Edge of Eternity (55 page)

“I'll do my best,” she said.

George put his arm around her. “See, we
are
a good team,” he said. She smiled and said nothing. He persisted. “Don't you agree?”

She kissed him. It was the same as the last kiss: more than just friendly, less than sexy. She said thoughtfully: “After that bomb smashed the window of my hotel room, you crossed the room barefoot to fetch my shoes.”

“I remember,” he said. “There was broken glass all over the floor.”

“That was it,” she said. “That was your mistake.”

George frowned. “I don't get it. I thought I was being nice.”

“Exactly. You're too good for me, George.”

“What? That's insane!”

She was serious. “I sleep around, George. I get drunk. I'm unfaithful. I had sex with Martin, once.”

George raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“You deserve better,” Verena went on. “You're going to have a wonderful career. You might be our first Negro president. You need a wife who will be true to you and work alongside you and support you and be a credit to you. That's not me.”

George was bemused. “I wasn't looking that far ahead,” he said. “I was just hoping to kiss you some more.”

She smiled. “That, I can do,” she said.

He kissed her long and slow. After a while he stroked the outside of her thigh, up inside the skirt of her tennis dress. His hand went as far as her hip. He had been right: no underwear.

She knew what he was thinking. “See?” she said. “Bad girl.”

“I know,” he said. “I'm crazy about you anyway.”

I
t had been hard for Walli to leave Berlin. Karolin was there, and he wanted to be near her. But that made no sense when they were separated by the Wall. Although they had been only a mile apart he could never see her. He could not risk crossing the border again: it was only by luck that he had not been killed last time. All the same it had been hard for him to move to Hamburg.

Walli told himself he understood why Karolin had chosen to stay with her family to have the baby. Who was best qualified to help her when she gave birth—her mother, or a seventeen-year-old guitar player? But the logic of her decision was small consolation to him.

He thought about her when he went to bed at night and as soon as he woke up in the morning. When he saw a pretty girl in the street it just made him sad about Karolin. He wondered how she was. Did the pregnancy make her uncomfortable and nauseous, or was she glowing? Were her parents angry with her, or thrilled at the prospect of a grandchild?

They exchanged letters, and both always wrote “I love you.” But they hesitated to say more about their emotions, knowing that every word would be scrutinized by a secret policeman in the censorship office, perhaps someone they knew, such as Hans Hoffmann. It was like declaring your feelings in front of a scornful audience.

They were on opposite sides of the Wall, and they might as well have been a thousand miles apart.

So Walli came to Hamburg and moved into his sister's spacious apartment.

Rebecca never nagged him. His parents, in their letters, badgered him to go back to school, or perhaps college. Their stupid suggestions
had included that he should study to become an electrician, a lawyer, and a schoolteacher like Rebecca and Bernd. But Rebecca herself said nothing. If he spent all day in his room practising the guitar, she made no objection, just asked him to wash up his coffee cup instead of leaving it dirty in the sink. If ever he talked to her about his future, she said: “What's the rush? You're seventeen. Do what you want, and see what happens.” Bernd was equally tolerant. Walli adored Rebecca and liked Bernd more every day.

He had not yet got used to West Germany. People had bigger cars and newer clothes and nicer homes. The government was openly criticized in the newspapers and even on television. Reading some attack on the aging Chancellor Adenauer, Walli would find himself looking guiltily over his shoulder, fearful that someone might observe him reading subversive material; and he would have to remind himself that this was the West, where he had freedom of speech.

He was sad to move away from Berlin but, he now discovered to his delight, Hamburg was the pounding heart of the German music scene. It was a port city, entertaining sailors from all over the world. A street called the Reeperbahn was the center of the red-light district, with bars, strip joints, semi-secret homosexual clubs, and many music venues.

Walli longed for only two things in life: to live with Karolin, and to be a professional musician.

One day soon after moving to Hamburg he walked along the Reeperbahn with his guitar slung over his shoulder and went into every bar to ask if they would like a singer-guitarist to entertain their customers. He believed he was good. He could sing, he could play, and he could please an audience. All he needed was a chance.

After a dozen or so rejections he struck lucky at a beer cellar called El Paso. The decor was evidently intended to be American, with the skull of a longhorn steer over the door and posters of cowboy films on the walls. The proprietor wore a Stetson, but his name was Dieter and he spoke with a Low German accent. “Can you play American music?” he said.

