A Ladder to the Sky

1. West Berlin

From the moment I accepted the invitation, I was nervous about returning to Germany. It had been so many years since I’d last been there, after all, that it was difficult to know what memories might be stirred up by my return.

It was the spring of 1988, the year the word ‘perestroika’ entered the language, and I was seated in the bar of the Savoy Hotel on Fasanenstraße, contemplating my sixty-sixth birthday, which was only a few weeks away. On the table before me, a bottle of Riesling had been decanted into a coupe glass that, a note in the menu revealed, had been modelled on the left breast of Marie-Antoinette. It was very good, one of the costlier wines on the hotel’s expansive list, but I felt no guilt in ordering it for my publisher had assured me that they were content to cover all my expenses. This level of generosity was something new to me. My writing career, which had begun more than thirty-five years earlier and produced six short novels and an ill-advised collection of poetry, had never been successful. None of my books had attracted many readers, despite generally positive reviews, nor had they garnered much international attention. However, to my great surprise, I had won an important literary award the previous autumn for my sixth novel, Dread. In the wake of The Prize, the book sold rather well and was translated into numerous languages. The disinterest that had generally greeted my work was soon replaced by admiration and critical study, while the literary pages argued over who could claim credit for my renaissance. Suddenly I found myself invited to literary festivals and being asked to undertake book tours in foreign countries. Berlin was the location for one such event, a monthly reading series at the Literaturhaus, and although I had been born there, it did not feel like home.

I grew up close to the Tiergarten, where I played in the shadow of statues of Prussian aristocrats. As a small child, I was a regular visitor to the zoo and fantasized about being a keeper there some day. At the age of sixteen, I stood with some friends from the Hitlerjugend, each of us wearing our swastika armbands, and we cheered as Begas’s Memorial to Bismarck arrived in the heart of the park from outside the Reichstag as part of Hitler’s plans for a Welthaupstadt Germania. A year later, I stood alone on Unter den Linden as thousands of Wehrmacht soldiers paraded before us following the successful annexation of Poland. Ten months after that I found myself in the third row of a rally at the Lustgarten, surrounded by soldiers my own age, saluting and swearing our fealty to the Führer, who roared at us from a platform erected in front of the Dom of a Thousand-year Reich.

Finally leaving the Fatherland in 1946, I was accepted as an undergraduate student at the University of Cambridge, where I read English Literature, before spending several uneasy years as a teacher at a local grammar school, my accent the source of much derision by boys whose families had been traumatized and depleted by four decades of armed conflicts and unstable reconciliations between our two countries. Upon completion of my doctorate, however, I won a place on the faculty of King’s College, where I was treated as something of a curiosity, a fellow who had been dragged from the ranks of a murderous Teutonic generation and adopted by a noble British institution that, in victory, was prepared to be magnanimous. Within a decade I was rewarded with a professorship and the security and respectability attached to that title made me feel safe for the first time since childhood, assured of a home and a position for the remainder of my days.

When being introduced to new people, however, the parents of my students, say, or some visiting benefactor, it was often remarked that I was ‘also a novelist’, the addendum both discomfiting and embarrassing to me. Of course, I hoped that I had some modicum of talent and longed for a wider readership but my standard reply to the inevitable question Would I know any of your books? was Probably not. Typically, new acquaintances might ask me to name some of my novels and I would do so in anticipation of humiliation, observing the blank expressions on their faces as I listed them in chronological order.

That night, the night of which I speak, I had endured a difficult evening at the Literaturhaus, where I had taken part in a public interview with a journalist from Die Zeit. Uncomfortable with speaking German, a language I had all but abandoned upon my arrival in England more than forty years earlier, an actor had been hired to read a chapter of my novel aloud to the audience and, when I told him the particular section that I’d chosen, he shook his head and demanded to be allowed to read from the penultimate chapter instead. Of course, I argued with him, for the piece he suggested contained revelations that were intended to come as a surprise to the reader. No, I insisted, growing irritated by the arrogance of this disenfranchised Hamlet, who, after all, had been hired simply to stand up, read aloud and then depart by the back door. No, I told him, raising my voice. Not that one. This one.

The actor took great offence. It seemed that he had a process when reading to an audience and it was as rigorous as his preparations might be for an evening on the stage of the Schaubühne. I thought he was being precious and said so and there were raised voices, which upset me. Finally, he acquiesced, but without grace, and I retained enough German to know that his reading was half-hearted, lacking the theatricality required to engage an audience. As I walked the short distance back to the hotel afterwards, I felt disillusioned with the whole business and longed for home.

I had noticed the boy earlier, a young man of about twenty-two carrying drinks to the tables, for he was very beautiful and it seemed that he had been glancing in my direction as I drank my wine. A startling idea formed in my mind that he was drawn to me physically, even though I knew that such a notion was absurd. I was old, after all, and had never been particularly attractive, not even at his age, when most people have the magnetism of youth to compensate for any physical inadequacies. Since the success of Dread and my subsequent elevation to the ranks of literary celebrity, newspaper portraits had invariably described my face as ‘lived in’ or as ‘one that has seen its share of troubles’, although thankfully they did not know just how deep those troubles ran. I felt no sting from such remarks, however, for I had no personal vanity and had long ago given up on the idea of romance. The yearnings that had threatened to annihilate me throughout my youth had diminished over the years, my virginity never conquered, and the relief that accompanied lust’s exile was akin to how one might feel having been unshackled from a wild horse let loose on prairie ground. This proved a great benefit to me, for, confronted by an endless stream of handsome youths year after year in the lecture halls of King’s College, some of whom flirted shamelessly with me in the hope of receiving better grades, I found myself indifferent to their charms, eschewing vulgar fantasies or embarrassing attachments for a sort of distant avuncularism. I played no favourites, adopted no protégés, and gave no one cause to suspect impure motives within my pedagogical activities. And so it came as something of a surprise to find myself staring at the young waiter and feeling such intense desire for him.

Pouring another glass of wine, I reached for the bag that I’d left next to my chair, a leather satchel that contained my diary and two books, an English-language edition of Dread and an advance copy of a novel by an old friend that was due to be published a few months later. I picked up where I had left off, perhaps a third of the way through the book, but found myself unable to concentrate. This was not a problem that I normally faced and I looked up from the pages to ask myself why. The bar was not particularly noisy. There was really no reason that I could think of to explain my lack of focus. And then, as the young waiter passed me, the sweet and intoxicating scent of boyish perspiration infusing the air, I realized that he was the cause of my distraction. He had stolen into my consciousness, nefarious fellow, and was refusing to surrender his place. I set the novel to one side and watched as he cleared a nearby table before wiping it down with a damp towel, replacing the coasters and relighting the votive candle.

He wore the standard Savoy uniform of dark trousers, white shirt and an elegant maroon waistcoat emblazoned with the hotel’s insignia. He was of average height and regular build, and his skin was smooth, as if it rarely knew the pull of a razor. He had full red lips, strong eyebrows and a mop of unruly dark hair that looked as if it would fight with all the resolve of three hundred Spartans at the Pass of Thermopylae against any comb that attempted to tame it. He recalled to me Caravaggio’s portrait of the young Minniti, a painting I had always admired. Above all else, however, there was that unmistakable spark of youth about him, a powerful blend of vitality and impulsive sexuality, and I wondered how he spent his time when he was not on duty at the Savoy. I believed him to be good and decent and kind. And all this despite the fact that we had not, as yet, exchanged a single word.

I tried to return to my book but it was lost to me now and so I reached for my diary to remind myself of what the following months held in store. There was a publicity trip to Copenhagen and another to Rome. A festival in Madrid and a series of interviews in Paris. An invitation to New York and a request for me to take part in a series of curated readings in Amsterdam. Between each visit, of course, I would return to Cambridge, where I had been granted a year’s leave of absence to pursue my unexpected promotional opportunities.

A bored voice interrupted my fantasies, an insolent noise enquiring whether there was anything else that I needed, and I looked up irritably as the young man’s older colleague, overweight and with dark bags beneath his eyes, stood before me. I glanced at the Riesling, which was almost empty – had I really drunk an entire bottle of wine alone? – and shook my head, certain that it was time for bed.

‘But tell me,’ I said, hoping that my eagerness would not be a cause for humiliation. ‘The boy who was serving earlier. Is he still here? I wanted to thank him.’

‘His shift ended ten minutes ago,’ he replied. ‘I expect he’s gone home by now.’

I tried not to let my disappointment show. It had been so long since I’d felt such a powerful and unexpected attraction to anyone that I didn’t know how to act when thwarted. I was uncertain what I wanted from him but then what does one want from the Mona Lisa or the statue of David other than to sit silently in their presence and appreciate their enigmatic beauty? I was due to return home the following afternoon so could not even plan a surreptitious visit to the bar the following night. It was over; I would not see him again.

Something like a sigh escaped me and I might have laughed at my own foolishness but there was no laughter inside me now, just longing and regret. The solitude I’d endured throughout my life had stopped being painful many years before but now, without warning, it had reared its head again and old, forgotten heartaches sought my attention. My thoughts turned to Oskar Gött and the single year of our acquaintance. If I closed my eyes I could see his face before me still, his complicit smile, his deep blue eyes, and the arch of his back as he lay asleep in the guesthouse in Potsdam on the weekend of our bicycling holiday. If I concentrated I could recall the anxiety I’d felt that he should wake and discover my indecency.

And then, to my surprise, I was interrupted once again. I looked up and there was the young waiter, now changed into a pair of dark jeans, a casual shirt with two buttons undone at the neck and a leather jacket with a fur trim around the collar. He carried a woollen hat in his hands.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said, and I knew immediately that he was not German as I’d assumed but English, his voice betraying echoes of Yorkshire or the Lake District. ‘It’s Mr Erich Ackermann, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right,’ I said, surprised that he should know my name.

‘May I shake your hand?’

