The Officer and the Spy, page 11
‘What name isn’t ridiculous,’ she’d demanded, ‘when you really think about it?’
‘Fitzhattily,’ he’d said.
And her laugh, her laugh…
He watched her scoop Tips up, knowing he should head home before Yorgos could return, yet lacking the will to go. In just a few short days, it was the way it had become: he only wanted to be where she was.
It was strange to him, how much he wanted that.
There’d been others, back in Germany: girls he’d met at parties, at dances, around the university. He’d liked them, had fun, moved on, and never thought twice about doing that. Not one of them had occupied his mind when he wasn’t with them, or compelled him to spend time with them over his studies, his friends.
None could have made him forget, with a single glance – an absent catch of peach juice with their finger – that those friends existed.
She tucked Tips against her, opened the door, peered in, then turned back to him.
‘I think we’re safe.’ Her clear voice rang through the balmy air. ‘I can’t smell burning.’
‘So the moussaka’s fine.’
‘I’m going to go and check… ’
‘You do that.’
‘Goodnight, then.’
‘Goodnight, Eleni.’
She lingered, staring up at him with those dark-blue eyes; impossible to look away from.
‘Kalinichta,’ she said.
‘Kalinichta,’ he repeated.
Which, for some reason, made her smile and shake her head. Then, with a wave of her free hand, she slipped inside.
He watched the space she’d left a moment longer, drew a steadying breath, shifted into gear, and, resignedly, went too.
The villa’s hallway was empty when he let himself in, filled with the scent of lemon, roasting meat. The Greek lady, Christina, who’d cooked for them all on their first night, kept returning to cook again. Nikos had arranged for her to keep house until the end of the summer.
‘Should we offer her money?’ Henri had asked, again, at breakfast that morning.
Krista had sighed. ‘I’m sure Nikos has it in hand, Papa.’
‘Are you?’ Otto had said, irritated, still, that Nikos had lied to him about watching Eleni and Dimitri dance at the café, the night before he left. (‘I can’t think what you’re talking about,’ he’d said, when Otto had mentioned seeing him. ‘I didn’t notice anyone, certainly not you.’)
‘I don’t want to insult her,’ Henri had gone on, ‘but we can’t leave her short… ’
It was really bothering him. Otto could hear him now, through the ajar kitchen door, fumbling to talk to Christina with the aid of his Greek dictionary. He briefly considered going in, rescuing them both by drawing Henri away, but then he heard his mother and Krista too, out on the veranda, and decided to go to them instead.
‘Poor Papa,’ Brigit said, as he pulled up a deckchair. ‘Everything keeps running out of his control. It doesn’t suit his lawyer’s mind… ’
‘And what about you?’ Otto said. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better,’ she said, and, to his relief, was starting to look it. There was colour in her skin again; some energy in her eyes.
She’d had a difficult week, shaken from a fall on Monday. The fall itself hadn’t been too bad, just a twisted wrist, but bad enough that Otto hadn’t been able to follow Eleni to the café, as he’d promised he would. When he’d reached the villa, high from seeing her on the bus (hello again), he’d collided with Henri and Brigit in the driveway, off to have Brigit’s wrist looked at.
‘I want you to keep Lotte company,’ Henri had said to Otto. ‘She’s upset enough, after the way you all went off and left her yesterday, and I can’t have her fretting about this whilst we’re gone.’
Otto hadn’t protested. Brigit had reached for him, telling him not to worry, and he’d held her, feeling his throat constrict at the familiarity of her scent, her warmth; a child again, for those few moments, terrified of losing his mother. He’d helped her into the car, seen them off, and, burying his sadness, and anger – at all of it – had dutifully spent the rest of the afternoon with Lotte, playing cards in the shade, watching Krista and Marianne swim, trying not to look at Lotte’s sunburn, or too much at the time, waiting for his parents to reappear.
As soon as they had, and he’d been assured Brigit’s wrist wasn’t broken, he’d left Lotte to change for dinner (a lengthy procedure), and headed out at last, down the road, where he’d waited again, more happily this time, for Eleni; that first, incredible evening, under their tree.
