Corinne got up and prepared breakfast for him. There was white bread he had brought her from the shop that did the baking for the officers' mess. The coffee, of course, was ersatz, thin and black. He felt his mouth draw sourly as he drank it in the still-dark kitchen. Corinne looked sleepy and messy, with her heavy hair in disorder, but she moved around the kitchen deftly enough.
"Cheri," she said, sipping her coffee noisily, "you will not forget me in Germany?"
"No," said Christian.
"You will be back in three weeks?"
"Yes."
"Definitely?"
"Definitely."
"You will bring me something from Berlin?" She coquetted heavily.
"Yes," said Christian, "I'll bring you something."
She smiled widely at him. The truth was, she was always asking for something, new dresses, black-market meat, stockings, perfume, a little cash because the sofa needed recovering… When the corporal-husband comes back from Germany, Christian thought unpleasantly, he'll find his wife well fitted out. There'll be a question or two he'll want to ask when he looks through the cupboards.
"Cheri" Corinne said, munching strongly and evenly on her bread, which she had soaked in the coffee, "I have arranged for my brother-in-law to meet you when you return."
"What's that?" Christian looked at her, puzzled.
"I told you about him," Corinne said. "My husband's brother. The one with the produce business. Milk and eggs and cheese. You know. He has a very nice offer from a broker in town here. He can make a fortune if the war lasts long enough."
"Good," said Christian. "I'm delighted to hear your family is doing well."
"Cheri…" Corinne looked at him reproachfully. "Cheri, don't be mean. It isn't as simple as that."
"What does he want from me?" Christian asked.
"The problem is, getting it into the city." Corinne spoke defensively. "You know the patrols on the roads, at the entrances. Checking up to see whether it is requisitioned material or not. You know."
"Yes?"
"My brother-in-law asked if I knew a German officer…"
"I am not an officer."
"Sergeant, my brother-in-law said, was good enough. Somebody who could get some kind of pass from the authorities. Somebody who three times a week could meet his truck outside the city and drive in with it at night…" Corinne stood up and came around the table and played with his hair. Christian wriggled a little, certain she had neglected to wipe the butter off her fingers. "He is willing to share fifty-fifty in the profits," Corinne said, in a wheedling tone, "and later on, if you find it possible to secure some petrol, and he can use two more trucks, you could make yourself a rich man. Everybody is doing it, you know, your own Lieutenant…"
"I know about my own Lieutenant," Christian said. God, he thought, her husband's brother, and the husband rotting in prison, and the brother anxious to go into business with the wife's German lover. The amenities of French family life.
"In matters of money, Cheri," Corinne held him closely around the neck, "it is necessary to be practical."
"Tell your miserable brother-in-law," Christian said loudly, "that I am a soldier, not a black-market merchant."
Corinne took her arms away. "Cheri," she said coldly, "there is no need to be insulting. All the others are soldiers too and they are making fortunes."
"I am not all the others," Christian shouted.
"I think," Corinne said, beginning to cry, "that you are tired of me."
"Oh, God," Christian said. He put on his tunic and picked up his cap. He wrenched the door open and went out.
Outside, in the dawn, smelling the cool, thin air, he felt less angry. After all, it had been a pleasant convenience, and a man could do much worse. Ah, he thought, it will wait till I get back from Germany.
He strode down the street, sleepy, but each moment more happily excited with the thought that at seven o'clock he would be in the train and leaving for home.
Berlin was glorious in the autumn sunlight. Christian had never liked the city much, but today, as he walked out of the station, carrying his bag, there seemed to be an air of solidity and purpose, a dash and smartness to the uniforms and even the clothing of the civilians, a general sense of energy and wellbeing that was in refreshing contrast to the drabness and boredom of the French towns in which he had spent the last twelve months.
He got out the paper that had Mrs Hardenburg's address on it. As he took it out of his pocket he remembered that he had neglected to report the Pioneer private who had needed a shave. Well, he would have to remember that when he got back.
He debated with himself whether he should find a hotel first or deliver the package to Hardenburg's wife. He decided in favour of delivering the package. He would get that over, and then, for two weeks, his time would be completely his own, with no hangovers or duties from the world he had left behind him at Rennes. As he walked through the sunny streets, he idly mapped out a programme for himself for the next two weeks. Concerts and the theatre. There were agencies where soldiers could get tickets for nothing, and he would have to be careful of his money. It was too bad it was too early for skiing. That would have been the best thing. But he hadn't dared delay his leave. In the Army, he had learned, he who waits is lost, and a leave delayed is more often than not a leave vanished.
The Hardenburg apartment was in a new, impressive-looking building. A uniformed attendant stood at the door and there were heavy carpets in the foyer. As he waited for the lift, Christian wondered how the Lieutenant's wife managed to live so well.
He rang the bell on the fourth floor and waited. The door opened and a blonde woman with loose dishevelled hair, which made her look as though she had just risen from bed, was standing there. "Yes?" she asked, her voice brusque and annoyed.
"What do you want?"
"I'm Sergeant Diestl," Christian said, thinking: Not a bad life, just getting up at eleven in the morning. "I'm in Lieutenant Hardenburg's company."
"Yes?" The woman's voice was wary, and she did not open the door fully. She was dressed in a quilted silk dressing-gown of deep crimson and she kept pushing her hair back out of her eyes with a graceful, impatient gesture. Christian couldn't help thinking: Not bad for the Lieutenant, not bad at all.
"I've just arrived in Berlin on leave," Christian said, speaking slowly so that he could get a good look at her. She was a tall woman, with a long, slender waist, and a full bosom that the dressing-gown did not quite hide. "The Lieutenant has a gift for you. He asked me if I would deliver it."
The woman looked thoughtfully at Christian for a moment. She had large, cold, grey eyes, well set in her head, but too deliberate, Christian thought, too full of calculation and judgment. Then she decided to smile.
"Ah," she said, and her voice was very warm. "I know who you are. The serious one on the steps of the Opera."
"What?" Christian asked, puzzled.
"The photograph," the woman said. "The day Paris fell."
"Oh, yes." Christian remembered. He smiled at her.
"Come in, come in…" She took his arm and pulled at it.
"Bring your bag. It's so nice of you to come. Come in, come in…"
The living-room was large. A huge plate-glass window looked out over the surrounding roofs. The room was in a profound state of clutter at the moment, bottles, glasses, cigar and cigarette butts on the floor, a broken wine-glass on a table, items of women's clothing strewn around on the chairs. Mrs Hardenburg looked at it and shook her head.
"God," she said, "isn't it awful? You just can't keep a maid these days." She moved a bottle from one table to another and emptied an ash-tray into the fireplace. Then she surveyed the room once more in despair. "I can't," she said, "I just can't." She sank into a deep chair, her long legs bare as they stuck out in front of her, her feet encased in high-heeled red fur mules.