He reached out. The skin on his palm looked soft and I noticed how neatly trimmed were his nails. A fastidious creature, I thought. He wore a plain silver band on the middle finger of his right hand.

‘Certainly,’ I said, a little bewildered by this turn of events. ‘We don’t know each other, though, do we?’

‘No, but I’m a great admirer,’ he said. ‘I’ve read all your books. I read them before Dread came out too so I’m not just jumping on the bandwagon.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, trying to conceal my delight. ‘Very few people have.’

‘Very few people are interested in art,’ he replied.

‘That’s true,’ I agreed. ‘But the lack of an audience should never be a deterrent to the artist.’

‘I’ve even read your book of poems,’ he added, and I grimaced.

‘They were ill advised,’ I said.

‘I disagree,’ he said, quoting a line from one that made me hold my hands in the air, pleading with him to stop. He beamed then, and laughed, displaying wonderfully white teeth. As he did so, a slight crinkle appeared beneath his eyes. He was so very beautiful.

‘And your name?’ I asked, pleased to have an opportunity to stare at him.

‘Maurice,’ he replied. ‘Maurice Swift.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Maurice,’ I replied. ‘It’s nice to know that there are still some young people who are interested in literature.’

‘I wanted to study it at university,’ he said. ‘But my parents couldn’t afford to send me. That’s why I came to Berlin. To get away from them and earn my own money.’

He spoke with a certain bitterness in his tone but stopped himself before he could say anything more. I was surprised by how dramatic he had become, and how quickly.

‘I wonder whether you might let me buy you a drink,’ he continued. ‘I’d love to ask you some questions about your work.’

‘I’d be delighted,’ I said, thrilled by the opportunity to spend some time with him. ‘Please, Maurice, take a seat. But I’ll have to insist that they’re charged to my room. I couldn’t possibly allow you to pay.’

He looked around and shook his head. ‘I’m not allowed to drink here,’ he said. ‘Employees aren’t permitted to socialize on the premises. If they catch me, I’ll get fired. I shouldn’t even be talking to you, in fact.’

‘Ah,’ I said, putting my glass down and checking my watch. It was only ten o’clock; there was plenty of time until the bars closed. ‘Well, perhaps we could go somewhere else, then? I’d hate to get you into trouble.’

‘I would love that,’ he said. ‘I slipped into your interview earlier for about twenty minutes when I was on my break. I was hoping to hear you talk but an actor was reading from Dread and not doing a very good job of it, I thought.’

‘He was annoyed that I’d chosen a section for him to read that he didn’t like.’

‘But it’s your novel,’ said Maurice, frowning. ‘What business was it of his?’

‘That’s what I thought,’ I replied. ‘But he had different ideas.’

‘Well, by the time I had to come back here he was still reading so I didn’t get to hear you answer any questions and there were so many that I would have liked to ask. You did have something of a scowl on your face all the way through, Mr Ackermann.’

I laughed. ‘Let’s just say it was not an entirely pleasant evening,’ I said. ‘Although it has brightened up considerably now. And please, call me Erich.’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘But I insist.’

‘Erich, then,’ he said quietly, testing out the word on his tongue and looking, I thought, a little nervous. Perhaps it was my ego or my awoken desires or a combination of the two that made me happy to feel the stream of veneration making its delicate journey from his lips to my ears. ‘You’re sure that you want to go out?’ he asked me. ‘I don’t want to intrude upon your time. You’re not too tired?’

‘I’m not tired at all,’ I said, even though I was quite exhausted from an early flight and the disappointing event. ‘Please, lead the way. I daresay you know the city better than I do.’

Standing up, I cursed myself for the slight groan that emerged from my mouth as my limbs adjusted to being erect once again and, without planning to do so, reached across and held on to him by the upper arm for a moment. The muscle was hard and tightened beneath my grip.

‘Where shall we go?’ I asked, and he named a bar on the other side of the Tiergarten, close to the Brandenburg Gate. I felt a momentary hesitation, as this would bring us close to the ruined Reichstag, a place I did not particularly care to revisit, but nodded. I could not risk him changing his mind.

‘It’s not far,’ he said, perhaps sensing my reluctance. ‘Ten minutes if we take a taxi. And it’s usually pretty quiet at this time of night. We can talk without having to shout over the noise.’

‘Splendid,’ I said. ‘Lead on.’

And as we made our way through the hotel doors he uttered the phrase that I usually dreaded but which now, inexplicably, sent waves of excitement through my body.

‘I’m a writer too,’ he said, sounding a little embarrassed at the revelation, as if he’d admitted to a desire to fly to the moon. ‘Or I’m trying to be, anyway.’

2. Copenhagen

My visit to Denmark was scheduled for three days in early April; press interviews followed by a public reading at the Royal Library the following evening. I was offered an extra night’s accommodation by my Danish publisher so that I could see something of the city and I accepted, booking a second room at my own expense for Maurice, who had agreed to accompany me in the slightly nebulous role of personal assistant. Anxious that our rooms be located adjacent to each other, I sent a carefully worded request to the hotel two weeks in advance. This, I told myself, was so that my young friend would be nearby should I need him. It was one of many lies I told myself during the year of our acquaintance.

At the end of our shared evening in Berlin six weeks earlier, I had given Maurice my address, inviting him to stay in touch, and upon my return to College I waited hopefully for a letter, but none came. I began to wonder whether he’d misplaced the piece of paper on which I’d written it or perhaps he had sent me something and it had got lost in the post. I considered initiating a correspondence myself, writing to him care of the Savoy, but every letter I wrote seemed more tragic than the last and so I gave the whole thing up as a bad job. Finally, after almost a month of silence, I assumed I wouldn’t hear from him but with poetic timing a large envelope arrived that same day with the name ‘Maurice Swift’ and a Berlin return address inscribed across the back.

In his letter, he apologized for taking so long to get in touch, claiming to have been uncertain whether he should take advantage of my proposal to read his work or whether it was simply a polite offer on my part after too many glasses of wine. Nevertheless, he enclosed a short story, titled ‘The Mirror’, and asked whether I might take a look, begging me not to spare his feelings.

Of course, I had no intention of going back on my word but to my disappointment his story proved to be nothing special. The central character, an obvious fictional representation of himself, was presented as shy and self-deprecating, amusingly inept in his relations with girls, and prone to finding himself in disastrous sexual encounters. And yet there was a touch of vanity to the exercise, for it was clear that he was considered utterly charming by everyone who crossed his path. But for all the mundaneness of the plot, the writing was impressive. He’d clearly worked hard on his sentences and I seized on this as evidence of a dormant talent. If only the story itself were not so boring, I decided, then it might even have been publishable.

Anxious not to appear too eager, however, and recalling how long it had taken him to write to me, I waited three interminable days before replying, sending a carefully considered critical analysis of the piece, during which I tended towards praise while noting the occasional moment that I felt could benefit from a little more attention. In a postscript, I mentioned the Copenhagen trip and suggested that, as I was getting older and these journeys could be tiring, he might be interested in accompanying me. It would give you a sense of a writer’s life, I told him, hoping that this would prove incentive enough. Naturally I will pay all your expenses and offer a stipend in exchange for whatever small duties I might require of you while we’re away.

This time, he responded almost immediately with an excited ‘yes’ and plans were duly drawn up. In the week leading up to our departure, however, I became increasingly fretful of meeting him again, worried that an enjoyable evening in Berlin would turn into something awkward when we tried to replicate it over a longer period in Denmark. But no, Maurice proved amenable and friendly from the moment of our reunion and, if he noticed how intensely I stared at him, then he was kind enough not to remark upon the fact. The slightest thing caught my eye: a shirt with its top buttons undone offering a glimpse of bare skin beneath the fabric and the grooved cavity at the centre of his chest where the muscles separated, a gully I longed to explore; the manner in which his trousers would ride up slightly when he crossed his legs and the intoxicating ankle that appeared at such moments, for Maurice never wore socks, an affectation I found ridiculous and erotic in equal measure; the manner in which his tongue darted from his mouth to lick his lips whenever food arrived and how his appetite was never satisfied, like a farmhand at the end of a long day’s harvesting. I took note of all these observations and more. I wrote them down, I memorized them, I allowed the negatives to rest in my brain for later development, and as he talked I simply watched him, feeling rejuvenated by the presence of this boy in my life while all the time trying not to think about how painful it would be when he inevitably departed it again.

On our last day, I suggested a trip to Frederiksborg Castle on the vague pretence that I was considering a historical novel based around the fire of 1859 and the role of the Carlsberg brewer in the building’s reconstruction. He agreed and, fulfilling the role of assistant beautifully, booked two first-class train tickets and made some notes on the history and architecture of the palace, which he shared with me on the journey. After a few pleasant hours spent examining its treasures and walking the gardens, we found a small restaurant nearby where we sat at a corner table and ordered pints of local beer with plates of meatballs.

‘This is what I’ve always dreamed about,’ Maurice announced, looking around enthusiastically, his blue eyes lively and alert. ‘Being a professional writer and travelling to other countries to promote my work or undertake research for the next novel. Wouldn’t you like to give up teaching and write full time? You probably could now, I suppose, after the success of Dread.’

‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Cambridge has given me a home and a routine for more than forty years and I value that enormously. I could never stop writing, it’s an intrinsic part of who I am, but I don’t look forward to the day when I’m forced to retire from teaching.’

He took a notebook from his bag, a pale blue Leuchtturm 1917 with numbered pages and a ribbon band, and began to make some notes; he’d been doing this since our first conversations in Copenhagen and it flattered me enormously.

‘What?’ I asked, smiling at him. ‘Did I say something particularly wise?’

‘A home and a routine,’ he said, not looking up but scribbling away furiously. ‘And I’m writing something down about balance. You seem to have struck a good equilibrium between your work life and your artistic life. Perhaps I need that too. Waiting tables doesn’t provide much intellectual stimulation.’

