“Only I don’t know how you would write music without attachment,” she went on. “I suppose it would come out like Buddhist music; sort of prayer wheels tinkling in the wind and those sad horns. Not that I know anything about it,” she added, suddenly embarrassed.
“On the contrary, you clearly know a lot about it-and about most other things,” he said, and wondered why he wasn’t simply kissing her instead of discussing Chekhov and the Nature of Attachment. “Even though you do look like a rather delectable ham with that ruffle on your head.”
“It’s not a ruffle; it’s a proper nurse’s cap,” she said crossly. “I thought if I got one that wasn’t stodgy it would have a resale value. After all, I bought it with your money and I want to pay you back.”
More passengers came past, bound for the last sitting of dinner. “Are you certain you won’t come and join me? We’d be back long before we got to the border.”
It was hard to refuse; harder than she could have imagined, but she remembered the fear in Isaac’s eyes and shook her head. “Tell me what you ate, won’t you? In detail?”’
“I promise.”
But still he didn’t go. Was he waiting for someone?
“Isaac is convinced he won’t ever play the violin again because of something they did to his hands in the camp,” she said. “But I watched him when he was helping me in the kitchen. I could swear his hands are all right now; he made piped eclairs and you can’t do those without good coordination. I wish you’d make him see. He wants us to start a restaurant.”
He frowned. “Us? You mean you and him?”’ Isaac must be seriously gone in love then, or mad. “Do you want to do that?”’ he asked curtly.
She shook her head. She was about to make her way back to her compartment when a woman in a tight red satin skirt, a frilly gold lamé blouse and an outsize feather boa came along the corridor-a blonde of unbelievable vulgarity who smiled unashamedly at Marek.
And whose smile was returned. Marek excused himself and to Ellen’s chagrin followed the woman’s waggling behind towards the dining car.
One hour, another. The passengers returned from dinner but Marek did not come in with the promised champagne. Then the train slowed down and stopped in the kind of place that was the same all over Europe: custom sheds, army huts in which men sat playing cards, road barriers-and a station at which no one who could help it ever got out.
Ellen opened her nurse’s bag, took out a syringe partly filled with a red liquid, and stood by the door. Two border guards got on: a young private and a sergeant. The Poles had been fought over too often: there was nothing casual about these lean-faced, unsmiling men.
Ellen’s door slid open. The sergeant went on up the train; the private entered.
“Passports, please.”
She handed him hers, then Chomsky’s. The soldier motioned her aside. He wanted to see who was in the bed.
Ellen picked up her syringe. Instead of impeding him, she touched the soldier’s arm, indicating that she needed more blood from her patient, soliciting his help.
For a moment it looked as though it would work. She had seen so many strong men keel over in a faint at first-aid classes, and the contents of the syringe, mixed in the art room at Hallendorf, were a good imitation of the real thing. But though the soldier made a gesture of distaste, he did not retreat.
“Turn him round,” he ordered.
Ellen touched Isaac’s shoulder and he groaned.
“Hurry,” barked the Pole.
But before she could obey there was the sound of a dreadful and ear-splitting scream from the next compartment. A second scream followed, and the soldier elbowed Ellen aside and went out into the corridor. Seconds later the door was pushed open and a woman hurled herself into the soldier’s arms. Her blonde hair was matted with sweat, her scarlet lipstick was a smear across her trembling mouth-and she was totally and spectacularly naked.
“Help me! Help me!” she yelled. “Protect me! He tried to rape me, the brute!”
Her thin arms closed round the soldier’s neck like a vice: the scent of her cheap perfume, her stale deodorant, pervaded the corridor.
The Pole was twenty-one years old and prepared for anything but this.
More doors opened; distressed passengers appeared; an old man and his wife… the sleeping car attendant. Then the door of the compartment from which the woman had erupted opened once more-to reveal Marek in a loosely knotted bathrobe, his hair on end. The sight of him caused the woman to become even more frenzied. “You must take me with you!” she screamed at the soldier. “You must look after me!” She began to cry, rubbing her face into his, pressing her body against the rough uniform. “I’m afraid!”
Trying to free himself-he dropped the passports.
“She’s lying,” said Marek. “She said she’d do it for a hundred marks. She’s a lying bitch.”
More passengers appeared, and the guard… then the sergeant who was in charge of the young Pole. Speaking furiously to the soldier, he tried to loosen the woman’s hold, but she only clung tighter, babbling and weeping.
The sergeant spat, then pulled her free with a vicious gesture. “Out,” he gestured to his underling. “Out!” — and picked up the two passports and handed them to Ellen.
Five minutes later, the train was on its way.
Marek had chosen the town of Kalun for an overnight stop before the journey on foot to the River Rats.
Situated on a tributary of the Vistula some two hundred kilometres north of Warsaw, it was an austere and somewhat gloomy place which had survived the wars, sieges and other horrors of the past centuries with its buildings more or less intact.
In the guide books, Kalun advertised itself proudly as a spa, but it was some way from rivalling Baden-Baden with its clientele from the Almanac de Gotha and its Kurpark full of magnificent trees. No royal visitors had come to Kalun incognito and raced pretty girls through the woods in wheelbarrows; the Empress Sissi had not taken the small grape cure there as she had done in Merano-and Goethe, who had spent thirteen summers in Karlsbad, had almost certainly never heard of Kalun, let alone set foot in it.
But the Poles, ever a hopeful race, had dug out a series of springs in the rocks above the little town and sent their sulphurous and evil-smelling water through into the bath houses of the spa hotels. Doctors had been persuaded to come and offer treatments for an impressive list of ailments; wheelchairs plied to and from the pump rooms, and a whole posse of attendants pummelled and immersed and weighed the sick and elderly for a quarter of the fee required in the spas of France and Germany.
Marek had booked three rooms in the Kalun Spa Hotel, an austere building with endless corridors and cavernous rooms permeated with the smell of hydrogen sulphide. The arrival of Isaac with his nurse in this sepulchral building passed without incident: the passport numbers were registered; the ambulance returned to the garage. Tomorrow a telegram would come necessitating Isaac’s return for family reasons, but now he was requested to select the ailment for which he wished to be treated.
Consulting the impressive list on a kind of menu pinned to his door, Isaac unhesitatingly chose otorhinolaryngological disease, something which no one could prove he did not have, and was borne off in a sedan chair by two gleeful male nurses for a course of hydrotherapy and massive immersion in radioactive mud. The disease had been losing ground among clients and his choice had given great pleasure.
Marek had tried to persuade Millie to stay till the morning and travel back part of the way with Ellen; the girls seemed to get on well together. But Millie had an engagement in a Berlin cabaret; she was returning in a few hours on the sleeper. Ellen had suggested she come and rest in her room but though Millie came she was not exactly resting. She was in fact sprawling on Ellen’s bed, chain-smoking de Reskes and reminiscing about the days in Berlin when she had known Marcus von Altenburg and his friend.