It took Werner Nehmann nearly three weeks to track down his Coquette. A telephone call to the Cinecittà film studios in Rome confirmed that Hedvika had recently finished a movie under director Emilio Brambilla and was expected back from a well-earned vacation any day now. Nehmann left his name, and a hint that Hedvika might welcome a conversation, and waited for the phone to ring.
When nothing happened, he tried again. This time he got through to an executive in the publicity department who’d recently read an article of Nehmann’s in Das Reich. The piece, typically playful, had made her laugh. Nehmann had set out to ponder the current appetite in both dictatorships for show and spectacle, for huge parades, for wardrobes of fancy costumes, and for the public’s apparent willingness to go along with this pantomime. As always, Nehmann had trodden the high wire between treason and entertainment with immense panache, though his first draft, submitted to the Minister, had drawn a caustic response. ‘Publish this shit,’ Goebbels had scribbled in green ink, ‘and we’ll both end up in the KZ.’
Nehmann, of course, had no intention of getting anywhere near a concentration camp and half an hour in the Minister’s office, late at night, had produced a second draft, and then a third. This was the version, carefully salted with dutiful nods to the many glories of the Reich, that had landed on the publicity executive’s lap.
‘I was at the dentist,’ she explained on the phone. ‘It made perfect reading.’
Nehmann mentioned Hedvika.
‘You know her well?’ she asked.
‘Very.’
‘How well?’
‘Ask her. That woman never lies and neither do I.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ she laughed. ‘Everyone lies, all the time.’
‘OK, so try this. Tell her the trick really works.’
‘What trick?’
‘Levitation. Just say it. Levitation. That’s all you need.’ He paused. ‘So, where is she?’
‘On vacation. I thought you knew.’
‘I did. How long a holiday does she need?’
‘It’s complicated. You know about Emilio? I’m guessing you probably do. He threw her off the set last week as soon as she’d done her final scene.’
‘Am I allowed to ask why?’
‘I’m sure you can guess. Who gets to see her in close-up? Who controls her lighting? Who makes her look truly beautiful?’
‘The cameraman.’
‘You’re right. And his services didn’t end there.’
‘He’s with her now?’
‘He’s in hospital. Emilio has rough friends. You want me to talk to Hedvika? Give me your number. I’ll do my best.’
Nehmann didn’t have to wait long. That evening, Guram’s phone rang. Maria was playing in the club at Moabit. Nehmann lifted the receiver and waited for the long-distance crackle to recede. Finally, an Italian operator checked his name and asked him to stand by for a call.
Nehmann was sitting at the piano, newly tuned. He walked his fingers along the keyboard in a slow arpeggio, a trick that Maria had taught him. Finally came a voice he recognised.
‘Hedvika?’ he asked.
‘Ja.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Venice.’
*
Next day, Nehmann took the train south. Goebbels had given him five thousand Reichsmarks two weeks ago. He’d already spent nearly four hundred on presents for Maria, but he had plenty left. The southbound express left the Hauptbahnhof at six minutes past nine. He changed trains at Munich and dozed through the Alps in a sleeping compartment he had to himself, woken only by a cheerful Italian customs official at the border.
Dawn found him crossing the lagoon towards the distant promise of a city he’d never seen before. He stepped into the corridor and hung out of the window, savouring the rankness of this inland sea. Already, Venice smelled of decay and corruption. Perfect.
Hedvika had given him instructions to her hotel. He was to find a vaporetto and ask for the Palazzo Grassi. Three streets away from the water, look for another tiny canal on the right. Maybe a hundred metres, a once-imposing front door with a brass plate that badly needs a polish. Alla Vite Dorata. Top-floor room with a fine view of a neighbour’s yard. Gute Reise.
Safe journey. Nehmann didn’t bother with the vaporetto. He had money in his pocket and the city at his feet. In any movie, he thought, this opening scene called for a gondola and a boatman with a half-decent voice. The dock at the railway terminus was emptier than he’d expected. Maybe it was the hour, he thought. Still barely seven in the morning.
