Little Grey Mice (49 page)

Which was how Elke saw them.

With her habitual precision, Elke had arrived at the ferry terminal by the Kennedy Bridge well ahead of time, the Volkswagen safe in a protective car-park, and had been one of the first to board. Knowing from the earlier trips with Reimann how to judge the sun, she got a seat on the port side, out of its direct glare, and for the first part of the journey sat looking out at the now well-known landmarks, smiling contentedly to herself as she let Reimann's voice echo in her head with his mocking commentary. And she'd decided, too, that it would be better to get into the restaurant ahead of the main throng. Which was why she'd turned, to see how full it already was.

She'd known she was mistaken at first. What else could she be but mistaken? There was the slightly distorted reflection from the window glass to be allowed for. And Otto was away from Bonn, working. So it had to be someone very like him; a look-alike, just as he was similar to someone else she'd known before. Except that it wasn't. It was Otto –
her
Otto – and he was sitting intimately holding between both of his the hand of a beautiful, immaculately groomed woman, gazing at her across a table with sparkling wine already opened, oblivious to anyone else.

There was an announcement of a stopping point, although Elke did not hear the name. She was not even, at first, aware of moving. She stumbled up, blindly, pushing frantically against the block of people which at first wouldn't part to let her through, her mind gouged of thought or reason or understanding, wanting only to get away; to get through these people and away from the horror of what she'd seen. She couldn't run, although she wanted to, along the narrow gangway: when she reached the jetty she continued on, not looking back, shuddering against what she was leaving behind.

She was well into the arrival area before she focused on the destination board.

She was at Andernach:
their
Andernach.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Long afterwards, when she tried to recall it, Elke found there were long periods of that stumbled arrival at Andernach that she could never bring to mind, no matter how hard she tried. It was as if she had lapsed in and out of consciousness – which she decided to be the most accurate description – sometimes with half awareness, other times totally blank. She could remember the signpost and her thought of what the town and its hidden valley had meant to her. People. Too many people, as there'd been too many people on the ferry, getting in her way when she didn't want to be crowded by anyone: when all she wanted was to be away somewhere, in the open, with no one around her. A shout and maybe a car horn, she wasn't sure, not where she'd carelessly crossed a road but where she'd stopped, suddenly unable to move, in the middle of a street. A hand on her shoulder there, words she couldn't hear. Then she was at a café, at an outside table: a waitress, not polite like Clara, but impatiently demanding what she wanted when she didn't know, couldn't think. Walking, trying to get away again although she didn't know where. Quiet at last. A near-empty street and a building she didn't recognize at first, needing time to realize that it was a church. The memories became better, more coherent, now. There'd been the instinctive movement, to go in, just as quickly halted. The first positive thought.
There's nothing inside a church for me: no help. Never has been.
Looking around, trying to find herself. She'd been climbing a hill, the tiny township displayed for approval below her, tied with the sparkling ribbon of the Rhine. Another positive, repeated thought. Their place: it had been
their
place. Not any more. What was theirs, any more?

The second café was quite clear in her mind. Pink tablecloths and lights supposed to be candles which weren't, and a strutting, look-at-me teenage waiter with a ring like a skull on one finger. She drank brandy, which she rarely did. Two. And thought.

She felt empty, hollowed out. And remembered, immediately and bitterly, that she was anything but that. Which added to the hopeless despair. She didn't think, at that time, she'd ever fully be able to comprehend the betrayal, the depth of deceit. Wasn't truly able, much later, after so many other things had happened, some of which she was never to learn. Wouldn't have wanted to learn. He hadn't had to tell her he loved her: make her sincerely believe it. Make her love him, too, with all her heart and all her being. It was all she had ever wanted, ever dreamed of. Being loved. And loving back. Having someone, always. Being safe. Which she wasn't, not any more. He'd cheated. Lied. Humiliated her. He hadn't meant any of it – couldn't have meant it – not the caresses or the tenderness or the kindness. Had he laughed at her, amusing himself, thinking how pitiful she was? Had he said the same, cheated the same, lied the same, with the other woman? Had he fucked (
our word, darling: don't be shy. Say it
) her the same? Taught her all the tricks, all the excitements, made her want it every time and made her come every time? Made her pregnant?

