Leonard said that as long as you weren't Russian, you couldn't go wrong. "They all remember when the Russians came in '45," he said with quiet authority. "They've all got older sisters, or mothers, even grannies, who were raped and kicked around."

The two Americans did not agree, but they took him seriously. They even laughed at "grannies." Leonard took a long drink as he listened to Russell.

"The Russians are with their units, out in the country. The ones in town-the officers, the commissars-they do well enough with the girls."

Gla.s.s agreed. "There's always some dumb chick who'll f.u.c.k a Russian."

The band was playing "How Ya Gonna Keep 'Em Down on the Farm?" The sweetness of the champagne was cloying. It was a relief when the waiter set down three fresh gla.s.ses and a refrigerated bottle of vodka.

They were talking about the Russians again. Russell's wireless announcer's voice had gone. His face was sweaty and bright, reflecting the glow of his blazer. Ten years ago, Russell said, he had been a twenty-two-year-old lieutenant accompanying Colonel Frank Howley's advance party, which had set off for Berlin in May 1945 to begin the occupation of the American sector.

"We thought the Russians were regular guys. They'd suffered losses in the millions. They were heroic, they were big, cheerful, vodka-swilling guys. And we'd been sending them mountains of equipment all through the war. So they just had to be our allies. That was before we met up with them. They came out and blocked our road sixty miles west of Berlin. We got out of the trucks fo greet them with open arms. We had gifts ready, we were high on the idea of the meeting." Russell gripped Leonard's arm. "But they were cold! Cold, Leonard! We had champagne ready, French champagne, but they wouldn't touch it. It was all we could do to make them shake us by the hand. They wouldn't let our party through unless we reduced it to fifty vehicles. They made us bivouac ten miles out of town. The next morning they let us in under close escort. They didn't trust us, they didn't like us. From day one they had us fingered for the enemy. They tried to stop us setting up our sector.

"And that's how it went on. They never smiled. They never wanted to make things work. They lied, they obstructed, they were cruel. Their language was always too strong, even when they were insisting on a technicality in some agreement. All the time we were saying, 'What the h.e.l.l, they've had a c.r.a.ppy war, and they do things differently anyhow.' We gave way, we were the innocents. We were talking about the United Nations and a new world order while they were kidnapping and beating up non-Communist politicians all over town. It took us almost a year to get wise to them. And you know what? Every time we met them, these Russian officers, they looked so f.u.c.king unhappy. It was like they expected to be shot in the back at any moment. They didn't even enjoy behaving like a.s.sholes. That's why I could never really hate them. This was policy. This c.r.a.p was coming from the top."

Gla.s.s poured more vodka. He said, "I hate them. It's not a pa.s.sion with me, I don't go crazy with it like some guys. You could say it's their system you gotta hate. But there's no system without people to run it." When he set his gla.s.s down he spilled a little drink. He pushed his forefinger into the puddle. "What the Commies are selling is miserable, miserable and inefficient. Now they're exporting it by force. I was in Budapest and Warsaw last year. Boy, have they found a way of minimizing happiness! They know it, but they don't stop. I mean, look at this place! Leonard, we brought you to the cla.s.siest joint in their sector. Look at it. Look at the people here. Look at them!" Gla.s.s was close to shouting.

Russell put out his hand. "Take it easy, Bob."

Gla.s.s was smiling. "It's okay. I'm not going to misbehave."

Leonard looked around. Through the gloom he could see the heads of the customers bowed over their drinks. The barman and the waiter, who were standing together at the bar, had turned to face the other way. The two musicians were playing a chirpy marching song. This was his last clear impression. The following day he was to have no memory of leaving the Neva.

They must have made their way between the tables, ascended in the cramped elevator, walked past the man in the brown uniform. By the car was the dark window of a shopping cooperative, and inside a tower of tinned sardines, and above it a portrait of Stalin framed in red crepe paper with a caption in big white letters which Gla.s.s and Russell translated in messy unison: The unshakable friendship of the Soviet and German peoples is a guarantee of peace and freedom The unshakable friendship of the Soviet and German peoples is a guarantee of peace and freedom.

Then they were at the sector crossing. Gla.s.s had switched the engine off, torches were shone into the car while their papers were being examined, there were sounds of steel-tipped boots coming and going in the darkness. Then they were driving past a sign that said in four languages YOU ARE LEAVING THE DEMOCRATIC SECTOR OF BERLIN YOU ARE LEAVING THE DEMOCRATIC SECTOR OF BERLIN, toward another that announced in the same languages YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE BRITISH SECTOR YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE BRITISH SECTOR.

"Now we're in Wittenbergplatz," Russell called from the front seat.

They drifted by a Red Cross nurse seated at the foot of a gigantic model of a candle with a real flame on top.

Russell was attempting to revive his travelogue. "Collecting for the Spatheimkehrer Spatheimkehrer, the late homecomers, the hundreds of thousands of German soldiers still held by the Russians ..."

Gla.s.s said, "Ten years! Forget it. They ain't coming back now."

