a plain woman with strong features. Walli’s sister, Lili, was nineteen and attractive, and did not look like Walli at all. Dave was intrigued to meet Karolin, who had long fair hair parted in the centre and forming curtains either side of her face. With her was Alice, the inspiration for the song, a shy four-year-old with a black ribbon in her hair for mourning. Karolin’s husband, Odo, was a little older, about thirty. He had fashionably long hair but wore a clerical collar.
Dave explained why they had missed the funeral. They mixed languages, though the Germans spoke English better than the English spoke German. Dave sensed that the family’s attitude to Fitz was equivocal. It was understandable: he had, after all, been harsh to Maud, and her daughter might think it was too late to make amends. However, it was also too late to remonstrate, and no one spoke of the fifty-year estrangement.
A dozen friends and neighbours who had attended the funeral were having coffee and snacks served by Carla and Lili. Dave talked to Karolin about guitars. It turned out she and Lili were underground stars. They were not allowed to make records, because their songs were about freedom, but people made tape recordings of their performances and loaned them to one another. It was a bit like
samizdat
publishing in the Soviet Union. They discussed cassette tapes, a new format, more convenient though with poor sound quality. Dave offered to send Karolin some cassettes and a deck, but she said they would only be stolen by the secret police.
Dave had assumed Karolin must be a hard-hearted woman, to break off her relationship with Walli and marry Odo, but to his surprise he liked her. She seemed kind and smart. She spoke of Walli with great affection and wanted to know all about his life.
Dave told her how he and Walli had quarrelled. She was distressed by the story. ‘It’s not like him,’ she said. ‘Walli was never the type to fool around. Girls used to fall for him all the time, and he could have had a different one every weekend, but he never did.’
Dave shrugged. ‘He’s changed.’
‘What about your former fiancée? What’s her name?’
‘Ursula, but everyone calls her Beep. To be honest, it’s not surprising that she should be unfaithful. She’s kind of wild. It’s part of what makes her so attractive.’
‘I think you still have feelings for her.’
‘I was crazy about her.’ Dave gave an evasive answer because he did not know how he felt now. He was angry with Beep, enraged by her betrayal, but if she wanted to come back to him he was not sure what he would do.
Fitz came over to where the two of them were sitting. ‘Dave,’ he said, ‘I’d like to see the grave before we return to West Berlin. Would you mind?’
‘Of course not.’ Dave stood up. ‘We should probably go soon.’
Karolin said to Dave: ‘If you do speak to Walli, please give him my love. Tell him I long for the day when he can meet Alice. I will tell her all about him when she’s old enough.’
They all had messages for Walli: Werner, Carla and Lili. Dave guessed he would have to speak to Walli just to pass them on.
As they were leaving, Carla said to Fitz: ‘You should have something of Maud’s.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘I know just the thing.’ She disappeared for a minute and came back with an old leather-bound photograph album. Fitz opened it. The pictures were all monochrome, some sepia, many faded. They had captions in large, loopy handwriting, presumably Maud’s. The oldest had been taken in a grand country house. Dave read: ‘Tŷ Gwyn, 1905’. That was the Fitzherbert country residence, now Aberowen College of Further Education.
Seeing photos of himself and Maud as young people made Fitz cry. Tears rolled down the papery old skin of his wrinkled face and soaked into the collar of his immaculate white shirt. He spoke with difficulty. ‘Good times never come back,’ he said.
They took their leave. The chauffeur drove them to a large and charmless municipal cemetery, and they found Maud’s grave. The earth had already been returned to the pit, forming a small mound that was, pathetically, the size and approximate shape of a human being. They stood side by side for a few minutes, saying nothing. The only sound was birdsong.
Fitz wiped his face with a large white handkerchief. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
At the checkpoint they were again detained. Hans Hoffmann watched, smiling, while they and their cars were thoroughly searched.
‘What are you looking for?’ Dave asked. ‘Why would we smuggle something out of East Germany? You don’t have anything here that anyone wants!’ No one answered him.
