The Berlin Assignment (50 page)

At the very moment that Heywood began his sonorous sermon to the
Bitrap task force, Hanbury in formal dress was pacing in the vestibule and tugging at his shirt cuffs. Frau von Ruppin and Frau Köhler stood at the ready in the cloak room; Frau Carstens hovered by the guest book; a sweating Gifford was checking details in the kitchen; and Sturm was outside directing traffic. In the salon, two rows of waiters stood at attention holding trays of briskly effervescing, chilled champagne. The salon looked exquisite with paintings capturing the light and mood of the nineteenth-century Mediterranean. They were in a mystical style which Neumeister called neo-ambrosial, explaining they were so evocative they even aroused his sense of smell. Their pastels matched the curtains which hung from solid brass rods and were gathered at the sides by sashes. These, close observers at the party would eventually ascertain, were custom-made in a velvet that had tiny red maple leaves woven into a white background – a subtle Neumeister touch. Three great chandeliers dominated the salon. The floors were covered by thick Persian carpets.

Double oak doors to the dining-room stood half open, entry teasingly prevented by a velour cord. Inside, softly illuminated by indirect rose-tinted lighting, five silver candelabra each supporting five blood-red burning candles stood on a long table. Spread around the candelabra were trays laden with the finest delicacies from the Frozen North – slices of marinated bison meat, tiny pancakes of Indian corn flour covered with strips of Arctic char, breast of Canada goose and Manitoba mallard, smoked British Columbia sockeye salmon, Quebec elk filet, Davis Bay caviar, cubes of peppered Alberta grain-fed beef, all of it surrounded by Nova Scotia fiddleheads and Saskatchewan wild rice salads. And numerous desserts: Ontario maple-syrup sauces, pastries filled with hand-picked Newfoundland blueberries, thick cream whipped up in fine New Brunswick dairies. The culinary art was by two internationally decorated chefs flown in from Winnipeg. Deeper in the mansion, in the region near the music room, the instruments of
The Whisperers
were being tuned.

In the vestibule, the air prickled with an onset of panic. Despite all the
acceptances, might no one come? Impossible. But who would break the ice? It turned out to be the banker newly sent from Frankfurt. His Mercedes entered the driveway silent as a shark. He was deposited at the bottom of the steps. The car moved on. Sturm, waving flashlights, directed it to the camouflaged parking lot.

In the marble vestibule, the consul greeted the banker warmly. “I'm pleased you found it possible to come,” he said. “Your reputation preceded you.”

The banker bowed. “Oh, am I the first? My deep apologies.” He forced a short laugh. His gaze roamed up the vestibule's Ionic columns. He noticed the opulence of the salon. “Yes, a step up from the consular corps in Frankfurt,” he said. “I heard it would be like this in Berlin.”

Berlin's Senator for Culture came next, a bear of a man with white hair layered like a wig. “Herr Konsul,” said the senator, “a good idea, having a party at this time of year.” Hanbury introduced him to the banker. The two soon guffawed. A pointed remark from the senator on extravagant bank profits had been countered effortlessly by the banker with a call for better tax breaks on donations to the arts. They moved into the salon.

Neumeister was an early arrival also. He wore a cape slung from his neck and a wide-brimmed floppy hat. Using a diamond-studded cane he immediately began pointing out to guests the meaning of the swirling stucco patterns on the ceilings.

The trickle of guests turned into a flood. A line formed at the door, snaked down the steps and out along the driveway. Nervously, expectantly, enviously, one couple after another squeezed into the crowded vestibule, removed coat and hat and waited to greet their host.

A lovely house.

A jewel.

Very, very tasteful.

Superb, really quite superb.

I always imagined life in Canada would be this good.

Hanbury accepted the compliments with grace. He nodded when the speaker of Berlin's parliament said the residence symbolized national glory. The commanding general of the German army (recently moved back into Berlin after a half-century absence) rhapsodized that it represented a country with pedigree and not burdened by history. The consul, on behalf of thirty million countrymen, gratefully squeezed the general's hand.

