thoughts than he did already. His memory was a boil that had to be lanced.
‘Was that where you met?’ I asked. ‘In Berlin?’
‘Met who?’
‘Wolfgang.’
Theresa acknowledged my perspicacity with a faltering smile. ‘Yes. Standing in front of the Pergamon Altar. I was being a tourist, seeing the sights.’
‘And Wolfgang?’
‘The same, I suppose. I remember the first thing he said to me. He said, “Take a good look. That’s the last clean thing you’ll see in this country.” I had no idea what he was talking about. But then, when I started travelling around, all the soot . . .’
‘The Berlin air is better than most,’ I said. ‘Up there, they keep all the factories at arm’s length. I didn’t know Wolfgang was an environmentalist.’
Theresa shrugged. ‘Everyone complains about the pollution, don’t they?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe they should. Complaining is certainly how we get things done around here. Although it only counts if it’s in writing – ideally verse. A really good rhyme for lignite and it goes straight to Herr Honecker.’
Theresa laughed. She was, I sensed, eager to laugh, to stop the exhilaration of her recital giving way to melancholy. An actor I met once told me about the feelings of deflation that follow a public performance, when the hall is empty and the audience gone. He said it was not unlike the feeling of mourning. And, in Theresa’s case, there was still real mourning to be done as well (for hadn’t I seen her and Richter together? Hadn’t I witnessed their secret embrace?).
‘You know,’ she said, ‘you’re not at all how I thought you’d be.’
‘And how was that?’
‘I don’t know. You wrote a classic. You’re a local hero – no, a national hero.’
‘Not quite.’
‘But you don’t talk about it, not unless you’re cornered. And even then you can’t wait to get off the subject. All that beauty, all that achievement: it’s as if it all came from someone else.’
‘It was a long time ago. I just feel I’ve exhausted the subject.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all.’
Theresa shook her head, still smiling. ‘Is it true that one of your books has been turned into an opera in North Korea?’
The volume in question was allegedly the first of the Factory Gate Fables; the source of the rumour an unconfirmed report in an army newsletter, concerning an official visit to Pyongyang by a military delegation. If true, the North Koreans had proceeded without permission and without payment.
‘North Korea?’ I said. ‘Now where did you hear that?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘From Wolfgang, I suppose.’
‘Probably. He talked about you a lot, you and your books.’
‘Did he?’ I tried to sound surprised, then reached for the vodka. ‘Still, that doesn’t mean we have to talk about him .’ I handed her the glass. ‘Or does it?’
She looked at the vodka for a few seconds, as if trying to make a decision. ‘Maybe not tonight,’ she said and took it. ‘Tonight I don’t want to be sad. Still, I thought it was very sweet of you to go to his funeral. I think it really made a difference, you know, to his parents.’
I clinked my glass against hers. ‘To Wolfgang. And us.’
We drank, draining our glasses in one. As soon as we put them down again, as soon as I looked into her face, I knew that the next significant thing to pass between us would be a kiss.
14
She had a tiny bedsit apartment in a modern block, one street away from the college. It was sparse and bare like a hospital, but Theresa had done her best to make it homely. There were vases filled with dried flowers and a large ethnic blanket pinned up across the wall. A degree of intimacy was achieved by careful arrangement of two anglepoise lamps, one of which was trained on the space above the bed; so that from anywhere else in the room our bodies would have been seen in tasteful silhouette. We bustled into the room, laughing, my arm by now round Theresa’s waist.
‘Was that where you met?’ I asked. ‘In Berlin?’
‘Met who?’
‘Wolfgang.’
Theresa acknowledged my perspicacity with a faltering smile. ‘Yes. Standing in front of the Pergamon Altar. I was being a tourist, seeing the sights.’
‘And Wolfgang?’
‘The same, I suppose. I remember the first thing he said to me. He said, “Take a good look. That’s the last clean thing you’ll see in this country.” I had no idea what he was talking about. But then, when I started travelling around, all the soot . . .’
‘The Berlin air is better than most,’ I said. ‘Up there, they keep all the factories at arm’s length. I didn’t know Wolfgang was an environmentalist.’
Theresa shrugged. ‘Everyone complains about the pollution, don’t they?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe they should. Complaining is certainly how we get things done around here. Although it only counts if it’s in writing – ideally verse. A really good rhyme for lignite and it goes straight to Herr Honecker.’
Theresa laughed. She was, I sensed, eager to laugh, to stop the exhilaration of her recital giving way to melancholy. An actor I met once told me about the feelings of deflation that follow a public performance, when the hall is empty and the audience gone. He said it was not unlike the feeling of mourning. And, in Theresa’s case, there was still real mourning to be done as well (for hadn’t I seen her and Richter together? Hadn’t I witnessed their secret embrace?).
‘You know,’ she said, ‘you’re not at all how I thought you’d be.’
‘And how was that?’
‘I don’t know. You wrote a classic. You’re a local hero – no, a national hero.’
‘Not quite.’
‘But you don’t talk about it, not unless you’re cornered. And even then you can’t wait to get off the subject. All that beauty, all that achievement: it’s as if it all came from someone else.’
‘It was a long time ago. I just feel I’ve exhausted the subject.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all.’
Theresa shook her head, still smiling. ‘Is it true that one of your books has been turned into an opera in North Korea?’
The volume in question was allegedly the first of the Factory Gate Fables; the source of the rumour an unconfirmed report in an army newsletter, concerning an official visit to Pyongyang by a military delegation. If true, the North Koreans had proceeded without permission and without payment.
‘North Korea?’ I said. ‘Now where did you hear that?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘From Wolfgang, I suppose.’
‘Probably. He talked about you a lot, you and your books.’
‘Did he?’ I tried to sound surprised, then reached for the vodka. ‘Still, that doesn’t mean we have to talk about him .’ I handed her the glass. ‘Or does it?’
She looked at the vodka for a few seconds, as if trying to make a decision. ‘Maybe not tonight,’ she said and took it. ‘Tonight I don’t want to be sad. Still, I thought it was very sweet of you to go to his funeral. I think it really made a difference, you know, to his parents.’
I clinked my glass against hers. ‘To Wolfgang. And us.’
We drank, draining our glasses in one. As soon as we put them down again, as soon as I looked into her face, I knew that the next significant thing to pass between us would be a kiss.
14
She had a tiny bedsit apartment in a modern block, one street away from the college. It was sparse and bare like a hospital, but Theresa had done her best to make it homely. There were vases filled with dried flowers and a large ethnic blanket pinned up across the wall. A degree of intimacy was achieved by careful arrangement of two anglepoise lamps, one of which was trained on the space above the bed; so that from anywhere else in the room our bodies would have been seen in tasteful silhouette. We bustled into the room, laughing, my arm by now round Theresa’s waist.
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