And the next thing was a table set among scores of others in a vast and clamorous s.p.a.ce, and a band up on the stage almost drowning the voices with a jazzed-up version of "Over There," and a pamphlet attached to the menu, this time in only German and English, with clumsy print that swayed and danced. Welcome to the Ballhouse of technical wonders, the place of all places of entertainments. One hundred thousand contacts are guaranteeing Welcome to the Ballhouse of technical wonders, the place of all places of entertainments. One hundred thousand contacts are guaranteeing ..." The word was an echo Leonard could not place. "... ..." The word was an echo Leonard could not place. "... are guaranteeing you the proper functioning of the Modern Table-Phone-System consisting of two hundred and fifty Tablephone sets. The Pneumatic-Table-Mail-Service is posting every night thousands of letters or little presents from one visitor to the other-it is unique and amusing for everyone. The famous RESI-Water-Shows are magnificent in their beauty. It is amazing to think, that in a minute eight thousand liters of water are pressed through about nine thousand jets. For the play of these changing light effects there are necessary one hundred thousand colored lamps." are guaranteeing you the proper functioning of the Modern Table-Phone-System consisting of two hundred and fifty Tablephone sets. The Pneumatic-Table-Mail-Service is posting every night thousands of letters or little presents from one visitor to the other-it is unique and amusing for everyone. The famous RESI-Water-Shows are magnificent in their beauty. It is amazing to think, that in a minute eight thousand liters of water are pressed through about nine thousand jets. For the play of these changing light effects there are necessary one hundred thousand colored lamps."

Gla.s.s had his fingers in his beard and was smiling hugely. He said something, and had to repeat it at a shout. "This is better!"

But it was too noisy to begin a conversation about the advantages of the Western sector. Colored water spouted up in front of the band and rose and fell and lurched from side to side. Leonard avoided looking at it. They were being sensible by drinking beer. As soon as the waiter had gone, a girl appeared with a basket of roses. Russell bought one and presented it to Leonard, who snapped off the stem and lodged the flower behind his ear. At the next table something came rattling down the pneumatic tube, and two Germans in Bavarian jackets leaned forward to examine the contents of a canister. A woman in a sequined mermaid suit was kissing the bandleader. There were wolf whistles and cheers. The band started up; the woman was handed a microphone. She took off her gla.s.ses and began to sing "Too Darn Hot" with a heavy accent. The Germans were looking disappointed. They stared in the direction of a table some fifty feet away, where two giggling girls were collapsing in one another's arms. Beyond them was the packed dance floor. The woman sang "Night and Day," "Anything Goes," "Just One of Those Things," and finally "Miss Otis Regrets." Then everyone stood to cheer and stamp their feet and shout "Encore!"

The band took a break, and Leonard bought another round of beers. Russell took a good look around and said he was too drunk to pick up girls. They talked about Cole Porter and named their favorite songs. Russell said he knew someone whose father had been working at the hospital when they brought Porter in from his riding accident in '37. For some reason the doctors and nurses had been asked not to talk to the press. This led to a conversation about secrecy. Russell said there was far too much of it in the world. He was laughing. He must have known something about Gla.s.s's work.

Gla.s.s was serious in a punchy way. His head lolled back and he sighted Russell along his beard. "You know what the best course I ever took at college was? Biology. We studied evolution. And I learned something important." Now he included Leonard in his gaze. "It helped me choose my career. For thousands, no millions of years we had these huge brains, the neocortex, right? But we didn't speak to each other, and we lived like f.u.c.king pigs. There was nothing. No language, no culture, nothing. And then, suddenly, wham! It was there. Suddenly it was something we had to have, and there was no turning back. So why did it suddenly happen?"

Russell shrugged. "Hand of G.o.d?"

"Hand of G.o.d my a.s.s. I'll tell you why. Back then we all used to hang out together all day long doing the same thing. We lived in packs. So there was no need for language. If there was a leopard coming, there was no point in saying, 'Hey man, what's coming down the track? A leopard!' Everyone could see it, everyone was jumping up and down and screaming, trying to scare it off. But what happens when someone goes off on his own for a moment's privacy? When he sees a leopard coming, he knows something the others don't. And he knows they don't know. He has something they don't, he has a secret secret, and this is the beginning of his individuality, of his consciousness. If he wants to share his secret and run down the track to warn the other guys, then he's going to need to invent language. From there grows the possibility of culture. Or he can hang back and hope the leopard will take out the leadership that's been giving him a hard time. A secret plan, that means more individuation, more consciousness."

The band was starting to play a fast, loud number. Gla.s.s had to shout his conclusion, "Secrecy made us possible," and Russell raised his beer to salute the theory.

A waiter mistook the gesture and was at his elbow, so a fresh round was ordered, and as the mermaid shimmered to the front of the band and the cheers rang out there was a harsh rattling at their table as a canister shot down the tube and smacked against the bra.s.s fixture and lodged there. They stared at it, and no one moved.

Then Gla.s.s picked it up and unscrewed the top. He took out a folded piece of paper and spread it out on the table. "My G.o.d," he shouted. "Leonard, it's for you."

For one confused moment he thought it might be from his mother. He was owed a letter from England. And it was late, he thought, he hadn't said where he was going to be.

The three of them were leaning over the note. Their heads were blocking out the light. Russell read it aloud. "An den jungen Mann mit der Blume im Haar "An den jungen Mann mit der Blume im Haar. To the young man with the flower in his hair. Mein Schoner Mein Schoner, I have been watching you from my table. I would like it if you came and asked me to dance. But if you can't do this, I would be so happy if you would turn and smile in my direction. I am sorry to interfere. Yours, table number 89."