‘Where’s Marianne?’ he asked Krista now. ‘Still swimming?’
‘Having a bath,’ said Krista. ‘Mama’s been giving me a lecture, with—’ she raised her glass ‘—wine to sweeten the deal.’
‘Be grateful for that,’ said Brigit. ‘Papa wouldn’t have given you anything.’
‘What lecture?’ Otto asked, stretching his legs before him. His feet were still covered in sand. White sand…
‘A Lotte lecture,’ said Krista. ‘I need to be nicer.’
Otto raised a brow. ‘Join my party.’
‘You’re being fine, Otto,’ said Brigit.
‘Thank you, Mama.’
Krista stuck her tongue out at him.
‘How old are you?’ he said. ‘Twelve?’
‘She’s certainly behaving like it,’ said Brigit, not unfairly. Even Otto, hardly inclined to take Lotte’s side, could see Krista had been pushing things too far with her that week – ignoring her, ever since she’d made Marianne cry, speaking to her only when forced to, and then in curt monosyllables. Can you pass the salt? Increasingly, Otto had noticed Lotte turn quieter whenever Krista was near, appearing, sometimes, on the edge of tears, as Krista pointedly asked Marianne to go for a walk, a swim.
‘You’re being very unfair,’ Brigit scolded Krista. ‘Lotte is not her father, but she is our guest.’
‘Only because Papa wants Otto to marry her.’
‘Papa does not want Otto to marry her.’
‘Good,’ said Otto, ‘because that won’t be happening.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘I suspect he wouldn’t object if it did… ’
‘Mama… ’
‘Fine, fine.’ She smiled, then quickly became serious again. ‘All he wants is that you both be kind to her, make her feel part of the family, as she was, for a long time, before all this Nazi nonsense. I want you to do that, too. Not—’ she lifted her hand ‘—for any agenda, but because she’s already had too much unkindness in her life. Why do you think she spends all this time getting ready every night? She’s grown up believing she must always work to make people like her. She deserves better.’
‘I—’
‘No, Krista.’ Brigit shot her a quelling look. ‘Enough. You are making everyone uncomfortable, including Marianne, including yourself, I suspect, being such a bully.’
‘I’m not being a bully.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘It’s her.’
‘She’s not doing anything.’
‘She told Marianne that she wants them all to leave Germany.’
‘Well, not exactly,’ said Otto, interjecting, against his better inclination, not wanting to argue – certainly not to ruin his excellent mood in a row with his sister, especially defending Lotte – yet unable to help himself, because this wasn’t being quite fair. ‘She said that she thought they should leave. It’s not what she wants.’ Lotte had been at great pains, convincing him of that, over their countless games of cards that week. If I didn’t care about them all so much, I wouldn’t have said it. ‘She’s given up, because she’s Lotte, and that’s what she does, so thinks they all should too.’
‘How does she even suppose Nicola and Ernst could afford to go?’
‘I don’t think she’s considered that.’
‘I expect she hasn’t,’ said Brigit. ‘She’s frightened, probably not thinking straight at all. We’ll never know what it’s like for her, in that house, and these are frightening times for everyone. You’re frightened, Krista.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Yes, my darling, you are. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But never forget, you could go on for decades without becoming poorly like me… ’
‘Mama… ’
‘You could. You will, Krista, if you’re careful. If we’re all careful.’
‘I don’t want to be careful.’
‘I don’t want you to have to be.’ Brigit took her hand, face softening in the lowering light. ‘This is life though. It will pass, I believe it, but until it does, making Lotte miserable won’t solve anything.’ She smiled. ‘The two of you used to be such friends… ’
‘Did we?’
‘You know you did. You’d keep me up all night, chatting. Remember the plays you used to put on? Yes, you see, you do. Try being friends again tonight, yes? Please. For me.’