The first gondolier he tried was a hunchback who had trouble meeting Nehmann’s eyes as he gazed down from the dock. The man’s face had acquired a wistful bitterness that Nehmann loved at first sight. Someone had done a startling job on the perfectly ironed whiteness of his shirt and, when Nehmann asked him for a song before embarking, he obliged with a fortissimo version of the ‘Horst Wessel’. Nehmann blinked. The gondolier was stamping one boot, the tiny barque trembling beneath him. For just a moment, Nehmann wondered about hiring one of the other gondoliers but decided his new friend was making a point and was happy to accept a helping hand as he clambered aboard.
‘Welcome to Venezia,’ the gondolier said. ‘I am Benito. You will be Adolf. The world is crazy, si?’
Nehmann, blissfully content in such company, settled on the upholstered banquette in the stern. Benito, braced on the platform behind him, handled the gondola with dismissive aplomb. Sweep after sweep of the long paddle took them away from the railway terminus towards the heart of the city. Wherever he looked, Nehmann thought, history had its feet planted deep in the murk of the Grand Canal. A frieze of houses, as perfect as a theatre set, impossibly old, impossibly crooked, impossibly beautiful. Elegant palazzos, their windows half shuttered against the brightness of the morning light. Only this morning, before leaving Berlin, Maria had warned him that Venice would be the sweetshop of his dreams. A temptress city full of impossible delights. A city that played tricks with you. A city that led you deep into a maze you simply couldn’t comprehend. She’d been there herself in circumstances she might one day share but for now she just wanted him to let the city cast its spell.
‘You’ll have no choice.’ She’d reached up to kiss him. ‘Nobody has.’
She was right. They were approaching the landing stage at Palazzo Grassi. The gondola bumped gently against the rope fender and Benito reached down to help him off. The sight of a fifty Reichsmark note briefly sparked what might have been a smile.
‘Take care, my friend.’ Benito carefully folded the note into a pocket. ‘The lady isn’t as sweet as she looks.’
‘Lady?’
‘Venezia.’
Nehmann left the landing stage without a backward glance, aware that the city was already drawing him in. Barely metres from the water, the buildings closed around him, towering walls of windowed brick and stone, each subtly different. There was no sign of the war here, no indication that vast armies were fighting to the death, that millions of city dwellers were spending every night underground, that a family could starve without a ration card. Instead, he was looking at lines of washing hanging across the narrowness of the street, at women kneading dough in open bakeries, at flocks of starlings swooping busily over a street-corner market stall. Nehmann paused to check his bearings. A conjuring trick, he concluded. Normal life restored by sleight of hand.
He found the Alla Vite Dorata without difficulty. The building had the air of a beggar in the street, unkempt, neglected. The grey stucco was crumbling. The windows were still shuttered. He stepped back and shook his head, bewildered. Movie stars earned good money. If you’d come to Venice to spoil yourself why would you ever stay here?
Nehmann tried the door. It was locked. There was no bell, no knocker, and so he hammered on the peeling paintwork with the side of his fist. At length, he thought he heard movement inside, then the door opened and he was looking at a man in his thirties, white shirt, black trousers, bare feet. His face was heavily tanned beneath several days of stubble.
‘Hedvika…?’ Nehmann gestured inside.
‘Lei parla Italiano?’
‘Nein.’
The man looked at him a moment longer, then came a voice Nehmann recognised from the depths of the building. She was shouting something in Italian.
‘That’s her,’ he said. ‘Hedvika.’
He found her, as promised, in a bare room on the top floor. Naked from the waist up, she was sitting up in bed, stroking a fat tabby cat. Nehmann settled at once on the side of the bed. He knew about cats.
‘She’s got a problem with her eye,’ he said at once. ‘Try a weak vinegar solution. She’ll hate it but it might do the trick.’
‘He,’ she said. ‘He’s a he. He fights all night and comes back for attention. Sometimes it’s an eye. Sometimes other places. There isn’t enough vinegar in this city to make him better. He lives to fight. Sometimes I think he must be German.’
Nehmann wanted to know about this pension of hers. With all those movies behind her, why end up in a dump like this?