The Americans were on their feet casting around for the table, while Leonard remained seated with the paper in his hands. He read the German words over. The message was hardly a surprise. Now it was before him, it was more a matter of recognition for him, of accepting the inevitable. It had always been certain to start like this. If he was honest with himself, he had to concede that he had always known it really, at some level.

He was being pulled to his feet. They turned him around and faced across the ballroom. "Look, she's over there." Across the heads, through the dense, rising cigarette smoke backlit by stage lights, he could make out a woman sitting alone. Gla.s.s and Russell were pantomiming a fuss over his appearance, dusting down his jacket, straightening his tie, fixing the flower more securely behind his ear. Then they pushed him away, like a boat from a jetty. "Go on!" they said. "Atta boy!"

He was drifting toward her, and she was watching his approach. She had her elbow on the table, and she was supporting her chin with her hand. The mermaid was singing, "Don't sit under zuh apple tree viz anyone else but me, anyone else but me." He thought, correctly as it turned out, that his life was about to change. When he was ten feet away she smiled. He arrived just as the band finished the song. He stood swaying slightly, with his hand on the back of a chair, waiting for the applause to die, and when it did Maria Eckdorf said in perfect but sweetly inflected English, "Are we going to dance?"

Leonard touched his stomach lightly, apologetically, with his fingertips. Three entirely different liquids were sitting in there.

He said, "Actually, would you mind if I sat down?" And so he did, and they immediately held hands, and many minutes pa.s.sed before he was able to speak another word.

Five.

Her name was Maria Louise Eckdorf, she was thirty years old and she lived on Adalbertstra.s.se in Kreuzberg, a twenty-minute ride from Leonard's flat. She worked as a typist and translator at a small British Army vehicle workshop in Spandau. There was an ex-husband called Otto who appeared unpredictably two or three times in a year to demand money and sometimes smack her head. Her apartment had two rooms and a tiny curtained-off kitchen and was reached by five flights of a gloomy wooden staircase. On every landing there were voices through doors. There was no running hot water, and the cold tap was kept at a dribble in winter to stop the pipes freezing up. She had learned her English from her grandmother, who had been the German tutor at a school for English girls in Switzerland before and after the Great War. Maria's family had moved to Berlin from Dusseldorf in 1937, when she was twelve. Her father had been area representative for a company that made gearboxes for heavy vehicles. Now her parents lived in Pankow, in the Russian sector. Her father was a ticket collector on the railways, and these days her mother had a job too, packing light bulbs in a factory. They still resented their daughter for the marriage she had made at twenty against their wishes, and took no satisfaction in the fulfillment of all their worst predictions.

It was unusual for a childless woman to be living contentedly alone in a one-bedroom apartment. Accommodation was scarce in Berlin. The neighbors on her landing and on the one below kept their distance, but those on the lower floors, the ones who knew less about her, were at least polite. She had good friends among the younger women at the workshop. The night she met Leonard she was with her friend Jenny Schneider, who danced all evening with a French Army sergeant. Maria also belonged to a cycling club, whose fifty-year-old treasurer was forlornly in love with her. The April before someone had stolen her bike from the cellar of the apartment house. Her ambition was to perfect her English and to qualify one day as an interpreter in the diplomatic service.

A few of these facts Leonard came by after he had stirred himself to move his chair to exclude Gla.s.s and Russell from his view and order a Pimms and lemonade for Maria and another beer for himself. The rest were acc.u.mulated slowly and with difficulty over many weeks.

The morning after the Resi he was outside the gates at Altglienicke by eight-thirty, half an hour early, having walked the final mile from Rudow village. He was sick, tired, thirsty and still a little drunk. On his bedside table that morning he had found a sc.r.a.p torn from a cigarette packet. On it Maria had written her address, and it was in his pocket now. On the U-Bahn he had taken it out several times. She had borrowed a pen from Jenny's friend, the French sergeant, and written it down using Jenny's back for support, while Gla.s.s and Russell waited in the car. In Leonard's hand was his radar station pa.s.s. The sentry took it and stared hard at his face.

When Leonard arrived at what he now thought of as his room, he found the door open and three men inside packing up their tools. From the look of them they had been working all night. The Ampex boxes had been piled in the center. Bolted to all the walls was shelving, deep enough to take an unpacked machine. A set of library steps provided access to the higher shelves. A circular hole had been cut in the ceiling for a ventilator duct, and a metal grill had just been screwed in place. From somewhere above the ceiling came the sound of an extractor fan. As Leonard stepped aside to let a fitter carry his ladder away, he saw a dozen boxes of electrical plugs and new instruments on the trestle table. He was examining them when Gla.s.s appeared at his side with a hunting knife in a green canvas sheath. His beard shone in the electric light.

He spoke without preliminaries. "Open them with this. Do ten at a time, get them on the shelves, then carry the cardboard round the back and burn it right down to ashes. Whatever you do, don't go round the front with it. They'll be watching you. Don't let the wind take anything away. You wouldn't believe it, but some genius has stenciled serial numbers on the boxes. When you're out of this room, keep it locked. This is your key, your responsibility. Sign for it here."

One of the workmen returned and began searching the room. Leonard signed and said, "That was a good evening. Thanks." He wanted Bob Gla.s.s to ask him about Maria, to acknowledge his triumph. But the American had turned his back and was looking at the shelves. "As soon as they're up, they'll need to go under dustsheets. I'll have some brought around." The fitter was on his hands and knees staring at the floor. With the toe of his brogues, Gla.s.s pointed to a bradawl.