Maybe it was her tumbler of wine, which Krista drained before going to change, or that she, like Otto, couldn’t bear to let their mother down, whilst she was still here – or, perhaps, a combination of the two – but whilst Otto was in his room, changing himself, he heard Krista knock on Lotte’s door, asking if she’d like to go down to the rocks with her and Marianne before dinner, sneak a quick cigarette. ‘I know you don’t smoke, but—’
‘I’m coming,’ said Lotte, with an eagerness difficult to hear. ‘I’ll get my shawl. Shall we ask Otto?’
‘I think he wants to keep working,’ said Krista. ‘Let’s leave him.’
Sending her a silent thank you, Otto listened to them disappear down the stairs, shrugged on a clean shirt, and, genuinely wanting to work, pulled up a chair at his wooden desk, getting started on the designs he’d been sketching mentally since the beach. He’d been stealing moments like this all week, catching up on the progress he’d claimed to be making on his assignment when he was out with Eleni. The better he’d grown to know her, the more he’d found himself picturing her as he’d drawn; with each new doorway he’d added, he’d seen her shadow falling through it; with every window, he’d wondered what she’d make of it. That evening, she was very present in his mind. Will you have a living room? He would soon.
He became immediately immersed in the task, leaving his room, leaving the villa, existing wholly in the page. In Munich, he’d go on for hours in such a way, uninterrupted.
But this wasn’t Munich. And it wasn’t long before Henri’s voice fractured his focus, calling him downstairs. Cursing, he shouted that he’d be there in a minute, remained where he was for several more, finishing the measurements he’d been calculating, then – surveying the little he’d managed to get done, already impatient to be back at his desk, carrying on – reluctantly went to join everyone.
They ate on the terrace. Lotte smiled across the table at Otto as they took their seats, visibly lighter after her trip to the rocks with Krista and Marianne, which he deduced hadn’t been a disaster. Unlike Krista, who’d dressed for the meal in her dungarees, and Marianne, who wore the same simple dress she wore most nights, Lotte had once again come much as she might to an opera, in a black silk gown. Her sunburn had faded, leaving the very lightest of tans on her pale skin. A lily. She wore long gloves, and had pinned her white-blonde hair.
Eleni’s had been loose, all day; curled and salty.
Turning from Lotte, Otto looked across the water, in the direction of her villa, imagining her there. Occasionally, as the meal wore on, and Henri steered them around the same safe subjects they talked about every night (the weather, everyone’s plans for the next day, how delicious the food was, the weather), Otto swore he heard her laughter, carrying on the still night air. It distracted him, made him even more restless to escape the table’s polite pretence.
As, at length, he did. They all dispersed, as soon as the dishes were cleared, as relieved as each other, he suspected, to be free again. Brigit went to bed, like always, Henri with her. Normally, Lotte would follow them up, and Otto would go swimming. But that night, Lotte remained in the kitchen, hovering around Krista and Marianne, nodding quickly when Marianne asked her if she’d like some tea, and Otto, who’d swam enough, headed back to his room, taking the stairs two at a time, going straight to his desk.
He remained there into the small hours, working by the light of a candle, the cicadas clacking outside. The living room wasn’t the main thing he wanted to complete, simply the part he needed to design first. He didn’t pause until he had, covering his desk in rubber shavings, erasing whatever wasn’t perfect, getting it right, for her. The candle burnt down to a wax puddle, and he lit another; at some point, the girls all came upstairs, whispering, and he ignored them; through the window, the night deepened into the darkness before dawn, and still, he kept going.
When, at last, he leant back in his chair, running his hands through his hair, his back ached. His wrist ached. His brain ached.
But…
He looked at the papers before him. The living room was wide and deep, with doors onto a garden, and a high, vaulted roof. Off it was another room, smaller, but still airy. On one side was a fireplace. On the other, a window seat.
He smiled.
She had her reading nook.
It would catch the afternoon sun.
The date all of them, apart from Lotte, were to return to Berlin was 15 August. Lotte was to leave the Saturday before, on the eighth, flying home for the Olympics with an escort sent by her father. Keenly as Otto had been anticipating her departure, he no longer wished away the days between now and then.
