One Damn Thing After Another (8 page)

“What are you supposed to do?”

“Find the boy: he did a bunk the moment he was released.”

“Is it known where he bunked to?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Then it's a cop problem and not a widow problem, no?”

“That's what I thought, until I got told it was Buenos Aires.”

“You can't go there!”

“No,” said Arlette. “No, I suppose not. I've in any case at the present moment a great deal too much to think about.”

Very close by the Rue Ravel lived a friend of hers, an advocate called Paul Friedmann. She possessed after a year's practice a few handy contacts, lawyers and doctors, and so forth, spoken of vaguely as ‘tame'. Paul was anything but tame, but as well as being close by was bright. He wasn't at home, reportedly was not pleading at the Palace of Justice, was, reportedly, in
his office in the Rue de Verdun, and there with difficulty was routed out.

“Come on round,” he said on the phone.

“I'm on foot.”

“I'll drive you home.”

From this exchange Arlette concluded that Maître Friedmann would welcome a pretext for putting an end to a boring day. It was pleasant to see her: she found it pleasant to see him. It was nice having a sprightly chat: likewise. He was plainly making lots of money, which showed in the furniture – nothing like that she had been looking at – and was indeed boringly lecturing at some length about Chippendale pattern-books, and being learned about mahogany. But he wasn't very helpful about Madame Bartholdi. Ready enough to have her as a client, but couldn't see what it all had to do with actions-at-law.

“You were nodding a bit there, weren't you? Any criminal action is extinguished. Remains a civil action, consisting of efforts to put a price upon a boy's life. Not up my street, not, if I've understood, up hers, and in the circumstances a weary row to hoe. She feels like pulling all this fellow's teeth out one by one and we can sympathize in that laudable aim, but court-wise it's a Pyrrhic victory and largely symbolic damages. Think about it some more. I'm strongly averse to litigation.”

She avoided the subject of Argentina: not a place, she thought, likely to interest Paul Friedmann much. She said nothing either about peculiar Germans outside the door. They were there again, hovering at no great distance when Paul dropped her and said no, he wouldn't come in for a drink but love to Arthur. They made no attempt to accost her. She felt obscurely grateful for his unwitting protection.

This though was absurd. These Germans weren't a threat. She should go perhaps and have it out with them.

There was nothing on her phone tape, but while she was checking it the phone rang in the livingroom.

“Brigitte Buckenburg here from
Graphik
.” She'd forgotten about this but wouldn't you know it … The combination of
Ther Press, and the type of German womanhood that would work for this kind of press …

“Yes, well, my German isn't too brilliant. I got your proposal. Very kind of you and thanks, but no, thanks. I mean, I don't much want to be interviewed.”

“Really – why?”

“Now ja – I don't feel obliged to give reasons, you know.”

“But do, though.”

“Let's say that I see no need for it.”

“But of course there is need for it. Very valuable for you. And most interesting to us, and our readership.”

“Doubtless: I've simply decided against it.”

“Oh, I seeee,” knowingly. “I don't believe you really mean that. I'm sure you'll change your mind.”

“Better not count on that. And good day,” ringing off firmly. Let those people once get their teeth into you! … And the tone had been patronizing, as of ‘Oh yes, the old hard-to-get act; we're used to that'. Why could people never accept simple truths?

And those people outside … but that must be sheer coincidence.
Graphik
probably was capable of anything, but wouldn't use so roundabout an approach, and people seeming unbalanced: that was not their style. The dog started making a noise, keys clattered in the hallway; that was Arthur.

“I was just thinking of taking the dog out, and seeing once and for all what these stupid people want.”

“Wait a moment,” said Arthur. “It's not going to be quite so easy. When I went out this afternoon they started bawling after me.”

“Yes, I heard that, and I'm not putting up with it.”

“It was all about Jacky Karstens. So I stopped, and said I knew all about him, and wasn't in the least interested. They kept on yelling about the SS, so I got a bit cross and told them to shove off, sharpish, and went upon my way.”

“I'll have them cleared off by the police. Let me handle this.”

