recently received messages from some damn government officials, yes, even senators, asking him to reconsider Milton’s connections with Germany. ‘And you know what he said, the sly fox? His friends at Lockheed had let him know that their shitty aeroplanes are landing in Japan right now, and technicians from Lockheed are helping the slant-eyes service them. So as long as there is a single Lockheed employee in Japan, he’ll do as much business in Germany as he pleases.’
Thomas didn’t ask about the secret deal. He was perturbed by the question: what kind of business was Milton doing with the SD and with Göring’s Ministry of Aviation? But after witnessing the latest exchange, he decided he would be better off if he didn’t know anything about it. He had no wish to work with that officer, and, seeing Mailer’s swollen face—he had never seen him so drunk—he realised that his fondness for any deal was even less than his fondness for Bauer.
He left Carlson on the patio and went back into the hall. He noticed that light from the chandelier fell unevenly: near the dais the white shirts and the gold epaulets on the black uniforms glowed, but thickstrips of shadow stretched between the bar and the staircase. Perhaps it would be a good idea to direct the attention of the architect, king of the beasts, to this strange effect. Chains of little German and US flags were hung on either side of the stairs, while above them, as though in a different world, a gigantic poster bathed in the light of the chandeliers:
1939—YEAR OF FRIENDSHIP AND BROTHERHOOD THE MILTON COMPANY
Thomas twisted his cuffs. He felt that the nauseating odour of Carlson’s hair tonic had clung to his suit, and he remembered in disgust the way he had shaken his shoulder. An attractive black-haired man in a striped jacket was leaning against one of the sculptures, and several pretty women had gathered around him.
One of them, about thirty, bared a shoulder underneath a pink fur coat with ostrich feathers on the collar. ‘Herr Fritzsche,’ she wheedled, ‘it’s so wonderful to hear you on the radio. Your voice simply relieves all my pains.’
‘Really, madam, I just broadcast the news and keep the German people informed,’ the man with the famous voice said modestly, wiping his brow with a handkerchief exactly on his receding hairline.
‘Did I tell you I’m the understudy in a new production of Schiller?’ The woman set her head at a coquettish angle. ‘You must know about it, Intrigue and Love .’
‘Of course, wonderful!’ Fritzsche said. ‘I had the honour of accompanying the Führer and the Minister of Propaganda to the premiere. Afterwards we talked about the marvellous acting in our theatre, which isn’t afraid of pathos, or of good old romanticism.’
Thomas studied Fritzsche: he could see how much he was trying to disguise the feeling that he didn’t deserve to be loved. Evidence of people’s admiration for him must pile up at his feet every day, and he must long to exhibit the light touch of a man used to being loved, but he didn’t have it.
‘I’ve been reading alarming reports in the papers,’ a woman said.‘There won’t be a war, will there? My two sons are in the Wehrmacht.’
A stabbing pain passed through Thomas’s body, sharpening in his ribs.
‘As you know, I work very closely with the Minister of Propaganda,’ Fritzsche boasted, ‘and I can guarantee that Germany is doing everything it can to avoid war.’
‘Herr Fritzsche.’ Thomas approached him and bowed. ‘On behalf of Milton allow me to thank you for choosing to celebrate New Year’s Eve with us. My name is Thomas Heiselberg. I am a partner in the company.’
A shadow crossed Fritzsche’s face. Had Thomas addressed him impolitely? Since when had he doubted his ability to win people over? He hadn’t been at his best recently. A wind was blowing that he found hard to read.
Thomas felt the familiar weakness spread through his body. It was as
Thomas didn’t ask about the secret deal. He was perturbed by the question: what kind of business was Milton doing with the SD and with Göring’s Ministry of Aviation? But after witnessing the latest exchange, he decided he would be better off if he didn’t know anything about it. He had no wish to work with that officer, and, seeing Mailer’s swollen face—he had never seen him so drunk—he realised that his fondness for any deal was even less than his fondness for Bauer.
He left Carlson on the patio and went back into the hall. He noticed that light from the chandelier fell unevenly: near the dais the white shirts and the gold epaulets on the black uniforms glowed, but thickstrips of shadow stretched between the bar and the staircase. Perhaps it would be a good idea to direct the attention of the architect, king of the beasts, to this strange effect. Chains of little German and US flags were hung on either side of the stairs, while above them, as though in a different world, a gigantic poster bathed in the light of the chandeliers:
1939—YEAR OF FRIENDSHIP AND BROTHERHOOD THE MILTON COMPANY
Thomas twisted his cuffs. He felt that the nauseating odour of Carlson’s hair tonic had clung to his suit, and he remembered in disgust the way he had shaken his shoulder. An attractive black-haired man in a striped jacket was leaning against one of the sculptures, and several pretty women had gathered around him.
One of them, about thirty, bared a shoulder underneath a pink fur coat with ostrich feathers on the collar. ‘Herr Fritzsche,’ she wheedled, ‘it’s so wonderful to hear you on the radio. Your voice simply relieves all my pains.’
‘Really, madam, I just broadcast the news and keep the German people informed,’ the man with the famous voice said modestly, wiping his brow with a handkerchief exactly on his receding hairline.
‘Did I tell you I’m the understudy in a new production of Schiller?’ The woman set her head at a coquettish angle. ‘You must know about it, Intrigue and Love .’
‘Of course, wonderful!’ Fritzsche said. ‘I had the honour of accompanying the Führer and the Minister of Propaganda to the premiere. Afterwards we talked about the marvellous acting in our theatre, which isn’t afraid of pathos, or of good old romanticism.’
Thomas studied Fritzsche: he could see how much he was trying to disguise the feeling that he didn’t deserve to be loved. Evidence of people’s admiration for him must pile up at his feet every day, and he must long to exhibit the light touch of a man used to being loved, but he didn’t have it.
‘I’ve been reading alarming reports in the papers,’ a woman said.‘There won’t be a war, will there? My two sons are in the Wehrmacht.’
A stabbing pain passed through Thomas’s body, sharpening in his ribs.
‘As you know, I work very closely with the Minister of Propaganda,’ Fritzsche boasted, ‘and I can guarantee that Germany is doing everything it can to avoid war.’
‘Herr Fritzsche.’ Thomas approached him and bowed. ‘On behalf of Milton allow me to thank you for choosing to celebrate New Year’s Eve with us. My name is Thomas Heiselberg. I am a partner in the company.’
A shadow crossed Fritzsche’s face. Had Thomas addressed him impolitely? Since when had he doubted his ability to win people over? He hadn’t been at his best recently. A wind was blowing that he found hard to read.
Thomas felt the familiar weakness spread through his body. It was as
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