The Closed Circle (39 page)

Now, they scrambled up towards the ragged escarpment of Creigiau Gwineu until they reached the summit and were rewarded with a view of Porth Neigwl—Hell's Mouth—the bay that stretched beneath them for more than five miles, enclosed by two great mounds of headland, thrusting out from the coastline like vampire's teeth. Benjamin had looked down on this view once, almost twenty-five years ago. In fact, as they stumbled along the descent to the clifftops, Paul and Malvina, unknowingly, were following the same path taken by Benjamin and Cicely one equally still and silent afternoon in the late summer of 1978. Like his brother before him, Paul took his partner's hand and guided her along a sheep-path through the bristling gorse. Before reaching the edge of the cliffs they came upon a broad and well-worn path which clung low to the headland. Here they turned left and walked in the direction of Porth Neigwl. Just as the path started to curve inland, a wide, flat rock jutted out from the bracken. It was the perfect place to sit. There was just room for two people, provided that they wanted to sit as close to each other as possible.

Paul spread his overcoat over the cold surface of the rock, and Malvina nestled beside him.

They sat for some minutes in silence. There is not much point in talking, when confronted with a landscape of almost indescribable beauty.

“Amazing spot, isn't it?” said Paul, in the end, conscious of the inadequacy of his own words. “I didn't really notice it when I was little. Sort of took it for granted. My nose was always in a book, in those days. I used to lie in my tent reading up on economic theory.”

“I love it here,” said Malvina quietly. “It feels like home.” Then she sighed. “How much longer can we stay, do you think? A few more days?”

“We'd better move on tomorrow, or the day after. I think if we can get to Holyhead we should cross over to Dublin, and we must be able to get a flight to Germany from there.”

Their ultimate destination was Binz, on the island of Rügen, where Rolf Baumann had a holiday home. Paul had phoned him shortly before they set out on their journey, and Rolf—his voice thick with sleep—had assured him that the house was at their disposal. He asked how long they would be staying, but didn't seem to mind when Paul admitted that he didn't know. And it was true: he and Malvina had no plans, at this stage, no real sense of how long they would have to go into hiding. They only knew that what she had learned from her mother, yesterday, made no difference to their feelings for each other. They had to be together: that was beyond doubt; their only constant.

Malvina closed her eyes and took deep breaths. She felt light-headed from lack of sleep. “This is crazy,” she said. “It feels so crazy. I still can't believe it's happening.”

“We have to get away,” Paul insisted. “We have no choice.”

“I don't mean that, so much. I mean what
you're
doing. You've given everything up. You've lost everything.”

“It doesn't feel like that,” said Paul. “It feels exactly the opposite.”

Malvina kissed him. It was a kiss of gratitude, at first, but like all their kisses, it soon turned into something else. Before it got out of hand, she broke away and said: “This ought to feel bad. Really bad, what we're doing. But it doesn't.”

They huddled closer together after that, and when it grew cold Paul pulled his overcoat from beneath them and they draped it around their shoulders, and the silence was unbroken again, apart from the mournful cries of the gulls as they wheeled around the cliffs. Paul and Malvina felt a great calm, and a great certainty, which seemed to make all the risks they were taking seem small and unimportant. The sun, sinking into a coppery haze behind Ynys Enlli, Bardsey Island, shone its dying light upon them, filling them with both sadness and hope. The luminous immensity of the early-evening sky made Paul think of Skagen, and he realized now that the two places, Skagen and Ll
n, were linked, somehow. These were the places that had pointed him towards his destiny; staging posts on the same long, inevitable journey.

The sudden electronic beep of Malvina's mobile sounded unimaginably loud and intrusive. She fished it from her pocket and glanced at the screen.

“Text message,” she said, and quickly called up her Inbox. She blinked with surprise when she saw who it was from; and was even more surprised when she saw the message itself.

U'll probably think I'm mad, but have just realized something: we belong together! Why fight it any longer? Am coming back 2 c u NOW. Ben xxx

“Oh,” she said, simply, and clipped the phone shut. She stared out to sea for a second or two, trying to take in the implications of what she had just read.