The line continued moving. Frau Carstens made check marks on her list. Outside, Sturm waved his flashlights. When von Helmholtz reached Hanbury, he apologized. He could not stay long. “A dinner commitment, Tony, but I wanted to see your new residence. You've set the future standard. That's obvious.” He leaned forward to whisper a confidence. The consul turned to Frau Carstens. “Can I commit myself for four o'clock tomorrow afternoon for a quarter of an hour?” he asked. “Tomorrow? Yes,” she replied crisply. “I'll expect you then,” said the Chief of Protocol. Von Helmholtz entering the salon set off a wave of social energy which surged throughout the mansion. A momentary pause in the decibel level of hundreds of voices recognized that the best-known man in Berlin was amongst them. Did this, or the consul's subsequent short speech, constitute the evening's finest moment?

Somewhere among the arrivals, Gundula slipped by Frau Carstens and stood before the consul. She wore a tight dress, black and short, like her hair. Men glanced at her with concealed admiration; women ignored her with cold envy. The consul held her hand fractionally too long. “I'll catch up with you later,” he said. “Okay, boss,” she teased, withdrawing her hand.

When the arrivals thinned, the consul joined the squeeze in the salon. Guests had spilled into the other rooms to admire colour schemes and tapestries, hand-carved woodwork and Gobelins furniture.
The Whisperers
pumped out Mozart. Waiters, possessing their profession's most esoteric secret – how to make matter pass through matter – moved through the
crowd with trays of drinks held high. At the location where the salon opened to the south wing a sound system had been set up around a small podium. Speakers had been placed everywhere, including in Sturm's domain below. The consul made his way to the podium. “May I have your attention please,” he said modestly several times into the microphone until the chatter died away. He had polished some welcoming remarks, but with several hundred faces focussed on him, a tiny quiver crept into his voice.

Hanbury described the reason for the party.
Since my arrival in Berlin I have been a guest so often, I was worried if I didn't offer some hospitality in return the Chief of Protocol would soon ask me to leave town
. Low decibel laughter, everyone looking in the direction of von Helmholtz smiling. The consul said it had at last proved possible to move into a residence that
allowed
a party. He described the search for a suitable place, making a light remark about viewing a neo-gothic mansion in Babelsberg built by a film tycoon.
Just getting it fixed up would have been a horror movie!
A generalized, broad grin. The state of the Babelsberg mansions was well known; no one had difficulty visualizing the devastation left behind by the Russians. The consul mentioned the genius of Herr Neumeister.
He's like a master gunsmith. He arms diplomats with the weapons they need to achieve victory in gruelling campaigns
. More polite laughter and a frantic, appreciative flopping of a wide-brimmed hat.

Hanbury noticed Gundula at this point. She was on the left side, leaning against a tapestry. Their eyes met for an instant. He saw a disbelieving smirk. The curved-up corners of her mouth formulated a question. Why the performance, Gundula was asking. Why was he having them on? The consul pressed forward. He made a few obligatory statements about Berlin's future as a pivot for East and West, the rejuvenated heart beating loud at the centre of Europe. Appropriate clichés. Coming from an outsider, however, they took on a different light, appearing sharper, truer, more absolute, and he received sustained applause. Then came a kind of coup. Hanbury thanked his staff and, after
that, the drivers.
The men who fight to get us through!
A pause before a muffled hurrah reverberated from below. At last the consul declared the buffet open. On cue, Gifford removed the velour cord.
The Whisperers
started afresh with new energy drawn from Gershwin, Mancini, the Beatles and Scott Joplin.

Hanbury began to look for Gundula, but guests attached themselves to him like snails. They seemed to want to leave their shimmering trail somewhere on the inside of his thoughts. Sometimes he had three conversations going at once. He got close to Gundula at one point. An arts magazine editor invited by Frau Carstens, a certain Heinrich Fest, a fat man shoe-horned into a tight, dark-purple velvet suit, was drawing Gundula into his orbit. The consul laboured in their direction. He assumed Fest wanted her to write for him, but his leaning towards Gundula was obscene. As Hanbury neared, Gundula's eyes locked on his. She winked, as if to say this party was just fine. Her plate of blueberries and whipped cream was a last but vanishing barrier between her and the editor. Hanbury wanted to say something to Gundula –
stay on a bit after the party
– but an elderly lady, an influential benefactress to the world of opera, intervened and insisted on a tour. Leading her away, Hanbury caught the eye of Gifford, who in turn went looking for the master of interior decoration. Neumeister arrived in minutes, unlocked the benefactress's clasp on the consul's arm and entwined it in his. Waving the cane, carefully in step, he moved off with the fragile woman. When Hanbury returned to where he last saw Gundula she was gone. Fest too had disappeared.