“You betcha,” said Walli in English.

“Come back at seven thirty. I'll give you a trial.”

“How much would you pay me?” said Walli. Although he still got an
allowance from Enok Andersen, the accountant at his father's factory, he was desperate to prove he could be financially independent, and justify his refusal to follow his parents' career advice.

But Dieter looked mildly offended, as if Walli had said something impolite. “Play for half an hour or so,” he said airily. “If I like you, then we can talk about money.”

Walli was inexperienced, but not stupid, and he felt sure that such evasiveness was a sign that the money would be low. However, this was the only offer he had got in two hours, and he accepted it.

He went home and spent the afternoon putting together half an hour of American songs. He would start with “If I Had a Hammer,” he decided; the audience at the Europe Hotel had liked it. He would do “This Land Is Your Land” and “A Mess of Blues.” He practised all his choices several times, though he hardly needed to.

When Rebecca and Bernd came home from work and heard his news, Rebecca announced that she would go with him. “I've never seen you play to an audience,” she said. “I've just heard you messing about at home and never finishing the song you started.”

It was kind of her, particularly as tonight she and Bernd were excited about something else: the visit to Germany of President Kennedy.

Walli and Rebecca's parents believed that only American firmness had prevented the Soviet Union from taking over West Berlin and incorporating it into East Germany. Kennedy was a hero to them. Walli himself liked anyone who gave the tyrannical East German government a hard time.

Walli laid the table while Rebecca prepared supper. “Mother always taught us that if you want something you join a political party and campaign for it,” she said. “Bernd and I want East and West Germany to be reunited, so that we and thousands more Germans can be with their families again. That's why we've joined the Free Democratic Party.”

Walli wanted the same thing, with all his heart, but he could not imagine how it might happen. “What do you think Kennedy will do?” he asked.

“He may say that we have to learn to live with East Germany, at least for now. That's true, but it's not what we want to hear. I'm hoping he'll give the Communists a poke in the eye, if you want to know the truth.”

They watched the news after they ate. The picture was in clear shades of gray on the screen of their up-to-the-minute Franck television—not blurred green like the old sets.

Today Kennedy had been in West Berlin.

He had made a speech from the steps of Schöneberg town hall. In front of the building was a vast plaza that was jam-packed with spectators. According to the newsreader, there were four hundred fifty thousand people in the crowd.

The handsome young president spoke in the open air, a huge stars-and-stripes flag behind him, the breeze tousling his thick hair. He came out fighting. “There are some who say that Communism is the wave of the future,” he said. “Let them come to Berlin!” The audience roared their agreement. The cheers were even louder when he repeated the sentence in German. “
Lass' sie nach Berlin kommen!
”

Walli saw that Rebecca and Bernd were delighted by this. “He's not talking about normalization, or realistically accepting the status quo,” Rebecca said approvingly.

Kennedy was defiant. “Freedom has many difficulties, and democracy is not perfect,” he said.

Bernd commented: “He's referring to the Negroes.”

Then Kennedy said scornfully: “But we have never had to put up a wall to keep our people in!”

“Right!” Walli shouted.

The June sun shone down on the president's head. “All free men, wherever they live, are citizens of Berlin,” he said. “And therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words:
Ich bin ein Berliner!
”

The crowd went wild. Kennedy stepped back from the microphone and slid his notes into his jacket pocket.

Bernd was smiling broadly. “I think the Soviets will get that message,” he said.

Rebecca said: “Khrushchev is going to be mad as hell.”

Walli said: “The madder the better.”

He and Rebecca were in an upbeat mood as they drove to the Reeperbahn in the van she had adapted for Bernd and his wheelchair. El Paso had been empty during the afternoon, and now it had only a handful of customers. Dieter in the Stetson had been less than friendly
earlier, and this evening he was grumpy. He pretended to have forgotten to ask Walli to come back, and Walli feared he was going to withdraw the offer of a tryout; but then he jerked his thumb toward a tiny stage in the corner.

As well as Dieter there was a middle-aged barmaid with a big bust wearing a check shirt and a bandana: Dieter's wife, Walli guessed. Clearly they wanted to give their bar a distinctive character, but neither had much charm, and they were not attracting many customers, American or otherwise.

Walli hoped that he might be the magic ingredient that pulled in the crowds.

