The Berlin Assignment (8 page)

The official vehicle was an ageing Opel gleaming in a fresh coat of black paint. Sturm opened a rear door to stash his human cargo, then placed the luggage in the trunk. Away from the terminal they joined a traffic crawl which would continue, he said, the whole way into the city. “It's the rain,” he added. “It frustrates people. They do strange things. It slows things down.” He believed it was not too early for a briefing on Germany's capital. “Berlin is full of idiots,
Herr Konsul
, and most of them are behind the wheel.”

Rain carried by gusts of wind streaked the scene diagonally in grey. It beat down on the Opel's roof and obscured the road, the signs, the vision of drivers. It wore out their good will. Impatient motorists jerked their cars from lane to lane. Sturm shook his wise head at the futility. In a running commentary on the hopelessness that lay ahead, he compared this traffic jam, this Stau, to other recent fine examples. The slower the traffic, the faster Sturm talked. He compared the autobahn in its current state to a glacier,
ein Gletscher
, that froze all life and scoured the marvels off high tech cars.
Stau
, Sturm said, rendered all cars uninteresting. It made them common, indistinguishable, like ground-down pebbles in a moraine. “I propose,
Herr Konsul
, at the next exit we get off.”

Sturm explained that more than rain was causing Berlin's endless
Staus
. The Wall – that is, its absence – was a major factor. When the Wall came down, the traffic went bad. Some days the city was nothing but a
Stau
. “It's not healthy. Look around. Ever seen so many people ready for an institution? See that woman? See her drumming the wheel? She's going catatonic. Women like that shouldn't be allowed to drive. They lack the necessary inner peace. But the mayor says not to worry. He says we're becoming normal. Soon we'll be like Paris.” Sturm changed lanes with several unusual manoeuvres, causing horns to sound and other drivers to tap their heads. Off the autobahn, winding the Opel through narrow back streets, his commentary picked up again. “
Siemensstadt, Herr Konsul
.”

Hanbury's tired eyes took in red-brick city blocks, much of it industrial. Sturm narrated the company's history. “Thirty thousand workers lived here once, a company neighbourhood. Is there anything like that in Canada?”

Hanbury was trying to stay awake. “Not really,” he said in a voice that sounded flat. “We've got some mining towns. Uranium City. Flin Flon.” He yawned.

“Flin Flon? That sounds nice. Melodious.” Sturm became interested in Flin Flon. He pronounced it repeatedly, fast then slow, the emphasis sometimes on the Flin, sometimes on the Flon. “Are you sure it's a place? It sounds more like a rock band.” He sang
flin-flon
a few more times, making it sound like the ding-dong of a doorbell.

“I saw this area once before, but from a different angle,” Hanbury remarked.

“You could have,
Herr Konsul
.” Sturm was racing through narrow streets in an alert, stiff posture, scanning intersections for signs of danger, but his voice remained detached. “There's a view of it from the autobahn over there.” He paused. “You've been to Berlin?”

“It was a while ago. The Wall was just up. I remember climbing an observation platform to look over it. The city on the other side looked dead. Empty space, soldiers with machine guns, dogs, ruins in the distance. Things like that.”

“That would have been Potsdamer Platz. Well, the communists put the East into a coma, but that's over with. In most places you can't tell now where the Wall was. And there's big plans to rebuild Potsdamer Platz. It's exciting. Except the traffic. The mayor should do something about it. We don't want to be normal like Paris.”

“The excitement seems to be a secret,” Hanbury said, laying his head back. “Where I come from people don't know much about it.”

“A good thing, too,” the chauffeur argued. “We don't want anyone to know what's going on. We don't want the story out. The traffic's bad enough as it is.”

Hanbury couldn't help thinking of Krauthilda and being told that where he was going nothing much would be important. His question –
What's expected of me in Berlin?
– had gone unanswered. Sturm's chatter forced the question back and on impulse he repeated it. The answer was quick and practical. “
Zuerst sollten Sie schlafen, Herr Konsul
.” First you should get some sleep.

