— Busy morning?
Twyning sighs, shaking his head. He taps Ashley’s copies into a neat stack and puts them in a blue solicitor’s envelope.
— Not even a moment for a cup of tea. Not with clients like you.
He shakes Ashley’s hand, offering the envelope.
— Send a postcard from Bombay. It’s Bombay you’re sailing to, isn’t it? And cable if you change your mind about all this. We can set things back in order quickly.
— I shan’t change my mind.
— And look after yourself, Twyning says, ignoring Ashley’s remark. I don’t like this business of eleventh-hour changes. It’s not the right spirit. When do you return?
— August.
— Call here as soon as you can. We’ll see how you feel about this then. And best of luck. I saw your picture in The Times. They say you may be the one to finally crack Everest.
Ashley shrugs. — There are eight climbers on the expedition. We’ll be lucky if two of us reach the top, and I’ve no Himalayan experience at all. Three of the fellows are damned fit and have been there before—
— So it won’t be you?
Ashley only smiles. The two men shake hands again. Ashley leaves the office and hails another motorcab from the sidewalk.
— Jermyn Street, please. To Fagg Brothers, the bootmakers. I don’t know the number.
Ashley takes a seat in the enclosed compartment behind the driver. He flips his watch open, wondering if they will be able to refit the boots and get them to Darjeeling before he arrives. Then he realizes that he has forgotten to bring the boots.
— Driver, he says through the window. Rather, we’ll have to stop by Lansdowne Terrace first. Number nine.
— Sir.
Ashley stretches in his seat, yawning contentedly. He takes the telegram from his pocket and unfolds it. It is only the third time he has looked at it today.
25 FE 24
AE WALSINGHAM MOUNT EVEREST EXPEDITION OBTERRAS LONDON
DEAREST ASHLEY TAKE NO RISKS YOU ARE PRECIOUS BEYOND RECORD I PROTECT YOU WITHOUT END IMOGEN
POSTE RESTANTE
Four days later I’m back at the Joachimstaler Straβe post office asking for a clerk who speaks English. I lean on the counter watching the patrons wait in line with parcels in their arms. The same manager lopes to the counter and nods at me gruffly. He waits for me to speak first.
— I got an e-mail from the post office. But it was all in German.
— What did you expect? You are in Germany.
The manager leads me back to his office and tells me to sit. He walks down the hallway and returns with an archival box of blue cardboard. He sets the box atop the stacks of paper cluttering his desk.
— Look inside.
I remove the lid from the box and look at the five envelopes inside.
— They were in the philatelic archive, he says. I suppose even eighty years ago someone knew we don’t often get poste restante from expeditions.
The manager leans back in his chair and watches me. Then he adds, — They are the property of the archive now. Even if the addressee came to collect them she would probably be refused.
— I don’t want to collect them. I just want to read them.
The manager stands up and shakes his head.
— I don’t have the authority. It’s a matter of privacy. You can make a request with the archive—
The manager narrows his eyes at me.
— How long are you staying in Berlin?
— I don’t know. A few days.
The manager nods, taking a steel ruler from a cup on his desk and tapping it against his hand.
— Someone has opened the envelopes, maybe a worker in the archive. But I doubt if anyone has read these letters. Probably no one will read them. They will go back to the same shelf where they have been sitting for fifty years. Then they will sit there for fifty more years—
He looks up at me.
— You say you are related to the addressee? Your family name is not the same.
— I’m related to the addressee and the sender.
— Do you have any proof?
I rummage through my bag, taking Ashley’s inscribed card from my notebook and handing it to the manager. He puts on a pair of reading glasses and examines the card. His eyeglasses are bent and one of the hinges has been mended with electrical tape. The manager opens the archival box and removes a letter from its envelope to compare the handwriting. Then he takes a glass loupe from his desk drawer and examines the card. He murmurs something in German, putting the loupe back on his desk.
— It’s not typical, he says.
The manager looks at me and asks me where I’m from. We talk about California and the manager says he has visited San Francisco several times for philatelic conferences. He asks questions about my family and my university studies, watching me closely as I talk.
The manager grasps his steel ruler and swivels in his chair. He slaps the end of the ruler into his palm.
— How did you know these letters were in the archive? They’re not in the public catalog.
— I didn’t know.
— Then why did you come here?
— I knew the letters had been sent here and I doubted they’d been collected. So I figured I might as well ask. But I never thought anybody would have saved them.
The manager shakes his head, tossing the ruler on his desk.
— I would not think so either. Your grandfather sent them?
— My great-grandfather. Ashley Edmund Walsingham.
— Who is the woman the letters are addressed to?
— Imogen Soames-Andersson.
I hesitate. Then I add, — My great-grandmother.
— She was traveling in Berlin? Or living here?
— I don’t know.
— Why did she not collect the letters?
— I don’t know. Maybe I’d know if I read them.
The manager watches me across his desk. There is a long silence. He opens a drawer in a filing cabinet and hands me a pair of thin cotton gloves. He nods at the archival box.
— Wear the gloves, he says. There is a copying machine in the next room. Do not use the feeder, do not bend the pages. Put them in the envelopes when you are done. The correct envelopes.
The photocopied letters in my shoulder bag , I ride the U-Bahn back to my hostel at Rosenthaler Platz. My dorm room hovers several stories above the intersection of three busy streets. A group of Canadian backpackers greets me as I enter.
— Are you going out?
— Out?
— It’s Friday night. You aren’t going out?
The Canadians change clothes and set out for the evening. I undress and climb into the narrow shower stall. I open the tap and let the water grow hotter and hotter, filling the bathroom with dense steam until I can barely see. Wrapped in a towel, I lie damp and dripping on my bunk for a long time. The room is warm, much warmer than the house in Picardie. Mireille must be back in Paris by now. She could be on her way to the same bar where we met two weeks ago.
I get out of my bunk and get dressed. On the opposite corner of Rosenthaler Platz there is a two-story café that is open late into the night. I order a coffee at the counter and climb the stairs, sitting down at a small wooden table. I spread out the five photocopied letters in chronological order, then set my notebook and pen beside the copies. The pages have Ashley’s familiar script in thick pencil, the letterhead printed MOUNT EVEREST EXPEDITION.
I pour sugar into my coffee from a glass dispenser, whisking a spoon in the dark foam. The spoon rings faintly on the china.