*
On the last evening of the Budapest conference, Rebecca and the other delegates were given a tasting of Tokaj wines. They were taken to a cellar owned by the Hungarian government bottling organization. It was in the Pest district, east of the Danube river. They were offered several different kinds of white wine: dry; strong; the lightly alcoholic nectar called eszencia; and the famous slow-fermented Aszú.
All over the world, government officials were bad at throwing parties, and Rebecca feared this would be a dull occasion. However, the old cellar with its arched ceilings and stacked cases of booze had a cosy feel, and there were spicy Hungarian snacks of dumplings, stuffed mushrooms, and sausages.
Rebecca picked out one of the East German delegates and gave him her most engaging smile. ‘Our German wines are superior, don’t you think?’ she said.
She chatted flirtatiously with him for a few minutes then asked him the question. ‘I have a niece in East Berlin, and I want to send her a pop record, but I’m afraid it might get damaged in the mail. Would you take it for me?’
‘Yes, I suppose I could,’ he said dubiously.
‘I’ll give it to you tomorrow at breakfast, if I may. You’re very kind.’
‘Okay.’ He looked troubled, and Rebecca thought there was a chance he might hand over the disc to the Stasi. But all she could do was try.
When the wine had relaxed everyone, Rebecca was approached by Frederik Bíró, a Hungarian politician of her own age whom she liked. He specialized in foreign policy, as she did. ‘What’s the truth about this country?’ she asked him. ‘How is it doing, really?’
He looked at his watch. ‘We’re about a mile from your hotel,’ he said. He spoke good German, like most educated Hungarians. ‘Would you like to walk back with me?’
They got their coats and left. Their route followed the broad, dark river. On the far bank, the lights of the medieval town of Buda rose romantically to a hilltop palace.
‘The Communists promised prosperity, and the people are disappointed,’ Bíró said as they walked. ‘Even Communist Party members complain about the Kádár government.’ Rebecca guessed that he felt freer to talk out in the open air where they could not be bugged.
She said: ‘And the solution?’
‘The strange thing is that everyone knows the answer. We need to decentralize decisions, introduce limited markets, and legitimize the semi-illegal grey economy so that it can grow.’
‘Who stands in the way of this?’ She realized she was firing questions at him like a courtroom lawyer. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean to interrogate you.’
‘Not at all,’ he said with a smile. ‘I like people who speak in a direct way. It saves time.’
‘Men often resent being spoken to that way by a woman.’
‘Not me. You could say that I have a weakness for assertive women.’
‘Are you married to one?’
‘I was. I’m divorced now.’
Rebecca realized this was none of her business. ‘You were about to tell me who stands in the way of reform.’
‘About fifteen thousand bureaucrats who would lose their power and their jobs; fifty thousand top Communist Party officials who make almost all the decisions; and János Kádár, who has been our leader since 1956.’
Rebecca raised her eyebrows. Bíró was being remarkably frank. The thought crossed her mind that Bíró’s candid remarks may not have been totally spontaneous. Had this conversation perhaps been planned? She said: ‘Does Kádár have an alternative solution?’
‘Yes,’ said Bíró. ‘To maintain the standard of living of Hungarian workers, he is borrowing more and more money from Western banks, including German ones.’
‘And how will you pay the interest on those loans?’
‘What a good question,’ said Bíró.
They drew level with Rebecca’s hotel, across the street from the river. She stopped and leaned on the embankment wall. ‘Is Kádár a permanent fixture?’
‘Not necessarily. I’m close to a promising young man called Miklós Németh.’
Ah, Rebecca thought, so this is the point of the conversation: to tell the German government, quietly and informally, that Németh is the reformist rival to Kádár.
‘He’s in his thirties, and very bright,’ Bíró continued. ‘But we fear a Hungarian repeat of the Soviet situation: Brezhnev replaced by Andropov and then Chernenko. It’s like the queue for the toilet in a home for old men.’
Rebecca laughed. She liked Bíró.
He bent his head and kissed her.
She was only half surprised. She had sensed that he was attracted to her. What surprised her was how excited she felt to be kissed. She kissed him back eagerly.
Then she drew back. She put her hands on his chest and pushed him away a little. She studied him in the lamplight. No man of fifty looked like Adonis, but Frederik had a face that suggested intelligence and compassion and the ability to smile wryly at life’s ironies. He had grey hair cut short and blue eyes. He was wearing a dark-blue coat and a bright red scarf, conservatism with a touch of gaiety.
She said: ‘Why did you get divorced?’
‘I had an affair, and my wife left me. Feel free to condemn me.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve made mistakes.’
‘I regretted it, when it was too late.’
‘Children?’
‘Two, grown up. They have forgiven me. Marta has remarried, but I’m still single. What’s your story?’
‘I divorced my first husband when I discovered he worked for the Stasi. My second husband was injured escaping over the Berlin Wall. He was in a wheelchair, but we were happy together for twenty years. He died a year ago.’
‘My word, you’re about due for some good luck.’
‘Perhaps I am. Would you walk me to the hotel entrance, please?’
They crossed the road. On the corner of the block, where the street lights were less glaring, she kissed him again. She enjoyed it even more this time, and pressed her body against his.
‘Spend the night with me,’ he said.
She was sorely tempted. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s too soon. I hardly know you.’
‘But you’re going home tomorrow.’
‘I know.’
‘We may never meet again.’
‘I’m sure we will.’
‘We could go to my apartment. Or I’ll come to your room.’
‘No, though I’m flattered by your persistence. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, then.’
She turned away.
He said: ‘I travel often to Bonn. I’ll be there in ten days’ time.’
She turned back, smiling.
He said: ‘Will you have dinner with me?’
‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘Call me.’
‘Okay.’
She walked into the hotel lobby, smiling.
*
Lili was at home in Berlin-Mitte one afternoon when her niece, Alice, came, in a rainstorm, to borrow books. Alice had been refused admission to university, despite her outstanding grades, because of her mother’s underground career as a protest singer. However, Alice was determined to educate herself, so she was studying English in the evenings after she finished her shift at the factory. Carla had a small collection of English-language novels inherited from Grandmother Maud. Lili happened to be at home when Alice called, and they went upstairs to the drawing room and looked through the books together while the rain drummed on the windows. They were old editions, pre-war, Lili guessed. Alice picked out a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories. She would be the fourth generation to read them, Lili calculated.
Alice said: ‘We’ve applied for permission to go to West Germany.’ She was all youthful eagerness.
‘We?’ Lili asked.
‘Helmut and I.’
Helmut Kappel was her boyfriend. He was a year older, twenty-two, and studying at university.
‘Any special reason?’
‘I’ve said we want to visit my father in Hamburg. Helmut’s grandparents are in Frankfurt. But Plum Nellie are doing a world tour, and we really want to see my father on stage. Maybe we can time our visit to coincide with his German gig, if he does one.’
‘I’m sure he will.’
‘Do you think they’ll let us go?’