In a Laundromat on Warschauerstrasse I pay for a service wash, and the Turkish woman who runs the place tells me to come back at five. I cross a bridge into Kreuzberg. To the west, the last of the sun gold-plates the TV tower in Alexanderplatz. From time to time, as in the gardens at Charlottenburg, I sense I am being followed. Someone has started looking for me, or asking questions, and I’m feeling the ripples of that. I imagine a discreet cough. Miss Carlyle? When I turn round, a shifty balding man is standing on the pavement, the collar of his jacket raised. The whites of his eyes are foggy, jellied. He obviously has a problem with alcohol —
No, wait. My father wouldn’t hire an alcoholic. The detective would be an ex-policeman. Decent, innocuous. Hardworking. His suit would be off-the-peg, his shoes clean and sturdy. He would have a civil servant’s respectability.
Is there somewhere we can talk?
We sit on a bench like spies in a movie. He wants to know what my intentions are. My answers make no sense to him. But then, why would they? I can’t tell him the truth. It’s too overwhelming, and too fragile. He tries doggedly to persuade me to “come home.” Those are the words he uses, freighted as they are with so much raw emotion …
But when I glance over my shoulder no one ducks into a doorway or takes a sudden feigned interest in the contents of a shop window. No one stares down into his phone like a daredevil about to dive into a small pool from a great height. The people on the street aren’t even aware of me. They brush past me, step round me. Leave me where I am, quite motionless. This isn’t a detective story. Do I want it to be?
Under a railway viaduct is a greengrocer’s, with wooden crates of clementines on the pavement outside. I buy three and watch the shopkeeper drop them, glowing, into a plastic bag. I peel one as I walk on. The segments are so cold they hurt my teeth. So far, I have been approached by Oswald Überkopf and J. Halderman Cheadle, complete strangers who don’t know me and have never heard of me, and I’m beginning to think that’s all I should expect or hope for.
Maybe it’s even the whole point.
/
On my way back to Cheadle’s place with my clean laundry I pass a middle-aged man and a young girl. She skips along beside him, pigtails bouncing, her small hand in his. Will my father look for me? Will anyone? That feeling of being watched, or followed — those faint, urgent ripples … There are moments when I panic. I’ve been careless, I’ve left a trail of clues. What if, by some miracle, my laptop is recovered? I have heard of people who can analyze the magnetic fields or charges in files that have been overwritten. If they retrieve the file I called INTELLIGENCE, my last entry will be there for everyone to see: Klaus Frings — Walter-Benjamin-Platz — Berlin.
The chances of that happening are minimal, of course. Even so, I’m glad I left Klaus’s apartment. In moving to the no-man’s-land between Friedrichshain and Lichtenberg I’ve put myself below the radar. I’m lost to view now — surely. At one remove from the unknown.
Back in the apartment it’s quiet except for canned laughter coming through the wall. I find a broom in the kitchen and sweep my room, then I mop the floor and make the bed. At six, I knock on Cheadle’s door. There’s no response. I knock again. Still nothing. I open the door a crack. Absolute darkness and a dense musky smell. Unwashed skin and stale breath. Gradually, my eyes adjust. In the spill of gray light from the corridor I see a king-size bed and clothes dumped on the floor in jumbled heaps. Cheadle is lying on his side, with his back to me. He’s naked. Beyond him is a black woman, also naked. She’s lying facedown, one arm circling her pillow.
“Cheadle,” I whisper. “It’s six o’clock.”
But it’s the black woman who lifts her head. She stares at me blankly.
“He asked me to wake him,” I tell her.
She pushes roughly at Cheadle’s shoulder.
Cheadle rolls over. “Fuck.”
I shut the door.
Later that night he opens a liter bottle of red wine and we sit at the kitchen table drinking out of jam jars. They had some people over, he explains. The glasses all got broken.
I ask when I can meet his Russian friends.
“It’s all you ever talk about.” He lights the stub of a cigar. “You’re using me.”
I smile but keep quiet.
“What is it with you and Russians?” he says.
I’m about to answer — or avoid answering — when the toilet flushes and the woman from Cheadle’s bedroom appears in a purple halter neck and pink hot pants.
“Well, this is cozy.” She reaches for Cheadle’s jar and swallows half his wine.
Cheadle introduces us.
“He found me on the street,” Tanzi says.
“Me too,” I say.
“Not sleeping with you as well, is he?”
I shake my head. “Too old.”
Tanzi lets out a raucous laugh. “Damn. You’ve got a tongue on you, girl.”
We’re talking about Cheadle as if he isn’t there and he seems to be enjoying it. Cigar between his teeth, he’s leaning back in his chair with a grin on his face, his fingers interlocked behind his head.
Tanzi is curious about my age.
I tell her.
“Nineteen,” she says dreamily, like you might say “diamonds” or “caviar.”
Cheadle stubs out his cigar. “The thing is, when you’re young, you’re always adding to yourself. Accumulating. Even negative experiences contribute to the sum of who you are. When you’re older, it’s different.”
“What happens then?” I ask.
“You’re like a battery that’s going flat. You’ve got less energy, and you can’t be recharged as easily. The day will come when you can’t be recharged at all. You just go dead. In the meantime there’s a dwindling. Everything’s trying to get away from you.”
“You’re not flat yet, right?” Tanzi gives him a cheeky look, then finishes his wine.
Old people often think they know more than young people, simply because they’ve been around for longer, but it’s not necessarily the case. They can be as wrong about things as anybody else. Once in a while, though, Cheadle comes out with a line that switches a light on in my head, and whenever that happens I know without a shadow of a doubt that I’m in the right place.
Even negative experiences contribute to the sum of who you are.
/
If I’m really staying, Cheadle says — if, as he puts it, I’m going to become “one of the family” — I will be expected to do chores, and given that he hasn’t asked for any rent, that seems reasonable enough. On my second morning, as I’m heating milk for his coffee, he places a BlackBerry on the work surface in front of me.
“A gift,” he says.
I tell him I don’t need it. I tell him what I did with my last phone.
“But that was your old life,” he says.
He has a point.
I accept the BlackBerry as a symbol of all the changes I have made. I have a new number — a Berlin number! — and only one contact: J. Halderman Cheadle.
That afternoon I add two more: Klaus Frings and Oswald Überkopf.
A couple of days later I’m in my room, looking at recent entries in my notebook — the quote from Farewell to an Idea, my drawing of Pavlo’s icon — when my phone rings for the first time. Cheadle’s name appears on the screen. He tells me he has organized a dinner with his Russian friends for nine o’clock that night. The restaurant is on Schlüterstrasse. I fall silent. It’s only a week since Klaus took me to a restaurant on Schlüterstrasse, which is just round the corner from his apartment. What if he walks in while we’re there?