Eva walked quickly across the car-park, past the swings and the see-saw, and into the fringe of the pinewoods. After a minute, or less, a rear door of the cafe opened and she saw the two British agents, flanked by a man on each side, being marched over to the parked Mercedes. Then, suddenly, from around the front of the cafe, Joos came running. There was a series of flat abrupt cracks, like branches splitting, and she realised that Joos was shooting as he ran – he had a revolver in his hand. The British and their guards went down, taking cover behind the car. One of Joos's bullets hit the windscreen and there was a small bright scatter of glass.
Joos was running towards the wood, not directly at Eva, but to one side, to her right. By now the guards were standing up, their own pistols drawn and were firing back at Joos. Two more men came out of the cafe and started running after him, also firing. Eva noticed that Joos ran well, agilely, even in his tight-cut suit, like a boy, and he almost made the cover of the pine trees when he seemed to stumble, then stagger a bit, then the two men running after him fired again at closer range – 'Pan! Pan! Pan!' it sounded like – and he fell quickly and limply to the ground, not moving anymore. The men each grabbed him under his arms and dragged him back towards the car. The two British were pushed inside and Joos's body was lugged in after them. Then the car was started and driven out of the car-park and round the Cafe Backus at speed. The other men trotted after it, pushing their revolvers under their jackets.
Eva saw the black and white barrier at the frontier rise up and watched first one, then the two other cars cross safely over the border to Germany.
Eva sat still behind her tree for a while, emptying her mind as she had been trained: there was no need to move, better to pause rather than do anything sudden or rash, storing away the details of what she had seen, going back over the sequence of events, making sure she had them correct, reminding herself exactly of the words she and Lt. Joos had said to each other.
She found a path through the wood and walked slowly along it until she came to a forester's dirt track which led her in time to a metalled road. She was two kilometres from Prenslo, the first signpost she came to informed her. She walked slowly down the road towards the village, her mind full of noisy and competing interpretations of everything she had witnessed. When she reached the Hotel Willems she was told that the other gentleman had already left.
4. The Shotgun
BÉRANGÈRE CALLED IN THE morning to say she had a bad cold and could she cancel her tutorial. I acceded immediately, sympathetically and with some secret pleasure (as I knew I'd still be paid) and decided to take the opportunity of two free hours and caught the bus into the town centre. On Turl Street I stepped through the small door into my college and spent two minutes reading the notices and posters pinned to the big board under the vaulted gatehouse before going into the porters' lodge to see if there was anything interesting in my pigeon-hole. There were the usual flyers, Middle Common Room sherry-party invitations, a bill for wine I had bought four months previously and an expensive white envelope with my name – Ms Ruth Gilmartin MA – written in sepia ink by a very thick-nibbed pen. I knew instantly who was the author: my supervisor, Robert York, whom I regularly traduced by referring to him as the laziest don in Oxford.
And, as though to punish me for my casual disrespect, I saw that this letter was a subtle reprimand – as if Bobbie York were saying to me: I don't mind your taking me for granted but I do ever-so-slightly mind your telling everyone that you do take me for granted. It read:
My dear Ruth,
It has been some time since last we caught sight of each other. Dare I ask if there is a new chapter for me to read? I really think it would be a good idea if we met soon – before the end of term if possible. Sorry to be a bore.
Tanti saluti, Bobbie
I called him immediately from the phone box in the lodge. He took a long time to answer and then I heard the familiar patrician basso profundo.
'Robert York.'
'Hello. It's me, Ruth.'
Silence. 'Ruth de Villiers?'
'No. Ruth Gilmartin.'
'Ah, my favourite Ruth. The prodigal Ruth. Thank the Lord – you gave me quite a nasty turn there. How are you?'
We arranged to meet the following evening at his rooms in college. I hung up and stepped out into the Turl and paused for a moment, feeling oddly confused and guilty all of a sudden. Guilty, because I had done no work on my thesis for months; confused, because I was now thinking: what are you doing here in this smug provincial town? Why do you want to write a D.Phil, thesis? Why do you want to be an academic?…
No quick or ready answers came to these questions as I plodded slowly up Turl Street towards the High – contemplating going to a pub for a drink instead of returning home for a frugal, solitary lunch – when, as I passed the entrance to the covered market, I glanced over and saw an attractive older woman emerge who looked remarkably like my mother. It was my mother. She was wearing a pearl-grey trouser suit and her hair seemed blonder – recently dyed.
'What're you staring at?' she said, a little crossly.
'You. You look wonderful.'
'I'm in remission. You look terrible. Miserable.'
'I think I've reached a crossroads in my life. I was going to have a drink or two. Care to join me?'
She thought this was a fine idea so we turned about and made our way to the Turf Tavern. It was dark and cool inside the pub – a gratifying respite from the brazen June sun – the old flagstones had been recently washed and were mottled with moisture and there were very few customers. We found a corner table and I went to the bar and ordered a pint of lager for myself and a tonic water with ice and lemon for my mother. I thought about the latest episode in Eva Delectorskaya's story as I set the glasses down, tried to imagine my mother – then virtually the same age as me – watching Lt Joos shot to death before her eyes. I sat down opposite her: she had said that the more I read the more I would understand – but I felt a long way from comprehension. I raised my pint glass to her and said cheers. 'Chin-chin,' she said, in return. Then she looked at me as I drank my beer, puzzled, as if I were slightly deranged.
'How can you drink that stuff?'
'I got a taste for it in Germany.'
I told her that Karl-Heinz's brother, Ludger, was staying with us for a few days. She said she didn't think I owed the Kleist family any more favours, but she appeared unconcerned, even uninterested. I asked her what she was doing in Oxford – usually she preferred to do her shopping in Banbury or Chipping Norton.
'I was getting a permit.'
'A permit? What for? Invalid parking?'
'For a shotgun.' She saw my face move into a rictus of incredulity. 'It's for the rabbits – they're ravaging the garden. And also, darling – I must be honest with you – I don't feel safe in the house anymore. I'm not sleeping well – every noise I hear I jerk awake – but really awake. I can't get back to sleep. I'll feel safer with a gun.'