A Small Person Far Away (8 page)

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have to go to my office.” His voice sounded hoarse and unused, and she realized that he had hardly spoken since they had arrived at the hospital. “There’s a meeting this morning, and everybody would think it very odd if I didn’t turn up.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I can look after myself.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m not going to leave you here in this weather. I can just imagine what your mother would think of that.”

The little fat woman flung herself out into the rain, shooting her umbrella open at the same time, and disappeared down the steps. A cold breath of wet air reached Anna before the door closed behind her and she breathed it gratefully.

“I thought if I could find you an occupation for this morning, we could meet for lunch. There’s been a small exhibition here in memory of your father – your mother must have written to you about it.”

“Is there?” She did not want to see any exhibition, least of all one that would remind her of Papa.

He looked at her. “You’re feeling awful.”

“I think I’d just as soon go back to the hotel. Perhaps when Max comes tomorrow—”

“Of course.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll drive you back.”

Her coat was not particularly waterproof, and even the short distance to the car was enough almost to soak her. He looked at his watch again as she sat dripping on to the upholstery.

“You’ll never get dry in that hotel. The woman probably turns the heating down during the day. It’s a miserable place, but it was all I could find. Everywhere else was full.”

She shook her head. “It really doesn’t matter.”

“Well, I don’t want two invalids on my hands.” He started the car. “I’ll take you to my flat. At least I know it’s warm there.”

As they drove through the downpour, water blurred the windscreen in spite of the wipers, and she could hear it beating on the roof of the car above the sound of the engine. Every so often she caught a glimpse of streaming pavements, dripping awnings, bent figures running under shiny umbrellas. Konrad sat leaning forward over the steering wheel, trying to see the road ahead.

“What time is your meeting?” she asked.

He glanced down at his watch. “Five minutes ago. They’ll just have to wait.”

His flat was in a side street like that of the Goldblatts, and as he stopped the car outside it, water from a huge puddle in the gutter shot over the kerb and over the feet of an old man who shouted something and shook his umbrella at him. He insisted on holding the car door open for her, standing in the rain with water dripping from his hat, and then they both hurried across the pavement into the dry.

“I’ll be all right now,” she said as soon as he had ushered her into his hall, but he stayed, fussing over a hanger for her coat, telling her to make herself some coffee, and checking that the radiators were turned up.

“Till lunch, then,” he said, and then hesitated in the doorway. “By the way,” he said, “you will find a number of feminine possessions lying about. They are of course all your mother’s.”

“Of course,” she said, astonished. It would not have occurred to her to think anything else.

“Yes, well—” He waved awkwardly. “See you later.”

For a moment after the door had shut behind him, she stood in the dark little hall, wondering what to do. Then a trickle of water ran down her neck and she went into the bathroom to rub her wet hair with a towel.

As in the Goldblatts’ flat, everything was very new and modern. There was a shower, a big mirror and a bath mat with flowers printed on it. On the shelf above the basin were two blue tooth mugs, each with a toothbrush in it. She supposed that one of them belonged to Mama.

Konrad had put some instant coffee and biscuits ready for her in the kitchen, and she was just pouring hot water into the cup, when she was startled by the ringing of the telephone. At first she could not remember where the telephone was. Then she found it in the far corner of the living room. She ran over to it, picked up the receiver and discovered that her mouth was full of biscuit. Swallowing frantically, she could hear a German voice at the other end ask with rising insistence, “Konrad? Konrad, are you all right? Are you all right, Konrad?”

“Hullo,” she said through a mouthful of crumbs.

“Hullo.” The voice – a woman’s – sounded put out. “Who is that, please?”

She explained.

“Oh, I see.” The voice became very business-like. “This is Dr Rabin’s secretary speaking. Could you tell me what time Dr Rabin left his flat, please? Only he is rather late for a meeting at his office.”

Anna told her.

“Oh, thank you, then he will soon be here.” There was a little pause, then the voice said, “I am sorry to have troubled you, but you understand, his colleagues were getting rather worried.”

“Of course,” said Anna, and the voice rang off.

She went back to her coffee in the kitchen and drank it slowly. That must have been her, she thought. The girl in his office. She had sounded quite young. Somehow, it had not occurred to her that she would still be there, working with him. It seemed to make everything more uncertain. Poor Mama, she thought. But another part of her examined the situation in terms of plot and thought angrily, how corny.

When she had finished her coffee, she wandered round the flat. It was tidy, well furnished and impersonal. The curtains in the living room were almost exactly the same as the Goldblatts’ – obviously it was all American Army issue. There was a bookshelf with a few paperbacks, nearly all detective stories, and a desk with a framed snapshot of a middle-aged woman and two girls in their twenties – his wife and daughters she supposed. The woman was wearing a flowered dress with a home-made look. Her hair was swept back neatly into a bun and she had a sensible, faintly self-satisfied expression. A real German
Hausfrau
, thought Anna.

The bedroom was not quite as tidy as the living room. Konrad must have had a bit of a rush getting up. The cupboard door was slightly open and inside it she could see one of Mama’s dresses among his suits. Her pale blue bathrobe hung beside his on the door and her hair brush lay on his dressing table. Next to it and half-surrounded by the cord of his electric shaver was a small glass dish in which nestled some of Mama’s beads, a safety pin and half a dozen hairgrips.

She picked up the beads and ran them through her fingers. They were iridescent blue glass – Mama loved them and wore them all the time. Then she suddenly thought, but she doesn’t use hairgrips. Mama’s hair was short and curly. There was nothing to grip. Unless of course she had been washing her hair and had wanted to pin it in a particular way. That must be it, she thought. The fact that she had never seen Mama do this did not mean that it never happened. The hairgrips must be hers.