"That really was quite a place," Leonard insisted. "In fact, I'm feeling a bit shaky this morning."

The man picked up the tool and left. Gla.s.s kicked the door shut after him. From the tilt of the beard, Leonard knew he was in for a telling-off.

"Listen to me. You think this is unimportant, opening boxes and burning the packing. You think it's something the janitor should do. Well, you're wrong. Everything, but everything everything on this project is important, every detail. Is there any good reason why you should let a craftsman know that you and I were out drinking together last night? Think it through, Leonard. What would a senior liaison officer be doing out with a technical a.s.sistant from the British Post Office? This craftsman is a soldier. He could be in a bar with his buddy, and they could be talking it over in a harmless, curious sort of way. Sitting on the next stool is a bright German kid who's learned to keep his ears open. There are hundreds of them all over town. Then he's straight down to the Cafe Prag or wherever with something to sell. Fifty marks' worth, twice that if he's lucky. We're digging right under their feet, we're in their sector. If they get wise they'll shoot to kill. They'd be well within their rights." on this project is important, every detail. Is there any good reason why you should let a craftsman know that you and I were out drinking together last night? Think it through, Leonard. What would a senior liaison officer be doing out with a technical a.s.sistant from the British Post Office? This craftsman is a soldier. He could be in a bar with his buddy, and they could be talking it over in a harmless, curious sort of way. Sitting on the next stool is a bright German kid who's learned to keep his ears open. There are hundreds of them all over town. Then he's straight down to the Cafe Prag or wherever with something to sell. Fifty marks' worth, twice that if he's lucky. We're digging right under their feet, we're in their sector. If they get wise they'll shoot to kill. They'd be well within their rights."

Gla.s.s came closer. Leonard was uncomfortable, and not only because of the other man's proximity. He was embarra.s.sed for Gla.s.s. The performance was overdone, and Leonard felt the burden of being its sole audience. Once again, he was unsure how to set his face. He could smell the instant coffee on Gla.s.s's breath.

"I want you to get into a whole new state of mind on this. Anything you're about to do, pause and think of the consequences. This is a war, Leonard, and you're a soldier in it."

When Gla.s.s had gone, Leonard waited, then opened his door and looked both ways down the corridor before hurrying to the water fountain. The water was refrigerated and tasted of metal. He drank for minutes on end. When he returned to the room, Gla.s.s was there. He shook his head and held up the key Leonard had left behind. He pressed it into the Englishman's hand and closed his fingers around it and left without a word. Leonard blushed through his hangover. To steady himself, he reached into his pocket for the address. He leaned against the boxes and read it slowly. Erstes Hinterhaus, funfter Stock rechts, Adalbertstra.s.se 84 Erstes Hinterhaus, funfter Stock rechts, Adalbertstra.s.se 84. He ran his hand along the surface of the box. The pale cardboard was almost skin color. His heart was a ratchet; with each thud he was wound tighter, harder. How would he open all these boxes in this state? He pressed his cheek against the cardboard. Maria. He needed relief, how else could he clear his mind? But the possibility of Gla.s.s returning again unexpectedly was equally unbearable. The absurdity, the shame, the security implications-he could not think which was worse.

With a moan, he put the sc.r.a.p away and reached for a box on top of the pile and heaved it to the floor. He drew the hunting knife from its sheath and plunged it in. The cardboard yielded easily, like flesh, and he felt and heard something brittle shatter at the knife's tip. He experienced a thrill of panic. He cut away the lid, pulled clear handfuls of wood shavings and compressed sheets of corrugated paper. When he had cut away the cheesecloth wrapping around the tape recorder, he could see a long diagonal scratch across the area that would be covered by the spools. One of the control k.n.o.bs had split in two. With difficulty he cut away the rest of the cardboard. He lifted the machine out, fitted a plug and carried it up the library steps to the topmost shelf. The broken k.n.o.b he put in his pocket. He could fill in a form for a replacement.

Pausing only to remove his jacket, Leonard set about opening the next box. An hour later there were three more machines on the shelf. The sealing tape was easily cut, and so too were the lids. But the corners were heavily reinforced with layers of cardboard and staples that resisted the knife. He decided to work without a break until he had unpacked his first ten machines. He had them all on their shelves by lunchtime. There was a pile of flattened cardboard by the door five feet high and beside it a heap of wood shavings that reached up to the light switch.

The canteen was deserted but for one table of black tunneling sergeants, who paid him no attention. He ordered steak and french fries and lemonade again. The sergeants spoke in low murmurs and chuckles. Leonard strained to overhear. He discerned the word shaft shaft several times and a.s.sumed they were being indiscreet by talking shop. He had just finished eating when Gla.s.s came in and sat down at his table and asked how the work was going. Leonard described his progress. "It's going to take longer than you thought," he concluded. several times and a.s.sumed they were being indiscreet by talking shop. He had just finished eating when Gla.s.s came in and sat down at his table and asked how the work was going. Leonard described his progress. "It's going to take longer than you thought," he concluded.

Gla.s.s said, "It sounds right to me. You'll do ten in the morning, ten in the afternoon, ten in the evening. Thirty a day. Five days. Where's the problem?"

