The Neruda Case (25 page)

“So you were friends?”

“I would have loved that, but she was much older than me. One day she left the school, and we never saw each other again.”

“What explanation did they give you?”

Margaretchen snorted. “None. She simply disappeared. Nobody even saw her pack her bags. One morning her office was empty, and nothing was heard from her again. And at that school, there are things one just doesn’t ask, Herr Brulé. That was in 1964.”

“And the daughter?”

“She was studying theater, or something like that, but in Leipzig. I never heard anything more about either of them.”

Now he’d really hit bottom, he thought, suddenly disheartened. Not even the staff at Wilhelm Pieck knew of Beatriz’s whereabouts. And he was getting involved with a controversial person, who probably wanted to help him out of sheer revenge. He thought of Maigret. In a similar case, the inspector would calmly consider various hypotheses while thoroughly enjoying an eggplant dish and a tray of
moules
at a bistro in the Gare du Nord. But he wasn’t in a Simenon novel: he was in a run-down
Gaststätte
in Bernau, East Germany, one and a half kilometers from a Soviet garrison, with no experience as a detective beyond what he’d gleaned from novels. Maigret lived and worked in the center of the world; Cayetano was on its margins. And
there lay the difference between a fictional detective, born from the pen of a popular First World writer, and a flesh-and-blood detective, an investigative proletarian, an exile surviving the rigors of the Third World. He glanced at the Russian Poljot watch he’d received from Paquito D’Rivera in exchange for a Panamanian guayabera shirt, and which luckily still worked. It was past eleven o’clock at night.

“The last S-Bahn train leaves at eleven forty-seven,” Margaretchen remarked laconically. “After that, you won’t be able to return to Berlin until four forty-seven in the morning.”

They gazed at each other through the cigarette smoke. From the radio, a slow voice described record carbon production in Leipzig and the strengthening of unbreakable ties between the German Democratic Republic and the Soviet Union. What would it be like, he wondered, to live with someone who knew the train schedules by heart? Would life with such a person be easier, or more complicated? The Germans lived by their watches, Cubans didn’t need them, and Chileans, though they wore them, didn’t seem to believe in them very much. It was obviously too late to arrive at the station on time.

“I’ll take a taxi to Berlin,” he said, wiping his mustache with a napkin.

“This isn’t East Berlin, Herr Brulé. There are no taxis or buses at this hour.”

“Then I’ll find a nearby hotel.”

“You’re clearly unfamiliar with true socialism,” replied Margaretchen. “The hotels here require reservations months in advance. You can stay at my apartment if you like. There’s only one room, but I’m sure we can work something out. Would you prefer to walk all the way to Alexanderplatz, or just spend the night with me?”

35

I
n Margaretchen’s apartment, time seemed to have stopped in the 1950s. It was on the fifth floor of a building on Strasse der Befreiung, and was limited to a studio living-dining room, which Margaretchen turned into a bedroom at night by turning down the sofa. A bookshelf held works by Marx, Engels, and Lenin, a small black-and-white television, and a radio-cassette player. A teddy bear rested on the sofa bed, wearing a golden crown. The kitchenette and bathroom with shower were on one end; on the other, a window and door led out to the balcony.

“This place is like you,” Cayetano said as he removed his shoes. Margaretchen had placed hers behind the door.

“Like me?” she said, her eyes drowsy from the alcohol.

“Well, it’s warm. Genuine.”

She smiled, flattered, and Cayetano thought that sometimes affectionate words were enough to seduce a woman. Beyond the balcony, he glimpsed the lights of the Soviet regiment that, according to Margaretchen, stood ready to face down Western troops should they attack East Berlin. It occurred to Cayetano that if World War III should break out at that moment, they would be vulnerable not only to NATO missiles aimed at East Berlin, but also to Warsaw Pact
missiles failing to reach West Berlin. Sleeping here, he thought, was like sleeping under a coconut tree: sooner or later a falling coconut was bound to crack your skull.

“Open the white wine that’s in the fridge,” ordered Margaretchen. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

She transformed the sofa into a double bed, then made it up with goose-feather pillows and sheets embroidered by her mother. She took two clean towels out of the closet. Her movements were routine and precise, as though sharing her bed with a stranger were something normal in her life. Cayetano took the wine bottle out to the balcony and breathed in the warm night brimming with stars and tart scents.

“Poland is that way,” Margaretchen said, gesturing with her chin as she brought two wineglasses to the balcony. “And just a little farther, the land of Lenin.”