All the same, as she went back into the living room, she felt suddenly very much alone. It occurred to her that she really knew very little about Konrad. After all, he had presumably abandoned his wife for Mama. Might he not be ready now to abandon Mama for someone else? And what would Mama do then, even if she got better? She relied on him so much, not only for his love but for his help. After years of trying to cope alone with the family’s practical problems (and though Mama was more practical than Papa, thought Anna, she was still unpractical by most people’s standards) she had found it almost incredible that Konrad should be prepared to look after her.

“He is so good to me,” she had once told Anna. Anna had waited to hear in what way and Mama, too, had evidently found it difficult to describe. “Do you know,” she had said at last with a kind of awe, “he can even wrap parcels.”

It was still raining, though not nearly so hard. Outside the window, across the road, she could see the wet roofs of other American blocks of flats, one of them Mama’s.

She wondered what Mama had thought about when she took the barbiturates. She wondered if she had looked out of her window, if it had been wet or fine, if it had been dusk or already dark. She wondered if she had not had any regrets for the sky and the street lamps and the shadowed pavements and the sound of the passing cars. Clearly she must have felt that without Konrad they were not worth having. But perhaps she had not thought at all. Perhaps she had just been angry and had swallowed the pills, thinking, that will show him. Unlike Papa, she had left no notes for anyone.

There was some writing paper on Konrad’s desk, and she spent the rest of the morning writing to Richard. It was a relief to be able to tell him everything that had happened, from Konrad’s affair to her own reactions. When she had finished the letter she felt better. She stuck it down, put on her coat which had completely dried out on the radiator, slammed the front door as Konrad had told her, and went to meet him for lunch.

Probably because of the hairgrips and the telephone call, she felt uneasy as soon as she saw him. What shall I say to him? she thought. He was waiting for her in a small restaurant off the
Kurfürsten Damm
, newly rebuilt against a background of ruins still awaiting demolition. He rose at once to greet her.

“You found it,” he said. “I’d have come to pick you up in the car, but the meeting went on and on. And as the rain had stopped—”

“It was no trouble,” she said.

“I rang the hospital before I came out, and they think you should go and see your mother some time after four. They think she’ll be in a better state by then.”

“All right.”

“I can get away before five. I could drive you there.”

“There’s no need,” she said. “I’ll make my own way.”

There was an awkward little silence, then he said, “Anyway, you got dry.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Good news today about Hungary. Have you seen it?”

She shook her head.

“They’ve told the Russians to get out.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He produced a folded newspaper from his coat pocket, but was suddenly hailed by a small man with rabbity teeth who had appeared at their side.

“My dear Konrad,” cried the little man. “I was hoping to see you.”

“Hullo, Ken,” said Konrad.

Was he pleased or annoyed at the interruption? It was impossible to tell. He introduced him, politely as usual, as Ken Hathaway from the British Council.

“Looking after the poetry side,” said Mr Hathaway, smiling through his teeth and looking disconcertingly like Bugs Bunny. He pointed to the paper. “Isn’t that amazing?” he cried. “Just told them to leave. Scram. Skedaddle. Vamoose. Back to Mother Russia. Mind you, I’m not surprised. Very fiery people, the Hungarians.”

“Do you think the Russians will really go?”

Konrad shrugged his shoulders. “It would be a very remarkable thing if they did.”

Mr Hathaway appeared to have sat down at their table, and after a moment – it must be because he, too, was finding it difficult to be alone with her, thought Anna – Konrad asked him to join them for lunch.

“I was so very sorry to hear of your mother’s illness,” said Mr Hathaway, and Konrad produced his usual vague phrases about pneumonia. Mr Hathaway managed somehow to make his teeth droop in sympathy. “Do give her my love,” he said. “I admire her so much.” He turned to Anna. “She has such enthusiasm, such a feeling for life – for living it to the full. I always think that’s a very continental quality.”

Anna agreed a little sadly about Mama’s enthusiasm for life, thinking at the same time how cross it would make her to hear herself described as continental. There was nothing Mama was quite as proud of as her British citizenship. She always referred to herself and the British as “we” (whereas Anna would go to infinite trouble to circumvent such phrases) and had once even talked, in her slight but unmistakable German accent, about “when we won the First World War,” to everyone’s confusion.

“And her feeling for the arts,” cried Mr Hathaway. “Her love of the theatre – I suppose that must have been nurtured by your father. But her music was her very own. To me, she stands for a very special kind of flowering, a special European—” He suddenly ran out of words and said, “Anyway, we’re all very fond of her here,” with such genuine feeling that Anna decided he was really quite nice, in spite of his teeth and his foolishness.

It was odd, she thought, but she had quite forgotten about Mama’s music. When she was small, the sound of the piano had seemed as much part of Mama as the way she looked. Every day while Papa wrote in his study, Mama had played and even composed. She’d been good, too, people said. But with the emigration, it had all stopped. If she had continued, would she have had something to hang on to in the present crisis instead of swallowing a bottleful of pills? And had she stopped because of the endless, crushing worries, or had the music never, really, been essential to her – only part of the romantic image she had of herself? There was no way of knowing.

“We’ll miss her on Wednesday,” said Ken Hathaway, and it transpired that he was giving a party to which both Mama and Konrad had been invited. “Perhaps you would consider coming in her place?” He smiled hopefully over a forkful of schnitzel.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” said Anna.

She was appalled at even thinking about Wednesday. Suppose Mama was still in a coma by then? Suppose she was worse? Then she saw Mr Hathaway’s face and realized how rude she must have sounded.