Leonard's heart was racing because he had decided to speak his mind. He downed his lemonade. "Well, actually, as you know, my field is circuitry, not box opening. I'm prepared to do anything within reason because I know it's important. But I do expect to have some time to myself in the evenings."

At first Gla.s.s did not reply, nor did he show any expression. He watched Leonard, waiting for more. Finally he said, "You want to talk about hours? And job demarcation? Is this the British Commie trade union talk we keep hearing about? From the moment you got your clearance, your job here is to do what you're told. If you don't want the job, I'll cable Dollis Hill and have them recall you." Then he stood and his expression relaxed. He touched Leonard on the shoulder and said before walking away, "Stick with it, pal."

And so for a week or more Leonard did nothing but stab open cardboard boxes and burn them and fit a plug on each machine, label it and stow it on the shelves. He worked a fifteen-hour day. He spent hours commuting. From Platanenallee he took the U-Bahn as far as Grenzallee, where he caught the 46 bus to Rudow. From there it was a twenty-minute walk along a charmless stretch of country road. He ate in the canteen and at a Schnellimbiss Schnellimbiss on Reichskanzlerplatz. He could think about her while he traveled or poked at burning cardboard boxes with his long pole or stood up to his diet of bratwurst. He knew that if only he had a little more leisure and were a little less tired he could be obsessed, he could be a man in love. He needed to sit down without dozing off and give the matter mental devotion. He needed that time edged with boredom in which fantasy could flourish. The work itself obsessed him; even the repet.i.tion of demeaning low-level tasks was mesmerizing for one of his orderly nature, and presented a genuine distraction. on Reichskanzlerplatz. He could think about her while he traveled or poked at burning cardboard boxes with his long pole or stood up to his diet of bratwurst. He knew that if only he had a little more leisure and were a little less tired he could be obsessed, he could be a man in love. He needed to sit down without dozing off and give the matter mental devotion. He needed that time edged with boredom in which fantasy could flourish. The work itself obsessed him; even the repet.i.tion of demeaning low-level tasks was mesmerizing for one of his orderly nature, and presented a genuine distraction.

Dressed like Father Time in a school play, in a borrowed bush hat, an Army cape that reached to his ankles, and overshoes, and equipped with a long wooden pole, he spent many hours tending his fire. The incinerator turned out to be a perpetual, feeble bonfire, inadequately protected on three sides against the wind and rain by a low brick wall. Nearby were two dozen dustbins and beyond them a workshop. Across a muddy track was a loading bay where Army trucks backed in and out all day with a grind of low gears. He was under strict instructions not to leave the fire until it had burned right down each time. Even with the help of gasoline, there were some sheets that could do little more than smolder.

In his room he was obsessed by the diminishing pile of boxes on the floor and the growing number of machines on the shelves. He persuaded himself he was emptying the boxes for Maria. This was the test of endurance, the labor he had to perform to be worthy. This was the work he dedicated to her. He tore into the cardboard with his hunting knife and destroyed it for her sake. He also thought how much bigger his room would be when his task was complete, and of how he would rearrange his work s.p.a.ce. He planned lighthearted notes to Maria, suggesting with skillful unconcern that they meet in a pub near her flat. By the time he was home in Platanenallee, not so long before midnight, he was too tired to remember the precise order of words, and too tired to begin again.

Years later, Leonard had no difficulty at all recalling Maria's face. It shone for him, the way faces do in certain old paintings. In fact there was something almost two-dimensional about it; the hairline was high on the forehead, and at the other end of this long and perfect oval, the jaw was both delicate and forceful, so that when she tilted her head in a characteristic and endearing way, her face appeared as a disk, more of a plane than a sphere, such as a master artist might draw with one inspired stroke. The hair itself was peculiarly fine, like a baby's, and often wriggled free of the childish clips women wore then. Her eyes were serious, though not mournful, and were green or gray, according to the light. It was not a lively, animated face. She was a habitual daydreamer, often distracted by a line of thought she was unwilling to share, and her most typical expression was one of dreamy watchfulness, the head slightly lifted and tipped an inch or so to one side, the forefinger of her left hand playing with her lower lip. If one spoke to her after a silence, she might jump. It was the sort of face, the sort of manner, onto which men were likely to project their own requirements. One could read womanly power into her silent abstraction, or find a childlike dependency in her quiet attentiveness. On the other hand, it was possible she actually embodied these contradictions. For example, her hands were small, and she cut her fingernails short, like a child's, and never painted them. But she did take care to paint her toenails a lurid red or orange. Her arms were thin, and it was surprising what slight loads she could not raise, what unjammed windows she could not shift. And yet her legs, though slim, were muscular and powerful, perhaps from all the cycling she did before the gloomy treasurer scared her off and her bike was stolen from the communal cellar.

For the twenty-five-year-old Leonard, who had not seen her for five days, who struggled all day with cardboard and wood shavings, and whose only token was the smaller piece of cardboard bearing her address, the face was elusive. The more intensely he summoned it, the more provocative was its disintegration. In fantasy he had only an outline to play with, and even that wavered in the heat of his scrutiny. There were scenes he wanted to play out, approaches that had to be tested, and all his memory would permit was a certain presence, sweet and alluring, but invisible. And the inner ear was deaf to the way she had intoned an English sentence. He began to wonder if he would recognize her in the street. All he knew for certain was the effect on himself of spending ninety minutes with her at a table in a dance hall. He had loved the face. Now the face was gone and all that remained was the love, with too little to feed on. He had to see her again.