“Who was it from?” Paul asked.

Malvina turned to him and answered: “Well, believe it or not, it was from Benjamin, of all people.” Paul appeared stunned. “Your brother,” she added, as if it needed any further explanation. “My father.”

Winter

1

The afternoon of Friday, November 21st, 2003 was cold, crisp and clear. Even at this time of year, Berlin hummed with tourists, and by three o'clock the lobby of the Hotel Adlon on Unter den Linden was as busy as ever. Groups of hotel guests and sightseers were sprawled in various stages of exhaustion, while waiters drifted smoothly between the richly upholstered sofas, bearing silver platters loaded with tea pots and bone china cups and gargantuan slices of cake. Patrick stared with some apprehension at the cream-laden strawberry cheesecake that had just been placed before him, and Phil poked uncertainly with his spoon at a wedge of glazed tart smothered in blackberries, cherries and blueberries, unable to find a suitable angle of entry to scoop out his first mouthful. Water spilled from a fountain in the center of the lobby, its liquid susurrations blending seamlessly with the music drifting down from the upper terrace, where a pianist was working his way discreetly through a repertoire of standards: “Night and Day,” “Some Other Time,” “All the Things You Are.” Everything was part of a serious, expensively mounted effort to evoke an atmosphere of Middle European elegance; and it was almost working. But the hotel had been destroyed during the Communist era, and rebuilt in the 1990s, and to Philip it all felt too clean, and too new. You couldn't manufacture old-world charm from scratch in a matter of years.

“I've just remembered,” he said, taking the plunge and carving out a bite-sized chunk from his cake. “I bought a record once, by Henry Cow— on Benjamin's recommendation, of course. And there was a track on that called ‘Upon Entering the Hotel Adlon.' It starts with a drum roll and this primal scream, and then for the next three minutes everyone just bangs away on their instruments like maniacs. It was the kind of thing we liked listening to, in those days.”

“Uh-huh,” said Patrick, yawning.

“Come to think of it,” Phil continued, thinking aloud, “the title of that album was
Unrest.
That's probably where he stole it from. The title of his unfinished masterpiece.”

It had been Carol's idea, that Philip and his son should go away for a few days together by themselves. Patrick had been reading biology at University College, London for just two months now. He wasn't good at replying to emails, or returning phone calls, and they had little sense of how he was settling in. He rarely mentioned the names of any new friends, male or female. (His relationship with Rowena—as Claire had predicted—had not lasted more than a few weeks after their visit to Grand Cayman last year.) And so Philip had decided on Berlin (having always wanted to go there), had spent an hour or two on the internet, and found a flight that was so cheap that it freed up enough money to fulfil a long-held fantasy and stay for two nights in the city's most expensive and famous hotel. They had flown out from Stansted the day before. It meant that Patrick would miss a lecture or two, but nothing serious. Now, after a gruelling morning's visit to the Kulturforum, they had nothing more strenuous planned for the afternoon than finishing these cakes and perhaps spending an hour or two burning off the accumulated calories in the hotel spa.

“Ah—‘The Night Has A Thousand Eyes,' ” said Phil, recognizing the pianist's latest tune. “Stéphane Grappelli used to do a nice version of this. You've probably never heard of him.”

“I have, actually, Dad. I'm not a complete ignoramus, you know.”

Philip watched his son as he took a museum catalogue out of a plastic bag and started to flick through it. The nervousness, the wary self-consciousness that Claire had once identified in him was starting to slip away. Something of his mother's strength of character was beginning to emerge in his face, now. Philip had been vaguely hoping that, during this trip, they would get a chance to talk about some of the things that had happened in the last year—the discovery of the truth about Miriam, first of all, and then the reappearance of Stefano in Claire's life, and her decision to return to Italy—but he realized now that there was no need. He would certainly not try to force a conversation on these subjects. From what he could tell, Patrick seemed contented in London, and optimistic about the future. He glanced at his face one more time, then took up the history of Berlin he had brought with him from Birmingham central library, and for a while, father and son read together in silence.