“When I came back just now, they started waving in a pally way and shouting Hallo, Karstens, hallo, old chap.” This was
a little ambiguous since he was going hallo-old-chap at Dog, but she got it disentangled.

“Oh dear,” she said. But at least the cat, in the tree, had shown what colour it was.

Karstens had been the name of Arthur's first wife. A woman she viewed – whose memory she viewed – with small sympathy, indeed none at all. After leading him a fearful dance, including divorcing him, thinking better of it, proposing to come back, and abandoning him again – among numerous other engaging tricks – the woman had killed herself in the end, which should have been the end, save that for years she had managed to persuade Arthur that this was somehow his fault. He had, hoped Arlette, forgotten as well as forgiven Nathalie Karstens, but she had left a lot of scar tissue.

Flemish. Arlette had plenty of friends in both Belgium and Holland, but in this case had seen the point of Jacques Brel's embittered line, ‘Catholic between wars – and Nazi when they're on.' And here came the woman cropping up again. Ripping open scars.

“You're going to let me handle this,” said Arlette.

“I can't say either yes or no to that yet – we'll see how it turns out.”

“You've seen none of these people before?”

“No, I can't place any of them.”

“Germans, too; not Dutch or Belgian. And why on earth call you Karstens?”

“An oblique way, I suppose, of indicating that my unlamented ex has thought up some new trick from behind the unsilent tomb.” He was unhappier than he'd admit.

“I'm going to drain this abscess.” So that when the street- door bell went, Arlette pressed the catch and opened her own front door. The young woman was there, with a winning smile.

“Hallo, Mum,” was her joyful greeting.

“Wrong floor. Doctor Rauschenberg is the psychiatrist – one down.”

“Well, stepmother then. Only being friendly. Why keep the pretence up?”

“Sorry, my German and my patience are running out rapidly. The elaborate mystification is offensive; pester me no further.” She could see two pairs of feet on the stairway up, listening. “I don't like that, either. This is a private house and I consider my neighbours.”

“Oh yes, of course, the neighbours”–the female understood but went on talking German. “Well, you've only to let me in.”

“When you behave like that?” shutting the door, knowing the bell would ring again directly.

“Come off it,” said the girl with vulgar familiarity. “You speak Dutch, too. No use saying you don't know Jacky Karstens. Formerly an officer in the Waffen SS.”

“I've heard of him, and so what? Is it supposed to be news? I'm not interested, so please leave.” An effort at blackmail, just as she had guessed. A poor effort, and cheap. Nathalie's brother had been in the Charlemagne Division. And something of a warrior–hero by some accounts. Much decorated in Russia. Arthur had not met him often, since in those days they weren't all that popular in central Europe. Lived in Spain, in, one presumed, franquist circles. Said to be an amusing fellow – engaging.

“All is now clear,” she said accepting a drink. “Since you once had an SS brother-in-law, they imagine you'd be embarrassed. Since you have an official position in the Council, the Secretary-General is presumably the target.”

“The whole administration is stuffed with ex-party members, and the old boy will be profoundly unmoved. Still, I don't want these loonies bothering him.”

“They've tried this act on several Dutch politicians recently.”

The phone went. This time the fat man, but conciliatory, with a soft voice and an effort at tact.

“Sorry, I don't speak French. I know my wife was a bit over-emphatic, but why don't you let me in, and we can speak quietly.”

“And have you a passport, or identity-card to show me?”

“No need, no need.”

“Then I shall tell you that I have your car registration, and shall not hesitate to complain to the police if you give me further cause.”

“Do, do,” appearing to find this funny. “Why not the press while we're at it?”

“Don't ring again.”

There must be more behind this. Inspired by
Graphik
? But it was so thin. Nobody nowadays could think that Arthur, a consultant sociologist on criminal and penal questions, could seriously be embarrassed. The fellow had been in a fighting unit, not any shitty camp guard.

Before supper she took Dog on the lead, for a pee in the Observatory bushes. The Mercedes was still standing guard. She frowned, and went fairly ostentatiously as far as the police station, which was at the end of the street, Avenue de la Forêt Noire.