What was she going to do? She didn't know, couldn't think, not about that. She could look backwards, with all the recriminations, but not forward, not yet. Still too much to absorb, fully to understand. Why had he done it?
How
could he have done it? She hadn't cheated or lied to him. Humiliated him. She would never have done anything to hurt him, to cause him pain. All she'd ever wanted to do was please him. And she was sure she had. She'd never argued to defeat him: just sometimes to express a contrary point of view, trying to help and guide so he wouldn't get letters threatening him with dismissal. She'd always let him make the decisions, content to follow. Never objected to any innovation or experiment in bed, although at first she hadn't liked or enjoyed some of them, not the way she did now.
Had
liked and enjoyed, she qualified. So
why?
There was nothing more she could have done, no way she knew that could have made him happier.
Why?

The strutting teenager approached inquiringly, looking at her empty glass, and Elke thought: he thinks I'm a lonely but hopeful woman, out for adventure. Lonely, certainly. Again. But not looking for adventure. Not hopeful, either. Not any longer. She shook her head against a third brandy (why had she ordered it at all: she didn't even like brandy!), paid, and began descending the hill towards the town. To where? she asked herself. Not to any river craft. She didn't know what they were doing or where they were going, but she couldn't board any steamer or hydrofoil upon which they might be returning to Bonn, still hand-in-hand, eyes still held, love still obvious between them. So how was she going to get back herself? There was probably a train. Undoubtedly a train. But there were people on trains. Crowds. She didn't want crowds. How far was Andernach, from Bonn? Elke didn't know, only that it was obviously a long way. So a taxi would be expensive. But she'd be alone in a taxi, apart from the driver.

The man queried the destination and said it would probably cost more than a hundred marks. Elke said she didn't care. At the outset he tried to talk, offering professional companionship, but abandoned the effort when she ignored the attempt, scarcely answering.

Soon after they cleared the town Elke considered foreshortening the journey just slightly to stop at Bad Godesberg and throw herself upon Ida. That was the actual word that came into her head – throw – and it went towards her immediately changing her mind. She might need Ida's help with the other thing – to locate a good and discreet clinic in Cologne – but that was all. She determined, with sudden, even surprising resolve, that she had finished throwing herself at anyone. For help. Or for anything else. Whatever she had to do – decided to do – it would be by herself. Just herself. Alone. As she'd always been. Where then? She'd simply asked to go to Bonn, without a specific address. The car-park where she'd left the Volkswagen, she supposed: the Volkswagen that had brought them together in the first place. Then back to Kaufmannstrasse. Where else? There
was
nowhere else. Poppi wouldn't be there to greet her, not like he'd once been. No one. More alone than ever.

The ornate and castellated Schloss Marienfels was easily visible from the river highway. Elke strained beyond, trying to see the home in which Ursula would be, protected and secure, but the tree line was thick. If she could see the river from the institution, why couldn't she see the institution from the river? An inconsequential thought, she recognized: her brain was trying to ease the pain by intruding inconsequential thoughts. She didn't want her pain eased. She wanted to confront it, feel it, dissect it, understand it: to answer the recurring question. Why?

Not good enough, she told herself, attempting just such an answer. Although she'd thought she was doing everything right, everything he wanted her to do, the explanation had to be that she was not good enough: that she was inadequate. Hadn't she always feared that – known that – in her personal life? She was inadequate and so he'd gone elsewhere, to get what he couldn't find in her. But
what?
Why hadn't he talked to her? She'd have done it, whatever it was. All he would have had to do was to tell her! That's all.

She
wasn't
inadequate! How the hell could she be, elevated to the position she held, trusted and respected as she was? Known and acknowledged by the absolute leaders of her country when possibly her country was the most important – definitely a leader – in the world.

