voice low, reluctant, waiting to be dressed down.
“Such carelessness,” Markovsky said, in charge. “Whose idea was that? And now the British. Making protests. All day, on the phone. Directly to Maltsev. You can imagine how pleased he is. So who answers for that? Formal protests.”
“About what?” Alex said, unable to resist.
“Oh,” Markovsky said, turning, checking himself. “The usual foolishness. Our allies refuse to accept the reality of the situation here, so they like to make difficulties. Isn’t that right, Engel?” The tone dismissive, a question to a servant.
“Yes, Major. Exactly.”
Alex watched, fascinated, as Markus looked away, embarrassed, then back to Irene, who had seen this, then finally to Markovsky again, dismayed at his own impotence.
“But usually it’s not the British,” Markovsky said, making theconversation general. “In the end, realists. Not like our American friends. You were a long time there.”
“And an even longer time here. Before,” Alex said smoothly. “It’s good to be back.”
“It’s good to have you,” Markovsky said, playing host.
Markus glanced at Alex, annoyed, as if Markovsky had slipped his arm through Alex’s, one more protected, off-limits.
“I must say good night,” Markus said, formal.
“I never see you,” Irene said, giving her hand, the only one who seemed to notice his leaving. “So busy you are always.”
“What did you think of America?” Markovsky said to Alex.
“They took me in. When the Nazis— You don’t forget that.”
“And then threw you out again,” Brecht said.
Alex smiled. “And then threw me out.”
“Well, so it’s good for us,” Markovsky said, making an effect. “And now back with old friends. You were sweethearts maybe?” Half teasing.
“No, never sweethearts,” Irene said, looking at Alex. “Something else.” Then, quickly, “Anyway Elsbeth was the pretty one. So there was no chance for me.” She looked again at Alex.
“Elsbeth,” Markovsky said.
“My sister.”
“Two of them,” Markovsky said, shaking his head, an affectionate joke.
“And Alex, you know, was so serious. A writer, even then. You had to watch what you said. You know we’re in a book? My father said it was another family, but it was us.”
“And what were you like? In the book,” Markovsky said, familiar.
“Like I am. Well, like I was. A long time ago now.”
“People don’t change.”
“No? Maybe. But the world does.” She looked at Alex. “You remember the old house.”
“I went to see it. This morning.”
She nodded. “It’s sad, to think of it like that. But you know he sold it to the Nazis, so—”
“To the Reichsbank. A man told me.”
“Yes, the bank. So at least no one else ever lived there. Just us.”
“Junkers,” Brecht said. “Are we supposed to be sentimental?”
“No, polite,” Markovsky said, turning to him.
“Oh, Bert, he’s never polite,” Irene said easily. “Are you, darling? It’s part of his art.”
Brecht took this and held on, a social lifesaver. “I still can’t get you a ticket,” he said, almost winking. “But what about a drink instead?”
“A drink also,” Irene volleyed back, putting her finger on his chest.
Brecht bowed, a waiter’s gesture, and left with Fritsch.
“It’s just the way he talks,” Irene said to Markovsky. “And you know, he’s right. There’s no reason to be sentimental. I never liked the house anyway.”
“But your family’s house—” Markovsky said, and Alex realized that it was part of her appeal for him, someone who’d known that life.
“ Ouf. It was like here,” she said, waving her hand. “A museum. But the country house I always liked. And now that’s gone too.”
“Fritz sold it?” Alex said.
“No. All the big farms were broken up. After the war. They just took it.”
“Land reform,” Markovsky said, explaining, suddenly uncomfortable. “A more equitable distribution.”
“Oh, I’m not
“Such carelessness,” Markovsky said, in charge. “Whose idea was that? And now the British. Making protests. All day, on the phone. Directly to Maltsev. You can imagine how pleased he is. So who answers for that? Formal protests.”
“About what?” Alex said, unable to resist.
“Oh,” Markovsky said, turning, checking himself. “The usual foolishness. Our allies refuse to accept the reality of the situation here, so they like to make difficulties. Isn’t that right, Engel?” The tone dismissive, a question to a servant.
“Yes, Major. Exactly.”
Alex watched, fascinated, as Markus looked away, embarrassed, then back to Irene, who had seen this, then finally to Markovsky again, dismayed at his own impotence.
“But usually it’s not the British,” Markovsky said, making theconversation general. “In the end, realists. Not like our American friends. You were a long time there.”
“And an even longer time here. Before,” Alex said smoothly. “It’s good to be back.”
“It’s good to have you,” Markovsky said, playing host.
Markus glanced at Alex, annoyed, as if Markovsky had slipped his arm through Alex’s, one more protected, off-limits.
“I must say good night,” Markus said, formal.
“I never see you,” Irene said, giving her hand, the only one who seemed to notice his leaving. “So busy you are always.”
“What did you think of America?” Markovsky said to Alex.
“They took me in. When the Nazis— You don’t forget that.”
“And then threw you out again,” Brecht said.
Alex smiled. “And then threw me out.”
“Well, so it’s good for us,” Markovsky said, making an effect. “And now back with old friends. You were sweethearts maybe?” Half teasing.
“No, never sweethearts,” Irene said, looking at Alex. “Something else.” Then, quickly, “Anyway Elsbeth was the pretty one. So there was no chance for me.” She looked again at Alex.
“Elsbeth,” Markovsky said.
“My sister.”
“Two of them,” Markovsky said, shaking his head, an affectionate joke.
“And Alex, you know, was so serious. A writer, even then. You had to watch what you said. You know we’re in a book? My father said it was another family, but it was us.”
“And what were you like? In the book,” Markovsky said, familiar.
“Like I am. Well, like I was. A long time ago now.”
“People don’t change.”
“No? Maybe. But the world does.” She looked at Alex. “You remember the old house.”
“I went to see it. This morning.”
She nodded. “It’s sad, to think of it like that. But you know he sold it to the Nazis, so—”
“To the Reichsbank. A man told me.”
“Yes, the bank. So at least no one else ever lived there. Just us.”
“Junkers,” Brecht said. “Are we supposed to be sentimental?”
“No, polite,” Markovsky said, turning to him.
“Oh, Bert, he’s never polite,” Irene said easily. “Are you, darling? It’s part of his art.”
Brecht took this and held on, a social lifesaver. “I still can’t get you a ticket,” he said, almost winking. “But what about a drink instead?”
“A drink also,” Irene volleyed back, putting her finger on his chest.
Brecht bowed, a waiter’s gesture, and left with Fritsch.
“It’s just the way he talks,” Irene said to Markovsky. “And you know, he’s right. There’s no reason to be sentimental. I never liked the house anyway.”
“But your family’s house—” Markovsky said, and Alex realized that it was part of her appeal for him, someone who’d known that life.
“ Ouf. It was like here,” she said, waving her hand. “A museum. But the country house I always liked. And now that’s gone too.”
“Fritz sold it?” Alex said.
“No. All the big farms were broken up. After the war. They just took it.”
“Land reform,” Markovsky said, explaining, suddenly uncomfortable. “A more equitable distribution.”
“Oh, I’m not
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