A few minutes later, there was a commotion on the other side of the lobby. Philip had noticed that there was an English couple sitting there: a young, attractive woman of about Patrick's age, and another woman Philip assumed must be her mother. The mother was sitting with her back to them, so he had not seen her face. Now, suddenly, she appeared to be in some distress. There was a clatter of crockery as she stumbled to her feet, clipping the edge of her tray as she did so, and then as her daughter stood up beside her, the mother swooned and fell, landing heavily in her daughter's arms. She had not fainted, exactly, but she seemed to be having a mild fit of some sort. “It's all right, Mum, it's all right,” her daughter was saying. And as she walked her towards the revolving door at the entrance to the hotel— saying to the concerned staff who swarmed around them, “It's OK, she'll be fine, she just needs some air”—Philip caught a glimpse of a deathly white face, and eyes swimming with tears, and this face triggered off a long-lost memory.

“What's up with those two?” Patrick asked, looking up without much interest.

“I don't know . . .” Philip stared after them, trying to remember where he had seen the mother before. Then he noticed something: the piano music wafting down to them from the upper terrace. “Wait a minute. This song—do you recognize it?”

Patrick sighed. “We're not going to spend the whole trip playing ‘Name That Tune,' are we?”

“It's Cole Porter—‘I Get A Kick Out Of You.' ” He jumped to his feet. “I know who that woman is—it's Lois Trotter.”

Philip hurried towards the door, with Patrick following him.

“How do you know that, Dad?” he was asking.

“Because Benjamin told me once that she can't bear to hear that song. It always has a terrible effect on her.”

They pushed their way through the revolving door and felt a slap of cold air as they came out on to the broad boulevard of Unter den Linden. Lois and her daughter Sophie were standing by the wall of the hotel. Lois was leaning against the wall, taking deep breaths, and Sophie was trying to allay the fears of the liveried doorman, who was addressing her in tones of great concern and apparently trying to persuade her to call an ambulance.

“It's all right, really,” Sophie was saying. “I've seen this happen before. It only lasts for a few moments.”

Philip stepped forward. Mother and daughter regarded him with equal suspicion.

“It's Lois, isn't it? Lois Trotter?” He turned to Sophie. “We've never met, but I'm a friend of your uncle Benjamin's. Philip Chase. This is my son, Patrick.”

“Oh—hello.” Sophie shook their hands, uncertainly. She seemed taken aback by this development; and Philip had to admit that his timing wasn't great.

“Is your mother all right?” he asked.

“I think we should just get into a taxi,” said Sophie, “and go back to our hotel. We were only having tea at the Adlon. She needs to rest for a while.”

“Hello, Philip,” Lois now said, unexpectedly. She was no longer leaning against the wall, and some of the colour was beginning to return to her face. “That bloody music. It gets me every bloody time . . .” She leaned forward, and kissed him on the cheek. “Good to see you again. It's been ages, hasn't it?”

“Come on, Mum,” Sophie tugged on her sleeve. “There's a taxi waiting.”

“What are you doing in Berlin?” Lois asked.

“We're just visiting,” said Philip. “Maybe we could meet up later.”

“That would be lovely.”

“I'm sorry,” Sophie said, glancing back at Philip and Patrick, as she led her mother away. “She has to rest. It's very important.”

“Of course. I understand.” Philip watched Sophie ease her mother gently into the back seat of the taxi, and had the presence of mind to ask, just as she was closing the door: “Where are you staying?”

“The Dietrich!” Sophie called back; and then they were gone.

Two hours later, Philip called their hotel and spoke to Sophie. Lois was feeling much better, apparently, and they were on the point of going out to do some late shopping. Philip told them that he had booked a table for two, that night, at the revolving restaurant at the top of the Fernsehturm—the old television tower overlooking Alexanderplatz, in former East Berlin. Would Lois and Sophie like to join them? Sophie wasn't sure that it was the kind of thing her mother would feel comfortable with. Maybe they could talk about it later. The shops they were planning to visit were in Kurfürstendamm, not far from their hotel. They would only be an hour or so. Perhaps Sophie and Lois could come for a drink at the Adlon afterwards? It was settled: they agreed to meet in the lobby bar at seven o'clock.