The orchestra was popular. The party became ever louder and more gay. A carpet in the salon was rolled back. Some couples tangoed. Eventually everybody danced. The consul spent an hour at the door waving guests off. When, past midnight,
The Whisperers
began to dismantle, the last ones leaked away. The kitchen staff had cleaned up. The mansion was empty. Only Gifford remained.

“A night cap?” Hanbury asked.

“Oh no. Thank you, but no. Tomorrow is a working day.”

“A happy troop tonight.”

Gifford's face lit up. “The music did it, Tony. Your show.”

“The arrangements were impeccable, Earl. Superb food. First class catering.”

“Thank you,” beamed Gifford.

Hanbury watched him leave too. The driveway was deserted. No Trabi in sight. He closed the door and surveyed the mansion's after-party state. The salon had come through more or less unscathed. In the kitchen he discovered an open bottle of champagne. He poured a glass, drank it, and poured another. In the drawing room, Hanbury turned the stereo on, rummaged through some boxes and picked out a disc called
Harlem Soul
. Decompression time. He sank into a chair, sipped from the glass and concentrated on the music. Although the first piece was slow and calming, it did not erase malevolent images of Fest. During a pause between tracks he heard a footstep. Hanbury twisted in the chair. Gundula, wearing a rescuer's grin, was standing in the doorway. “Well boss,” she mocked, “more orders?”

Hanbury jumped up. “Gundula! I thought you had left! Where were you?”

“Hiding in your palm forest from the awful people at your party.”

“You mean Fest. I'm sorry about him. I didn't put him on the invitation list.”

“He was not the worst.”

“I tried to get to you all evening. I've never experienced anything like it. A straightjacket. I couldn't move.”

“You were a busy boy. Everybody wanted to either kiss or lick you.”

“Can I get you some champagne?”

Gundula nodded yes and watched him disappear in the direction of the kitchen. She knelt down before the box of CDs on the floor and began
to flip through. Hanbury returned with a fresh bottle in a bucket. “I don't think this house is quite you,” Gundula said absent-mindedly, fingering the discs, studying them front and back. “I don't think the party was either.”

“No?” Hanbury said, popping the cork. “The house is all right. It'll do. Good acoustics. What's me? What's your opinion?”

“Not Soul, but I see you go for it all the same. I don't know what is you. You seem part cowboy, part European effete.” The consul handed her a glass. They clinked.

“Don't think about it too hard,” he said.

Gundula nodded distantly. “You never said you were a fan of Soul.”

“I wasn't, but you are. I began listening to it after the ball. I'm acquiring a taste.”

“Because of me? All that?” She gestured towards the box. There must have been six or seven dozen discs in it.

“I was advised it was a cross-section.”

“Most is bad.”

Hanbury shrugged. “I can't tell the difference yet, but I'll get there.”

“Maybe
that's
you,” she said, eyes teasing. “The pursuit of achievable aims. So tell me, what kind of music did you listen to before you wasted all that money?” Hanbury answered the classics were his forte. He slid a large packing box filled with CDs out of a closet. Then another, and another. Gundula was puzzled. Thousands of discs. “That's not a forte,” she said. “That's an obsession.”

The consul explained his collection. One series was by composer. Another by conductor – all the recorded works of Furtwängler, Klemperer, Solti – and so on. Artists were a further grouping, then one by instruments. Everything was a little mixed up now as a result of the move. Gundula remained skeptical. The point of music is to listen to it, she said, implying his was packed away in boxes. But he claimed he did. Sometimes, on a weekend, he might go through thirty discs. Gundula shook her head,
saying it confirmed he had an obsession. “Well,” Hanbury inquired, “what's yours?”

They fenced pleasantly like this through eight more tracks of Harlem Soul. The consul refilled the glasses. Gundula asked if she could see the rest of the house, laughingly adding to skip the conservatory which she had seen plenty of already. In the music room Gundula was arrested by the gleaming grand piano. “Yours?” she asked, lifting the cover and allowing her fingers to walk over three or four keys.