Hanbury nodded; he knew he needed sleep. Yet, stubbornly, he pursued the bigger question. “And then?” he asked.

“Today nothing. Don't bother with the office. No one is expecting you, not today. Herr Gifford asked me to tell you that.”

“And then?” the consul persisted.

Sturm's correctness faltered. He raised an eyebrow. “Tomorrow? That's when you meet the staff.” Sturm didn't like being asked to prophesy the future.

Hanbury began to think of what he might say to the staff, but his eyes fell shut. When the Opel stopped at the hotel Sturm nudged the consul's elbow to wake him up.

Somewhere during that first, jet-lagged and mostly sleepless night with Sabine's clipped phrases reverberating in his head, Hanbury regrouped. He had gambled; he had lost. In retrospect it wasn't that surprising. Giving in to an insomnia, he left the hotel before dawn and walked to Savignyplatz. The neighbourhood was the same, a little shabbier maybe – though it could have been the light, or his imagination. He stood before the building where they'd lived. He sauntered through their haunts. With a fatalistic resolution he then blanked everything out. Allowing Savignyplatz to live on, to stay with him through the intervening years, had been a bad mistake.

Sturm pulled up to the hotel some hours later. Hanbury, no livelier than the day before, gave a muffled answer when the chauffeur inquired how the night had been. “So, so,” he said from the rear seat, staring blankly out the window.

The office was located behind doors draped with security devices. Hanbury's first impression was of the three smiling women. “
Guten Morgen, Herr Konsul!
” they sang with warm, friendly, almost expectant voices. Sturm marched him past them into the consulate's inner chambers. A figure as wide as it was tall and with a fleshy paw extended, scurried forward from behind a desk. Words spilled off an impeccable British tongue. “Honoured to meet you, Sir. Have a good flight? Still a bit under the weather, I should think. Beastly they are, nights on airplanes. I know. Welcome to the Canadian Consulate. We're so pleased you're here to take the rudder.”

Hanbury would forever remember the moment he first met Earl Gifford.

Jovially they shook hands. The new consul announced he was pleased to have arrived, made a small joke about transatlantic passages, linked it to seafarers and managed to end up with the importance of a steady hand on the rudder. He didn't think it came off well, but
Gifford giggled and Sturm beamed. Gifford had a triangular head, narrow at the top, widening to broad cheeks with a massive hanging chin and eyes standing close above his nose. A caricaturist would have drawn him as a squirrel.

Hanbury knew Gifford's record. He'd read it in the Zealot files. Top administrator, hired years ago, first came to Berlin as a clerk in the local British Council office, applied for a slot with the consulate when his term was up, disclosing in his letter of solicitation he wished to stay in Berlin because he planned to marry. The woman, Hanbury had read, was from Kreuzberg. He even recalled her first name. Frieda. Might Kreuzberg Frieda, the consul speculated, match the dimensions of her British Earl?

“A family sit-down's planned,” Gifford said. “Introduce you to the ladies then. Inspect your office first?” Hanbury nodded. “Splendid,” Gifford went on. “I had hoped we might have a chat first, you know,
entre nous
.”

“By all means.” Hanbury followed the administrator through more doors hung with security hardware. “Once in, no one gets out,” he joked.

“Five combinations is all you need,” Gifford reassured him. “I've given them easy sequences. Your safe begins with your birth year, 43. The second number is 23, the last 33. Get it? Don't overload grey matter unnecessarily. My motto.”

Photos of Canadian landscapes decorated the consul's office: a Georgian Bay shore in stirring autumn colours; a forlorn prairie elevator in an ocean of yellow wheat; Vancouver from the sky, the mountain backdrop lit up orange by a sun setting over the Pacific; a giant iceberg in Davis Strait with a lazy polar bear staring menacingly in the foreground. “My choice,” Gifford grinned, watching the consul studying the pictures. “Windows on home for you, I hope. Like them?”

“Lovely. Very nice. Thank you.” The office set-up – a small table and
two chairs in a corner, a desk opposite – did remind Hanbury of home. He once obtained a student loan in Saskatoon and visited the manager of a campus bank. The furniture in that office had been the same.