He had lost count of the days. It was on the eighth or ninth that Gla.s.s let him rest. All the machines had been unpacked, and twenty-six of them had been tested and fitted with signal activation. Leonard slept in an extra two hours, dozing in an erotic fug of bed warmth. Then he shaved and took a bath, and with only a towel around his waist strolled about the apartment, rediscovering it and feeling grand and proprietorial. He heard the sc.r.a.pe of the decorators' stepladder downstairs. It was a workday for everyone else, Monday perhaps. He had time at last to experiment with his ground coffee. It was not an outright success, with the grounds and undissolved milk powder rolling with the convection in the cup, but he was happy to be breakfasting alone on Belgian chocolate, poking his bare feet between the blades of the scalding radiator and planning his campaign. There was a letter from home to read. He opened it casually with a knife, as though receiving letters was what he did every morning at breakfast. "Just a line to say thanks for yours and glad you're settling in ..." "Just a line to say thanks for yours and glad you're settling in ..."

He had it in mind to work on his undemanding note to Maria, but it did not seem right to start that until he was fully dressed. Then, when he was, and the letter was written (You were kind enough to give me your address last week when we met at the Rest, so I hope you won (You were kind enough to give me your address last week when we met at the Rest, so I hope you won't be troubled to hear from me, or feel obliged to reply ...) be troubled to hear from me, or feel obliged to reply ...), the thought of waiting at least three days for her answer was more than he could bear. By then he would be back in the dream world of his windowless room and fifteen-hour day.

He poured a second cup of coffee. The grounds had sunk. He had another plan. He would deliver a note for her to find when she came in from work. He would write that he happened to be pa.s.sing and would be in a certain Kneipe Kneipe on a certain nearby street at six o'clock. He could fill the blanks in later. He set to immediately. Half a dozen drafts later he was still not satisfied. He wanted to be eloquent and casual. It was important that she should think he had scribbled the note as he stood outside her door, that he had called by hoping to find her in and only then remembered that she went out to work. He did not want her to feel under pressure, and, more important, he did not want to appear earnest and foolish. on a certain nearby street at six o'clock. He could fill the blanks in later. He set to immediately. Half a dozen drafts later he was still not satisfied. He wanted to be eloquent and casual. It was important that she should think he had scribbled the note as he stood outside her door, that he had called by hoping to find her in and only then remembered that she went out to work. He did not want her to feel under pressure, and, more important, he did not want to appear earnest and foolish.

By lunchtime his attempts lay all about him and the final copy was in his hands. I happened to be in your area so I thought I'd pop up and say h.e.l.lo I happened to be in your area so I thought I'd pop up and say h.e.l.lo. He folded it into an envelope, which he sealed in error. He took the knife and opened it, imagining himself to be her, alone at her table, just in from work. He spread the letter out and read it twice, as she might. It was perfectly judged. He found another envelope and stood. There were all the hours of the afternoon before him, but he knew there was nothing he could do to stop himself leaving now. He was in the bedroom changing into his best suit. He was taking the worn sc.r.a.p of cardboard from yesterday's trousers, even though he had memorized the address. He had the street plan opened out on the unmade bed. He was thinking of his bright red knitted tie. He was unb.u.t.toning his traveling shoe-care kit and buffing his best black shoes as he studied his route.

To fill out the time and to savor the expedition, he walked to the Ernst-Reuter-Platz station before taking the U-Bahn to Kottbusser Tor in Kreuzberg. Almost too soon he was on Adalbertstra.s.se. No. 84 would be less than a five-minute walk. Here was the worst bomb damage he had seen. It would have been dismal enough without it. There were apartment-house facades drilled by small-arms fire, especially around the doors and windows. Every second or third building had a gutted interior and was without its roof. Whole structures had collapsed, and the rubble lay where it had fallen, with roof beams and rusted guttering poking from the heaps. After almost two weeks in the city, during which he had shopped, eaten, commuted and worked, his earlier pride in its destruction seemed puerile, repellent.

As he crossed Oranienstra.s.se and saw building work on a cleared site, he was pleased. He also saw a bar and went toward it. It was called Bei Tante Else, and it would do. He took out his note and inserted the name and the street in the blanks. Then, as an afterthought, he stepped inside. He paused beyond the leather curtain to accustom his eyes to the dark. It was a cramped and narrow place, almost a tunnel. Beyond the bar was a group of women drinking at one of the tables. One of them fingered the base of her neck to draw attention to Leonard's tie and pointed. "Keine Kommunisten hier!" "Keine Kommunisten hier!" Her friends laughed. For a moment he thought from their manner and faked glamour they might all have just come from a boisterous office party. Then he realized they were prost.i.tutes. Elsewhere there were men asleep with their heads on the tables. As he backed out, another of the women called after him, and there was more laughter. Her friends laughed. For a moment he thought from their manner and faked glamour they might all have just come from a boisterous office party. Then he realized they were prost.i.tutes. Elsewhere there were men asleep with their heads on the tables. As he backed out, another of the women called after him, and there was more laughter.

Back on the pavement, he hesitated. This was no place to meet Maria. Nor did he wish to sit in there alone and wait for her. On the other hand, he could not alter his note without ruining its casual appearance, so he decided he would wait outside in the street, and when Maria came he would apologize and confess his ignorance of the area. It would be something to talk about. It might even strike her as funny.