Waking late the next morning, he wished away nothing of the summer.
Infinite, Eleni had called the six weeks they had left together, as they’d raced for the motor the night before.
They’d felt like it, whilst he was still with her.
But, now, lying alone in his bed, turning to face the fierce Greek light seeping through his shutters – reflecting on how it had, unbelievably, already been a week since she’d passed by that same window in her grandfather’s Cadillac, no more than an intriguing stranger – they seemed anything but.
He didn’t want to think about them ending. Didn’t want to dwell on everything waiting, back in Germany, once they did.
He heard everyone in the kitchen below, making breakfast, and didn’t want to join them either.
He wanted only to go in search of her, so she could make time feel infinite for him again.
It wasn’t possible that weekend. She was gone for all of it, working until the siesta on Saturday, then out with her grandfather the rest of the time, driving around the island, wearing her shorts (‘Not always,’ she said, with a roll of her blue-black eyes, when they were finally together again), calling on Maria and Spiros, spending another day in the mountains, leaving Otto to get on with life at the villa, where the quiet hours passed in a sultry rhythm, revolving around meals, swims, card games with Lotte, efforts by Krista to be nicer; the rise and fall of the burning sun.
On Monday, though, he was there, waiting for her at his gate, when she came walking along the unsheltered road, on her way to the bus stop. It was a few seconds before she noticed him. He watched her move, that careless saunter, and, even as he yearned to call out, remained silent, re-absorbing her face, her peace as she looked down at the sea, relishing the anticipation of her company too much, suddenly, to want to hasten it.
He recognized her dress. He knew her well enough, already, to do that. It was the same striped one she’d worn the night he’d given her that chocolate, with buttons on its short sleeves, and a stitch on the skirt where she’d torn it.
Snagged on a table last summer, she’d said, sitting beneath the tree, tucking the fabric between her knees, then letting them drop against his.
Her hair was in a ponytail again. She had her sunglasses on, her bag slung on her shoulder, and, when she turned her head, glancing his way, her expression transformed, she burst out laughing, running to close the distance between them.
She ran. To him.
And, knowing that the road was empty, the rest of his family safely down by the water, and that he’d been driving himself mad, waiting to do it since Friday, he caught her to him, not kissing her, because she moved first, kissing him – like he was coming to learn she did most things – with every part of her being.
‘You’re at your gate,’ she said. ‘You’re never at your gate.’
‘I decided it was time that changed.’
‘Excellent decision.’
‘I thought I’d come into town with you on the bus too.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
He’d resolved that he would. Resolved too, over the interminable weekend, that he wouldn’t give Henri any more excuses for his absence, tired already of the deceit; skulking around as though he were an adolescent boy, in need of his father’s permission.
‘Good for you,’ Krista had said, the pair of them in the kitchen the morning before, grinding beans for coffee. ‘I must say I’d like to be present when you tell him.’ She’d poured the granules into the stove’s copper briki, tanned face tense with concentration, braced against her own unpredictable tremors. ‘I love it when it’s you he’s angry at instead of me.’
But Henri hadn’t been angry.
He’d said very little at all when, later, whilst Krista, Marianne and Lotte had been gone on a walk, Otto had sought him out on the terrace, telling him that he’d continue to play as many games of cards as was necessary with Lotte, but needed to be able to come and go from the villa as he pleased. Not only to study.
‘I’ve only got a year left before national service,’ he’d reminded his father. ‘I’ll have no control over anything then. Please stop trying to control me now. I won’t let you, but I’d prefer not to have to keep arguing about it.’
Henri had studied him from behind his spectacles. All around him had been the client files he’d brought from Berlin; on his lap, what looked like government documents. Although he’d left his firm in the hands of his partners for the summer, he’d told Otto that he still needed to work whilst they were away. I have to pay for it all somehow. And I have too many people relying on me. Next to him, Brigit had been napping in her deckchair. Otto had been tempted to entreat Henri to do the same thing. He would have, had he thought for a moment that Henri would have listened to him.
