‘I suspect they occur only in fiction,’ I said, trying to match his precise, detached tone.
‘Oh, quite. There’s no one so bloody-minded and selfish as your overeducated aristocrat. No doubt you’ve noticed that.’
‘John – ’
‘I’m sorry I woke you. It won’t happen again.’
Before long he drifted off to sleep. I didn’t.
We said goodbye at the airport next morning. Schmidt and I were leaving first; John’s plane took off an hour later. He was wearing a sling, for the effect, he claimed; but that unimportant overlooked bullet hole wasn’t healing the way it should and I thought that morning he had a touch of fever. I told myself not to worry. Jen would nag him till he saw a doctor.
The sling matched the black armband on his left sleeve. The suit hung a little loosely, but it was beautifully tailored and he was the picture of an English gent manfully suppressing personal sorrow. For the benefit of the photographers he bowed over my hand and allowed Schmidt to slap him on the back. ‘Three friends, brought together by chance and bonded in tragedy.’ I read some of the newspaper stories later. They were very mushy, especially the tabloid versions.
I had sworn I wouldn’t look back, but of course I did. He raised his hand and smiled, and then turned away.
‘Do not weep, mein Kind,’ Schmidt said. ‘You will see him soon again.’
‘I’m not weeping.’ I wasn’t. Two tears do not constitute weeping. I knew there was a chance I wouldn’t see him again.
II
A couple of weeks later Schmidt and I were walking along the Isar. In the rain. It was Schmidt’s idea. He thinks walking in the rain is romantic. I did not share his opinion, and I remembered those bright hot days in Egypt with a nostalgia I had never expected to feel. The river was grey as steel under a steely sky. Fallen leaves formed soggy masses that squelched under our feet. My hair hung in lank dank locks that dripped onto my nose and down my neck. I had meant to have it cut. Why hadn’t I? I knew why.
‘This was a stupid idea,’ I grumbled. ‘I’m cold and wet and I want to go back to work.’
‘You have not done five minutes’ work in the past week,’ Schmidt said. ‘You sit in your office, all alone in the tower, staring at your papers and accomplishing nothing. You are the stupid one. Why don’t you telephone him? He is in the book.’
‘Schmidt, you devil!’ My foot slipped and I had to grab at Schmidt to keep from falling. He grinned and grabbed back. ‘You didn’t call him, did you?’
‘No, what do you take me for?’
‘An interfering, nosy – ’
‘I called the information in England to get the number,’ Schmidt said calmly. ‘It would be only courteous of you to inquire after his health.’
‘He’s all right.’ I kicked at a wad of sodden leaves. ‘You know that Jen called you too.’
‘Oh, yes, very touching,’ Schmidt said with a sniff. ‘The dear old Mutti thanking us for our kindness to her little boy. Herr Gott, when she began to talk about his tragic loss and the virtues of that terrible young woman I was hard-pressed to hold my tongue.’
It hadn’t been pleasant. Jen hadn’t been awfully pleasant either. She’d said all the right things but I had had a feeling she wasn’t too happy about some of the newspaper stories. None of the reporters had had the bad taste to come right out with their prurient suspicions but there had been references to my youthful blond beauty (every female in stories like those is beautiful) and John’s tender concern.
He had told me once his mother wouldn’t like me.
‘He must be getting very tired of being fussed over,’ said Schmidt.
‘He’ll put up with it only as long as he chooses. Schmidt, can we go back now?’ I sneezed.
‘No. We have not yet said what must be said. But I do not want that you should catch cold. We will go to a café and have coffee. Mit Schlag,’ Schmidt added happily.
He had whipped cream on his coffee and on his double serving of chocolate torte and, by the time he finished, on his moustache. It was a warm, cosy little café with low ceilings and windows covered with steam that blurred the gloomy weather outside. Schmidt wiped his moustache and leaned forward, elbows on the table.
‘Now, Vicky. What is wrong? It is good to talk when one is in distress, and who better to listen than Papa Schmidt, eh?’
He’d missed a speck of whipped cream. It might have been that homely touch or his worried frown, or the comfortable intimate ambience, but all of a sudden I knew I was going to talk till I was hoarse.
‘I love you, Schmidt,’ I said.
‘Well, I have known that for a long time,’ Schmidt said complacently. ‘But it is good to hear you say it. Have you found the courage now to say it to him?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘With more enthusiasm than that, I hope. And he loves you too. So of what are you afraid?’
‘Funny,’ I said hollowly ‘He asked me the same thing.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘Something stupid, I guess. It’s a stupid question, Schmidt! Loving someone condemns you to a lifetime of fear. You become painfully conscious of how fragile people are – bundles of brittle bones and vulnerable flesh, breeding grounds for billions of deadly germs and horrible diseases. And loving a man like John is tantamount to playing Russian roulette. He can’t help being the way he is, he’ll never change, and that life-style doesn’t offer much hope for a long-term relationship, does it? I’ve been fighting my feelings for a long time, longer than I wanted to admit, because I knew that once I gave way it would be all the way, no holding back, no reservations. That’s the way I am. And he . . . It’s not just physical attraction . . . Are you laughing, Schmidt? So help me God, if you laugh at me – ’
‘But who could not laugh? You, of all people, so prim and proper with the poor old gentleman. I was not always old, Vicky, and I have not forgotten what it is like to feel as you do. But I still do not understand what is holding you back.’
‘It’s not me, damn it! It’s John. He’s gone all sentimental and noble and self-sacrificing on me. I hoped I was wrong, but I couldn’t think of anything that would change his mind, he’s so arrogant and stubborn, and he’d have called me by now if he meant to, it’s been almost two weeks, and having her call instead was a deliberate sign – ’
Schmidt whipped out his handkerchief. ‘Weep, my dear Vicky. Break yourself down. It will relieve you.’
‘Thanks, I think I will.’
He moved his chair closer to mine and put his arm around me. He felt as comforting and soft as a huge pillow, and warm besides. When I finished blubbering I saw there was another cup of coffee in front of me, with a double order of Schlag on it. Schmidt’s ideas of consolation are based on whipped cream and chocolate.
‘So,’ said Schmidt in a businesslike voice. ‘That is better. We can seriously discuss the problem. I will accept your assumption that this is how he feels, for you are in a better position to know than I. Can you explain why he should feel so? For surely now your position is safer than it has ever been. He is not under suspicion by the police and you have an excuse for enjoying an acquaintance that began openly and legitimately.’
‘John Tregarth isn’t wanted, no. But Sir John Smythe and a couple of dozen other aliases are, and not only by the police. Max assured us he held no grudge, but John obviously didn’t believe him, and how many others like Max are there crawling around in the woodwork? That’s what has him worried, Schmidt. Not just worried – terrified. I thought he was feeling guilty about her until the night before we left Egypt, and then . . . It was me he was having nightmares about. He was reliving that awful hour with Max and the others, and dreading what would happen – not to him, to me – if he didn’t pull it off. He kept repeating, “It was too close,” and he didn’t mean coming too close to murder, he meant . . . Oh, hell. Do you understand what I’m saying?’