Rupert Thomson: Katherine Carlyle

/

Walking east along the Ku’damm, I come across the Kaufhaus des Westens, one of the most famous department stores in Europe. Unthinkingly, I step inside. I wander aimlessly among the perfume counters and champagne promotions until, all of a sudden, I remember the umbrella I left on the train. I take an escalator to the third floor where I choose a dark-green model that is small enough to fit into my case. As I turn to leave, the woman serving me asks if I have visited the food hall. I shake my head. Oh, but you must, she says. Es ist fabelhaft . It’s wonderful. She’s so insistent that I promise I will have a look.

Half an hour later, while standing by a gloomy green tank, watching lobsters clamber over one another in exaggerated, almost theatrical slow motion, I hear a fierce abbreviated hiss, like air escaping from a tire. Behind the meat counter is a young man in a crisp white jacket, a black bow tie, and a long white apron. He has the pallid face of somebody who doesn’t get much sun. He glances left and right, then beckons me over.

“What’s your name?” he says in German.

I tell him.

He frowns. “You’re a student?”

“I’m a tourist.”

“OK.” His eyes are a dull greenish brown, like olives. “Can I trust you?”

I stare at him, and he repeats the question.

“That depends,” I say. But the suggestion of a mission sends the blood tumbling through my veins.

“Take this.” He passes a KaDeWe plastic bag over the counter. His face has become sober, professional. “When you leave the store, go to Zoologischer Garten and put the bag in one of the lockers.”

“I don’t know,” I say.

But then I remind myself that in these strange circumstances, in this new life, it’s hard to predict what might be relevant or beneficial. There’s really only one rule. Keep an open mind. Nothing that is offered should be rejected out of hand.

“Please.” The young man’s olive-colored eyes shine briefly, as if they’ve just been dipped in oil.

I take the bag, which is heavier than I expected. Inside is a package wrapped in the thick white paper butchers use.

“Zoo,” he says. “The station. You can find it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not far from here.” Once again he sends rapid glances right and left. “Meet me in Witternbergplatz at five o’clock.” He talks out of the side of his mouth, like a gangster, his eyes slanting back along the counter. “There’s an Imbiss there. You know what an Imbiss is?”

“No.”

“It’s like a kiosk. You can buy coffee, or a hot dog, or —” He hesitates as the metal door behind him opens a fraction, then closes again. “Or pommes-frites .” He gives me directions. “Meet me there,” he says. “There are red umbrellas, with Coca-Cola logos on them. You’ll have the key to the locker, yes?”

“Yes,” I say. “All right.”

“Here’s something for you. You look hungry.” He passes me another, smaller package, wrapped in the same white paper.

I drop the second package into the plastic bag.

A woman in the same jacket, apron, and bow tie appears at the far end of the counter. She walks with her elbows lifted away from her sides as if she’s up to her waist in water.

“Your change,” the man says in a loud voice, handing me some coins.

As I travel back to the ground floor I realize that the man at the meat counter is living with an intensity and purpose that mirrors my own. Did he recognize those qualities in me, or did I simply show up at the right moment, when he wasn’t being monitored? And what exactly has he given me? Am I breaking the law? What if I’m stopped?

No one stops me.

Out on the pavement I keep walking, my body moving automatically, my mind quite empty, and I arrive at Zoologischer Garten a few minutes later without having consulted a map or even having paid much attention to where I was going. I find the lockers in a drafty corridor lined with yellow tiles. The locker doors are a grubby cream color with numbers stenciled along the top in black. Station announcements echo off the walls.

I remove the smaller of the two packages, then place the bag in a locker and follow the instructions on the door. 1: Insert the correct money. 2: Turn the key. 3: Check the door is locked . I pay for the locker with the change the man at the meat counter gave me. At the time I thought what he was doing was for the benefit of that burly woman who may or may not have been his supervisor — he was simulating the last stage in a transaction that never actually took place — but now it occurs to me that he might also have been thinking ahead, handing me the coins I would need if I was to carry out the mission he was entrusting me with. Impressed by his ability to operate on two levels at once, I pocket the key and leave the station.

On my way out I pass a photo booth, its curtain drawn aside. The light issuing from the interior is white but hazy — a science fiction glow. I sit on the seat and feed some coins into the slot. The flash goes off four times, then I wait outside. A strip of photographic paper drops into a silver metal cage. My eyes are shut in every picture. A smile smolders on my lips. I could be asleep and in the middle of a beautiful dream. I could be dead and happy to be dead.

I walk east. The sun comes and goes. When I reach the Tiergarten, a path unspools in front of me. A gold statue of a winged woman stands on a high column, storm clouds massing behind her. A cyclist hisses past on wheels as thin as hoops. I find a bench and take out the package. Inside are two crusty rolls stuffed with smoked ham. I pick up a roll and take a bite. Food has never tasted better.

/

At five past five I’m standing by the kiosk in Witternbergplatz watching two teenage girls dip chips in mayonnaise when the man from the meat counter appears. He has changed into a black shirt, a black leather jacket, and a pair of jeans, but he has the same eager pasty look he had in the shop. He asks if I have the key.

“You should eat,” I say, “or it’ll look suspicious.”

“Suspicious?”

“Like we’re doing a drug deal or something.”

He stares at me. His throat is flushed as if he’s got a rash. “Right,” he says. “OK.”

Stepping beneath the awning, he orders a Currywurst and lays a crumpled five-euro note on the counter.

“Thanks for the ham rolls,” I say.

“They were good?”

“Very good.”

He nods. “The meat’s high quality, I have to say.” He sounds so earnest that I can’t help smiling, but he doesn’t notice. A paper plate balanced on one hand, he spears a chunk of sausage with a white plastic fork and pokes it into his mouth. “Any problems?”

“No. I put the bag in a locker, just like you asked me to.”

“Thanks.” He licks curry sauce off his thumb, then looks away, towards Tauentzienstrasse.

I remove the key from my pocket and feel its weight transfer from me to him a moment before I hand it over.

“You already know my name,” I say. “What’s yours?”

“Oswald Überkopf.” The look he gives me tells me he has been teased, or even bullied.

“Oswald? You don’t hear that too often.”

The wind whips his hair across his eyes. He tips his plate and fork into the bin, then reaches up with both hands. As he scrapes his hair back behind his ears, the sleeves of his leather jacket ride up, revealing a tattooed inscription on the inside of his left forearm. The letters have a Gothic look, but I don’t see them for long enough to decipher them.

The sun has dropped below the level of the rooftops and the square is plunged in chilly shadow. A shiver of familiarity goes through me. A sense of eternity, and the abyss. Tomorrow, at the café on Giesebrechtstrasse, I will sit near Klaus Frings again, and this time I will talk to him.