No. 84 was an apartment building like all the others. A curving line of bullet marks above the tops of the ground-floor windows was probably machine-gun fire. A wide entrance brought him into a dark central courtyard. Weeds were growing between the cobblestones. Recently emptied dustbins lay on their sides. It was quiet. Kids were still at school. Indoors, late lunches or suppers were being prepared. He could smell cooking fat and onions. Suddenly he missed his daily steak and chips.

Across the courtyard was what he took to be the Hinterhaus Hinterhaus. He walked to it and stepped through a narrow doorway. He was at the base of a steep wooden staircase. There were two doors on each landing. He rose through babies' cries, wireless music, laughter and, higher up, a man calling with a plaintive stress on the second syllable, "Papa? Papa? Papa?" He was an intruder. The elaborate dishonesty of his mission began to oppress him. He took the envelope from his pocket, ready to post it through the door and descend as quickly as he could. Her apartment was at the very top. Its ceiling was lower than the rest, and this too made him anxious to leave. Her door was a freshly painted green, unlike the others. He pushed the envelope through, and then he did an inexplicable thing, quite out of character.

His upbringing had instilled a simple faith in the inviolability of property. He never took a short cut if it involved trespa.s.s, he never borrowed without first asking permission, and he never stole from shops like some of his friends at school. He was an overscrupulous observer of other people's privacy. Whenever he came across lovers kissing in a private place, he always felt it proper to avert his eyes, even though he longed to go closer and watch. So it made no sense now that without pausing to reflect, and without even a cursory knock on the door, he took hold of the handle and turned it. Perhaps he expected it to be locked, and perhaps therefore this was one of those meaningless little actions with which daily life is filled. The door yielded to him and swung open wide, and there she was, standing right before him.

Six.

The apartments at the rear of the old Berlin buildings were traditionally the cheapest and most cramped. They had once housed the servants, whose masters lived in the grander quarters at the front, facing the road. Those at the rear had windows facing onto the courtyard, or across a narrow s.p.a.ce to the next building. It was a mystery, then, which Leonard never bothered to penetrate, how late-afternoon winter sunshine was able to spill out from the open bathroom door across the floor between them, a reddish-gold slanting pillar of light that picked out motes turning in the air. It could have been light reflected from an adjacent window; it did not matter. At the time it seemed an auspicious sign. Just in front of the wedge of sunlight lay the envelope. Beyond it, perfectly still, stood Maria. She wore a thick tartan skirt and a red cashmere sweater, American made, a present from the devoted treasurer which she had neither the selflessness nor the hardness of heart to return.

They stared at each other across the light, and neither of them spoke. Leonard was trying to formulate a greeting in the form of an apology. But how to explain away something so willed as the opening of a door? Confusing his responses was his joy in having her beauty confirmed. He had been right to be so disturbed. For her part, during the seconds before she recognized him, Maria had been immobilized by fear. This sudden apparition stirred ten-year-old memories of soldiers, usually in pairs, pushing open doors unannounced. Leonard misjudged her expression as the understandable hostility of a householder for an intruder. And he misread the quick faint smile of recognition and relief as forgiveness.

Testing his luck, he advanced a couple of steps and put out his hand. "Leonard Marnham," he said. "You remember. The Resi?"

Even though she no longer felt she was in danger, Maria took a step backward and crossed her arms over her chest. "What do you want?"

It worked in Leonard's favor that he was so put out by such a direct question. He blushed, fumbled, and then for an answer picked up the envelope and handed it to her. She opened it, spread out the single sheet, and before reading glanced over the top to make sure he was coming no closer. The flash of the whites of those serious eyes! Leonard stood helpless. He remembered his father reading his mediocre end-of-term reports in his presence. Just as he had imagined, she read the note over twice.

"What does it mean, this 'pop up'? Just to open my door, is this a pop up?" He was about to offer an explanation, but she was beginning to laugh. "And you wish that I come to Bei Tante Else? Tante Else, the Nuttenkneipe?" Nuttenkneipe?" To his amazement, she began to sing. It was from a number they were always playing on AFN, "Take Back Your Mink." What made him think that she was one of those girls? To be mocked by the impossible sweetness of a German girl's attempt at a Bronx accent-Leonard thought he might faint. He was miserable, he was exhilarated. Desperate for composure, he used his little finger to settle his specs on the bridge of his nose. "Actually," he began, but she was stepping round him to the door and saying mock sternly, "And why have you come to see me without the flower in the hair?" She closed the door and locked it. She was all smiles as she clasped her hands. It really seemed to be the case, she was delighted to see him. "Now," she said. "Isn't it time for tea?" To his amazement, she began to sing. It was from a number they were always playing on AFN, "Take Back Your Mink." What made him think that she was one of those girls? To be mocked by the impossible sweetness of a German girl's attempt at a Bronx accent-Leonard thought he might faint. He was miserable, he was exhilarated. Desperate for composure, he used his little finger to settle his specs on the bridge of his nose. "Actually," he began, but she was stepping round him to the door and saying mock sternly, "And why have you come to see me without the flower in the hair?" She closed the door and locked it. She was all smiles as she clasped her hands. It really seemed to be the case, she was delighted to see him. "Now," she said. "Isn't it time for tea?"

