Pierre Frei - Berlin - A Novel

Jagold's apartment on the Ronda Sant Antoni was a pleasant temperature. 'The architects of Barcelona gave their Art Noveau buildings remarkably thick walls,' her host explained. 'May I offer you an iced tea?' He took a glass pitcher out of the refrigerator and filled two tall glasses, garnishing them with sprigs of fresh mint.

Detta looked around. The living room was in the Moorish style. There was a photo propped on the sideboard, showing a bare-chested, athletic young man. She could see half packed suitcases through the open bedroom door.

Jagold noticed her glance. 'I've booked a passage to Spanish Morocco. My friend has gone ahead.' He pointed to the photograph. 'Gunnar is Swedish. We plan to go on to Angola and open a restaurant in Sao Paolo de Loanda. The Portuguese don't particularly mind where you come from or who you are, just so long as you bribe the right people.'

'Dr Kessler said you'd received your call-up papers and had to fly home.'

'To go to war? I'm not crazy. Well, imagine, suppose the enemy were to shoot at me!' He laughed a little too shrilly for her liking.

She understood, and everything in her Prussian soul rebelled. 'My father's too old for armed service, and it grieves him,' she said icily. 'My brother is in France with his regiment. Two of my uncles and three of my cousins reported for duty on the first day. One of them fell in Poland. We don't shirk our duty in my family, and nor, which is lucky for you, Herr Jagold, do we denounce anyone.'

'Do you like the apartment? I can let you have the furnishings very cheap.' he said, trying to change the subject. 'The rent isn't very high, and the owner of the building is a friendly soul. I'm sure you'll feel comfortable here, my dear Henriette.'

'Baroness von Aichborn to you.' she told him sharply, and left. Outside she took a deep breath, and in spite of the heat marched off, full of energy.

Military men were in the majority on the streets and squares. There were police officers everywhere. The Civil War had been over for a year now, and General Franco was holding on to what he had won with a grip of iron. The people of Barcelona ignored him. The dictator was Spanish, while they were proud Catalans.

She had calmed down by the time she reached the Placa de Catalunya. A taxi took her to her hotel near the cathedral, and she showered and changed. Then she chose a table for lunch in a small niche behind some potted palms, where she wouldn't be disturbed. She studied the menu over a glass of chilled rose.

'The grilled gambas with fresh figs are said to be particularly good today.' David Floyd-Orr stood before her, smiling. She was about to leap up and embrace him. 'No, don't,' he said quietly.

'David. 'She couldn't say any more.

He sat down. 'We're just good friends. Public displays of emotion would only attract attention. The entire foreign colony comes to this hotel. The Front runs right through the restaurant: Axis powers on the left, representatives of the entente on the right. The neutrals go now to the left, now to the right, as the mood takes them. You see everything and everyone here. Don't forget, we're on different sides.'

'Not us, darling, our countries.' She could have shouted out loud for joy, but she pulled herself together, saying casually, 'Grilled prawns with fresh figs sound good, and they'll be a first for me. We don't have those at home even in peacetime. David, what are you doing here?'

'I'll tell you later.'

In his suite, they fell on each other like two people dying of thirst. Later, lying side by side as the shutters kept out the blazing afternoon sun, blissfully exhausted, they talked.

'I was sent here at my own request. The alternative was Rio, but naturally I wanted to be near you. I'm vice-consul here, just like you, running the press department.'

She ought to have asked him how he knew that she was the German viceconsul in Barcelona, but the aftermath of their stormy love-making was like a state of pleasant intoxication, clouding her ability to think clearly. She looked at her watch. 'Oh heavens, I should have been back at the consulate ages ago.'

'You're not the only one. Shall we see each other this evening?'

'I don't know, David. You said yourself that we have to be careful.'

'We'll find a solution, far away from this bloody war,' he promised.

The solution was offered by a romantic painter's studio that they found on one of their walks down by the old fishing harbour. Its tenant, a fiery young artist, had gone to banned Republican meetings and amused himself by caricaturing the new Fascist masters. He escaped the garrotte because his sister was mistress of the military commandant of Barcelona. But she couldn't get him spared the stone quarry, so the studio was to rent. A notice on the door of the building had drawn the lovers' attention to it.

Detta was enchanted by the view of the picturesque harbour, and immediately went down to buy fish — fresh giltheads — from a cutter that had just come in. Cool red Rioja from the harbour bar completed their simple meal. For dessert they made love again. They hadn't seen each other for a whole year.

'How are your parents?' he asked as she decked the studio with flowers.

'Thanks for asking. Mother's packing parcels of smoked sausage and cigarettes for all our friends and relations in uniform.'

And the lieutenant-general?'

Yet again, Detta should have been on the alert. David knew her father as a country gentleman: how had he learned that Papa had been recalled to service and promoted? The Baron had ended the Great War as a colonel commanding his regiment. But she was too deeply in love to pick up such nuances.

'Father is putting in petition after petition to High Command to be transferred to the troops, but he's getting nowhere,' she informed him, and went on rearranging the furniture. The young artist's narrow couch had been replaced by a large double bed. 'Our first apartment of our own,' she said happily.

'Your apartment, darling. No one must know about me,' David warned her. 'Don't forget we're at war.'

'We'll leave the war outside,' said Detta firmly. She took mischievous pleasure in inventing a Spanish lover called Carlos, who soon became a familiar name in the consulate, thanks to the talkative driver, Pedro. When Pedro came to her apartment to fetch urgent files, she would call into the next room, 'Carlos, darling, put the wine to chill!' A few telephone conversations with Carlos, which she interrupted when someone looked into her office, completed the little deception. Soon the whole consulate knew about 'Don Carlos' and her love nest down by the harbour.

David grinned. 'Mine's called Conchita. A fiery creature with black eyes who leaves me no time for the club and playing cricket. Most of them have swallowed it. There's only little Jenny from the Coding Department, who keeps batting her eyelashes when she crosses my path — and she crosses my path remarkably often.'

Detta laughed. 'Don't make me jealous.' But she mounted a counterattack just in case. On their next evening together she was wearing her wonderfully sinful Parisian underwear, bought from Madame Solange on the Rambla, when she let him in. But he failed to notice her seductive appearance.

'What's the matter, David?'

He was frowning. 'Your Luftwaffe — it's bombing London day and night. They say that's a certain sign of the landings soon to come. Detta, you must help me. When does Sealion start?'

'Sealion?'

'The code name for the German invasion of the British Isles. Our nanny Ruth is of Jewish descent, and if the rumours are true my parents want to send her to Canada in good time. You're flying home next week, aren't you? Just ask your father.'

Ask him to tell me a military secret? You can't be serious, David.'

'Oh, come on!' he said casually. 'I expect even the Berlin sparrows are chirping it from the rooftops. But never mind, forget it.' He drew her close. His lips passed over her cheeks, his damp tongue licked her ear, sending a thousand volts thrilling through her body and making her weak at the knees. She cried out loud as he made love to her on the raffia mat under the big window.