‘But I daresay it pays the rent,’ I replied. ‘Anyway, you can’t write all the time. There’s more to life than words and stories.’

‘Not for me there isn’t,’ he said.

‘That’s because you’re young and this is the life that you dream of. But once you have it, you might find that there are other things of equal importance. Companionship, for example. Love.’

‘Did you always want to write?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘As a boy, I had a peculiar obsession with stationery. There was a wonderful shop near where I grew up and I used to save my pennies to buy beautiful paper, and ink for my fountain pens. My grandfather was a historian and, from my fifth birthday onwards, he presented me with a different fountain pen every year, and they were treasures to me. I still have all but one.’

‘Did you lose the other?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I gave it as a gift to a friend of mine many years ago. I keep the rest now in my rooms in College. They remind me of my childhood, before the war, which I think was the happiest time in my life.’

‘And where was this?’ he asked. ‘Where did you grow up?’

‘Where we met. In Berlin.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Maurice, frowning a little. ‘But aren’t you Jewish?’

‘It depends on your definition of the word,’ I told him.

‘But you fought in the war?’

‘Not quite,’ I said. ‘I was a clerk at a Wehrmacht headquarters in the city. I’ve been quite open about that.’

‘Yes, but still I don’t understand.’

I glanced out the window at the tourists making their way across Møntportvejen Bridge towards the castle. ‘Both my parents were German,’ I explained, turning back to him. ‘My mother’s father, however, was Jewish. So, by blood, you could say that I am a quarter Jewish but of course the Jews don’t deal in fractions. There was a word used back then. Mischling. I first learned of it when the Nuremberg Laws were introduced in 1935. They stated that those with only one Jewish grandparent were a second-degree Mischling – or of mixed-birth – and approved for citizenship of the Reich. For the most part, second-degree Mischlings were safe from any form of persecution.’

‘And a first-degree Mischling?’ he asked.

‘Two Jewish grandparents. Much more dangerous.’

‘You must have known some of these.’

I felt a sharp pain across my chest. ‘One,’ I said. ‘One that I knew of, anyway. A girl.’

‘A friend of yours?’

I shook my head. ‘Not really, no. An acquaintance.’

‘But if you don’t mind my asking, if you were a quarter Jewish, did you not feel any sense of shame at working with the Nazis?’

‘Of course I did,’ I said. ‘But what else could I have done? Refused? I would have been shot. Or sent to the camps. And, like you, I wanted to be a writer, and in order to be a writer I needed to stay alive. My brother, Georg, worked for them too. Tell me, Maurice, in my situation, what would you have done?’

‘You have a brother?’

I shook my head. ‘He died very young,’ I told him. ‘We lost touch after the war, when I left Germany. A few years later I had a rather abrupt letter from his wife to say that he’d been killed in a tram accident and that was the end of that. Look, the truth is, who can have lived through those times and not feel some degree of shame over his actions?’

‘And yet you’ve never written about it,’ he said. ‘Or spoken of it in interviews.’

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘But please, let’s talk about something else. I prefer not to dwell on the past. Tell me about you instead. About your family.’

‘There’s not much to tell,’ he said with a sigh, and I could tell that he would have preferred to keep the focus on me. ‘My father is a pig farmer and my mother keeps house. I have five sisters and an older brother. I’m the youngest of the lot and the black sheep.’

‘Why so?’ I asked.

‘Because everyone else stayed at home and found a local to marry. And they’ve all done exactly what was expected of them. They’re farmers, coalminers, teachers. None of them has ever travelled, they haven’t even left Yorkshire. But I always wanted more. I wanted to see the world and to meet interesting people. My father said I had ideas above my station but I don’t believe in such things. I want to be—’

He stopped and looked down at his drink, shaking his head.

‘Finish that thought,’ I said, leaning forward. Had I been braver, I might have taken his hand. ‘You want to be what?’

‘I want to be a success,’ he replied, and perhaps I should have heard the deep intent in his tone and been frightened by it. ‘It’s all that matters to me. I’ll do whatever it takes to succeed.’

‘But of course,’ I told him, sitting back again. ‘A young man will always want to conquer the world. It’s the Alexandrian impulse.’

‘Some people think ambition is wrong,’ he said. ‘My father says dreaming of better things only sets you up for disappointment. But your work has made you happy, hasn’t it?’

‘It has,’ I agreed. ‘Immensely so.’

‘And did you never…’ He paused for a moment, an expression on his face that suggested he was uncertain how personal he could get. ‘Did you never marry?’

I took a sip from my glass and decided there was no reason to be disingenuous. If we were to have a friendship, then it was important that I should be honest with him from the start.

‘Of course, you realize that I’m homosexual,’ I said, looking him in the eye, and to his credit he didn’t look away.

‘I thought as much,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t certain. It’s not a theme that you explore in any of your books. And you’ve never addressed it publicly.’

‘I don’t care to talk about my private life to the press or in a room full of strangers,’ I said. ‘And as you know, I don’t write about love. It’s a subject that I’ve avoided scrupulously throughout my career.’

‘No, you’ve always written about loneliness.’

‘Exactly. But you mustn’t think that my writing is in any way autobiographical. Just because one is homosexual does not mean that one is lonely.’ He said nothing and I sensed an awkwardness in the air that discomfited me. ‘I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable to hear me speak of this.’

‘Not in the least,’ he said. ‘It’s 1988, after all. I don’t care about things like that. My best friend in Harrogate, Henry Rowe, was gay. I wrote one of my earliest stories about him, in fact. These labels mean nothing to me.’

‘I see,’ I said, uncertain what he meant by this. Was he suggesting that he did not discriminate between his friends on the basis of their sexuality or that he himself was prepared to have intimate relations with people of either gender? ‘And was your friend in love with you, do you think? It’s possible, of course. You are very beautiful.’

He blushed a little but ignored the question. ‘Did you ever try?’ he asked me. ‘With a girl, I mean? Actually, I shouldn’t have asked, should I? It’s none of my business.’

‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘And no, I never did. It wasn’t something that would have worked at all. Perhaps you feel the same way about boys?’

He shrugged, and I knew that I was pushing too hard; I should pull back if I was not to frighten him away. ‘It’s not something I’ve ever given much thought to, if I’m honest,’ he said. ‘I want to live a life that’s open to anything. The only thing I know for sure in that regard is that I want to be a father someday.’

‘Really?’ I asked, surprised by this revelation. ‘That’s a curious desire in one so young.’

‘It’s something I’ve always wanted,’ he told me. ‘I think I’d be a good father. And speaking of my stories,’ he added then, sounding a little embarrassed to be bringing the subject up, but it was inevitable that we’d have to discuss them at some point. I’d read two or three more since our arrival in Copenhagen and, to my disappointment, had felt the same way towards them as I had towards ‘The Mirror’. Well written, certainly, but dull. ‘They’re amateur, I know, but—’

‘No,’ I said, interrupting him. ‘“Amateur” would be the wrong word. But they are clearly the work of someone who has yet to discover his voice. If you were to read some of the stories that I wrote at your age, you’d wonder why I ever bothered trying for a literary career.’ I paused, demanding honesty of myself. Already there was a degree of deceit in our relationship but on this subject, on the subject of writing, I felt honour bound to be truthful. ‘The fact is, you have skill, Maurice.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I can tell that you think about every word before committing it to the page and I’m impressed by your use of language. But it’s the stories themselves, you see. The subject matter. Therein lies the problem.’

‘You mean they’re boring?’

‘That would be too harsh,’ I replied. ‘But at times, they feel like stories I’ve read before. As if I can picture the books on your shelves. The ghosts of the writers you admire seem to slip into the cracks between the scenes. It takes a great deal of talent to write as well as you do but, ultimately, if your story is not engaging, if the reader doesn’t feel that it’s entirely yours, then it simply won’t work.’

He looked down at the table and nodded. I could see that he was crestfallen but what I had said was the truth and he needed to hear it; I owed him that much at least.

‘You’re right, of course,’ he said finally. ‘I’m not very good at thinking up plots, that’s the problem. I feel like all the stories in the universe have already been told.’

‘But that’s just not true,’ I insisted. ‘There’s an infinite supply for anyone with an imagination.’

‘Sometimes I think I would be better as a musician. The type who writes the words but lets someone else come up with the melody. Perhaps I’m simply tone deaf.’

‘You’re too young to write off your weaknesses as failures,’ I said. ‘The more you read, the more you write, the more the ideas will appear. They’ll fall like confetti around your head and your only difficulty will be deciding which ones to catch and which to let fall to the floor.’

‘And you,’ he asked, looking up again. ‘How do you do it? Your stories are always so original.’

‘I’m not sure,’ I admitted. ‘The truth is that I just make them up as I go along.’

‘Really?’ he asked, laughing. ‘Can it be that simple?’

‘It can be,’ I said. ‘Look, here we are in Copenhagen. There are stories everywhere. Think of that castle. Think of the people visiting it. Think of us, two relative strangers sitting here talking to each other. Your writing is exceptional and will only get stronger over time. So it’s your stories that you need to focus on. When you find one, when you hear one, make it your own and then the world will come to you. That’s the best advice I can give you. Even in that hotel of yours in Berlin. All those people coming to and fro. Who are they? Where have they been? Where are they going? What secrets are they hiding?’

‘Most of them are just rich people on holiday,’ he said.

‘No,’ I insisted. ‘Everyone has secrets. There’s something in all our pasts that we wouldn’t want to be revealed. Look around the foyer the next time you’re there and ask yourself, What would each of these people prefer that I didn’t know about them? And that’s where you’ll find your story. A hotel can be a fascinating place. Hundreds of people gathered together in one building, yet each one desperate to maintain their privacy.’

‘There are worse jobs for an aspiring writer, that’s true,’ he said. ‘But I get so tired, and I’m not writing as much as I should. I’m desperate to move away from short stories and begin a novel. I just need to find the subject.’

