The two clerks were a low pair of clubs and didn’t look particularly busy but they still went through a comedy routine they had perfected that was supposed to make me feel as if they were. It was several minutes before one of the men looked like he was paying me some attention.
And then another minute.
“You ready now?” I asked.
“Heil Hitler,” he said.
I touched my cap with a finger and nodded. Paradoxically, without any storm troopers around to kick your backside, not giving the Hitler salute was safe enough in a place like a Reich ministry.
“Heil Hitler,” I said, because there is only so much resistance that can safely be given at any one time. I glanced up at the painted ceiling and nodded my appreciation. “Beautiful. This is the old ceremonial palace, isn’t it? It must be fine working here. Tell me, have you still got the throne room? Where the Kaiser used to hand out the important decorations and medals? Not that my own Iron Cross would count as anything like that. It was given to me in the trenches, and my commanding officer had to find a space on my tunic that wasn’t covered in mud and shit to pin it onto my chest.”
“Fascinating, I’m sure,” said the man who was the taller of the two. “But this has been the government press building since 1919.”
He wore pince-nez and lifted himself up on his toes as he spoke, like a policeman giving directions. I was tempted to give him some directions of my own. The white carnation he wore in the buttonhole of his summer-weight, double-breasted black jacket was a friendly touch but the waxed mustache and the pocket handkerchief were pure Wilhelmstrasse. His mouth looked like someone had poured vinegar in his coffee that morning; his wife, supposing he had one, would surely have chosen something a little more fatal.
“If you could come to the point, please. We’re very busy.”
I felt the smile drying on my face like yesterday’s shit. “I don’t doubt it. Did you two characters come with the building, or did they have you installed with the telephones?”
“How can we help you, Captain?” asked the shorter man, who was no less stiff than his colleague and had the look of a man who came out of his mother’s womb wearing pin-striped trousers and spats.
“Police commissar Bernhard Gunther,” I said. “From the presidium at Alexanderplatz. I have an appointment with State Secretary Gutterer.”
The first official was already checking off my name on a clipboard and lifting a cream-colored telephone to his pink rose of an ear. He repeated my name to the person on the other end of the line and then nodded.
“You’re to go up to the state secretary’s office right away,” he said as he replaced the phone in its cradle.
“Thank you for helping.”
He pointed at a flight of stairs that could have staged its own “Lullaby of Broadway.”
“Someone will meet you up there, on the first landing,” he said.
“Let’s hope so,” I said. “I’d hate to have to come down here and be ignored again.”
I went up the stairs two at a time, which was a lot more energy than they’d seen around that palace since Kaiser Wilhelm II lifted his last Blue Max off a silk cushion, and came to a halt on the enormous landing. No one was there to meet me but without a pair of binoculars to see across to the other side of the floor I couldn’t be sure. I glanced over the marble balustrade, and rejected the idea of whistling at the two tailor’s dummies downstairs. So I lit my last cigarette and parked my behind on a gilt French sofa that was a little too low, even for a Frenchman; but after a moment or two I stood up and walked toward a tall open door that led into what I assumed was the old Blue Gallery. It had frescoes and chandeliers and looked like the perfect spot if they ever needed somewhere to dry-dock a submarine for repairs. The frescoes covering the walls were mostly naked people doing things with lyres and bows, or standing around on pedestals waiting for someone to hand them a bath towel; they all looked bored and wishing they could be out on the nude beach enjoying the sun at Strandbad Wannsee instead of posing in a government ministry. I had the same feeling myself.
A slim young woman in a dark pencil skirt and white blouse appeared at my shoulder.
“I was just admiring the graffiti,” I said.
“They’re called frescoes, actually,” said the secretary.
“Is that so?” I shrugged. “Sounds Italian.”
“Yes. It means fresh.”
“It figures. Personally, I think there’s only so many naked people you can have getting fresh with each other on one wall before the place starts to look like a Moroccan bathhouse. What do you think?”
“It’s classical art,” she said. “And you must be Captain Gunther.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“It is in here.”
“Good point. I guess I should have taken off my clothes if I’d wanted to blend in a bit.”
“This way,” she said without a flicker of a smile. “State Secretary Gutterer is waiting for you.”
She turned away in a haze of Mystikum and I followed on an invisible dog leash. I watched her arse and gave it careful appraisal as we walked. It was a little too skinny for my taste but it moved well enough; I expect she got a lot of exercise just getting around that building. For such a small minister as Joey the Crip it was a very big ministry.
“Believe it or not,” I said, “I’m enjoying myself.”
She stopped momentarily, colored a little, and then started walking again. I was starting to like her.
“Really, I don’t know what you mean, Captain,” she said.
“Sure you do. But I’ll certainly try to enlighten you if you care to meet me for a drink after work. That’s what people do around here, isn’t it? Enlighten each other? Look, it’s all right. I got my Abitur. I know what a fresco is. I was making a little joke. And the scary black badge on my sleeve is just for show. I’m really a very friendly fellow. We could go to the Adlon and share a glass of champagne. I used to work there so I’ve got some pull with the barman.”
She didn’t say anything. She just kept walking. That’s just what women do when they don’t want to tell you no: they ignore you and hope you’ll go away right up until the moment you don’t and then they find an excuse to say yes. Hegel got it all wrong; relations between the sexes, there’s nothing complicated about it — it’s child’s play. That’s what makes it such fun. Kids wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t.
Blushing now, she led me through what looked like the Herrenklub library into the presence of a heavyset, clean-shaven man of about forty. He had a full head of longish gray hair, sharp brown eyes, and a mouth like a bow that no ordinary man could draw into a smile. I resolved not to try. The air of self-importance was all his but the cologne with which it was alloyed was Scherk’s Tarr pomade and must have been battering on the panes of the double-height windows there was so much of it. He wore a wedding band on his left hand and plenty of cauliflower on the lapel badges of his SS tunic, not to mention a gold party badge on his left breast pocket; but the ribbon bar above the pocket was the kind you bought like sticks of candy from Holter’s, where they made the uniform. On such a warm day the brilliantly white shirt around his neck was perhaps a little snug for comfort but it was perfectly pressed and encouraged me to believe that he might be happily married. To be well fed with all laundry found is really all that most German men are looking for. I know I was. There was a large gold pen in his fingers and some red ink on a sheet of paper in front of him; the handwriting was neater than the typing, which was mine. I hadn’t seen that much red ink on my homework since leaving school.