The Bear's Tears

Langdorf was wary of his own safety. Perhaps because of his child. 'It is too late today,' he kept repeating. 'Already it is too late. It would be almost dawn before we reached the border. I cannot take you now.' He had added, after the second or third refusal: 'You can stay here until it is dark again. Then, I will get you across.' Marthe had stood at the table's edge, watching Hyde intently. When Langdorf had made his offer, her head had moved slightly, indicating agreement. Now, she stood in the same spot, waiting for him to lift his spoon, taste the stew. He did so.

It scalded his throat and made his eyes water. Langdorf's face, seen through Hyde's tears, wore an amused expression. Marthe seemed to take the matter much more seriously, and he felt compelled to nod approval, and to say: 'Thank you — yes, great. Lovely.' His stomach resented the heat of the food, but its hunger was evident, and he ate — accelerating with each mouthful, blowing on the meat and vegetables in the spoon.

Eventually, his stomach seemed satisfied. Immediately, he said, 'You have to take me — now. Whatever the risks, I must get across before first light.' He tapped the little brick of high-denomination notes, knowing it was probably more than Langdorf had ever been offered before for such a crossing. 'You have to.' Half of Godwin's money lay on the table, the other half in Hyde's overcoat pocket; with the pistol, which might become necessary.

Except that it would probably be fatal to threaten his lifeline. His guide. Stupid— a last resort. He groaned inwardly at the prospect that it might come to such a desperate solution. Take the money, you stupid bugger—!

'What's the matter?' Hyde sneered deliberately. 'Isn't the money your motivation? Zimmermann told me it was.'

Marthe lifted the empty bowl from between Hyde's planted elbows. Her narrow, pale face was filled with reproach, and Hyde realised that she spoke good English. Either that, or she was alive to every nuance of negotiations such as the present one. Practice. She'd seen it all so many times before.

'She speaks English,' Langdorf explained, lighting his pipe, streaming blue smoke towards the flat's low ceiling. 'I pay for the lessons. It is part of her education.' Marthe smiled at her father; in gratitude, it appeared to Hyde's unpractised eye. He felt moved by the exchange of looks; a conspiracy of affection where he might not have looked for it. 'Yes,' the plumber continued, still dressed in his shabby woolen dressing-gown and slippers. Thick, striped pajama-bottoms protruded from below the hem of the long dressing-gown. 'Yes — money is my only motivation, as you say.' Blue smoke rose in puffs; signaling contentment, even superiority. Langdorfs features and his relaxed posture at the table suggested that he could not be surprised, taken aback. He knew himself; he could not be insulted or goaded.

Hyde heard the child washing up in the tiny kitchen. She was singing softly to herself. Unlike her father, she had dressed — even brushed and plaited her hair — before appearing before their visitor. Probably, she was standing on something in order to reach into the sink. He heard cups and a plate rattle in the hot water, and looked at his half-finished glass of black Czech beer. Just one, he had announced to himself. Even so, it had further tired him. The child had glanced at the glass, perhaps hoping he would finish quickly so that it might be washed up with the other things. The clink of a spoon on a metal drying-board—

Hyde was tired. Drunk-tired, bone-tired. Utterly weary. Five-thirty. Four hours, and he was on the wrong side of an enemy border. Perhaps the old man had already taken off for Moscow—?

Langdorf's face was still, complacent. Hyde knew that his weariness was about to become acceptance. In a few minutes, a bed for the rest of the night and most of the day would become irresistible…

Schliemann, he thought, rousing himself, his fuddled mind trying to embrace the trigger-word, just as his training had intended. Schliemann. That was what they called it on those occasions when they trained you to the point of exhaustion and beyond. Some classical scholar's choice of a trigger-word. Schliemann, the discoverer of the ruins of Troy. When you were bone-weary, ready to give up, wanting nothing but sleep, ached for rest… Sleep is the last escape, they said. The last thing you want is to sleep. Be like Schliemann. Dig down into yourself, down through level after level until you find your reserves.