Rebecca bought two beers. Walli plugged in his amplifier and switched the microphone on. He felt excited. This was what he loved, and what he was good at. He looked at Dieter and his wife, wondering when they wanted him to begin, but neither showed any interest in him, so he strummed a chord and started singing “If I Had a Hammer.”

The few customers glanced at him with curiosity for a moment, then went back to their conversations. Rebecca clapped along with the beat enthusiastically, but no one else did. Nevertheless Walli gave it everything, strumming rhythmically and singing loudly. It might take two or three numbers, but he could win this crowd around, he told himself.

Halfway through the song, the microphone went dead. So did Walli's amplifier. The power to the stage had obviously failed. Walli finished the song without amplification, figuring that was slightly less embarrassing than stopping in the middle.

He put down his guitar and went to the bar. “The power's gone dead onstage,” he said to Dieter.

“I know,” said Dieter. “I switched it off.”

Walli was baffled. “Why?”

“I don't want to listen to that rubbish.”

Walli felt as if he had been slapped. Every time he had ever performed in public, people had liked what he did. He had never been told that his music was rubbish. His stomach went cold with shock. He hardly knew what to do or say.

Dieter added: “I asked for American music.”

That made no sense. Walli said indignantly: “That song was a number one hit in America!”

“This place is named after ‘El Paso' by Marty Robbins—the greatest song ever written. I thought you would play that sort of thing. ‘Tennessee Waltz,' or ‘On Top of Old Smoky,' songs by Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, Jim Reeves.”

Jim Reeves was the most boring musician the world had ever known. “You're talking about country-and-western music,” Walli said.

Dieter did not feel he needed to be enlightened. “I'm talking about American music,” he said with the confidence of ignorance.

There was no point in arguing with such a fool. Even if Walli had realized what was wanted, he would not have played it. He was not going into the music business to play “On Top of Old Smoky.”

He returned to the stage and put his guitar in its case.

Rebecca looked bewildered. “What happened?” she said.

“The landlord didn't like my repertoire.”

“But he didn't even listen to one song all through!”

“He feels he knows a lot about music.”

“Poor Walli!”

Walli could deal with Dieter's boneheaded scorn, but Rebecca's sympathy made him want to cry. “It doesn't matter,” he said. “I wouldn't want to work for such an asshole.”

“I'm going to give him a piece of my mind,” said Rebecca.

“No, please don't,” Walli said. “It won't help to have my big sister tell him off.”

“I suppose not,” she said.

“Come on.” Walli picked up his guitar and amplifier. “Let's go home.”

•   •   •

Dave Williams and Plum Nellie arrived in Hamburg with high hopes. They were on a roll. They were becoming popular in London, and now they were going to wow Germany.

The manager of the Dive was called Herr Fluck, which Plum Nellie found hilarious. Not so funny was the fact that he did not like Plum Nellie much. Even worse, after two evenings Dave thought he was right. The group was not giving the punters what they wanted.

“Make dance!” Herr Fluck said in English. “Make dance!” The people in the club, all in their teens and twenties, were mainly interested in dancing. The most successful numbers were the ones that got the girls out on the floor, bopping with one another, so that the men could then cut in and get paired off.

But mostly the group fell short of generating the kind of excitement that got everyone moving. Dave was appalled. This was their big chance and they were fluffing it. If they did not improve, they would be sent home. “For the first time in my life, I'm a success at something,” he had said to his skeptical father; and in the end his father had let him come to Hamburg. Would he have to go home and admit that he had failed at this, too?

He could not figure out what the problem was, but Lenny could. “It's Geoff,” he said. Geoffrey was the lead guitarist. “He's homesick.”

“Does that make him play badly?”

“No, it makes him drink, and the drink makes him play badly.”

Dave took to standing right next to the drum kit and hitting his guitar strings harder and more rhythmically, but it did not make much difference. He realized that when one musician underperformed, it brought down the whole group.

On his fourth day he went to visit Rebecca.

He was delighted to discover that he had not one but two relations in Hamburg, and the second was a guitar-playing seventeen-year-old boy. Dave had schoolboy German, and Walli had picked up some English from his grandmother Maud; but they both spoke the language of music, and they spent an afternoon trading chords and guitar licks. That evening Dave took Walli to the Dive, and suggested that the club hire Walli to play in the intervals between Plum Nellie's sets. Walli played a new American hit called “Blowin' in the Wind,” which the manager liked, and he got the job.