A uniformed officer seized on the photograph album and handed it to Hoffmann.
Hoffmann looked through it casually and said: ‘This will have to be examined by our forensic department.’
‘Of course,’ Fitz said sadly.
They had to leave without it.
As they drove away, Dave looked back and saw Hans drop the album into a rubbish bin.
* * *
George Jakes flew from Portland to Los Angeles to meet Verena with a diamond ring in his pocket.
He had been on the road with Bobby Kennedy, and had not seen Verena since the funeral of Martin Luther King in Atlanta seven weeks earlier.
George was devastated by the assassination. Dr King had been the bright burning hope of black Americans, and now he was gone, murdered by a white racist with a hunting rifle. President Kennedy had given hope to blacks and he, too, had been killed by a white man with a gun. What was the point of politics if great men could be so easily wiped out? But, George thought, at least we still have Bobby.
Verena was even harder hit. At the funeral she had been bewildered, angry and lost. The man she had admired, cherished and served for seven years was gone.
To George’s consternation she had not wanted him to console her. He was hurt deeply by this. They lived six hundred miles apart, but he was the man in her life. He figured that her rejection was part of her grief, and would pass.
There was nothing for her in Atlanta – she did not want to work for King’s successor, Ralph Abernathy – so she had resigned. George had thought she might move into his apartment in Washington. However, without explanation she had gone back to her parents’ home in Los Angeles. Perhaps she needed time alone to grieve.
Or perhaps she wanted something more than just an invitation to move into his place.
Hence the ring.
The next primary was California, which gave George a chance to visit Verena.
At LAX he rented a white Plymouth Valiant, a cheap compact – the campaign was paying – and drove to North Roxbury Drive in Beverly Hills.
He passed through tall gates and parked in front of a Tudor-style brick house that he guessed was the size of five genuine Tudor houses. Verena’s parents, Percy Marquand and Babe Lee, lived like the stars they were.
A maid let him in and showed him into a living room that had nothing Tudor about it: a white carpet, air-conditioning, and a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out on to a swimming pool. The maid asked if he would like a drink. ‘A soda, please,’ he said. ‘Any kind.’
When Verena came in he suffered a shock.
She had cut off her wonderful Afro, and her hair was now cropped close to her head, as short as his. She wore black pants, a blue shirt, a leather blazer and a black beret. It was the uniform of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense.
George suppressed his outrage in order to kiss her. She gave him her lips, but only briefly, and he knew right away that she had not moved on from her mood at the funeral. He hoped his proposal would bring her out of it.
They sat on a couch covered in a swirly pattern of burnt orange, primrose yellow and chocolate brown. The maid brought George a Coke with ice in a tall glass on a silver tray. When she had gone he took Verena’s hand. Holding in his anger, he said as gently as he could: ‘Why are you wearing that uniform?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Not to me.’
‘Martin Luther King led a non-violent campaign, and they shot him.’
George was disappointed in her. He had expected a better argument than that. He said: ‘Abraham Lincoln fought a civil war, and they shot him, too.’
‘Blacks have a right to defend themselves. No one else will – especially not the police.’
George could barely conceal his contempt for these ideas. ‘You just want to scare whitey. Nothing has ever been achieved by this kind of grandstanding.’
‘What has non-violence achieved? Hundreds of black people lynched and murdered, thousands beaten and jailed.’
George did not want to fight with her – on the contrary, he wanted to bring her back to normal – but he could not help raising his voice. ‘Plus the Civil Rights Act of 1964, the Voting Rights Act of 1965, and six black congressmen and a senator!’
‘And now white people are saying it’s gone far enough. No one has been able to pass a law against housing discrimination.’
‘Maybe the whites are afraid they’ll have Panthers in Gestapo outfits walking around their nice suburbs carrying guns.’
‘The police have guns. We need them too.’