How else could she attempt to rationalize it, to comprehend? By more self-critically examining their relationship, perhaps? She and Otto
weren't
engaged: hadn't discussed marriage, ever. So there was no commitment between them: no absolute loyalty he had to observe. He might have conveyed the impression that there was an understanding – misled her, which wasn't as bad as outright lying – but he still hadn't been bound to her, by a promise or a betrothal. Where was this avenue leading? To a choice? Elke's examination deepened. If Otto was undecided – trying to choose – then surely she was the favourite! Didn't he spend more time with her, during the week and at weekends, apart from the two most recent ones? Unquestionably. And some of his absences
had
to be genuine assignments. Lessening the other woman further. Elke didn't like the idea of his choosing, of his making a constant comparison between herself and somebody else, but there was a surging reassurance in the speculation. It would mean, if it was correct, that she hadn't lost him, not completely. Just that he wasn't sure. That didn't satisfy her completely, either, because he'd categorically said he loved her, but she could accept it. Learn to forgive him, if that was all it was – nothing more than a last-minute uncertainty.

The counter-balance fell upon her, so heavily that it was like a weight she could feel, pressing down upon her. How could she? How could she think as she had been thinking, criticize as she had been criticizing, even come close to contemplating the change from love to hatred! What about her? What about her having an illegitimate child by a man who had abandoned her? What possible grounds did she have, to sit in judgement upon Otto? She had complete recall of that night, which had begun so dreadfully – so dreadfully in her frightened mind – and ended so wonderfully.
I
have a baby … no … a daughter … wasn't married …
Maybe she'd missed out some of the stumbling words. It wasn't important. What was important was how he'd reacted. Elke had the greatest clarity of all about that.
Oh, my darling. My poor frightened, innocent darling! Did you really think it would mean something? Upset me or offend me even …
And more, so much, so beautifully more.
You want to know how I feel? I feel angry, that a man could have treated you like that. And sad, because Ursula is as ill as she is. But happy: selfishly happy, because if you'd got married then we probably wouldn't have met. And I think meeting you is one of the most important things that's ever happened for me … I love you, Elke. I love you very much.

How could she doubt – criticize or even imagine hating – a man who could say things like that, respond instantly like that? Elke hunched in the back of the speeding taxi, overwhelmed as quickly as most of her emotions had come that day by a feeling of shame. She had a right to be upset. To be hurt. But no cause – no justification yet – to be as devastated as she'd been, seeing them as they were. So he wasn't sure. She could accept that: better he allay his uncertainty now than later. She was still the favourite: still the one he spent most time with. With a further mental contortion, a gymnastic backward somersault of a waverer seeking conviction, she assured herself she was positively glad at the discovery of another woman. Now she
knew:
she knew she had competition and that she had to fight it. And win. It was natural for any man to be unsure about marriage: one unsure man had even run out on her before. But she would win this time. She'd fight, do whatever she had to do, however she had to do it, to keep him. Wasn't inadequate. Maybe she had been, once. Not any more. She'd grown to be in charge of herself. Confident. Sure of what she was doing, where she was going. Sure what she was going to do.
I don't intend letting anyone else have him. Sot ever.
To whom had she made that insistence? Ida. And she'd meant it: meant it more deeply, more strongly, than she'd ever meant anything in her life before. She couldn't lose: not again. She could be hard enough, when the situation demanded: very hard, quite relentless. There was a momentary dip, a flutter, in her conviction. She wished so fervently he hadn't done it: that he hadn't presented her, unknowingly, with something for which to forgive him. Before he had been perfect but now he wasn't.

The taxi began entering the familiarly small streets of the familiarly small capital, and Elke came forward in her seat, explaining at last that she had a car to collect and directing the driver to the park. The fare came to a hundred and sixty marks and Elke gave him a fifteen-mark tip, which only left her with twenty marks. She got into the Volkswagen but made no attempt to start it, held by a further consideration. In Andernach, badly shocked (and maybe affected by the brandy) the possibility of seeing them together again had been anathema, utterly impossible. But after the reflection and conclusions in the homecoming taxi her attitude switched completely. She
wanted
to see them again: to see them together, to try to gauge their feelings. Old romance, new romance? Close or distant? Loving or bored? And to see her, the woman. There
had
been a backwards reflection from the ferry window, distorting any detailed impression. Sophisticated: a grey or possibly green V-necked sweater. Long fingers – fingers that had been held between his. But that was all. So she needed to look again. She needed to be able to guess an age. And whether she was truly beautiful, big-busted, trim-figured or sagging. How she walked. How she held herself. And other things she couldn't think of, not at that precise moment.