explodes all over everything. Looks like blood. Flattens the can out like you had snippedit open with tin shears and pounded it flat with a sledge hammer. Most satisfying.”
“But you never got satisfaction from your partners?”
“No. I spent a couple of weeks on a funny farm instead, drying out.”
Cooky closed his suitcase and slipped on his topcoat. “Shall we go?” I looked at my watch. It was nine-twenty. We were to be at the Café Budapest at ten. “You don’t have to go, Cooky. You’ll probably land in trouble.”
His secret-joke smile flickered for an instant. “Let’s just say that I think I’d like to come along because I’m thirty-three years old and I’ve never done anything really all the way down to the wire.”
I shrugged. “They threw Christ out of the ball game at thirty-three and He got back in. But you’re trying to make it the hard way.”
We took the elevator down and walked swiftly through the lobby. Nobody stared or pointed. John Weatherby must have been still alone and undiscovered and dead in my room. I couldn’t mourn for Weatherby because I han’t known him, although I had liked what had seemed to be a quiet competence. If anything, his death seemed to have been too casual and meaningless, as most violent deaths are. But perhaps they are better than the kind that have the dark, quiet room; the drugged pain; the whispering nurses slopping around in rubber-soled shoes; and the family and the friend or two who give a damn and who also wonder how long you’ll hold out and whether there’ll be a chance to keep that cocktail date at half-past six.
We left the Hilton and walked toward the Kaiser Wilhelm church.
“When was the last time you were in the East Sector?” Cooky asked.
“Years ago. Before the wall went up.”
“How did you go through?”
I tried to remember. “I think I was slightly tight. I recall a couple of girls from Minneapolis who were staying at the Hilton. They were with me. We just caught a cab and sailed through the Brandenburg Gate. No trouble.”
Cooky looked over his shoulder. “Things have changed. Now we foreigners go through Checkpoint Charlie on Friedrichstrasse. It could take an hour or so to get through, depending on whether the Vopos liked their dinner. You have your passport?”
I nodded.
“There used to be eighty official ways to get into East Berlin,” Cooky said. “Now there are eight. We need a car.”
“Any ideas?” I said, and looked over my shoulder.
“Rent one. There’s a place called Day and Night on Brandenburgische Strasse.”
We caught a cab and told the driver to take us to Brandenburgische Strasse, which was about three minutes away. We picked out a new Mercedes 220. I showed my driver’s license.
“How long will you have use for the car?” the man asked.
“Two or three days.”
“A two-hundred-Mark deposit will be sufficient.”
I gave him the money, signed the rental agreement, and put the
carnet de passage
and other papers into the glove compartment. I got behind the wheel, pumped the brakes to see if they worked, and started the engine. Cooky got in and slammed his door.
“Sounds tinny,” he said.
“They don’t make them the way they used to.”
“They never did.”
I turned left out of the
Tag und Nacht
garage and headed for Friedrichstrasse. You can usually ignore the speed limit in Berlin, but I kept to a modest forty to fifty kilometers per hour. The car handled well, but it wasn’t especially eager. It was just a machine designed to get you there and back with a minimum of discomfort. I turned left onto Friedrichstrasse.
“What’s the form?” I asked Cooky.
“Get your passport out; a GI will want to look at it.”
I drove on and stopped when a bored-looking soldier standing infront of a white hut waved me down. He glanced at our passports and then handed us a mimeographed sheet, which warned against carrying any non-American persons in the car, admonished me to obey all traffic
“But you never got satisfaction from your partners?”
“No. I spent a couple of weeks on a funny farm instead, drying out.”
Cooky closed his suitcase and slipped on his topcoat. “Shall we go?” I looked at my watch. It was nine-twenty. We were to be at the Café Budapest at ten. “You don’t have to go, Cooky. You’ll probably land in trouble.”
His secret-joke smile flickered for an instant. “Let’s just say that I think I’d like to come along because I’m thirty-three years old and I’ve never done anything really all the way down to the wire.”
I shrugged. “They threw Christ out of the ball game at thirty-three and He got back in. But you’re trying to make it the hard way.”
We took the elevator down and walked swiftly through the lobby. Nobody stared or pointed. John Weatherby must have been still alone and undiscovered and dead in my room. I couldn’t mourn for Weatherby because I han’t known him, although I had liked what had seemed to be a quiet competence. If anything, his death seemed to have been too casual and meaningless, as most violent deaths are. But perhaps they are better than the kind that have the dark, quiet room; the drugged pain; the whispering nurses slopping around in rubber-soled shoes; and the family and the friend or two who give a damn and who also wonder how long you’ll hold out and whether there’ll be a chance to keep that cocktail date at half-past six.
We left the Hilton and walked toward the Kaiser Wilhelm church.
“When was the last time you were in the East Sector?” Cooky asked.
“Years ago. Before the wall went up.”
“How did you go through?”
I tried to remember. “I think I was slightly tight. I recall a couple of girls from Minneapolis who were staying at the Hilton. They were with me. We just caught a cab and sailed through the Brandenburg Gate. No trouble.”
Cooky looked over his shoulder. “Things have changed. Now we foreigners go through Checkpoint Charlie on Friedrichstrasse. It could take an hour or so to get through, depending on whether the Vopos liked their dinner. You have your passport?”
I nodded.
“There used to be eighty official ways to get into East Berlin,” Cooky said. “Now there are eight. We need a car.”
“Any ideas?” I said, and looked over my shoulder.
“Rent one. There’s a place called Day and Night on Brandenburgische Strasse.”
We caught a cab and told the driver to take us to Brandenburgische Strasse, which was about three minutes away. We picked out a new Mercedes 220. I showed my driver’s license.
“How long will you have use for the car?” the man asked.
“Two or three days.”
“A two-hundred-Mark deposit will be sufficient.”
I gave him the money, signed the rental agreement, and put the
carnet de passage
and other papers into the glove compartment. I got behind the wheel, pumped the brakes to see if they worked, and started the engine. Cooky got in and slammed his door.
“Sounds tinny,” he said.
“They don’t make them the way they used to.”
“They never did.”
I turned left out of the
Tag und Nacht
garage and headed for Friedrichstrasse. You can usually ignore the speed limit in Berlin, but I kept to a modest forty to fifty kilometers per hour. The car handled well, but it wasn’t especially eager. It was just a machine designed to get you there and back with a minimum of discomfort. I turned left onto Friedrichstrasse.
“What’s the form?” I asked Cooky.
“Get your passport out; a GI will want to look at it.”
I drove on and stopped when a bored-looking soldier standing infront of a white hut waved me down. He glanced at our passports and then handed us a mimeographed sheet, which warned against carrying any non-American persons in the car, admonished me to obey all traffic
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