“A friend lends it to me. It’s so hard to get around at night. Almost as bad as during the blackout.” Which still didn’t explain why he lent it.
“Yes, thank you for the lift,” Roberta said, looking at her, but reluctant to push it further. “The lap of luxury. Herb’ll be jealous. Here we are. Just at the corner. I must say, I don’t know what we’d do without the Kulturbund. Meals off ration.” She caught herself. “And of course the people—everyone is so interesting. There’s a real seriousness about the arts here. Not like—”
Alex, on the street now, offered his hand to help her out.
“Thank you again,” she said to Irene. “And your friend.” She got out, her hand still on Alex’s. “Thanks. Alex—can I call you Alex?—I wanted to ask you—” She lowered her head, her voice almost conspiratorial. “I mean we don’t know each other really, but to tell you the truth, I don’t know who else to ask.”
Alex looked at her, waiting.
“I just wondered if it was us, people who’d come from the States. For some reason.”
“What?”
“Have they asked you for your Party documents? They said they were calling them in for review and I was just wondering why. You know, whether it was everybody or just Herb—”
“Party documents?”
“Membership books, you know.”
“But I’m not a member. Not yet.”
“Really? I thought—well, never mind. It’s probably just some office thing. They love all that official paper, all the stamps. I just wondered is all.” Her voice trying to be light, but anxious, her eyes troubled. She raised her head. “You’re going to join, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said, remembering Dieter.
“I mean, it makes everything so much easier here. And of course it’s—the Party. It’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Anyway, come for a drink and see Herb’s drawings. It’s really wonderful, what Berlin is going to look like.”
4
MARIENSTRASSE
“DON’T WORRY, I’M WORTH the wait,” Irene said, offering her cheek to be kissed. “I brought Alex. You don’t mind. He wanted to see the M?we. Look, there’s Brecht.”
Across the room, Brecht took out his cigar stub and half waved it.
“The more the merrier,” Sasha said. “You remember Ivan?” The other Russian stood and bowed his head, military polite. “A real Ivan,” Sasha said to Alex. “Not an Ivan. His name. Sit, sit. He came with me to celebrate.”
“Oh yes?” Irene said, sitting down. “What are you celebrating?” She glanced at the vodka bottle, half gone.
“Tell her,” Ivan said. “He’s so modest. She’ll be proud of you.”
“I’m already proud,” Irene said. “So now?”
“A big promotion,” Ivan said. “Moscow!” He raised his glass, a toast they’d made before.
“Moscow?” Irene said, paling a little.
“In the director’s office.” Ivan slapped Sasha on the back. “Now what do you think of him?”
“When?” Irene said to Sasha. “You never said.”
“I didn’t know.”
“It’s all the good work,” Ivan said, clinking glasses with him. “Come, have a drink,” he said to Alex. He raised his hand to get the waiter. “You need a glass.”
“Just beer for me,” Alex said to the waiter. “Irene?”
She shook her head. “When?” she asked again.
“I don’t know. Soon. Any day. Whenever the new man arrives. It’s a question of arranging transport.”
“You’ll be sorry to go,” she said, looking at him.
“Sorry? To go to Moscow?” he said, answering something else, as if he’d already left her. “After Berlin?” He laughed, then stopped, finally aware of her look. “Of course I will miss you.”
“Maybe not so much.”
“Every day,” he said grandly, raising a glass to her.
“You won’t be lonely,” Ivan said to Irene. “I can see to that.”
“No, I won’t be lonely,” Irene said to Sasha. “It’s a surprise, that’s all. Moscow. It’s a big job?” Her voice tight, eyes troubled, sorting through all the implications.
Sasha nodded.
“So. Your wife will be pleased.”
Sasha poured another glass for Ivan, avoiding this.
“And here I thought you and Alex would get to know each other,” she said. “Become friends.”
“We are friends,” Sasha said, smiling. “One night. It’s like that in wartime.”
“To Moscow,” Alex said, raising his beer glass to Sasha.
He drank, feeling the beer work its way down to his stomach, clenching again, his one chance of buying his way home about to disappear. They wouldn’t care anymore what people said at the Kulturbund, now that they’d almost had Markovsky, the promise of indiscretions on Irene’s pillow. Maltsev’s assistant, the best keyhole at Karlshorst, leaving town.
“Don’t worry,” Sasha said, leaning toward Irene. “You’ll be all right at DEFA. The payoks, I can arrange to keep you on that list. Is there anything you need?” When she shook her head, “We always knew this would happen, no? Someday.”
“But maybe not so soon.”
“You’re sorry to see me go?” he said, a little surprised, teasing.
“Of course.”
“Well, a woman like you. You’ll have no trouble finding someone else.” Said lightly, intended to flatter, but Irene turned red, as if she’d been slapped, a public embarrassment.
“At your service,” Ivan said, moving his arm to his chest in a bow.
“Anyway, I’m not going tonight,” Sasha said, a wink in his voice, touching Irene’s hand.
“No,” she said, looking down, away from Alex.
“That’s right,” Ivan said, louder. “Tonight we celebrate.”
“Yes,” Irene said. “I’ll have a drink now.” She picked up a glass. “To Moscow.”
“Moscow,” Ivan echoed.
“You see?” Sasha said. “Not so sorry after all. How long before you forget me? A week?”
“No. I have a good memory,” she said, then smiled, a party mood. “Maybe a month.”
“Me, never,” Sasha said, suddenly sentimental, drunk now. “I’ll never forget Berlin. It was a good time here.”