The Darkling Spy by Edward Wilson

Author:Edward Wilson [Wilson, Edward]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Thriller, Historical Fiction
ISBN: 9781906413644
Google: 7qEYQwAACAAJ
Amazon: B006WB2GCG
Goodreads: 18957258
Publisher: Arcadia
Published: 2010-07-31T12:00:00+00:00

Catesby couldn’t remember exactly how he left the Volksbühne party. But he had a fuzzy recollection of a heated political argument with Elmo Buckner. It must have been a good argument because he vaguely remembered Elmo grabbing him around the neck and someone dragging Elmo away. Catesby touched his shirt collar. It really was torn, so the fight really must have happened. Catesby smiled. Fancy that. He hoped the incident compared favourably to the embarrassing wobblies that Guy Burgess used to throw in Washington. The best one required an apology from the British Ambassador. Burgess, bored and drunk at a dinner party, had drawn an obscene cartoon of a senior CIA officer’s wife. He then presented it to the husband. But Catesby hadn’t misbehaved because he was bored or drunk; he had misbehaved because he was playing to an audience.

The fresh winter air must have made Catesby calm and sober for he clearly remembered walking home with Petra. They had left the party separately, but at the same time. Catesby remembered watching her unlock her bicycle from a railing. He walked over and said, ‘Why do you need to lock your bike? I thought we were in the German Democratic Republic.’

‘I need to lock it so it doesn’t get stolen by a thief from the West. One day,’ she said, ‘we’ll have to build an anti-fascist protection wall. Shit.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’ve got a puncture.’

‘Shall I help mend it?’

‘No, you’re too drunk and I haven’t got a repair kit.’

‘Shall we find you a taxi?’

‘I can walk – it’s less than two kilometres.’

Catesby put his hands in his pockets and started walking beside her. He was surprised that she didn’t ask where he was going. They were walking along a long straight empty boulevard called Torstrasse. For a while the only sound between them was the click-click of her bicycle sprocket.

As they turned off into another wide empty boulevard called Chausseestrasse, Petra said, ‘Do you know Gerhard’s brother Hanns?’

‘I’ve heard of him.’

Petra laughed. ‘Hanns wrote the national anthem.’ She began to sing, ‘Auferstanden aus Ruinen … Rising from the ruins and turning to the future. But Hanns does other things too – he wrote a lot of music for Brecht.’

‘He writes national anthems like you paint posters for International Women’s Day.’

‘There’s no comparison. Our national anthem is a beautiful piece of music that is also accessible to the masses. My poster is not beautiful – and I’m not even sure it’s accessible. I should have made her prettier, more feminine. It’s a difficult balance – the worker, the woman.’

‘They’re both beautiful.’

‘You’d make a good Party member.’

‘Are you a member?’ asked Catesby.

‘Of course.’

Catesby recognised the Dorotheenstadt Cemetery coming up on their left. Something about Brecht’s funeral, an odd sense of déjà vu, floated into his mind. Something about Petra had triggered it. He had heard her voice before.

Catesby looked at her. ‘Can you sing again, please?’

‘What, more GDR national anthem?’

‘No, I want you to sing something by Brecht-Weill.’

‘I like the bit at the end of the MacHeath song.

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