The word ‘pension’ amused her. The house, she said, belonged to a friend of hers. He’d bought it before the war as an investment and one day he’d come back and tidy things up, but for now that was difficult.
‘He’s in hospital, your friend?’
‘He is.’ She looked surprised. ‘How did you know?’
Nehmann shook his head. Wouldn’t say. Instead, he asked about the man downstairs.
‘He’s Carlo’s brother, Fabio. Not bad, but Carlo’s twice the man. Fabio’s been here for a while. He thinks the war’s stupid and he’s got no time for dying.’
‘He’s in hiding?’
‘He doesn’t go out much.’ She got rid of the cat and moved to the side of the bed. Then she asked Nehmann to shut the door. ‘A fuck might be nice.’ She smiled. ‘If you’re offering.’
*
Later, she took him to lunch at a trattoria on the Piazza San Marco. The exchange rate between the lira and the Reichsmark was very good just now and she had more money than she could possibly spend.
‘So, fifty Reichsmarks…?’ Nehmann asked.
‘A fortune. Fifty will buy you the evening of your dreams. Tosca at La Fenice. Dinner at the Danieli. Grappa by the bottle. Whoever said war was a bad idea?’
Nehmann grinned, thinking of his little gondolier. Fifty marks, he decided, was cheap. The biggest gestures were always the best. He should have made it a hundred, maybe two. Goebbels, early on in their relationship, had put his finger on it. Whatever the challenge, whatever the difficulties, you go as fast as you can, you be as bold as you can, and you ignore all advice to the contrary. Because the wildest life is the most beautiful.
‘Lida Baarova,’ he murmured. ‘You know her?’
‘Of course. I’m Czech. I’m an actress. As it happens, we even share a couple of schoolfriends, back in Prague. Why do you ask?’
‘Because I’d like to meet her.’
‘But why?’ She beckoned him closer. ‘I’ve given you a taste for Czech movie stars? You like the way we treat our men? Is that it?’
‘It might be. It depends.’
‘On what? On her? Just now, she’s seeing no one. In fact, she hasn’t had a man for a very long time.’
‘Should that be a surprise? Given what happened?’
‘Of course not. The poor woman had a breakdown. Your friend Goebbels set the dogs on her, chased her out of Berlin. First he frightened her, then he put her in an asylum. You couldn’t write a story like that. No one would ever believe it. And you know what makes it even worse? She loved that man, she really did. They were together for two whole years. She believed everything he told her, every promise he made. It wasn’t just the money, the fame, the presents, the attention. He said it was about her. He said he needed her wholeness, her specialness. He said she was the only woman, the only person in the world who could bring him peace.’ She paused. ‘Does any of that sound familiar?’
Nehmann was watching an elderly couple hugging the shadows at the edge of the piazza as they walked their dog. They were arm in arm, discreetly turning their backs as the little spaniel squatted on the warm marble.
‘Maybe he meant it,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe it was true.’
‘And now?’
‘Maybe it’s still true.’
‘And is that why you’re here? An envoy from the dwarf?’
This was uncomfortably close to the truth and Nehmann sensed she knew it. Had someone been sent earlier? Had Goebbels tried to contact Baarova in person? Was this mission his last throw of the ministerial dice?
Hedvika wasn’t giving up. She wanted to know more.
‘You know this man well,’ she said. ‘At least that’s what you always told me. You think he’s lonely? Might that be a clue?’
‘Everyone’s lonely at his level. Goebbels, Ribbentrop, Himmler. The only one who copes is probably Goering and that’s because there’s so much of him.’
‘You mean he’s fat?’ She was laughing.
‘I mean he’s big. Big-hearted. Lots of soul. He’s been through one war and he’s helping to win the next. Hitler’s the same. It takes a lot to frighten men like that.’
‘And Goebbels?’
‘Goebbels is clever. In the company he keeps, that can be a handicap. He’s also insatiable, just like the rest of them. He wants more and more. Of everything. By and large that seems to work. He reads this war like no one else but the one thing he can never guarantee is a good night’s sleep.’
‘Maybe Lida gave him that.’
