‘Many modern novels are plotless,’ I told him, not entirely sure as I said this that it was actually the case. ‘In fact, I was in a bookshop recently where I saw a shelf-talker that referred to “Plotless Fiction”.’
‘That sort of thing doesn’t interest me,’ he said.
‘You don’t like experimentation?’
‘I suppose I feel that those books don’t age very well,’ he said, considering it. ‘What feels quirky or unusual today can often seem ridiculous, even embarrassing, a few years later. Endless streams of consciousness. Pages and pages of nonsense designed to fool people into thinking you’re some sort of genius because you don’t put words in their proper order or spell them correctly. It’s just not for me. I don’t mind admitting that I like traditional novel-writing. You know, with a plot. And characters. And good writing.’
‘But biography is where you hope to make your career?’
‘It is,’ he replied, grinning. He had a nice smile. Perfectly even white teeth. I imagined there were many girls, and boys, who would like to kiss him.
‘What age are you, anyway?’ I asked.
‘Twenty,’ he said, and then, without asking whether I wanted another, he stood up, went to the bar, purchased two more pints and brought them back to the table. I finished my first quickly and started on the second. It tasted wonderful. My body was waking up as the alcohol entered my bloodstream, a glorious sense of well-being that always kicks in around then.
‘When I was about your age,’ I told him, leaning forward, nearer to him, and no matter how close I got I noticed that he didn’t pull back, ‘there were only two things that I wanted out of life. First, to be a published novelist and, second, to be a father. And, of course, I had to leave home if it was ever going to happen. My parents had no interest in books at all. There was no encouragement there, nothing to excite my imagination.’
‘And where did you go?’ he asked, pulling a notebook from his bag and starting to scribble down some notes. So, you’ve begun, I thought, smiling to myself. Well, so have I.
‘Germany,’ I said. ‘Berlin, to be precise. Well, it was still called West Berlin at the time. This was before the wall came down, of course. I got a job as a waiter at the Savoy Hotel on the Fasanenstraße. And when I wasn’t working, I was writing.’
‘Is that where you wrote Two Germans?’ he asked.
‘Some of it,’ I said. ‘It’s certainly where the novel had its genesis.’
‘It’s such an interesting book.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The love story is heartbreaking. Did someone break your heart when you were that age? Is that where the story came from?’
‘No one has ever broken my heart,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘No one ever could. You must remember, this is what a writer does. Uses his or her imagination. Tries to understand how it feels to be alive in a moment that never existed with a person who never lived, saying words that were never spoken aloud.’
‘Well, you did it with such empathy,’ he said. ‘The funny thing is, and maybe this is wrong of me, but it always left me feeling a little sorry for Erich Ackermann.’
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘Why so?’
‘Because he was just a boy,’ he replied. ‘And in love for the first time. Not to mention in love with a guy, which only complicated matters. Particularly back then. And no one knew at that time what the Nazis would become. That’s what makes the book so interesting, though. Trying to decide whether he was evil or just young and confused.’
I nodded and tried not to look too bored. I’d spent so much of my life talking about Two Germans that I was justifiably tired of it. It didn’t even seem like something that had come from my pen any more. After publication, it had taken on its own life so quickly. I remained proud of the book, of course, but it seemed to exist at a certain distance from me these days. I barely recognized myself in it any more, even though it had given me the life I’d always wanted.
‘Although there must be a part of you that wonders whether he deserved what you did to him,’ he said. It took a few moments for the line to hit me as I had been barely listening while he yapped on and on. Instead I had just been staring at him, taking that familiar but not quite recognizable face in. True, he didn’t have the cheekbones that Daniel had, his face was a little too full for that kind of definition, but other than that the resemblance between my son and this boy was uncanny.
‘What was that?’ I asked, snapping back to the moment, unsure whether I’d heard him right. He couldn’t possibly have said something so impertinent, could he?
‘I asked whether you’d like another drink? It’s just such a pleasure to sit here and talk with you.’
‘It’s my round,’ I said, standing up and telling myself not to invent things. After all, I had never been able to before, so this was hardly the time to start. I made my way to the bar, where I ordered two more pints and focussed my gaze on the girl behind the counter as she poured them. ‘You missed a bit,’ I told her when she placed the drinks on the counter before me.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘In the corner there,’ I said, pointing to a space behind her where a thick and sharp chunk of glass lay on its side, broken side up. ‘From when you let the glass fall earlier.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ she said, turning to look at it as I paid for the beers and returned to the table. Theo had disappeared while I’d been away and I looked around, catching his shadow through the window to where he stood outside, smoking a cigarette. I watched him for a few moments, then reached forward and ran my finger around the rim of his empty pint several times before lifting that same finger to my lips and sucking on it slowly. I closed my eyes and when I opened them again I had a sense that I was being watched. I was right, for the girl behind the bar was staring at me with an expression of disgust on her face. She turned away when I caught her eye and busied herself with sweeping up the broken glass. I didn’t care. I knew what she thought, that I was either trying to seduce the boy or already had, but it didn’t matter to me. Not in the slightest. I had a job to do and I would do it.
He came back a few moments later and we clinked glasses once again.
‘I’m enjoying our conversation,’ I told him.
‘I am too,’ he said.
‘I hope it won’t be our last.’
He smiled. He seemed so happy, so innocent. So like my dead son that it was all I could do not to take him in my arms and hold him tight, to beg for his forgiveness.
‘I hope so too,’ he said.
3. The Coach and Horses, Greek Street
It was just over a week before I saw Theo again. After leaving the Queen’s Head that afternoon, we exchanged numbers and I planned on texting him by the weekend at the latest, but, due to an unfortunate accident that took place as I was leaving my Thursday pub, I had to wait a little longer to get in touch.
Brooding over the events of earlier in the week, I felt as if Daniel’s ghost were standing behind me at every minute of the day, whispering in my ear in that accusatory way of his. He was on my mind more than he had been in recent times and I was uncertain whether this had something to do with Theo’s appearance in my life or my plans for rebuilding my career. And so, as I stepped out on to the street a few days later, perhaps I wasn’t paying as close attention to my surroundings as I should have been and I stumbled, losing my footing, and fell heavily to the ground, where my face crashed into the pavement with such force that I was momentarily stunned. When I managed to gather myself together, I sat upright and could feel something wet running down my face. When I put my hand to my forehead, it came away bloody and, when I spat, a tooth fell from my mouth. I looked up at the people who were walking quickly past me, rushing to the Tube at the end of a day’s work, and each one was doing their best to ignore me. It was only when a policewoman approached me that my real humiliation began.