There was so much to do. The Tiergartenstraße flat to clear. Furniture, lamps, bowls to give away. Hundreds of books to pack. Paintings by Irene – a faintly menacing view of forest surrounding a meadow, a study of an empty beach – to be sent to London. A farewell dinner at the embassy. A party with the Graf set in a club on Unter den Linden. A final Sunday morning walk through the Tiergarten to matins – he would be happy never to see St George’s again. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. It was enough to make any man happy, particularly a man in his late-thirties, with brilliant prospects, surrounded by friends, and about to be married to the woman he loved.
It was interesting how people had changed since he’d announced his engagement. The Graf set had become subtly cooler; he realised some of them might have had designs on him. His colleagues were perceptibly warmer, he felt he was rising smoothly into the higher reaches of the Diplomatic family.
Outside, it was extremely cold, the snow was thick. He would not miss the cruel German winters. But he could hardly stay indoors during this final evening in Berlin: what should he do? There was nothing more to plan: the two weeks in London, formal visits to the Foreign Office, the search for a London house – it was all settled.
The family were following him across the Atlantic. Irene and Thomas were bursting with excitement at the thought of seeing New York, his mother was agog to visit the Salts’ house and estate. Yes, everything was sorted out; including, it seemed, his career. At a private farewell lunch H. E. had indicated that Mark might expect promotion soon.
He looked round the flat, wondering what else needed doing. On the corner of his desk was a pile of letters he’d not bothered to open, no doubt notices of exhibitions he’d never see, invitations to buy things he’d never need. Most of the envelopes were tossed into the wastepaper basket. Only one stopped him. It was typewritten, to ‘Mr Mark Benson Esq.’ He smiled: Germans could never grasp ‘Esq.’
Dear Mark,
I know, that you are leaving Berlin soon. I hope, that in your new life you will be happy. It will be different in many ways. Though I do not see you any more, I have been glad to know, that you are living in the same city. Though sad, too.
He put the letter down as though to throw it away. Then he thought, I owe Karl the courtesy. . .
Now I have a new position at the Hotel Esplanade, as a deputy manager. It is of course near to where you live, and I have seen you there once or twice, though I made sure, you would not see me. It is a fine hotel, I enjoy my position. I will soon be promoted.
I have a new friend, he is a nice man though he does not like swimming in the lakes, he is too fat.
I hope, that you will remember our days by the Schlachtensee, and think they were happy days, and that we loved each other in our way. I certainly loved you. Can love ever be bad? I don’t think so, if it is real love that springs from the heart.
You will think me sentimental, but I am sending you a dried flower, it is the Vergißmichnicht. I think it is the same in English, the forget-me-not.
Dein Karl
Mark turned out the light and sat for a moment in darkness. Then the light came on again, the letter was folded and put away, at least for the moment.
There was nothing more to do. He must say goodbye to Berlin. He set out on a final walk, past the Tiergarten and the embassies, down the Potsdamerstraße to the Potsdamer Platz. This evening, just for once, he was ready to let life lead him where it willed. He sat in the Café Josty, at a table where he’d often sat before. He and the waiter had once been on ‘du und du’ terms, hardly to be avoided when one was lying on top of the other.
‘Wie geht es dem Herrn?’ asked the waiter, with a tinge of friendly irony.
‘Ich werde Berlin morgen verlassen, meine Zeit hier ist zu Ende.’
‘Schade. Ich hoffe, daß Sie Berlin nicht vergessen werden.’
‘Wie kann man Berlin je vergessen?’
Mark gave him a particularly large tip. Then he set off home, to the flat that now seemed like a makeshift shelter. No more makeshift for him: their house in London would be their home when they were not abroad. No doubt, ironically, in one of the fashionable districts his mother had yearned to move to. They could afford almost anything, after all.
He walked home through the Tiergarten, distantly recalling the strolls he had often taken there on summer nights. It amused him, at a point where a path plunged into the trees, to see a figure standing by the bushes. What a night to be hunting, the poor fellow must be desperate. In the gaslight he glimpsed the face of a boy, vulnerable, hopeful, looking in Mark’s direction. Mark swerved onto the grass, threw a glance behind him as he’d done so often, walked into the sheltering trees. The boy followed him.
Mark took hold of him, kissed him bruisingly, tore open his clothing. He felt disgusted with himself, and approved of his disgust, it was healthy. He thrust the boy onto the ground, dropped two dollar bills onto his body lying on the icy ground, kicked him.
Another last.