“You didn’t say you were having a party.”
“I didn’t know!”
Tanzi came home with two friends and a duty-free bottle of Malibu, he tells me, then a DJ from the neighborhood showed up and — Boom — the whole thing just took off. While Cheadle’s talking, I scan the room. I’m looking for Anna and Oleg but the dim lighting and the crush of people make it difficult to see. When I refused to go to Raul’s room with him did I renege on my agreement? Panic surges through me and I’m sweating suddenly. I don’t dare ask Cheadle if he’s expecting the Russians. Apart from anything else I don’t want him to remember what I was doing earlier. When he turns away from me to accept a spliff from a man in a porkpie hat, I seize my chance and sink back into the crowd.
In my room I change out of my clothes, then pack my case. It’s the work of a few minutes. I leave the gold dress and the sandals on the bed. Taking a last look round, I peel my Richter postcards off the wall and push them into my coat pocket, then I open the door and peer out. The girl in the T-shirt is halfway down the corridor, a cigarette between her fingers, bending into the flame of someone’s lighter. There’s no sign of Cheadle or of the Russians. I pick up my bags and make for the front door.
“Going somewhere?” the girl says, smoke emerging from her mouth in little chopped-up clouds.
I smile but don’t stop.
Outside, a fine drizzle veils the buildings. The streetlamps look soft and fuzzy, like dandelion flowers, a whole row of them reaching in a long diminishing straight line, all the way to Ostkreuz. It’s the early hours of Tuesday morning. I’m going to have to leave Berlin as soon as possible. In the next two days for sure. In the meantime I need to disappear.
My first instinct is to check into the hotel near Kluckstrasse, but it might be dangerous to retrace my steps. I reject Klaus Frings for the same reason. No backward glances, no unnecessary complications or entanglements. What I crave more than anything is a hot shower. I want to wash away all memory of that Croatian. I think of my father and his weakness for modern hotels with state-of-the-art plumbing. On Warschauerstrasse I flag down a taxi and ask the driver to take me to a Hilton or an InterContinental.
The driver looks at me. “Which one?”
“Whichever’s nearest.”
I climb in and close the door.
/
On the morning of October 9 I have breakfast in my room, then I sit at the desk in a white toweling bathrobe and write two letters to my father, both on hotel stationery. In the first letter, which is only a few lines long, I tell him I’m in Berlin, and that I need to talk to him. Could he meet me at midday on the seventeenth in Café Einstein on Kürfürstenstrasse? I know my request might seem unreasonable and that it might disrupt his schedule but then again how often do I make demands on him? He is my father, after all. I hope he can make it, I tell him. It’s important to me. I sign the letter — With love, your daughter, Kit — then I seal the envelope and address it to the apartment on Via Giulia.
The second letter, which is more complex, runs to three sheets of writing paper and will be delivered by hand. I’m not sure how to address the envelope. In the end I settle for DAVID CARLYLE. I take the short letter down to the lobby and ask the woman on reception if she can post it for me. No problem, she says. It will go today. First-class. Her eyes are dark brown and depthless, like those of a shop mannequin, and seem at odds with her clipped efficient sentences.
“How’s Klaus?”
I turn to see Horst Breitner standing at my elbow in a camel coat and a large orange scarf. Horst Breitner, from the Konzerthaus.
“What are you doing here?” I say.
“Breakfast with a client.” His smile is condescending and only lasts a second. “You were living with Klaus, I think. Is he well?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“So it’s over?”
I consider him for a moment. His slicked-back hair, his damp eyes. His lavish clothes. Then I turn back to the woman on reception and ask her to put the postage on my bill.
Horst places his card on the counter in front of me. “A drink, perhaps — when you are free …” Pulling on a pair of fawn leather gloves, he leaves through the revolving doors.
As I watch him go I wonder if it matters that I’ve been spotted in the lobby of the InterContinental. I examine all the angles and decide it doesn’t make the slightest difference.
On the way back to my room I drop Horst’s card in the silver rubbish bin next to the lift.
/
After spending an hour in the hotel’s business center I set off for Berlin Hauptbahnhof, where I am hoping to buy a ticket for that evening. In the back of the taxi I take out the longer of the two letters I wrote to my father and read it through again.
Hotel InterContinental
Berlin
October 9
Dear Dad,
Thanks so much for turning up. Actually, that’s a weird way to begin, since I really have no idea whether you turned up or not. But I have to assume you’re sitting in the Einstein with my letter in your hand, otherwise there’s no point writing. It’s what I’m imagining and I hope I’m right. By the way, please order anything you like. I left some money with the waitress. She’ll take care of the bill.
You’ll have noticed by now that I’m not there. It’s not because I’m late. It’s because I’m not coming. I’m not even in Berlin any more. I left days ago.
I imagine you looking up after reading those last two paragraphs and rubbing the back of your neck like you always do when you’re annoyed. I don’t blame you for being annoyed. Please don’t think it’s a wasted trip, though. There are things I need you to hear, and this is the only way I could get your attention.
When I was growing up, you spent a lot of time away from home, and though I missed you I got used to it. Normal’s whatever happens — when you’re a child, anyway. And you have to live for yourself — we all do — or you risk losing sight of who you are. Isn’t it also true you avoided me, though? Or was that only later?
After Mum died, you certainly went missing. You left me with relatives, the parents of my friends, au pairs. They were nice enough, but they weren’t you. And even when you were there, you weren’t there. I know you were grieving, but still. You seemed to find it hard to be at home. Was that because it reminded you of her? Or was it because I reminded you of her? Maybe you blamed me for the whole thing. Because in a sense I was responsible. If she hadn’t had a child, she would still be alive. There’d still be the two of you. I know we never really talked about her death, but sometimes I imagine us having an argument and that’s what you always say. Why her? Why not you? Because if you’d had to choose between us I know you wouldn’t have chosen me.
In fact, I’m not even sure you wanted me in the first place. Maybe I was her idea. Her dream. As Rome was. And when she got ill you were proved right, and that made you angry. I can imagine you shouting at her. You should have listened to me! If only you’d listened! Yes, you wanted her, not me. But she wanted me. So when I lost her, I lost everything. Is that unfair? If so, I’m sorry. It’s how I feel, that’s all. It’s how I’ve always felt. Some things you always thought were solid turn out to be made of fucking tissue paper and rubber bands. It’s not until you touch them that you find out. Not until they fall apart in your hands.