How many levels were there of the ruins of Troy, city piled on city for thousands of years? Seventeen, eighteen, thirty — infinite…

Use the Schliemann principle. Never give up. He didn't. There's something down there you can find and use. Schliemann. Trigger something, anything in yourself — don't go to sleep!

He groaned aloud, and looked up from the nest he had made of his folded arms. Langdorf was watching him through a billow of blue smoke. The clink of something picked up, banged against another utensil in the process of being wiped. Marthe practicing to be the perfect housekeeper—

He had dozed. Almost fallen asleep. Schliemann. Dig. Dig. Wake up, use anything — other people, anger, insults — anything. Bend events to your pattern.

'What are you grooming her for?' Hyde asked, nodding towards the kitchen. 'Miss World?'

He leaned on his arms, studying Langdorf. The plumber had taken the pipe from his mouth. His full lips were now twisted with anger. His eyes had narrowed. His pale brow shone below the receding, greying hair.

'What do you say?' he asked, his eyes flickering nervously towards the kitchen door. The room, like the rest of the flat that Hyde had seen, conformed to the grey, weather-stained concrete block which contained it. Tiled fireplace with an inadequate gas fire, thin carpet, poor furniture. Yet, Langdorf was probably the wealthiest man in the tower block. All for the child—

'I said — what's the money for?'

Use anything, they said. Schliemann. Dig for victory.

Hyde felt tense, strained, but alert. The adrenalin, unexpectedly, began to flow. A high. What it would cost him, he did not pause to consider. He needed Langdorf's assistance. He had to cross the border.

Schliemann.

'For her,' Langdorf admitted after a silence. The smoke of his pipe was now a screen, masking his expressions.

'What do you want for her?' Hyde pursued.

The child had entered the room. As if aware she was being discussed, she hovered in the doorway. She wore a small pinafore, and rubbed her hands in the material. Langdorf was aware of her. Hyde sensed an advantage. He leaned forward and whispered: 'What do you want for her? What's the money for, Langdorf?'

Langdorf hissed, 'She goes to the West. Eventually. I have distant relatives there, in the Federal Republic. When she has enough money, she goes. Money, education, cleverness — she goes.'

'Is that your weakness, Langdorf? How much does it take? How much do you have? What do you want?' Hyde grinned at the plumber's confusion. His features were mobile, disturbed. Dig for victory. Hyde said, 'I want something, you want even more than that. How much? How much?

Langdorf's eyes expressed hatred. Hyde's cynicism had caught him unawares. Neither of them cared much for anything, anything at all. Langdorf had assumed that when he had opened the door to a tired man who was evidently a professional. But, this man cared for nothing—

Hyde saw the almost-fear and said, 'Come on, German plumber with dreams above his station. Give me a clue. Tell me how much you want.' He glanced at Marthe, whose head still turned as she looked from face to face. 'I won't tell you what I've been through, Langdorf. You wouldn't be interested. You're only interested in money. Everyone believes that about you. So, how much money? Not for freedom, or for the future, or for anything except yourself.'

Langdorf had no chance. Hyde said, 'What will she need in the West, Langdorf? How much will she need? A lot. How will she turn out, Langdorf? You don't want Marthe—' The girl's eyes gleamed at the sound of her name. Her face was twisted in concentration as she tried to follow his rapid English. ' — to end up working in a poky office, typing. Do you? How will she turn out? Will she need her teeth fixing? What about her tits, when they arrive? Will she need them fixed, too? Clothes? Clothes cost a packet in the West, Langdorf, even if you shop at Marks and Sparks!' Hyde stood up, leaning on the table, knuckles white, his face glaring down towards the plumber. The unregarded pipe had almost gone out. 'She's going to need so much if she's going to have a head-start, Langdorf. Don't you realise that?' He leaned closer. He felt the sweat prickle on his forehead — dig!

He had him. He had Langdorf. One more rung on the ladder to Babbington.