Pierre Frei - Berlin - A Novel

'I'll be delighted to meet your friend Marion,' said David Floyd-Orr happily over the phone. 'Saturday at nine in the morning at the Stossensee bridge, then. Just go down the steps to the moorings, you can't miss me.'

Detta hung up. She had no idea how she was going to keep that date. They worked until one o'clock on Saturdays at the FM.

Detta went in to her boss at eight in the morning. Arvid von Troll was busy unpacking the contents of a shabby attache case on to his desk. 'This thing was already in use under Privy Councillor Holstein. Well, what do you suggest as presents?'

'For Mrs Macdonald I'd recommend a classic vase from the state porcelain manufactory. And you could get the prime minister a netsuke.'

A what?'

'They're thumbnail-sized Japanese figures in many different shapes, often carved from exotic woods. As far back as the fifteenth century, the Japanese were using them as toggles to fasten their tobacco pouches to their belts.'

'Well, I'm sure Prime Minister Macdonald will be glad he can finally fasten his tobacco pouch to his belt,' said Arvid von Troll sarcastically. 'What's the meaning of all this nonsense, Fraulein von Aichborn?'

'It's not nonsense, Herr von Troll,' replied Detta calmly. 'Ramsay Macdonald is very knowledgeable about Japanese art. His collection of woodcuts is famous.'

'So why a thumbnail-sized Japanese carving?'

A netsuke lies comfortably in the hand and makes you feel good when you touch it. Its exotic wood gives off a strangely stimulating perfume.'

And you think someone getting one of these things as a present will want to handle and smell it?'

'Before long the prime minister won't be able to see his woodcuts any more because his eyesight is deteriorating. But he'll still have his senses of touch and smell. And he'll soon be retiring.'

'Deteriorating eyesight? Retiring? What on earth are you talking about?'

'I had to know what kind of person Mr Macdonald is so I could suggest a really personal present for him.'

And I suppose you read all this in your coffee grounds at breakfast?'

'Good heavens, no. I telephoned the ambassador in London.'

'You telephoned our ambassador without permission?' Troll asked, stunned.

'Oh, not our ambassador. I phoned Uncle Juan. My mother's brother is the Spanish ambassador to the Court of St James,' said Detta, mollifying him. 'He's usually very well informed.'

Arvid von Troll cleared his throat. 'Well, I must apologize for my tone, Fraulein von Aichborn. We'll take your advice about the present.' He hesitated. 'I suppose your uncle Juan doesn't happen to know who will be Ramsay Macdonald's successor?'

'I asked him that too,' Detta was happy to tell him. 'Stanley Baldwin, he says.'

'Herr von Neurath will be impressed,' Troll said, with obvious satisfaction. 'You can ask a favour in return.'

'May I have the whole of Saturday off?'

'You may,' Herr von Troll generously agreed.

She rose early on Saturday to pack her raffia bag, containing toiletries, towel, new Bleyle and her Agfa box camera. A blouse, bright wrapover skirt, matching shorts and sandals completed her ensemble. Detta was armed for the encounter.

She knocked on Marlene Kaschke's door at seven-thirty. 'It'll be no use knocking. Fraulein von Aichborn.' Frau Wolke told her. 'Some man she knew fetched her yesterday. Even paid her rent. Would you like an egg for breakfast?'

Detta did not reply. She was feverishly trying to come up with a solution to the problem that had so unexpectedly arisen. But there was no solution without someone to play gooseberry. Goodbye, weekend on the water, she thought furiously.

They were far from prudish at home in Aichborn. At the age of six, Detta had helped the head groom take mares to the stallion. Her mother had used the example of Lina, a kitchen-maid impregnated by a seasonal worker who had long since moved on, to explain that even if you weren't married you could find yourself in circumstances that were far from desirable, since a child needs a father and a woman needs a husband. It all depended on doing things in the right order, she said, so it made sense to get your man to the altar before having fun with him. Because it was indeed fun, the Baroness happily concluded her explanation, and you could have fun more often and for longer with a husband — where, for instance, was Lina's seasonal worker now?

The practical Detta thought all this sounded very plausible, although she would have liked to know more about the fun. At the next opportunity she asked Lina, who told her in a whisper how you went about it and why it was so nice.

From then on Detta looked at the village boys in a completely different way, and the idea of'having fun' crept into her longing dreams. To make sure they remained dreams, her mother sent Adelheid with her as a chaperone when Bensing drove her to dancing classes in the nearby town, or when one of the young gentlemen from the neighbouring estates accompanied her to a summer ball. Detta saw nothing wrong in that. It wasn't a matter of morality but of etiquette, just as everyone knew you didn't eat fish with a knife.

Although she had come of age, and there was no one to keep an eye on her in the cosmopolitan city of Berlin where anything went so long as you enjoyed, it would never have entered her head to break the rules of etiquette. But now everything was different. Very well then, I'll eat my fish with a knife, she thought daringly, and took the BMW out of the Kantstrasse garage.

She parked the car by the Stossensee bridge and, in high spirits, ran down the countless steps carved out of the steep slope. David Floyd-Orr's shock of red hair was visible from far away. He was wearing a white polo shirt with immaculate, white linen trousers, and instead of a belt he had knotted a Winchester old school tie around them.

'Good morning, Detta. How nice of you to come.'

'Hello, David, thank you for asking me.' That was enough to satisfy English good manners. 'My friend Marion is so sorry, she can't come. She's not feeling well.' She looked out at the Stossensee, which despite its name was not really a lake, but a bay just off the river, bordered by old trees. Landing stages ran out on all sides, like wooden fingers pointing at the water. Yachts, motorboats and rowing boats rocked at their moorings. 'It's really lovely here.'

'I practically live here in the summer. This way, please.' They walked over sun-warmed planks to a motorboat. Its name, Berrie, stood in shiny letters on the prow. The Union Jack above it made a pleasant change from the swastika flags flown by the other vessels. David helped her on board. Everything here was brass and mahogany.

'There's an awful lot to clean,' said the ever-practical Detta.

'Not this weekend, though. Down here.' Three steps led down to the cabin that reached all the way to the bows. The seats by the two long sides could be pulled out to make comfortable beds. A wall cupboard contained the tiny galley with its spirit stove. David pointed to the zinc-plated refrigerator. 'We're just waiting for the man to bring ice to keep our drinks cold, then we can start. I thought we'd go past Potsdam up to Brandenburg, and then go a little further into the Havelland tomorrow. We'll be back here tomorrow evening, if that's all right by you?'

It was all right by Detta. The slight smell of marshy water, oil and gasoline, the gentle rocking of the water, the tinny sound of a gramophone playing on the boat next to David's — it was all new and fascinating.

The man with the ice delivered his load, stowed it below decks with a clatter, and wished them a nice weekend. David undid the rope and pushed off from the landing stage. Puttering, the engine started and took the boat at a leisurely pace under the Stissensee bridge and into the Havel, which opened out before them.