Lois didn't like the idea of the Fernsehturm. Too high. She didn't like lifts. And she didn't like revolving restaurants. Sophie, on the other hand, was intrigued. So was Patrick. Philip told them that the food there wasn't meant to be very good, and suggested that they cancel the booking and go somewhere else. Sophie and Patrick seemed disappointed. Lois, who had had some cocktails by now, and was thoroughly entering into the spirit of the reunion, apologized for being a killjoy. The others told her not to be silly. They bought more cocktails. Lois had been stuck in an international conference on university librarianship for the last three days. It had finished at lunchtime, and she was feeling high on her new-found freedom. But still she didn't want to travel up in a lift to a revolving restaurant.

Finally it was decided that Sophie and Patrick should have the table at the Fernsehturm, while Philip and Lois should look for somewhere else to eat. They would all meet back at the Adlon for a final drink at the end of the evening. It was an arrangement that seemed to please everyone.

The Fernsehturm was approached, unprepossessingly, through a concrete precinct powerfully evocative of everything that had been disastrous about the architecture of the 1960s, whether in Eastern or Western Europe. Even at 8:30 on this cold and wintry night, tourists were still pouring in. Patrick and Sophie had to stand in a queue for the lift, in a crowd mainly of schoolchildren and backpackers. They felt somewhat overdressed. The lift was much smaller than they had been expecting: they were crammed in with a dozen other visitors, and an attendant who recited toneless statistics about the tower as the elevator car shot skyward with a velocity that made their ears pop.

Already late for their table, they didn't linger on the observation floor, but made directly for the curved stairway that led to the restaurant. A waitress, beaming at them intimidatingly, as if it was a racing certainty that they were about to have one of the best evenings of their lives, led them to an empty table and turned the table-lamp on. She explained that if they wanted to look at the view, it was better to have the lamp switched off; but they might find this a little gloomy. They each managed a shy “
Danke schön,
” and took immediate refuge in their menus, which seemed designed to appeal to hearty rather than gourmet appetites. Sophie ordered duck breast with almond broccoli and boiled potatoes; Patrick took a chance on pork fillet with
spätzle.
They sipped their glasses of dry Riesling and watched as the vast, brightly lit glass-and-concrete extravagance of the new Reichstag revolved into distant view.

“I didn't think the platform would go round quite so quickly,” said Patrick, watching the cityscape skim past, surreally, behind the reflection of Sophie's face in the slanted windowpane.

“It takes half an hour to do a complete turn, apparently,” said Sophie. “Look—there's the moon. Every time we see it, we'll know half an hour's gone by.”

A full moon was hanging over the Reichstag and the Tiergarten, further illuminating the features of this glimmering, electrified city. Patrick thought of his mother, and the two nights he knew she had spent alone, a few years ago, on the twenty-third floor of the Hyatt Regency in Birmingham, looking down on a probably not dissimilar view. He missed her suddenly, fiercely, with an ache that had not become any easier to live with over the years.

It was an odd situation Sophie and Patrick had been thrown into, this evening. There had seemed to be a spontaneous intimacy between their parents, even though it was so long since they had known each other. They had flung themselves into their reunion with a sort of joyous relief, as if this chance encounter in a Berlin tea-room could somehow erase the intervening decades, heal the pain of their passing. That had left Sophie and Patrick floundering in a different, more awkward kind of intimacy. They had nothing in common, they realized, except their parents' histories.

“Where do you think they've gone?” Sophie asked.

“Clubbing, probably. Checking out the techno places.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course not. My dad's never been to a club in his life. The last album he bought was by Barclay James Harvest.”

“Who?”

“Exactly.”

Sophie asked Patrick if his father ever talked much about his schooldays. Patrick said that just recently he had started to talk about them more. Earlier in the year he had been to Norfolk to visit an old friend called Sean Harding. The visit had seemed to affect him profoundly, but Patrick wasn't sure why. He didn't really know who Sean Harding was.

“I can tell you,” said Sophie. “I can tell you that whole story, if you like. I've heard it all from my mother, you see. She has perfect recall of those days.”

“How come?”

“Well . . .”