Otto de Kat - News from Berlin

She was uncertain whether to answer him at all. Not one of the thoughts going through her mind would she be able to articulate.

“Yes, Oscar,” she said eventually. Her tone was reassuring, affirmative as in giving him her word. “Why do you ask?”

His turn. The onset of a response just as unintended and unexpected as his question about Roy. Something he had never told her, an account he had drafted over and over in his mind, letters to her that had been shelved in his brain, the kind of letter that Matteous would presumably never write. No better camouflage for embarrassment than putting pen to paper. He felt more than embarrassed about what he had failed to tell Kate. At first he had thought to spare her feelings, but it had become increasingly difficult to broach the subject. He simply had not got around to it. Cowardice, he now thought, cowardice disguised as consideration.

“I knew Roy, Kate.”

The story he could dream poured out of him in a long stream of words. He was one of the last people to have spoken with Roy, on the day before his fatal train journey back to Rome. A few hours at his hotel in Milan, third floor, room 312. From the open window came the echo of chatter in the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, the sun was shining on the Piazza del Duomo beyond. It was 8 July, 1909, thirty-two years ago. It was yesterday, when he was a reporter for Het Vaderland .

Thirty-two years is a long time to keep a secret. But not for Oscar, cover-up artist and dealer in old, disposable, explosive matters.

“Did you come all the way from Holland to see me?”

Roy de Winther’s surprise had not been feigned.

“You have made quite a name for yourself at home – in certain circles, anyway. The articles you publish enjoy a wide readership. The newspapers write about you, and you have the esteem of your fellow archaeologists. It was the latter that piqued the interest of my editor: the appreciation shown for a colleague who is out of the country.” That was roughly how they had embarked on their conversation.

The editor-in-chief had suggested in passing that the thesis Oscar was working on could be regarded as a form of archaeology, in that it consisted of digging up old men and taking down stories. “Interesting chap, that de Winther, I’m told. He will be speaking at a conference in Milan. It might be an idea to go there and write a piece about him for the paper.”

No further encouragement had been necessary. De Winther was his senior by eight years. Oscar had done his homework, he was aware of de Winther’s publications, his reputation, his wide-ranging travels, the fact that he and his wife had lived all over Europe, and that he was currently based in Rome.

“What is your opinion of Schliemann?”

Oscar took the bull by the horns. There was still a lot of controversy surrounding the man, though he had been dead for all of twenty years.

“A shrewd treasure seeker, but with a nose for interesting locations. He was an inveterate smuggler of his own finds, but as far as Troy is concerned he was probably right.”

The tone was set, much to Oscar’s pleasure, and doubtless also to that of his future readers: he could already see the headline in the paper. The state of archaeological research passed in review at speed. De Winther spoke with fervour and erudition, showing no less interest in Oscar’s historical studies than in the ongoing Roman Forum excavations. They had lost track of time, although de Winther had said he only had an hour and a half to spare, apologising for his tight schedule. It was close on eight when Roy was sorry to say that time was up – there was a diggers’ banquet he had to attend, and he still had to change for dinner, order a taxi, pack his bag. He would be returning to Rome in the morning.

Oscar had returned to his hotel on foot, and sat down at a seldom-used desk in the lobby to make notes of their conversation, entire passages of which he could recall verbatim. Friendship is not forged in a few hours, but from the very start he had felt a strong rapport with de Winther. They shared the same language and the same interests, including the idea of journalism as a form of archaeology, and vice versa. What was hidden had a tale to tell. The soldiers of the Battle of Isandlwana had been persuaded to break their self-imposed silence, just as the mounds of the Roman Forum were plundered to reveal their treasures. The two men had spoken with candour, and at times drifted far from their subject into their personal lives. De Winther spoke of his plans for the future, Oscar of his.

He had thought to jot down some ideas and work them out later, but had sat there writing until well past midnight. The porter had brought him tea, and afterwards a glass of port. His report would not do for a newspaper article: half of it would have to be cut for being too personal, but he wanted to record everything he could remember about their encounter – his own thoughts, his reaction to Roy’s theories, Roy’s razor-sharp observations – all in hurried phrases and random order. Notes of a passionate interview. Oscar had the impression of having successfully captured the essence of Roy de Winther.

He had promised to run the text past de Winther prior to publication. The occasion to send it never arose. Oscar had stuffed the sheets into an envelope and had never looked at them again. He had informed his editor that, unfortunately, he had no text to submit, as the appointment with de Winther had been to look him up in Rome. It was at that time that he had embarked on the course that became his expertise over time: concealment and secrecy.

When Oscar stopped talking, when his account came to an abrupt end – the train had yet to crash, but what sense was there in going on? – a great weariness descended on him.

Kate sat stunned, as if she had just heard that her house had been burgled. Which it had, in a way. But she regained her composure, and once more stroked the back of his hand, which was now clenched into a fist.

She refrained from asking the obvious questions: why didn’t you tell me when we first met, why tell me now, why wait so long, why leave something so fundamentally important to me lying somewhere in an envelope? Oscar gave the extended fingers a light squeeze. It was the most intimate gesture he was capable of.

All the tables had been cleared by now, and the waiters were giving Oscar and Kate impatient looks.

The night in Kate’s flat was spent waiting for morning to arrive. No longer used to sharing a bedroom, they lay staring wide-eyed into the dark, now and then dozing off, now and then whispering “Are you asleep?” Their beds were like two small islands adrift in an uncharted ocean.

So much had been discussed and so much left unsaid that they rose exhausted. Over breakfast they sat with expressionless faces drinking their tea, each sunk in their private thoughts of the restive night. The sounds of Barkston Gardens coming awake could be heard through the balcony doors, which were open to the early sunshine.

Hardly a word was said as they made ready for Oscar’s departure to Berne. He would not be seeing Matteous, whose lesson was not until late afternoon. Oscar said how sorry he was to miss him, and hoped they would meet some time later in the year.

“Stick with him, Kate, that letter of his must get written.” She glared: he didn’t know what he was talking about. Later that year? Would the world still exist, would their lives still fit together, would Emma and Carl be free, and the Russians, God, the Russians, what would become of them?

The morning seemed without end, just as the night before. At two o’clock it was time to go; he had a daylight flight, for a change.

Kate made one final mention of Emma and Barbarossa, and one final appeal to him. He gave her a look as if to say that she had missed the point entirely. They waved at one another from their separate islands. He waved again from the pavement outside, and went on his way. She stood on her balcony.