“You want to make an official complaint?” asked a bored policewoman, with small zeal for an official form with five carbons.

“I don't think so–unless it persists. I bring to your attention a state of affairs. Harassment, and invasion of privacy.”

“I'll make a note in the daybook, then. If you make it formal, we can send someone, and sort them out.”

“I'll see tomorrow morning. Dotty Germans after all … stories about Nazis …” In Strasbourg, it is small change.

The grey Mercedes was gone when she got back, but what did that mean? Did it mean anything? How infinitely more restful the world of John Buchan, a childhood world in which one obliterated a horrible day by drawing the curtains on the autumn evening, and wallowing on one's bed with a box of chocolates and a really nice book from the ‘for older girls' shelf.
A world in which Arthur made supper; as simple as could be, an artichoke with mayonnaise. The self-indulgent massacre of one's own digestion, by eating too much mayonnaise, which had a little too much garlic in it – disgusting, delicious – counteracting this with a glass of grappa and Act Two of splendid, robust barrel-organ Verdi. And still having chocolates as well as romance to look forward to. Doctor Davidson, whose name for all this was ‘Working up a good fug', understood what was needed. Arlette Sauve, primitive Mediterranean woman, was good at squirrelling away things in obscure places, to be resurrected at moments when famine stalked the land. Virtuous ant. Arthur, lean and improvident northern cicada, bit a small corner of praliné ‘to make it last longer'. Strasbourg, northern city much given to chill fog on autumn nights, went about its business on the other side of the curtains. Dralon velvet is one of the more satisfying inventions of recent times.

“I've been giving this matter thought,” said Arthur at breakfast. “Doorbells rung by agitated locals are your province, but,” gazing out of the window, “this, flatly, is mine. I recognize the spirit which moves you, but any further ghosts out of my past will be exorcized by me. Aha, there are reinforcements this morning. A newish Renault with Paris plates – the good Mr Hertz or the unrare Mr Avis. A deputation is going to call, I fancy. I shan't go to work – this has to be settled.”

“Very well,” said Arlette clearing away breakfast things: it wasn't a ‘Spanish day'. “I'll just go listen to my tape.” There was nothing on it, but the doorbell burred while she was resetting it.

“Suiting the action to the word,” said Arthur going to answer it. She made herself still in a corner of the livingroom, with the mending-basket and her sewing box.

He came back with a young woman not previously seen, soberly dressed and restrained in manner, but plainly in the grip of strong emotion. She looked extremely tired, and bit her mouth to keep from tears and shrillness.

“My wife,” said Arthur politely. “And this is Frau Hartung. She has shown me her passport. Please sit down.”

Immobile, as near as might be invisible in her corner, Arlette
watched a moving-picture. In her own office she had the habit of detachment, but she had to speak, make notes, work upon the scenario. Here she had only to bite her thread and knot it. It was her job that Arthur was doing. She had never seen him at work before, and this in itself was strange. She was often forced to realize that she herself was only a semi-amateur still. And Arthur was after all a professional. His weakness, of seeing human beings as paragraphs of written case-histories, was less of a handicap than she had thought, which reproved her vanity.

All the stories brought to her were alike: this was no exception. Take a simple, everyday emotion. Play on it a few years until it becomes a neurosis. Complicate it by a stupid misunderstanding. Result, melodrama. One tried to stop them falling over the edge, into murders, policemen, trials.

Such a banal story. In Germany alone, there must be many thousands such.

The woman was making a huge effort. And she was doing it in English. Arlette, who had sometimes had to search the bottom of her soul in a language not her own, knew what it must cost her.

There was a man whom she loved, who was everything to her. This man had suffered and was suffering, and she bore this, but she had become afraid. He had been fathered during the war, by a soldier. The soldier had gone away at the end of the war. While it continued he had come back, and stayed what time leave, and wounds, had allowed, but since the war's end had never more been seen. He had not been killed, or imprisoned – he had simply gone away.