‘Love,’ I said. ‘Love is always the subject.’

‘Not for you,’ he replied.

‘But what is loneliness,’ I pointed out, ‘other than the lack of love? I wonder…’ I added after a brief pause, uncertain whether it was too early to raise a subject that I’d been considering ever since our first night together in Copenhagen. There were moments when I thought it a wonderful idea and others when I thought I could only humiliate myself by asking. ‘I’ve mentioned that I have quite a number of trips to make over the coming months,’ I said.

‘Yes.’

‘And the thing is, Maurice, I find all this travelling quite exhausting and hate the idea of dining with strangers every night. Also, hotels and trains can be difficult for me to negotiate at times. And then there’s the issue of laundry and keeping track of refundable expenses, and so on. It occurred to me that over the time ahead I could very well benefit from having a companion of some description. An assistant, if you will. Someone to do the work that you’ve been doing for me over these last few days.’

‘I see,’ he replied, and I could see that he was excited by the turn the conversation was taking.

‘Is that something you might consider?’ I asked.

‘I’d like nothing more!’

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘between each trip you could return to Berlin, but if we were to say a six-month period of employment, then I could give you a stipend that would offer you some financial security for the entire time. You could leave the Savoy or, if you preferred, stay there and find better accommodation. That would be for you to decide.’

I named a figure; it was beyond generous and more than I could reasonably afford, but I was desperate for him to say yes. And when we shook hands on the deal I felt as happy as I had felt in years. It was as if I’d won The Prize for a second time.

‘Thank you,’ he said, utterly delighted. ‘You’re very kind.’

‘It’s my pleasure,’ I told him, which was as truthful a remark as I had made since disembarking the plane.

3. Rome

In Rome, of course, we spoke about God when Maurice remarked that he had been brought up Anglican and maintained a sentimental attachment to his faith.

‘And you?’ he asked. ‘Are you religious at all?’

‘Well, you must remember, I lived in Europe during the thirties and forties,’ I told him. ‘So I have little choice but to be an atheist.’

‘And before then?’

‘That’s too long ago for me to recall. But if you have a spiritual bent, then I suppose Rome is the place to be.’ I took a deep breath and debated whether to introduce a new character into our dialogue, a person whose importance in my life could not have been overestimated. ‘I had a friend once,’ I told him. ‘Oskar Gött. His great ambition in life was to come here. He read a book about the catacombs and wanted to visit them.’

‘And did he make it?’

‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘He died shortly before the war began.’

‘How did he die?’

‘He was shot.’

Maurice nodded, and I stopped at a bench, sitting down and closing my eyes as I tilted my head back, allowing the late-morning sunshine to warm my skin. I felt him sit down next to me and the slight connection between his leg and my own. A passer-by might have taken us for father and son, a misunderstanding which had in fact taken place a few nights earlier when we’d checked into our rooms at the hotel, adjacent once again at my insistence, and it had upset me more than I’d expected, although Maurice had simply laughed.

‘You remind me of him,’ I said finally. ‘Of Oskar, I mean. You have similar features. Round, cheerful faces, bright blue eyes and that untameable dark hair that falls over your forehead.’

‘Tell me about him,’ he said. ‘Was he a good friend of yours?’

I hesitated. This was a part of my life that I’d locked away for many decades, never confiding the story in a single person. And yet sitting there that day on a bench in Caffarella Park, this twenty-two-year-old boy made me long to reveal my secrets in the most self-destructive way imaginable. I wanted to confide in him, to tell him my story.

Oskar and I, I told him, had met in early 1939, shortly after my seventeenth birthday, in the Nachmittag Café near the Volkspark am Weinbergsweg in Berlin. Like Maurice, Oskar, who was a few months younger than me, was a waiter, working for his parents in this small restaurant they had run for many years in the north of the city. It was not my usual custom to wander into such places alone but on the day in question it had begun to rain while I was on my way home and I took shelter inside, choosing a seat by the window and ordering a cup of coffee with a slice of Stollen. I noticed a book sitting on the window ledge, an adventure story that I had read and enjoyed several times. This volume, however, was considerably thicker than the one I had at home, more than three times its length in fact, and so I picked it up and turned to the title page, only to discover that it was a deceit, for the book’s jacket had been removed and another, a less controversial one, pasted in its place.

Before I could consider why someone might have done such a bizarre thing, a boy came running out from the kitchen area with an exaggerated sense of urgency and I looked up when he stopped before my table, one hand pushing the hair back from his forehead as he stared at me in dismay. I was aware of the anxious expression on his face but, more than this, I experienced a stirring at the pit of my stomach unlike any I had felt before. Of course, I had known for some years that I was homosexual and, at seventeen, was no stranger to physical attraction. For a time, I had tried to force myself to be attracted to girls but it was no good and I had little interest in pursuing so fruitless a goal. My homosexuality, I knew, was something that I could never change but also something that I could never indulge. Himmler, after all, had given a speech only a year earlier in which he had denounced the personal for the public and I had listened to his words on our wireless, uncertain why such a curse had been placed upon my head. He declared that the homosexual had to be got rid of – ‘Just as we pull out weeds, throw them on a heap and burn them’ – and there were rumours that known homosexuals were being sent to concentration camps or shot. Naturally, such ideas terrified me. And so my plan had been to feign a disinterest in all sexual matters, to become a eunuch around my friends, betraying no hint of desire and never indulging in or even pretending to understand crude jokes. Should it prove necessary, I imagined that I might one day take a wife and perform as husbands do but promised myself that this would only be a last resort for self-preservation.

‘My book,’ said the boy, reaching a hand out towards me. ‘I was searching for it.’

‘You changed the jacket,’ I replied. ‘Might I ask why?’

He bit his lip nervously and glanced around the room. Despite the inclement weather, the tables near mine were quite empty.

‘Give it to me, please,’ he said, lowering his voice. I nodded and handed it across. ‘You won’t tell anyone what you saw, will you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s none of my business and, anyway, I’ve read that book myself. At home, in my bedroom. With the curtains closed. Aren’t you frightened of reading it in public?’

‘Of course, that’s why I made it look like something else. When I realized I’d left it out here, I thought I was going to faint. If the wrong person had found it, I might have been in trouble.’

The book was Buddenbrooks, by Thomas Mann, and I was aware, as was Oskar, that its author had fled Germany for Switzerland some six years earlier and that his books had subsequently been banned when he had been declared an enemy of the Reich. From his home in Zürich he had written at length about his contempt for the Führer and the Nazi Party and although the majority of his articles had been suppressed, some had appeared in underground papers and his views had been disseminated among a largely apathetic populace.

‘Join me if you like,’ I said, indicating the seat opposite me. ‘I’d be interested to know what you thought of it.’

‘I can’t,’ he said, glancing back towards the counter, where an older man I took to be his father was watching us warily. ‘My shift doesn’t finish for a couple of hours yet. I haven’t seen you in here before, have I?’

‘I came in to escape the rain.’

He nodded and seemed lost for what to say next, finally raising the novel in the air in appreciation and smiling at me. ‘Thank you for this,’ he said, turning around, and a moment later he disappeared back into the kitchen.

It had been a short conversation but afterwards I found myself unable to get him out of my mind and so, three days after this, I returned to the café, this time arriving almost two hours later in the hope that he might be finishing work. When he emerged from the kitchen, he noticed me sitting there and offered a wave, apparently happy to see me again.

‘Have you finished your book yet?’ I asked, when he came over to say hello.

‘Last night,’ he said. ‘And now I’m reading Dickens. A Tale of Two Cities. No one can object to Dickens, surely.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ I replied, attempting a casual tone. ‘These days, anyone can object to anything. Will you join me now?’ I added, but once again, to my great disappointment, he shook his head.

‘My father doesn’t like me to sit here with friends,’ he said. ‘He resents the idea of waiting on us. But what if we were to go somewhere else? Do you know the Böttcher Tavern? It’s not far from here. A few streets over.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘What’s your name, anyway?’

‘Oskar Gött,’ he said. ‘And yours?’

‘Erich Ackermann.’

‘I’ll meet you at the Böttcher at five o’clock. Do you drink beer, Erich?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Then I will buy you a beer. It will be my way of thanking you for keeping my secret.’

I left the Nachmittag, taking a stroll around the neighbourhood as I watched the hands of my watch move sluggishly towards the hour. When it was finally time to return, I walked in great excitement towards the bar, which stood opposite the Schutzstaffel headquarters, where a tall, thin, red-haired guard, distinctly different from the typical Aryan type, stood with a rifle slung over his shoulder. I could feel his eyes on me as I ran across the road and pushed open the doors, looking around and smiling when I saw Oskar sitting at a table in the corner, drawing in a notebook.

At this time, in the early months of 1939, there was a general assumption that war was coming. No matter what the British said or did, it seemed clear that the Führer wanted armed conflict, knowing that only a full-scale international engagement could establish Germany as the world’s leading power. For young men of my age, this was a frightening thought. We had seen the effect the last war had had on our fathers – those of us who still had fathers, that is – and did not relish the idea of our lives following a similar pattern. And so perhaps it is not so strange that the first thought I had upon laying eyes on Oskar in the Böttcher was that war must be avoided at all costs lest someone as beautiful as him fall to the indiscriminate brutality of the battlefield.

‘Oskar,’ I said, sitting down, and as I did so he closed his notebook and placed the charcoal pencil on top of it.

‘My friend!’ he replied, smiling at me, and I swallowed nervously. I had never before known someone whose sheer physicality could hypnotize me to this extent. We ordered two beers and clinked our glasses together. He told me that he hated working in the café because his father was a brute but his plan was to save enough money so that he could travel and see the world. ‘I’d like to be an artist,’ he said. ‘And Paris is the place for that. Have you ever been?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve never left Berlin.’