The room they were in was approximately ten feet by ten. Without standing on tiptoe, Leonard could press his palm against the ceiling. The view from the window was across the courtyard to a wall of similar windows. By standing up close and peering down, it was possible to see the dustbins lying on their sides. Maria had removed an advanced English grammar from the only comfortable chair so that he could sit while she busied herself in the curtained recess. Leonard could see his breath in the air, so he kept his coat on. He had grown used to overheated American interiors at the warehouse, and every room in his apartment had a ferocious radiator regulated from somewhere in the bas.e.m.e.nt. He was shivering, but here even the cold was charged with possibility. He was sharing it with Maria.

By the window was a dining table on which stood a cactus in a bowl. Next to it was a candle in a wine bottle. There were two kitchen chairs, a bookcase and a stained Persian rug laid on bare boards. Pinned to the wall by what Leonard took to be the bedroom door was a black-and-white reproduction of Van Gogh's Sunflowers Sunflowers, cut out from a magazine. There was nothing else to look at apart from a jumble of shoes in a corner heaped around an iron cobbler's last. Maria's room could not have resembled less the polished and orderly clutter of the Marnham living room in Tottenham, with its mahogany radio/record player and the Encyclopaedia Britannica Encyclopaedia Britannica in a special case. This room made no claims. It would be possible to leave tomorrow without regret, taking nothing. It was a room that managed to be both spare and untidy. It was grubby and intimate. It might be possible to say exactly what you felt here. You could begin again with yourself. To one who had grown up edging round his mother's porcelain figurines, ever careful not to mark her walls with his fingers, it was strange and wonderful that this unfussy stripped-down room should belong to a woman. in a special case. This room made no claims. It would be possible to leave tomorrow without regret, taking nothing. It was a room that managed to be both spare and untidy. It was grubby and intimate. It might be possible to say exactly what you felt here. You could begin again with yourself. To one who had grown up edging round his mother's porcelain figurines, ever careful not to mark her walls with his fingers, it was strange and wonderful that this unfussy stripped-down room should belong to a woman.

She was emptying a teapot into the small kitchen sink where two saucepans balanced on top of a pile of dirty plates. He was sitting at the dining table watching the thick material of her skirt, how it moved in delayed motion, how the warm cashmere just covered the tops of the pleats and how she wore football socks inside carpet slippers. All this winter wool was rea.s.suring to Leonard, who felt easily threatened by a provocatively dressed woman. Wool suggested undemanding intimacy, and body warmth, and a body hiding cosily, demurely, in the folds. She was making tea in the English style. She had a coronation caddy, and she was warming the pot. This too put Leonard at his ease.

In response to his question, she was telling him that when she had first started work at Twelve Armoured Workshops, REME, it had been her job to make tea three times a day for the CO and the second-in-command. She set down on the table two Army issue white mugs, exactly the same as the ones he had in his apartment. He had been entertained to tea a number of times by young women, but he had never met one who did not trouble to decant the milk into a jug.

She sat across from him and they warmed their hands around the big mugs. He knew from experience that unless he made a formidable effort, a pattern was waiting to impose itself: a polite inquiry would elicit a polite response and another question. Have you lived here long? Do you travel far to your work? Is it your afternoon off? The catechism would have begun. Only silences would interrupt the relentless tread of question and answer. They would be calling to each other over immense distances, from adjacent mountain peaks. Finally he would be desperate for the relief of heading away with his own thoughts, after the awkward goodbyes. Even now, they had already retreated from the intensity of their greeting. He had asked her about tea making. One more like that, and there would be nothing he could do.

She had set down her mug and had put her hands deep in the pockets of her skirt. She was tapping her slippered feet on the rug. Her head was c.o.c.ked, with expectation perhaps, or was she marking time to the tune in her head? Was it still the song she had teased him with? He had never known a woman tap her feet, but he knew he must not panic.

It was an a.s.sumption, lodged deep, beyond examination or even awareness, that the responsibility for the event was entirely his. If he could not find the easy words to bring them closer, the defeat would be his alone. What could he say that was neither trivial nor intrusive? She had taken up her mug again and was looking at him now with a half-smile that did not quite part her lips. "Aren't you lonely living here by yourself?" sounded too wheedlingly suggestive. She might think he was offering to move in.

Rather than tolerate more silence, he settled after all for small talk and began to ask, "Have you lived here long?"

But all in a rush she spoke over him, saying, "How do you look without your gla.s.ses? Show me, please." This last word she elongated beyond what any native speaker would have considered reasonable, unfurling a delicate, papery thrill through Leonard's stomach. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the gla.s.ses from his face and blinked at her. He could see quite well up to three feet, and her features had only partially dissolved. "And so," she said quietly. "It is how I thought. Your eyes are beautiful, and all the time they are hidden. Has no one told you how they are beautiful?"

Leonard's mother used to say something of the sort when he was fifteen and he had his first pair, but that was hardly relevant. He had the sensation of rising gently through the room.

She took the gla.s.ses and folded down the sides and put them by the cactus.

His voice sounded strangled in his ears. "No, no one has said that"

"Not other girls?"

He shook his head.

"Then I am the first to discover you?" There was humor, but no mockery, in her look.

It made him feel foolish, immature, to be grinning so openly at her compliment, but he could do nothing about it.

She said, "And your smile."