Gifford sat down at the round table, hands on top and clasped like someone praying. Hanbury saw he was a prolific sweater. His forehead was covered with countless droplets. “We got a fax from headquarters,” Gifford said, “which indicated you speak German. We were pleased to read that.” The consul replied his skills had become rusty, but he looked forward to polishing them. “Yes! Do!” said Gifford with enthusiasm. “Make them shine! Many things could use a polish here. We do hope you will enjoy yourself with us. It's a fine consulate, small but fine.” He broke into German, repeating the phrase,
klein aber fein
, and laughed.

Before Hanbury could give a suitable reply, the administrator began that most universal of excuses why things were not what they should be. The failings of the predecessor. He lamented that the previous consul hadn't spoken the local language. That meant he had no profile and that made him languish. Gifford explained that the predecessor, being out of touch, had disappeared into a hole, like a burrowing mouse – from where he tried to run the office. He hadn't made best use of his administrator, who should have been left alone to run the office. A consul's time is used optimally when he's out meeting people. A consul should be attending the glittering openings of cinematic world premières; he should be seen chatting to music critics at operatic intermissions; he should assume the place of honour next to the Governing Mayor at formal dinners. “It's a high calling, that of consul,” Gifford said, hands still clasped, streams of sweat tracing lines down his face. “My role is to free you to engage in it full-time. May I call you Tony? Call me Earl. It's an advantage we Anglos have. We are quicker at relaxing than the Germans.”

Visions of dallying with art critics in marble foyers and conversing
elegantly with the producers and directors of the performing arts wasn't something Krauthilda had prepared Hanbury for. “Is there a lot of that?” he asked casually, masking doubt.

“Of what?”

“Openings. Premières. That sort of thing. I was told the job here would be checking passports, getting Canadians out of jail, that sort of thing.”

“Tony!” exclaimed Earl. “That's quite delightful. Your sense of humour is like mine. I'm pleased you're anticipating your official duties. There is a great deal of
glitz
indeed. You won't be able to accept all the invitations. There can be five or six a day. There are boat rides hosted by bankers on the Wannsee, Sunday afternoons at the races arranged by the Rotary Club, late evening performances at variety houses paid for by insurance firms. There's the Press Ball, the Military Ball, the Postal Union Ball, balls in the summer and balls in the winter and garden parties without end.”

“Amen,” said Hanbury, unsure of how much of all that he wanted.

“
Of course
you needn't concern yourself with the passports!
I
do that.
I
deal with the Canadians in jail.
I
ship the bodies back to Canada. All
you
do is exercise authority and sign documents. This is how
I
free
you
. Think of this office, Tony, as the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra. The players are so good they function without a conductor. The conductor's main role, his
sole
purpose is to add class. And that is yours.”

The new consul nodded. “That's helpful. Thank you, Earl.”

Gifford's vision of Berlin's diplomatic life forced Hanbury to retreat. He'd never considered himself classy. In fact, the last thing he wanted to be was classy. Classiness had driven him to break his ties to Indian Head.
You're in a class of your own
, his mother had drummed into him
throughout the years of childhood. The school principal also extolled the unique excellence with which Tony played the piano. The only recourse open to him back then – once he became intent on shedding the limelight – was to run. The role described by Gifford gave him the same misgivings.

“Everything all right?” asked Gifford. “You look pale.”

“Fine, yes. Thanks. First day. Coming to grips.”

“Entirely understandable,” consoled the administrator. “One or two weeks and you'll find things settling down. A few points on the administrative side, if I may.” Gifford leaned forward. “Your predecessor – excuse my being frank on this point – wasn't interested in an efficient operation. It is quite true that we are not a large office, but all the more reason really to take all steps possible to make it very smooth-running indeed. I have not been able, over the years, to obtain a green light for improvements. I raise the issue now, Tony, in the event it is mentioned by the staff at the sit-down. You may wish to express a commitment to modernization. That would go down well. They look forward to the place being guided by a man of action.”

The new consul, having to digest this too, won time by nodding.