'How long were you in Germany?'
'Nearly four years. I came back in January '75.'
'Did you try to see this Karl-Heinz again?'
'No. I'll probably never see him again. I don't want to see him. I don't need to see him. It's over. Finished.'
'Maybe Jochen will want to see him.'
'That's fine with me.'
Hamid was frowning, thinking hard, I could see, trying to fit the Ruth he knew into this other Ruth that had just been revealed to him. I actually felt quite pleased that I had told him my story in this way: I saw its shapeliness. I saw that it had ended.
He paid the bill and we left the restaurant and ambled back up the Woodstock Road in the warm muggy night. Hamid finally removed his jacket and tie.
'And Ludger?'
'Ludger was there, around and about. He spent a lot of time in Berlin. He was crazy – taking drugs, stealing motor bikes. He was always in trouble. Karl-Heinz would kick him out and he'd go back to Berlin.'
'It's a sad story,' Hamid said. 'He was a bad man that you fell in love with.'
'Well, it wasn't all bad. He taught me a lot. I changed. You wouldn't have believed what I was like when I went to Hamburg. Timid, nervous, unsure of myself
He laughed. 'No – this I don't believe.'
'It's true. When I left I was a different person. Karl-Heinz taught me one important thing: he taught me to be fearless, to be unafraid. I'm not fucking frightened of anyone, thanks to him – policemen, judges, skinheads, Oxford dons, poets, parking wardens, intellectuals, yobbos, bores, bitches, headmasters, lawyers, journalists, drunks, politicians, preachers…' I ran out of people I wasn't fucking afraid of. 'It was a valuable lesson.'
'I suppose so.'
'He used to say that everything you did should contribute in some way to the destruction of the great myth – the myth of the all-powerful system.'
'I don't understand.'
'That your life, in every small way, should be a kind of propaganda action to expose this myth as a lie and an illusion.'
'So you become a criminal.'
'No – you don't have to. Some people did – a very few. But it makes sense – think about it. Nobody needs to be afraid of anyone or anything. The myth of the all-powerful system is a sham, empty.'
'Maybe you should go to Iran. Tell this to the Shah.'
I laughed. We had reached our driveway in Moreton Road.
'Fair point,' I said. 'Maybe it's easy to be fearless in cosy old Oxford.' I turned to him, and I thought: I'm pissed, I drank too much, I'm talking too much. 'Thanks, Hamid. That was great,' I said. 'I really enjoyed myself. I hope it wasn't boring for you.'
'No, it was wonderful, fascinating.'
He leant forward quickly and kissed me on the lips. I felt his soft beard on my face before I pushed him off.
'Hey. Hamid, no-'
'I ask you all these questions because I have something to tell you.'
'No, Hamid, no – please. We're friends: you said so yourself
'I'm in love with you, Ruth.'
'No you're not. Go to bed. I'll see you on Monday.'
'I am, Ruth, I am. I'm sorry.'
I said nothing more, turning away and leaving him standing on the gravel as I strode down the side of the house towards our back stairs. The wine had gone so far to my head that I felt myself swaying and had to pause to touch the brickwork on my left to keep myself steady, and at the same time I was trying to ignore the mounting confusion in my head caused by Hamid's declaration. A little unbalanced, and miscalculating the position of the bottom step, I banged my shin heavily on a supporting bar of the handrail and felt tears of pain sting my eyes. I limped up the iron stairs, cursing to myself, and once in the kitchen pulled up my jeans to see that the blow had broken the skin – there were little bubbles of blood pushing through the smashed skin – and that a dark bruise was already forming – I was bleeding under my skin. My shin throbbed like some kind of malignant tuning fork – the bone must be bruised. I swore vilely to myself – funny how a torrent of fucks and bastards and cunts acts as a kind of instant analgesic. At least the pain had driven Hamid from my mind.
'Oh, hi, Ruth. It's you.'
I looked groggily round to see Ludger standing there, in jeans, but with no shirt on. Behind him stood a grubby-looking girl wearing a T-shirt and panties. Her hair was greasy and she had a wide, slack mouth, pretty in a sulky kind of way.
'This is Ilse. She had nowhere to stay. What could I do?'
New York, 1941
ROMER WAS A ROBUST and uncomplicated lover – except in one particular. At some juncture, while he and Eva were making love, he would withdraw and rock back on his haunches, taking whatever blankets and sheets and bed covers there were with him, and look at Eva lying naked, spread-eagled before him on the bed and then consider his own glossy tumescence and then, after a second or two, taking hold of himself, he would position his erect penis and carefully, slowly re-enter her. Eva began to wonder if it were the act of penetration that excited him more than the eventual orgasm. Once, when he had done this a second time to her, she had said: 'Be careful, I won't wait around for ever'. So he confined himself, by and large, to one of these contemplative withdrawals a session. Eva had to admit that the manoeuvre itself was, all things considered, rather pleasurable also, on her side of the sexual fence.
They had made love that morning, fairly swiftly, satisfyingly and with no interruptions. They were in Meadowville, a town outside Albany, New York State, staying at the Windermere Hotel and Coffee Shop on Market Street. Eva was dressing and Romer lay grandly in bed, naked, a knee up, the sheets bunched at his groin, his fingers laced behind his head. Eva clipped on her stockings and stepped into her skirt, hauling it up.
'How long will you be?' Romer asked.
'Half an hour.'
'You don't speak?'
'Not since the first meeting. He thinks I'm from Boston and work for NBC
She buttoned her jacket and checked her hair.
'Can't lie here all day,' Romer said, slipping out of bed and padded towards the bathroom.
'I'll see you at the station,' she said, picking up her handbag and her Herald Tribune and blowing him a kiss. But when he shut the door behind him she set her bag and newspaper down and quickly checked the pockets of his jacket hanging behind the door. His wallet was plump with dollars but there was nothing else of any significance. She checked his briefcase: five different newspapers (three American, one Spanish, one Canadian), an apple, a copy of Tess of the d'Urbervilles and a rolled-up tie. She wasn't sure why she did this – she was convinced Romer would never leave anything interesting or confidential to be found and he never seemed to take notes – but she felt he would almost expect it of her, think she was remiss not to take advantage of the opportunity (she was sure he did it to her) and so, whenever she had a minute or two, she looked, checked and poked around.
She went downstairs to the coffee shop. It was panelled in dark brown wood and there were small booths along two walls, with red leather banquettes. She looked at the display of muffins, cakes, bagels and cookies and marvelled yet again at the profligacy and generosity of America when it came to the business of eating and drinking. She thought of the breakfast that awaited her here in the Windermere Hotel Coffee Shop and compared it with the last breakfast she had had in England, in Liverpool, before she sailed for Canada: a cup of tea, two slices of thin toast and margarine spread with watered-down raspberry jam.