Was her ironic tone meant to provoke him? Cayetano wondered. They toasted and stared out at the landscape in silence. In just a few moments he would share Margaretchen’s bed. The thought dampened his desire, as he belonged to the Latin American school of love, which preferred amorous encounters with tentative beginnings and gradual consummation, wrapped in romanticism, and always initiated by the man. This female emancipation, born of true socialism, made him feel uncomfortable and inhibited. The wine was Romanian, and sweet, the kind that breaks your head open, he thought with concern. A train moved through the night, a faraway row of lights, and he thought he saw a dead kangaroo beside the highway to Eberswalde, which could only be an unsettling sign. When he got back to Valparaíso, he’d have to see his friend John Stamler, the ophthalmologist. He obviously needed a stronger prescription.

“That’s the express to Moscow,” Margaretchen explained. “Every night it travels from Ostbahnhof to Warsaw, and then it crosses the
steppes. It comes from Oostende, a city I can’t visit while I’m young, because they don’t let you leave East Germany until you retire.”

The illuminated serpent rattled into the distance. Now the building stood silent and alone before the apple trees of Eberswalder Strasse, dappled by streetlights. Not even the remains of Bernau’s kangaroo could be seen.

“Here’s to you finding Beatriz.” Margaretchen smiled and raised her glass.

They looked at each other in the semidarkness. The lace curtains filtered the living room light. Cayetano took the young woman by the waist and gently led her inside. He placed his wineglass on the windowsill, and they embraced.

She whispered into his ear, “Let’s shower first.”

Cayetano felt awkward. He didn’t like to plan amorous acts as though they were visits to the doctor. When passion flared, one should throw on more coal, not put up obstacles or make demands. But there was little he could do. Margaretchen began to undress in front of him, letting her clothes fall to the floor like cut flowers. She had a long, fine neck, small breasts with pink nipples, and firm thighs. She entered the bathroom, imprinting Cayetano’s retinas with the impeccable full moon of her behind.

36

S
he woke him the next morning with a bowl full of coffee and toast with marmalade. She wore a cotton bathrobe, and her hair was disheveled from sleep. Cayetano sat up, inhaling the aroma of coffee mixed with the tart scent of the Brandenburg countryside that sidled in from the open balcony, along with Soviet hymns.

“I only offer this service to my lovers on their first day,” Margaretchen said with a teasing smile. On the wooden tray stood two glasses of Rotkäppchen, the famous East German sparkling wine. “And only if they’ve passed the test in bed. After that, we share the chores. That’s how we women are in this country: equal pay for equal work. Take note.”

“So how did I do?”

“Not bad, after such a long trip,” she said, winking and sipping her Rotkäppchen.

Cayetano put on a blue silk robe that Margaretchen seemed to keep on hand for casual lovers, and they went to finish their breakfast on the balcony. Beyond the military barracks, the highway glittered, the plains turned into cornfields, and the morning swelled with birdsong. Not a bad place to live, Cayetano thought as he cleaned his
glasses and Margaretchen opened the
Neues Deutschland
paper on the table. He wondered what it would be like to move in here, behind the Wall, his back turned to the West, ready to start a new life yet again, this time with a young woman like Margaretchen. But he pushed those thoughts away. He should focus on his mission. At that very moment, the poet or Merluza could be trying to call him at the Stadt Berlin Hotel. What should he do now that Beatriz’s footprints had become so complicated?

“You’re the only person who can help me find Beatriz Schall,” he said to Margaretchen. The Rotkäppchen reminded him of Valdivieso, a Chilean champagne. “You have to help me.”

“First tell me why you’re looking for her.”

If he told her his reasons, he’d be betraying the poet, because, he thought, Margaretchen was probably a Stasi agent. He was suspicious of the fact that she, an employee of the JHSWP, would get involved with a foreigner like him. Valentina, on the other hand, had been distant. It also seemed too coincidental that Margaretchen had appeared right when he was asking about Beatriz in Bogensee. Perhaps the Stasi had been monitoring his phone calls and now wanted more details on his investigation. Or else Remigio, a member of state security at UNEAC, had alerted his bosses in Havana, and they in turn had contacted their colleagues in East Berlin. He also couldn’t dismiss the possibility that Merluza had informed the Germans. Didn’t the poet say that in Cuba many Chileans cooperated with the secret police as a matter of principle? Why would it be any different here in East Germany?

“I’m looking for Beatriz because of a love affair,” he said, and it was not a lie, though it also wasn’t the whole truth. A detective should learn to gain the trust of his informants, as he’d learned from Maigret novels.

“It sounds romantic, but I don’t believe you,” Margaretchen
answered. She straddled him, opened the robe, and explored between Cayetano’s thighs with her hand while her damp lips slid along his neck. “Beatriz involved in a love affair?”