‘Maybe she did. If he could put her in a bottle, a spoonful a day after meals, I’m sure he would. In the meantime, she’s a couple of countries away and all he’s left with are his memories.’
‘Hence your phone call?’
‘Yes. He wants me to see her, track her down, meet her, talk to her.’
‘Get her back?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Then what?’
Hedvika was waiting for an answer, tapping her perfect fingernails on the zinc-topped table. In these situations, as he remembered far too late, she could be remarkably shrewd. In bed, in the middle of a particularly vigorous session, she’d once told him she could read him like a book. You think you can hide from me, she’d said. Wrong.
‘Well?’
‘I just need a conversation. An address? Maybe a phone number? That would be kind.’
‘And if she says no?’
‘She won’t.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘She just won’t. When did I ever lie to you?’
‘All the time, but we both know that. Your little friend leaves nothing to chance. I’ve watched him, remember. I’ve been there. He was often on set in Berlin. He wanted to control every detail. The way you delivered a particular line? What the make-up people had done to your eyebrows? How he’d rescued the fourth version of a shit script and turned it into a proper movie? He’s like that bloody cat. He can’t help himself. He has to mark his territory. As poor Lida found out.’
Nehmann resisted applauding. This was exactly the Goebbels he knew – thin-skinned, hopelessly ambitious, but a slave to his own neuroses.
‘He thinks no one likes him,’ Nehmann said. ‘He’s found success beyond his wildest dreams. He’s been clever with money. He owns far more houses than he needs. He drives the fastest cars. He’s got a couple of boats on the lake. Hitler loves his wife, adores his children. He can snap his fingers and get on a plane and thousands of people will be waiting in some hall in God knows which shitty little town to listen to his every word. But it’s still the same face in the mirror every morning. And he knows nothing will ever change that.’
Hedvika reached for her glass. They were both drinking Campari and soda, an aperitif before the waiter appeared with their order.
‘He’ll have written her a letter.’ Hedvika was running her fingertip around the rim of the glass. ‘And the man probably trusts no one else in the world to deliver it.’ She looked up. ‘Don’t bother denying it. Just nod.’
*
They were back in the Alla Vite Dorata, back in bed. Hedvika was still straddling him, moving very slowly as he wilted inside her. Afternoon sunshine flooded in through the window and of the cat there was no sign. Heaven, Nehmann decided, tasted of osso buco, lightly flavoured with parsley and thin splinters of garlic.
‘I think I’m in love.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Did I mention that?’
‘Name?’
‘Maria.’
‘Italian?’
‘Austrian. She says.’
‘You don’t believe her?’
‘I don’t know. And that makes her even more promising. She plays the piano like an angel. You can’t fake that.’
‘And she’s good at this, too?’ Hedvika was smiling.
‘Very. You can’t fake that, either.’
‘Lucky you, then.’
Nehmann nodded. Hedvika’s bluntness had limited appeal but at least she was honest.
‘It’s in my jacket.’ He nodded down at the pile of discarded clothing on the bare boards.
‘Goebbels’ little missive?’
‘Yes.’
‘You agree we should open it?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Another envelope for afterwards? White? Standard size? That shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘You’re right.’
‘So, what’s stopping you? We open the envelope. Then we read whatever’s inside.’
‘Exactly. And afterwards?’
‘And afterwards you get on the train and take it to Rome. That’s where you’ll find Baarova. She has an apartment near the Piazza Navona. She’s living alone. She’s had some movie offers from Italian studios. You apologise for the intrusion. You introduce yourself. You present the great man’s compliments. And then you give her the letter.’
‘And leave?’
‘Of course. Unless you can’t resist another Czech actress. She has the most wonderful mouth, incidentally. My guess is that Goebbels can’t leave that memory alone. Have you ever met Frau Goebbels? The sainted Magda?’
‘Many times.’
‘And?’
‘Great presence.’
‘And her mouth?’
‘Stern. Pursed. The tightest lips.’
‘Exactly. Had she been born in Prague, maybe his marriage would have worked out, ja?’
She slipped free and then leaned forward. Nehmann could smell the Valpolicella on her breath.
‘You want me to get the letter?’ She kissed him. ‘Or will you?’