‘I’d like to see London too,’ he added. ‘And Rome. I read a book about the catacombs once and they’ve fascinated me ever since.’

Neither of us mentioned the possibility of war. There were two types of youth in Germany then: those who could barely wait for it to begin and those who pretended that it was not coming at all, as if by ignoring the fact we could smother the bellicose infant in the crib.

‘You were drawing when I came in,’ I said, nodding towards his sketchbook. ‘Will you let me see your work?’

He shook his head and smiled, his cheeks flushing a little. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Anyway, that wasn’t drawing, it was just doodling. You know this word, yes? Something to pass the time. I have some canvases at home and that’s where my real work is. I paint with oils, mostly. At the moment, however, I can’t seem to find the proper inspiration. I paint landscapes, bowls of fruit and portraits of great buildings simply because I can and I’m able to sell them at the street markets. But what I really want is to paint something that no one else has ever painted before. Either that or paint something familiar in an unfamiliar way and allow the viewer to consider it from an unexpected angle. Does that make sense, Erich? I hear myself speak and worry that I might sound ridiculous to you.’

‘Not at all,’ I said, drawn to the idea of Oskar as a great painter. ‘I would like to be an artist too someday.’

‘You paint?’ he asked.

‘No, I can barely draw a straight line,’ I replied with a laugh. ‘But I write a little. Stories, that’s all. Perhaps one day a novel. Like you, I have not yet found my subject but I hope it will appear one day.’

‘Would you let me read one of your stories?’

‘Only if you show me one of your paintings.’

We talked of other things then. Of our schools and our classmates, of the subjects that interested us and the ones that didn’t. And – because all conversations then turned to this subject eventually – we spoke of the Führer and our weekly meetings of the Hitlerjugend. We were members of different corps and shared an enjoyment of field exercises while agreeing that doctrinal classes bored us to the point of paralysis. We had both attended the Nuremberg Youth Rallies since graduating from the Deutsches Jungvolk and found the atmosphere oppressive with the extraordinary numbers gathered there and the terrifying noise of unenlightened patriotism.

‘I saw him once,’ Oskar told me, leaning forward a little and lowering his voice. ‘A year ago, perhaps a little less. I was coming out of the Hauptbahnhof when a convoy of cars appeared along Lüneburgerstraße and everyone stopped and stared. His car, a black Grosser Mercedes, drove past me, and he turned his head just as I looked in his direction and our eyes met. I clicked my heels together and saluted him and despised myself for it afterwards.’

I sat back in disbelief when he said these words. Had I heard him correctly? Had he told me that he despised himself for saluting the Führer?

‘I think perhaps I have shocked you,’ he said, and there was anxiety in his tone now. Fear. This was not an opinion that people voiced out loud, even if they felt it, and especially not to a new acquaintance whose trustworthiness had yet to be established.

‘A little,’ I said. ‘You don’t believe in him, then?’

‘He frightens me,’ said Oskar, and I understood this because he frightened me too. But then of course my younger brother and I were Jewish, or a quarter Jewish anyway, and the purges against the Jews had already begun. By now it had been more than three years since Jews had been stripped of their citizenship entirely and I knew of at least two couples whose engagements had been cancelled after the law had come into place banning Jews from marrying non-Jewish Germans. Only four months earlier, the city had descended into chaos after a boy my own age, a Jew, had shot a Nazi diplomat in the German embassy in Paris. Days later the SS had run riot through the city, destroying Jewish shops and synagogues, desecrating graveyards and arresting tens of thousands for deportation to the camps. Running home that night, desperate to escape the violence, I witnessed an elderly man being beaten to death by an officer some forty years his junior, another emerging from a jewellery store with blood pouring down his face after the glass in his shop window had been shattered and, near my home, I saw a girl being raped by an SS Sturmbannführer in a sidestreet while his colleague pinned her father to the wall and forced him to watch. I had not been a victim of any of this for I did not share any of the typical physical characteristics of the Jew, nor were we an observant family so we did not live with other Jews or attend synagogue. But the fact remained: I, and my brother, were Mischlings.

‘They say that he will restore Germany’s power,’ I remarked carefully.

‘And he may succeed,’ said Oskar. ‘He has charisma, it’s true, and his oratorical skills incite the crowds. The people are behind him for now. He has infected them with his hatred. He demands absolute loyalty, and when anyone dares to criticize him, they lose their position. I think he will lead a great army, but what will be the result?’

‘A thousand-year Reich,’ I said. ‘At least that is what he says.’

‘And is that what you want?’

‘All I want is to live in peace,’ I told him. ‘I want to read books and perhaps one day write some of my own. The future of the Fatherland is not something that concerns me.’

He smiled and reached a hand across the table, placing his atop mine in what was certainly intended as a fraternal gesture but sent sparks of electricity through me nevertheless. No boy had ever touched me like that before. ‘I want the same,’ he said. ‘Only with my paintings.’

‘Do you think I might find inspiration in Paris too?’ I asked.

‘For your novel? Of course! Great writers have lived there. Hugo, Hemingway, Fitzgerald. Many classics of literature have been written in the city. It encourages creativity, or so I’ve heard.’

An image came into my mind of the two of us sharing a flat on the top floor of some decrepit old building near Notre-Dame, he painting in his studio, me writing in my study, the two of us coming together as one in our shared bedroom at night. The idea was almost too glorious to imagine. Before I could embarrass myself by suggesting it, however, he stood up and excused himself to use the bathroom and while he was gone I looked across at his sketchbook, telling myself to leave it alone, not to intrude on his privacy, but I could not resist and pulled it towards me, opening it at the first page. It was brand new, containing only one drawing so far, and as I stared at it my heart sank in my chest as waves of disappointment poured over me. The sketch was of a young girl with long black hair, very beautiful, turned to a left profile but with her back to the artist as she sat on an ottoman. Her right hand was touching her cheek and she was naked. A hint of her breast was given towards the left of the picture and there was something in her eye that suggested desire. I wondered whether she was a creature from his imagination or a girl who had posed shamelessly for him and, if the latter, did that mean that she was his lover? Closing the sketchbook, I returned it to his side of the table, placing the charcoal pencil on top of it, and when he returned a moment later he told me I had a sad expression on my face and the only way to conquer that was for the two of us to stay there and drink until our money ran out, a suggestion I agreed to immediately.

‘Did he know that you had looked at his drawing?’ asked Maurice, and I turned to him, shivering a little as I dragged myself back from a lost Berlin to a living Rome.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I think it would have disappointed him if he’d caught me and perhaps our incipient friendship would have ended at that moment. Anyway, we got very merry and by the end of the evening I was certain that I was in love with him, but every time my eyes fell to that sketchbook I felt the impossibility of a romance and then I would drink some more to numb the pain.’

I glanced at my watch, it was time for us to move on, and we stood up, talking of other things as we made our way back to the hotel. I sat alone in the bar later, lost in my thoughts, and when Maurice rejoined me he had taken a shower and smelled of soap, his hair a little damp on his head, and this was exhilarating to me. We spoke some more of Maurice’s own writing and he told me how much my stipend had meant to him for he had moved to a small flat closer to the Savoy where he found it easier to write.

Later, as we walked along the corridors towards our bedrooms, he paused outside my door and I reached for his hand, to wish him goodnight, but to my surprise he leaned forward and offered me a hug. Like an inexperienced performer on a stage, I was uncertain what to do with my arms, whether I should leave them hanging by my side or wrap them around him too. I breathed in the musk of his scent, and my lips, so close to his neck, longed to find a place to call their own. But before I could embarrass myself any further, he pulled away.

‘Your advice is so helpful to me, Erich,’ he said. ‘I’m lucky to be able to learn from you. I hope you know how grateful I am.’

And with that he was gone and I let myself into my room, knowing that I would lie awake for hours yet.

4. Madrid

I didn’t see Maurice again for more than a month after this. He returned to Berlin and I to Cambridge. I longed for the trip to Madrid and, when it came, I waited for him in the foyer of the Hotel Atlántico, pretending to read while keeping a close eye on the door for his arrival. I did my best not to look in the direction of the receptionist, with whom I had engaged in an earlier altercation upon discovering that Maurice’s room would not be adjacent to mine but located on the floor below. I had pleaded with her to make the necessary changes but she had proved intractable and I may have disgraced myself with a childish tantrum. When he finally appeared, however, my spirits lifted and we embraced like old friends, before repairing to a local tapas bar, where he ate like a healthy young horse and I simply sat and watched him.

The following day, a lunch was held in my honour in a private room at the Museo del Prado and, although we arrived early to immerse ourselves in the Titians, I lost track of him at some point and was forced to make my way alone to the reception, where I found myself standing next to the American writer Dash Hardy, with whom I shared a Spanish publisher. As he was spending a semester in the city, teaching at the university, he had been invited to attend the gathering but, anxious about Maurice’s disappearance, I found it difficult to concentrate on his conversation. I remember, however, that he congratulated me on my recent success while informing me that, while he had not read my book – because he did not read non-American writers – he had been assured by our mutual editor that it was a work of some merit.

‘Please don’t be offended,’ he drawled, reaching his chubby fingers into his mouth, removing a morsel from one of the canapés that had lodged itself between his teeth and examining it for a moment with the intensity of a forensic scientist before flicking it to the carpet. ‘I don’t read women either and I make sure to say so in every interview as it always ensures that I receive the maximum amount of publicity. The politically correct brigade loses their collective mind and before I know it I’m on the front of all the literary pages.’

‘You’re a controversialist, then,’ I said.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’m a fiction writer with an expensive apartment overlooking Central Park West. And I need to sell books in order to pay the co-op fees.’

We talked for ten minutes or more but I struggled to find common ground with him. I recalled a memoir of his that I had read some years earlier where he listed in graphic detail the many homosexual encounters of his youth and young adulthood, meetings that seemed almost sordid in his perfect recall. He was the type of writer I thought of as a professional queer, one whose nature defined both his public persona and his work, and that was something that had always made me uncomfortable.

