Schauplatzgasse within walking distance of the station. He had lunchthere sometimes with Swiss contacts, it was “spy-proof”, and unknown to German agents, apparently. The proprietor was a “good” Swiss.
“Herr Verschuur, welcome! It has been a while since you were here last – how good to see you.” The waiter’s warmth was sincere. He bowed to Lara, took her coat and Oscar’s, and led them to a table in a separate angle by the Russian stove. From the kitchen in the back came the rattle of pans and crockery. The small dining room was still empty of clients, but would soon fill up, and by two o’clock they would all be gone again. Rhythms of peacetime.
At first, all he could do was look at her. She did not seem to mind this, it was as though she understood. She said as little as he did. Oscar and Lara, in the glassy quiet of their niche.
She allowed him to observe her. He found her breathtaking, of a beauty so new to him that it was almost frightening. In the sequestered world of the mountain village he had been less conscious of it than here, on a weekday in the city. That she had made the journey especially to meet him, that she wanted to see him again, that she had taken the train, put lipstick on, ironed her blouse, glanced in the mirror before she left – unbelievable. He floundered for words.
“I was up in the mountains every day.” Oscar’s voice washesitant and low, as though afraid of being overheard. “Doing all the walks in my head that we would have done had we stayed.”
“I was there too. I followed you from the terrace, but you were impossible to catch up with, a bit like those chamois.”
They had left the Jungfrau behind unscathed, the village had not been cut off. Unscathed? Ha, anything but. In their minds they had been cleaved together. They resumed their oblique declarations of love.
At half past twelve the regulars started to drift in, long-time patrons whom the waiter dispersed across the homely dining area with practised efficiency. Soon all the tables were occupied, and the air was alive with the gurgles of Swiss German. The conviviality that prevailed, the effusive waiter, the sensible eaters, the bountifulness and contentment – Oscar saw and heard it all, yet he was hearing other things: sirens over London, sirens over Berlin.
He told Lara about his eternal struggle with the feeling of being in one place and simultaneously in another. Being able to talk with her, and at the same time with someone else, his daughter Emma for instance. Lara nodded. Not-quite-blue was the colour of her eyes, or rather a soft green, the shade of the earliest spring. In Café Eiger they had been bluer; here in thecity they were more green. Here everything about her was a shade different from the way it had been in the mountains. Ski trousers, jumpers, jackets and gloves, they had been nothing but camouflage, disguise.
Those few hours in the Berne restaurant had passed strangely. From half past eleven until two, when they both had to get back to work. The next day he could not remember whether he had said anything to her that made sense. And Lara had said little. The opening skirmishes with a few poignant remarks had led to a timid exchange of questions and answers, after which a hush had fallen, a mime show in which every movement counted. The least utterance seemed out of place. Even the waiter stayed in the background, observing silence as he served them. At length Lara laid her hand next to her plate, palm up, and they both knew it was time to go. He covered her hand with his, carefully, overwhelmed by the occasion they had created for themselves. The long-deferred touch. His heart pounded, he saw the pulse throbbing at her wrist.
*
The pale soldier opened his eyes. Oscar, sitting diagonally opposite, nodded a greeting. The boy looked outside. The stretch between Bristol and London was familiar to Oscar from the time he visited veterans at their homes as partof the research for his
“Herr Verschuur, welcome! It has been a while since you were here last – how good to see you.” The waiter’s warmth was sincere. He bowed to Lara, took her coat and Oscar’s, and led them to a table in a separate angle by the Russian stove. From the kitchen in the back came the rattle of pans and crockery. The small dining room was still empty of clients, but would soon fill up, and by two o’clock they would all be gone again. Rhythms of peacetime.
At first, all he could do was look at her. She did not seem to mind this, it was as though she understood. She said as little as he did. Oscar and Lara, in the glassy quiet of their niche.
She allowed him to observe her. He found her breathtaking, of a beauty so new to him that it was almost frightening. In the sequestered world of the mountain village he had been less conscious of it than here, on a weekday in the city. That she had made the journey especially to meet him, that she wanted to see him again, that she had taken the train, put lipstick on, ironed her blouse, glanced in the mirror before she left – unbelievable. He floundered for words.
“I was up in the mountains every day.” Oscar’s voice washesitant and low, as though afraid of being overheard. “Doing all the walks in my head that we would have done had we stayed.”
“I was there too. I followed you from the terrace, but you were impossible to catch up with, a bit like those chamois.”
They had left the Jungfrau behind unscathed, the village had not been cut off. Unscathed? Ha, anything but. In their minds they had been cleaved together. They resumed their oblique declarations of love.
At half past twelve the regulars started to drift in, long-time patrons whom the waiter dispersed across the homely dining area with practised efficiency. Soon all the tables were occupied, and the air was alive with the gurgles of Swiss German. The conviviality that prevailed, the effusive waiter, the sensible eaters, the bountifulness and contentment – Oscar saw and heard it all, yet he was hearing other things: sirens over London, sirens over Berlin.
He told Lara about his eternal struggle with the feeling of being in one place and simultaneously in another. Being able to talk with her, and at the same time with someone else, his daughter Emma for instance. Lara nodded. Not-quite-blue was the colour of her eyes, or rather a soft green, the shade of the earliest spring. In Café Eiger they had been bluer; here in thecity they were more green. Here everything about her was a shade different from the way it had been in the mountains. Ski trousers, jumpers, jackets and gloves, they had been nothing but camouflage, disguise.
Those few hours in the Berne restaurant had passed strangely. From half past eleven until two, when they both had to get back to work. The next day he could not remember whether he had said anything to her that made sense. And Lara had said little. The opening skirmishes with a few poignant remarks had led to a timid exchange of questions and answers, after which a hush had fallen, a mime show in which every movement counted. The least utterance seemed out of place. Even the waiter stayed in the background, observing silence as he served them. At length Lara laid her hand next to her plate, palm up, and they both knew it was time to go. He covered her hand with his, carefully, overwhelmed by the occasion they had created for themselves. The long-deferred touch. His heart pounded, he saw the pulse throbbing at her wrist.
*
The pale soldier opened his eyes. Oscar, sitting diagonally opposite, nodded a greeting. The boy looked outside. The stretch between Bristol and London was familiar to Oscar from the time he visited veterans at their homes as partof the research for his
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