George realized that this argument, which seemed to be about politics, was really about their relationship. And he was losing her. If he could not talk her out of the Black Panthers, he could not bring her back into his life. ‘Look, I know that police forces all over America are full of violent racists. But the solution to that problem is to improve the police, not shoot them. We have to get rid of politicians such as Ronald Reagan who encourage police brutality.’
‘I refuse to accept a situation where the whites have guns and we don’t.’
‘Then campaign for gun control and more black cops in senior positions.’
‘Martin believed in that and he’s dead.’ Verena’s words were defiant, but she could not keep it up, and she began to cry.
George tried to embrace her, but she pushed him away. Nevertheless, he strove to make her see reason. ‘If you want to protect black people, come and work on our campaign,’ he said. ‘Bobby is going to be President.’
‘Even if he wins, Congress won’t let him do anything.’
‘They’ll try to stop him, and we’ll have a political battle, and one side will win and the other will lose. It’s how we change things in America. It’s a lousy system, but all the others are worse. And shooting each other is the worst of all.’
‘We’re not going to agree.’
‘Okay.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We’ve disagreed before, but always kept on loving each other, haven’t we?’
‘This is different.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘My whole life has changed.’
George looked hard at her face, and saw there a mixture of defiance and guilt that gave him a clue to what was going on. ‘You’re sleeping with one of the Panthers, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
George had a heavy feeling in his guts, as if he had drunk a tankard of cold ale. ‘You should have told me.’
‘I’m telling you now.’
‘My God.’ George was sad. He fingered the ring in his pocket. Was it going to stay there? ‘Do you realize it’s seven years since we graduated from Harvard?’ He fought back tears.
‘I know.’
‘Police dogs in Birmingham, “I have a dream” in Washington, President Johnson backing civil rights, two assassinations . . .’
‘And blacks are still the poorest Americans, living in the lousiest houses, getting the most perfunctory health care – and doing more than their share of the fighting in Vietnam.’
‘Bobby’s going to change all that.’
‘No, he’s not.’
‘Yes, he is. And I’m going to invite you to the White House to admit that you were wrong.’
Verena went to the door. ‘Goodbye, George.’
‘I can’t believe it ends like this.’
‘The maid will see you out.’
George found it difficult to think straight. He had loved Verena for years, and had assumed they would marry sooner or later. Now she had ditched him for a Black Panther. He felt lost. Although they had lived apart, he had always been able to think about what he would say to her and how he would caress her next time they were together. Now he was alone.
The maid came in and said: ‘This way, Mr Jakes, if you please.’
Automatically he followed her to the hall. She opened the front door. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Goodbye, Mr Jakes.’
George got into his rented car and drove away.
* * *
On voting day in the California primary, George was with Bobby Kennedy at the Malibu beach home of John Frankenheimer, the movie director. The weather was overcast that morning but, nevertheless, Bobby swam in the ocean with his twelve-year-old son, David. They both got caught in the undertow and emerged with scratches and scrapes from being dragged over the pebbles. After lunch Bobby fell asleep beside the pool, stretched out across two chairs, his mouth open. Looking through the glass patio doors, George noticed an angry mark on Bobby’s forehead from the swimming incident.
He had not told Bobby that he had broken up with Verena. He had told only his mother. He barely had time to think on the campaign trail, and California had been non-stop: airport mob scenes, motorcades, hysterical crowds, and packed meetings. George was glad to be so busy. He had the luxury of feeling sad only for a few minutes every night before falling asleep. Even then he found himself imagining conversations with Verena in which he persuaded her to return to legitimate politics and campaign for Bobby. Perhaps their different approaches had always been a manifestation of fundamental incompatibility. He had never wanted to believe that.
At three o’clock the results of the first exit poll were broadcast on TV. Bobby led Gene McCarthy 49 percentage points to 41. George was elated. I can’t win my girl, but I can win elections, he thought.
Bobby showered and shaved and put on a blue pinstriped suit and a white shirt. Either the suit, or perhaps his increased confidence, made him seem more presidential than ever before, George thought.