Berlin: A Novel

'I have a job at the Foreign Ministry. I'll be earning a real salary,' said Detta proudly.

'Congratulations. A very suitable post for a young lady.' Dr Rossitter escorted her out. 'If you need help or advice, I'm at your service any time. Don't forget that: like any other big city, Berlin can be a dangerous place.'

'Many thanks, Uncle Theo. I'll take care of myself.' Elated, Detta ran down the steps and went straight into the bookshop next door to buy a map of the city. Then she took the white roadster out of the garage. She couldn't wait to explore the capital at the wheel.

Admiring and envious glances followed the young blonde in the open sports car. Women at the wheel were almost as rare a sight as the stylish BMW 319 itself. 'You want a personal invitation, Fraulein?' inquired the police officer directing traffic outside the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. Although he had signalled to her for the second time. Detta had remained at the road junction without moving — she had suddenly thought of Marlene Kaschke. Just the right chaperone for her weekend with the freckled Englishman. She smiled an apology at the policeman and stepped on the gas.

Detta met her new boss on Tuesday. Arvid von Troll had caught the night express from Geneva. He was in his mid-thirties, with a thin, well-shaped face and a scar on his left cheek which, Detta discovered, was the result not of a duel but a motor accident. The diplomat was an enthusiastic crosscountry driver.

'Do you go in for any sports, Fraulein von Aichborn?'

'Only if you count riding as a sport. Exercising a dozen horses every day isn't all fun. Our estate manager's daughter is doing it for me now. If they're always out at pasture, the dear creatures fall into bad habits.'

But Herr von Troll wasn't really interested in that. 'We're just preparing for the Minister's visit to England. The official part is all in the clear, but then there's the invitation to a weekend at Chequers. Can you think of a good present for him to take the master of the house and Mrs Macdonald?'

'When do you need my suggestions by?'

'By the day before yesterday.' Troll turned to the stack of files on his desk.

Frau Wilhelmi the secretary showed Detta her little office on the other side of the corridor. The only furniture was a desk, chair and filing cabinet. Two floors below was the yard, with official cars parked in it. The secretary pointed to an electric bell above the door. 'When that rings you go straight in to Herr von Troll. You'll find paper and pencils in the cabinet there.'

She turned to leave. Detta stopped her. 'I need the latest edition of Who's Who, the big Muret-Sanders dictionary, a typewriter and most important of all, a telephone. I'd like the reference books and the typewriter at once, please, and the telephone by this afternoon.'

'There's a telephone kiosk down on the ground floor.'

Detta ignored this declaration of hostilities. She pointed to the socket in the skirting board. 'I see there's a connection here already. The caretaker can install the phone after the lunch break. That will give him enough time to inform the switchboard. He can bring a table and chair for the typewriter at the same time; I'd like to keep my desk free for other work.' The secretary was about to object, but Detta cut her off, saying coolly, 'That will be all for the time being. Thank you, Frau Wilhelmi.' The secretary lowered her gaze. Detta had won.

That afternoon an Olympia was standing in all its glory on a typewriter table which had been brought to stand in the window, carbon paper and copy paper within easy reach beside it, the reference books were on the filing cabinet, and the telephone cord was coiling its way to the socket. Detta picked up the receiver. The switchboard answered at once. 'Extension 124 here. Please connect me with Aichborn in the Uckermark. The number is Wrietzow 0–3.' She hung up.

A few minutes later her phone rang. Bensing was at the other end. 'Fraulein Detta?' he cried in excitement, recognizing her voice. 'How are you?'

'Fine, thank you. Listen, this is a business call, so we must keep it short. Would you go up to my room? I left my red address book there. Bring it down to the phone. There's a number I need. I'll hang up now and call again in a few moments.' Five minutes later she had the number she wanted. She set to work.

The office closed at six. Detta took the U-Bahn home. She had left the BMW in the garage; it didn't seem suitable for her to be cruising around in a sports car when she was a very junior member of the Foreign Ministry staff.

The usual evening tedium set in after supper at the Pension Wolke. Herr Kohler was studying the Almanach de Gotha, his monocle glinting: Vera Vogel was reading Die Dame magazine. Dr Burmester was correcting her pupils' homework with a red pen. Marlene Kaschke wasn't there. Detta knocked at the door of her room. The young woman was lying on her bed in her dressing gown, painting her toenails. Detta had never seen anyone do that before. She came straight to the point. Are you doing anything on Saturday and Sunday?'

Marlene Kaschke was not, and was absolutely delighted. A motorboat on the Havel? You bet I'll come. And I've just bought a fabulous sky-blue Bleyle too!' Detta learned that a Bleyle was a bathing suit in the latest style, with a little skirt and low-cut back. You can get them in all colours at Leineweber's. You ought to buy yourself one too,' Marlene Kashke advised her. She had no objection at all to being an old friend of Detta's called Marion for the weekend.

'I'll be delighted to meet your friend Marion,' said David Floyd-Orr happily over the phone. 'Saturday at nine in the morning at the Stossensee bridge, then. Just go down the steps to the moorings, you can't miss me.'

Detta hung up. She had no idea how she was going to keep that date. They worked until one o'clock on Saturdays at the FM.

Detta went in to her boss at eight in the morning. Arvid von Troll was busy unpacking the contents of a shabby attache case on to his desk. 'This thing was already in use under Privy Councillor Holstein. Well, what do you suggest as presents?'

'For Mrs Macdonald I'd recommend a classic vase from the state porcelain manufactory. And you could get the prime minister a netsuke.'

A what?'

'They're thumbnail-sized Japanese figures in many different shapes, often carved from exotic woods. As far back as the fifteenth century, the Japanese were using them as toggles to fasten their tobacco pouches to their belts.'

'Well, I'm sure Prime Minister Macdonald will be glad he can finally fasten his tobacco pouch to his belt,' said Arvid von Troll sarcastically. 'What's the meaning of all this nonsense, Fraulein von Aichborn?'

'It's not nonsense, Herr von Troll,' replied Detta calmly. 'Ramsay Macdonald is very knowledgeable about Japanese art. His collection of woodcuts is famous.'

'So why a thumbnail-sized Japanese carving?'

A netsuke lies comfortably in the hand and makes you feel good when you touch it. Its exotic wood gives off a strangely stimulating perfume.'

And you think someone getting one of these things as a present will want to handle and smell it?'

'Before long the prime minister won't be able to see his woodcuts any more because his eyesight is deteriorating. But he'll still have his senses of touch and smell. And he'll soon be retiring.'

'Deteriorating eyesight? Retiring? What on earth are you talking about?'

'I had to know what kind of person Mr Macdonald is so I could suggest a really personal present for him.'

And I suppose you read all this in your coffee grounds at breakfast?'

'Good heavens, no. I telephoned the ambassador in London.'

'You telephoned our ambassador without permission?' Troll asked, stunned.