‘And I see you have a handsome young friend travelling with you,’ Dash said finally, smiling lasciviously and winking at me. ‘I noticed him earlier staring by the El Grecos and I simply had to go over to introduce myself. He was too beautiful to ignore. He recognized me immediately, which of course made my day, and told me that he was your assistant. Lucky old you.’

Before I could reply, I caught sight of Maurice entering the room at last, locked deep in conversation with a lady novelist, a previous winner of The Prize, and as they stood there, she squeezing his hand tightly as they conversed with passionate intent, I felt a surge of jealousy. I longed to grab him by the arm and make a quick exit from the Prado but of course such a thing would have insulted my hosts.

‘There he is,’ said Dash, turning around now and following the direction of my eyes. ‘Where did you pick him up, anyway? He’s pretty as a peach but also very street, don’t you think?’

‘I didn’t pick him up anywhere,’ I replied, trying to control my irritation at his vulgarity. ‘He’s simply a young writer who helps me out from time to time, that’s all.’

He seemed to enjoy my discomfort. ‘You remind me of my Aunt Gloria,’ he said. ‘She’s long dead now, of course. The poor dear couldn’t bear any talk of sex. She had a stroke halfway through reading my first novel and ended up in hospital for the rest of her life. I don’t know if it was the book that brought it on but I’ve always rather hoped that it was. But tell me, Erich, is he submissive, this young assistant of yours, or dominant?’

I looked at him again, longing for the lunch to begin in order that it might sooner come to an end, and claimed not to understand what he meant.

‘Oh, don’t be disingenuous,’ he said. ‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. What’s his name?’

‘Maurice,’ I said, and he threw back his head and laughed.

‘Of course it is! You couldn’t make it up! What a shame your name isn’t Clive. And does he charge you by the day or is he one of those agreeable boys who’s happy to give you everything he has as long as you open enough doors for him? You’ve certainly brought him to the right place, that’s for sure,’ he added, looking around at a room that had by now filled with writers, editors and literary taste-makers. ‘I imagine he’ll be very grateful tonight.’

‘You couldn’t be more wrong,’ I told him. ‘For heaven’s sake, he’s just a boy. We’re friends, that’s all.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said. ‘You’re at least forty years older than him. You can’t possibly be friends. If he’s not giving you what you want, then you should throw him back where you found him and find someone who will. Creative-writing courses are full of accommodating boys who have no scruples when it comes to such things. Believe me, I should know.’

A moment later, lunch was called and to my further annoyance I found myself seated at some distance from Maurice, sandwiched instead between the marketing director from my publishing house and the editor of a literary magazine. He, on the other hand, was placed next to a handsome young Spanish writer who had published three novels in three years, the most recent of which had been a major international success. They spent almost the entire meal locked in conversation, laughing fitfully from time to time, but he never turned in my direction once. And when he took his ever-present notebook from his bag and started to scribble something down that his companion had said, it was all I could do not to pick up the salt cellar and fling it in his direction.

Later that evening, as was our custom, we spent an hour in the hotel bar, where I tried not to allow my dark mood to overshadow our time together, although perhaps it was obvious that I was annoyed for he asked whether anything was wrong.

‘Why should it be?’ I said. ‘It’s been a perfectly pleasant day.’

‘You just seem a little out of sorts, that’s all.’

‘It’s tiredness, nothing more. You enjoyed yourself, though? You seemed to be having a wonderful time at lunch.’

‘I loved it,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘All those writers! I felt like I was one myself.’

‘You are one,’ I insisted, despite the fact that he had given me nothing new to read in some time.

‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘Not until I finish my novel. Actually, not until I publish my novel.’

‘Well, you have to start one to finish one,’ I said.

‘Oh, but I have!’ he told me. ‘Didn’t I mention it? An idea came at last. A plot. And I just sat down and began writing.’

‘I see,’ I replied. ‘And are you going to tell me what it’s about?’

‘Not just yet,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The thing is, I’m superstitious about things like that. Do you mind if I just keep going and don’t say too much about it for now?’

‘I don’t mind at all,’ I said, even though I minded a great deal. ‘Do whatever makes you happy. And your companion at lunch, the Spanish novelist. Did he offer you any advice?’

‘We weren’t really talking about books,’ he said.

‘Then what were you talking about?’

‘His wife, mostly. And his mistresses. He has a number of them.’

‘I’m surprised you could bear to listen to all of that.’

‘He gave me his card and told me to look him up if I’m ever back here.’

‘You certainly know how to collect us, don’t you?’ I asked. ‘Writers, I mean. Don’t you ever long for someone a little less accomplished? A friend your own age, perhaps? Although I suppose it would be unwise to let yourself be distracted from your work.’

‘I’m happiest on my own,’ he told me. ‘And if I wanted companionship—’ He broke off and pointed over my shoulder towards the foyer. ‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Look who’s just walked in.’

I turned around and saw Dash Hardy standing in the lobby, looking around in search of someone who might recognize him and pay him the requisite adoration. He must have been staying in the same hotel as us and my heart sank, sure that he would notice us too and spoil our evening by insisting on joining our table, then flirting shamelessly with Maurice while making the offensive double entendres that seemed specifically designed to discomfit me. Indeed, I was certain that he did see us for he smiled in our direction, raising a hand in a half-wave, but then, to my surprise and relief, he turned away and walked towards the elevators.

‘Thank God for that,’ I said. ‘I can’t bear that man.’

‘You said my attention should be solely devoted to my work,’ said Maurice, ignoring this remark. ‘But you allowed yourself to get distracted at the start of your career, didn’t you? By Oskar, I mean. So perhaps a little distraction is a good thing.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

‘When we were in Rome you told me how you two met. You weren’t focussed on your writing then but on your desires, right? How did they develop after that, anyway?’

They developed as these things do, I told him. Two teenage boys with much in common, living in dread of war, feigning a loyalty to a Fatherland towards which we felt no particular attachment. Something struck between Oskar and me that evening in the Böttcher Tavern, perhaps because we got so drunk, perhaps because we both had artistic ambitions, but whatever the reason, we very quickly became fast friends. Outside those times when he was in his father’s café, at home painting or we were attending meetings of the Hitlerjugend we were mostly together, sharing ideas with each other, discussing novels and painters, planning what we hoped would be our extraordinary futures. His own work developed considerably during this period and he trusted me now with studies of the girl I had seen in his sketchbook on that first evening. In his drawings, she was always looking away from him and always nude, but there was nothing prurient about the manner in which he drew or talked about her. Certain that I could not bear for him to tell me whether she was real or imagined, I never asked her name, nor did he offer it, but it was obvious that if she was real, then whatever intimacy he shared with her had been recreated in his work, which just got better and better. Mine, on the other hand, was suffering, as I found myself unable to concentrate on fiction when my thoughts were devoted to him. Perhaps it seems unusual, I told Maurice, that we never talked of romance, either of us, but boys were different in those days than they are today. I did not pry into his affaires de cœur and he did not enquire into mine. To do so would have served only to embarrass us both.

A few months after we met, to coincide with Oskar’s seventeenth birthday, we decided to take a bicycling holiday over a weekend towards the Havel Lakes and travel on from there towards Potsdam, a distance of some forty kilometres. We left on a Saturday morning, displaying our papers to the soldiers on guard at the gates of the city, and cycled westward in the direction of the Olympic Stadium, arriving at the mouth of the Scharfe Lanke around lunchtime, where we sat at the lake’s edge, eating our sandwiches and drinking warm bottles of beer that spilled over the sides when we uncorked them, causing us to rush to lick our fingers to capture every drop. It was a warm day and, soaked in perspiration from our exercise, Oskar suggested a swim.

‘But we have no costumes,’ I said.

‘Oh, we don’t need any.’ He laughed, standing up and slipping the braces from his shoulders as he started to unbutton his shirt. ‘There’s no one around for miles. We won’t get caught.’

He was stripping so quickly, his boots and socks already thrown to one side, his trousers pulled off in a moment, that there seemed to be no point in arguing with him, but if I were to follow his lead I knew that my desire would be all too visible.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, turning to me with a frown on his face as he slipped out of his shorts and threw them on the pile of discarded clothes by his feet. He was fully revealed to me now at last, all my imaginings brought to life in a matter of moments, and it stunned me how casual he could be in his nakedness. I tried not to look at his sex, which lay dormant, hanging shamelessly from a thick patch of dark pubic hair. ‘You’re not shy, are you, Erich? There’s no reason to be.’

‘It’s not that,’ I said, uncertain whether to look directly at him or turn away. ‘The truth is that I can’t swim.’ A lie that felt to me like a satisfactory excuse.

‘Can’t swim?’ he said, bursting out laughing as he pulled one foot behind him, bringing it up to his backside and stretching the muscles of the leg with a satisfied groan before performing the same operation on the other. ‘Whoever heard of such a thing? Swimming’s easy. Anyway, the water is quite shallow here, I think. You don’t need to go out any further than feels safe. Just keep the sand beneath your feet and splash around. It will cool you off.’

‘No,’ I said, and he simply shrugged his shoulders and made his way down towards the water. I watched his retreating back, my entire body pulsating with lust. His revealed shape was so overwhelming that I might have groaned aloud as he waded into the water and submerged himself quickly before jumping up again with a roar of delight. I longed to be in there with him so turned away, focussing on other things until my ardour had subsided a little, then quickly threw off my clothes and ran in, caring little for the coldness of the water as I plunged down in order to hide myself as soon as possible. In the distance, Oskar waved in my direction and I waved back.

‘You see?’ he said, swimming over towards me now. ‘I told you it’s easy. You’re a natural!’

‘I suppose I’ve never tried before,’ I replied, grinning at him and watching as he flipped over on to his back and stretched his arms out to swim away from me, gliding along with the confidence of a shark. I started to swim too, enjoying myself at last, but quite soon I heard the sound of furious splashing in the distance and looked towards my friend, whose arms were flailing uselessly as he disappeared beneath the water and rose from it again, and I realized that he was in distress. I swam over, throwing my body towards him, and although he struggled against me, as a drowning man always will, he soon submitted and I turned him in such a way that his head was above the lake while my hand held steady beneath his chin, using my other arm to direct us back towards the shore. When I dragged us both out we lay next to each other for several minutes, exhausted and gasping for air, until Oskar rolled over on to one side, coughing feverishly as the water rose from his lungs, and I put a hand on his shoulder, telling him that he was all right, that he was alive and had nothing more to fear. We lay there for a long time, the sun beating down on our bodies, and when he dozed off it was with my arm across his chest, a hand stretching low across his abdomen, resting in a spot just below his navel. I was still lying like this some minutes later when he awoke with a start, pulling himself away from me in embarrassment as I sat up. I covered myself quickly with one hand, although it was obvious that he had noticed my tumescence for he turned away with a confused expression on his face and said nothing before standing up and making his way over to his clothes and dressing once again. He kept his back to me throughout all of this and only when I was fully clothed did he speak.

‘I don’t know what happened,’ he said, looking a little embarrassed. ‘I suppose I went in too soon after eating. I got cramp, you see, and my legs wouldn’t work.’

‘It’s over, anyway,’ I said. ‘No harm done.’

‘You told me that you couldn’t swim. But actually, you’re an excellent swimmer. I could tell as you were bringing me to the shore. Why did you lie?’

‘I didn’t lie. I was focussed on helping you, that’s all, and I suppose my natural instincts simply took over.’

He thought about this and I could tell that he was unconvinced. ‘Well, thank you, Erich,’ he said at last, his forehead wrinkling into deep furrows as he considered his brush with mortality. ‘I would have drowned if it wasn’t for you.’

I turned to look at him and we stared at each other, the shared awkwardness unsettling me. ‘We should continue on our way,’ I said finally. The afternoon had been peculiar and disconcerting and I longed to be back on my bicycle, working off my desires through exercise. ‘We still have about twenty kilometres to Potsdam.’

Later, it seemed that we had made a silent agreement not to mention the incident again and we enjoyed a good dinner and more beer, but eventually, tired from the exertions of the day, we retired to bed earlier than usual. I found it hard to sleep, though, disturbed by the unfamiliar sound of his breathing in the next bed, and eventually rose, sitting by the window and opening the curtain a little to stare out towards the fields beyond. The moon was almost full and as the light slipped into the room I turned around to observe the arch of Oskar’s bare back as he slept, appreciating the gift the sheets had given me as they fell from his body. I grew aroused again, laying hands upon myself as quietly as possible, recalling all the things that I had seen that afternoon and what I could see now, climaxing so quickly into a handkerchief that my accompanying cry of pleasure seemed loud enough to wake him. And then, simultaneously satisfied and frustrated, I climbed back into bed and fell quickly asleep.

‘What would you have done had he woken up?’ asked Maurice, looking at me with wide eyes but no trace of embarrassment, despite the crude nature of these memories.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Laughed it off, I suppose. Died of humiliation. One or the other.’

He quizzed me on more aspects of the day, and the conversations that we’d had the following morning, but the recollections, along with the wine, had tired me out and finally I confessed that I could stay up no longer. We finished what was left in our glasses before saying goodnight and retiring to our rooms.

Just before I fell asleep, however, it occurred to me that I had forgotten to tell him what time we should meet the following morning and, as there was no telephone by the bed, I had no choice but to get up, don my clothes and go out into the corridor, making my way down the staircase towards his room, where I tapped cautiously on his door in the contradictory way that one does when one wants to get the attention of the occupant but is also wary of disturbing him. He didn’t answer, so I knocked louder, pressing my face to the wood this time as I half whispered, half called his name. Again, there was no reply and I assumed that he had fallen into a deep sleep from which it would be impossible to wake him. And so I returned to my room and scribbled a note on some hotel notepaper before returning to the lower floor and sliding it beneath his door, having knocked one more time but again been frustrated by the silence from within.

As I made my way back towards the staircase, however, I saw Dash Hardy ascending from the foyer holding a bottle of champagne. He turned in my direction and stopped immediately, as if he had seen a ghost, before pulling himself together and asking whether I had enjoyed my evening. I replied in the affirmative before adding that I was tired, that it had been a pleasure to meet him – which it had not – and continuing on my way.

‘Goodnight, Erich,’ he called after me, before adding in a sing-song voice, ‘Sweet dreams!’

I rolled my eyes impatiently, and it was only as I fell asleep that I began to wonder why he had been carrying two glasses in his hand.

5. Paris

In July, I found myself drinking a glass of rosé outside a bar in Montmartre, a chestnut tree shading me from the late summer sunlight, while I observed the closing moments of a marriage. A woman in her late forties, very beautiful, with short black hair and expensive sunglasses, had been sitting alone since my arrival with a large glass of white wine and an envelope on the table before her. She had already smoked three cigarettes and was lighting a fourth when a man appeared, perhaps a little older than her but dressed just as smartly, holding his hands in the air in apology for his tardiness, and she stood to allow him to kiss her on both cheeks. The waitress brought a second glass and she poured some wine for him as he reached into his bag and removed a similar envelope to hers. They spoke for some time and at one point he laughed and put an arm around her shoulders before they picked up the envelopes and took out two lengthy documents. Turning to the last page of each they allowed their pens to hover over the paper for only a moment before signing simultaneously, then passed each one to the other, whereupon they signed again. Finally, the man returned both forms to his bag and the couple removed their wedding rings, dropping each one into their glasses before standing up, kissing on the lips and walking off in opposite directions, their hands drifting out behind them, their fingers touching momentarily before they disappeared from my sight and, presumably, from each other’s lives.

I was still staring at the empty glasses and their expensive additions when Maurice appeared from around the corner, raising a hand in greeting as he sat down to join me. It was a warm afternoon, and when his beer arrived, he drank a third of it without pausing for breath, sitting back with a satisfied sigh.

‘I visited the Père Lachaise Cemetery while you were doing your interviews,’ he told me. ‘Placed my hand on top of Oscar Wilde’s grave.’

‘And I daresay you’ll never wash it again,’ I said.

‘I want to be entombed when I’m gone,’ he said, sitting up straight now. ‘Or have a memorial in Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey.’

‘I hope you’re joking,’ I said.

‘Of course I am,’ he replied, bursting into laughter. ‘I’m not that arrogant. No, I don’t care what happens to me as long as my books survive.’

‘That’s important to you?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s the only thing. Well, that and, as I told you before, becoming a father.’

‘You’re still intent on that?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘But you’re so young.’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything,’ he said. ‘Did you never want one? A child, I mean.’

‘Well, it would have been—’ I began, but he cut me off.

‘Just because you’re gay doesn’t mean you wouldn’t have enjoyed being a father.’

‘True,’ I said. ‘But I never gave it much consideration, to be honest. I knew it was never going to happen so it wasn’t something that preyed on my mind.’

I glanced out towards the street, where a pair of schoolgirls were walking past in short skirts. I watched to see whether Maurice’s eyes would follow them and they did for a few moments, but without any particular interest, as he finished his beer and ordered another.

‘By the way,’ he said, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a magazine that he handed across. ‘I have a present for you.’ The publication was titled Coney Island and I felt an immediate aversion to the cover image, a close-up of a clown vomiting letters on the heads of George Bush and Michael Dukakis.

‘Thank you,’ I said, uncertain why he thought I would be interested in such a thing.

‘Turn to page sixteen,’ he said, and I did as instructed, whereupon I discovered a title, ‘Red’, with the words ‘by Maurice Swift’ printed in large letters underneath. ‘My first published story,’ he said, grinning from ear to ear.

‘Maurice!’ I said, truly delighted for him. ‘Congratulations!’

‘Thank you.’

‘I didn’t know that you were even submitting to magazines.’

‘Well, I haven’t been, to be honest,’ he told me. ‘But I happen to know one of the editors there and he asked whether I might have something that would work for them. So I sent this along and he liked it.’

‘Well, I’m very happy for you,’ I said. ‘You must feel very encouraged.’

‘I do.’

‘And your novel? How is that coming along?’

‘Ah,’ he said, pulling a face. ‘Slowly. I have the opening chapters and a good hold on my characters but I’m not sure where it’s going as yet.’

‘You haven’t plotted it out?’ I asked.

‘Oh no,’ he said, looking at me as if I’d just accused him of spending his days watching television. ‘I could never do something like that. Doesn’t it all become a little boring if you know everything that happens in advance?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said, and I might have challenged him further on it were it not for an interruption by our waitress, who came over holding a tray that carried the two glasses from the divorcing couple’s table and looking inside them with an astonished expression on her face. She asked whether I had seen who had left them there and I related the events as I’d observed them earlier and she shook her head in disbelief before making her way back indoors. A moment later, Maurice’s trusty notebook was on the table again and he was scribbling away.

‘What are you writing?’ I asked him.

‘The story you just told her,’ he said. ‘It’s a good one. I thought I might use it for something.’

‘As it happens,’ I said, ‘after they left I thought the same thing. That it might make for an interesting opening for a novel. I was working through some possibilities in my mind.’

He lifted his notebook and waved it in the air triumphantly. ‘Sorry, Erich,’ he said. ‘It’s mine now. I wrote it down first!’

‘All right.’

‘You don’t mind, do you?’

‘No, of course not,’ I said, a little surprised by his literary larceny. ‘You’re still coming to Shakespeare & Company tonight, I hope?’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘What time is your reading?’

‘Seven o’clock.’

‘And after that?’

‘Dinner with the publishers.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I skip that one? I have a friend in Paris. We were thinking of meeting for a drink, that’s all. Of course, I’ll join you if you really want me to but—’

‘It’s entirely your decision,’ I said. ‘Don’t bother if you’re not interested.’

‘Of course I’m interested,’ he said. ‘And normally I’d love to come. It’s just that I haven’t seen her in some time. She was a colleague of mine in the Savoy.’

‘And you were friends?’

‘Yes. Good friends.’

‘What’s her name?’ I asked.

‘Clémence. She hopes to be a photographer someday. She photographs nudes.’

‘I hope she hasn’t photographed you,’ I said, laughing.

‘She has, yes.’

‘Oh.’ I found myself blushing scarlet, a mixture of embarrassment and envy coursing through my body. ‘Aren’t you worried about them getting out?’

‘Not in the slightest. I’d be happy for people to see them. They’re very artistic. She’s photographed many other people too, not just me. I daresay she’ll have an exhibition one day. Would you like one? I could bring one back for you if you like.’

He smiled. Was he taunting me? Deliberately twisting the levers of power between us? ‘No thank you,’ I said primly.

‘Suit yourself. But I’ll find a pay phone and call her to say that I can’t make it if—’

‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Of course you must meet her. I wouldn’t dream of spoiling your evening.’ I hesitated slightly. ‘Will you be in the hotel bar later, do you think? After I return? We could have our usual nightcap.’

‘What time will you be back?’

‘Around ten?’

‘Let’s say that if I’m there, I’m there, and if I’m not, then I’m either still out with Clémence or I’ve gone to bed early. Don’t bother waiting up for me.’

‘All right,’ I said, feeling a sense of bitter disappointment. The waitress reappeared and I reached into my satchel for a Polaroid camera that I had brought with me to France. I’d bought it only recently and had been trying to find an opportunity to get a photograph of Maurice and me together.

‘Shall we have a picture?’ I asked.

‘Really?’ he said, his face frowning a little. ‘For what?’

‘For nothing,’ I replied. ‘For friendship.’

He shrugged. ‘All right,’ he said, pulling his chair closer to mine and, to my delight, throwing his arm around my shoulders and grinning at the young woman, who stood back a little and pressed the shutter button. She handed it back to me and, a moment later, the camera released its prize and I stared at it, enraptured, as our images began to appear. He was looking directly into the lens; I had turned my head at the crucial moment and was looking at him.

He moved back to where he had been and an uncomfortable silence ensued, but not wanting any further awkwardness to develop between us, I ordered some more drinks and when they arrived he mentioned that, since Madrid, he’d been thinking a lot about my friendship with Oskar and it saddened him to think of us growing up in Nazi Germany, the shadow of war across our future.

Of course, I told him, when I thought of those days I realized that I had been more focussed on my desire to possess Oskar than on the extraordinary events taking place around us. We knew that it would not be long before we were conscripted into the army and I dreaded that day, not because I feared death but because I didn’t want us to be separated. This was something we finally discussed one evening in Berlin, when I realized that Oskar was just as anxious about the future as I was.

‘I had hoped that some type of resolution would be reached,’ he said as we sat drinking beer in the Böttcher Tavern. Through the window I could see the red-haired guard standing outside the SS headquarters once again, scanning the street. The poor boy seemed as if he was always on duty but never got beyond the front gates. ‘But that’s not looking likely now, is it?’

‘My father says that the English don’t have the stomach for another war so they’ll allow the Führer to take whatever he wants as long as he leaves them alone.’

‘Then your father is wrong. Hitler will occupy the Low Countries and sail across the North Sea to invade. If he takes France, then it becomes even easier. Still,’ he added, ‘I think I’d rather be a sailor than a soldier. Have you decided which branch you’ll join?’

‘The Luftwaffe,’ I said, the first answer that sprang to mind.

‘Not for me,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘I don’t want to get shot out of the skies.’

‘You’re right,’ I said, too quickly. ‘Then perhaps I’ll be a sailor too.’

He offered me a look of displeasure and I blushed, knowing that flattery by imitation irritated him. Ever since that afternoon by the Scharfe Lanke I had felt a certain suspicion on his part towards my intentions.

‘The thing that worries me most,’ I said, ‘is the idea of dying without having achieved anything in my life. A writer is supposed to get better as they age but what can I possibly accomplish if I’m killed before I turn twenty?’

‘You need to get started on that novel right away,’ he said with a bittersweet smile. ‘The future doesn’t look good for our generation.’

‘But how can I when I have nothing to write about? I’ve seen nothing, I’ve done nothing. A writer needs experiences to draw upon. Love affairs,’ I added tentatively. ‘A painter does too, I’m sure.’

‘True,’ he said, reaching for his bag. ‘Actually, there was something I wanted to show you. Do you mind?’

‘Of course not,’ I said.

‘I’ve been painting a lot lately,’ he told me. ‘Into the nights and the early mornings, and I feel that I’ve finally hit on something. Take a look at this.’ He handed me a rolled-up canvas and I untied the string, unravelling it slowly while being careful not to allow any part of the painting to touch the damp tabletop. The picture revealed itself to me in stages. First a toe, then a foot. A bare leg. A torso. A pair of full breasts with dark nipples. And then a girl’s face, the same face I had seen in all of his sketches to date but for once not hidden in profile but staring out at me, a challenge in her eyes. Her left hand was stretched across her naked body, her fingers resting between her legs, which were parted just enough to offer a glimpse of her sex. There was nothing pornographic to the painting but there was an erotic charge to both the brushwork and the girl’s smile that left me disoriented. I looked across at my friend, whose expression was one of hope mixed with excitement.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What do you think?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘It’s quite shocking, don’t you think?’

‘Shocking?’ he said, sitting back in his chair, and I realized that what I, in my prudishness, might consider scandalous, he might define as art. ‘Do you mean the use of shade across her shoulders? Yes, I wasn’t certain about that myself, whether or not I’d overdone it. I think it works but I’m not sure. I’m happy with her hands, though, because I always struggle with hands, but they came out well, don’t you think? And the way she holds her fingers above her cunt? I really feel that I’ve captured her spirit as well as her physicality.’

I took a breath in surprise. We might have been discussing anything mundane – the weather, the time, the price of bread – for all the concern he had for his choice of words.

‘Of course, as you know, this is the most recent in a long series,’ he added. ‘But by abandoning my commitment to her profile, I really feel I’ve hit on something important.’

‘Simply by getting her to turn around?’ I asked. ‘That’s your big breakthrough?’

‘No, it’s more than that,’ he said, a wounded tone creeping into his voice. ‘It’s the defiance in her eyes. The manner in which she both conceals herself while, at the same time, inviting us to observe her most private moment.’

‘But it’s just a naked girl lying on a couch,’ I said, aware of how critical I sounded and trying to keep my discontent under control. ‘It’s hardly an original conceit. Haven’t artists been doing that sort of thing for centuries?’

‘Yes, of course,’ he replied, his confidence fading a little now. ‘But I’m trying to bring something new to it. Painters search for beauty, and where else should we find it other than in the female form, the most beautiful of God’s creations?’

‘Really?’ I asked. ‘More beautiful than a sunrise? Or an ocean? Or a sky full of stars?’

‘Yes, so much more beautiful!’ he cried, growing enthusiastic again as he raised his hands in the air. ‘Whenever I’m alone with a girl, whenever I make love to one, I find myself consumed by her in a way that I have never been by nature. You must have felt that too, surely?’

I stared at him, uncertain how to reply. Did he assume that I, like him, was experienced in matters of sex?

‘Of course,’ I said hesitantly. ‘But there’s more to art than—’

‘And every painter brings something new to the nude,’ he continued. ‘Just as if you were to write about, I don’t know, let’s say the Great War, then you would try to find a fresh perspective on it, a different point of view. That’s what I’m attempting with this portrait. Do you remember I said to you once that I wanted to paint the familiar in an unfamiliar way? I’m not there yet, of course. I still have a long way to go and much to learn. But I’m getting closer, don’t you think?’

I said nothing but rolled the painting up again and re-tied the string before handing it back to him.

‘Have you shown this to anyone else?’ I asked, and he shook his head. I took a long draught of my beer before speaking again. ‘Oskar,’ I said. ‘I’m your friend, I hope you know that. And I care about you a great deal. So, what I say to you now, I say out of comradeship and loyalty.’

He sat back and frowned. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Go on.’

‘I believe that this painting is both unsophisticated and obscene,’ I said. ‘I know that you think there is beauty here, and style and elegance and originality, but I’m afraid that it’s a failure. You’re too close to it to recognize its essential vulgarity. The hands that you mentioned are well drawn, yes, but their action borders on the pornographic. Can you not see that? It’s as if you have painted this to titillate the viewer, or – worse – to titillate yourself.’

‘No!’ he cried, looking hurt. ‘How can you think that?’

‘Your subject does not seem lost in her own desires but anxious that we should desire her instead, which makes the painting manipulative. It’s the type of thing that a fifteen-year-old boy might hide under lock and key but that could never hang in a gallery. I say this not to hurt you, my friend, but to help. I believe that if you were to show this to anyone else then you would find yourself a figure of mockery. Perhaps even worse. And you know that the Reich has little time for pornography.’

He said nothing for a long time, bowing his head over the table as he considered my words. When he spoke again, all the pleasure had gone from his tone, and there was a look of humiliation on his face.

‘I thought I had captured something new,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve worked so hard on it.’

‘Of course, I know nothing about painting,’ I said, attempting to sound casual now. ‘And I could be wrong. But I would not be a true friend if I did not share my honest feelings with you. Do you remember the weekend that we went to Potsdam?’

‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘What of it?’

‘There was so much to capture there. The landscapes. The lake where we swam. The cows. Couldn’t you focus on something like that for a change?’

‘Cows?’ he asked, looking at me as if I were crazy. ‘You think I want to paint cows? Cows have no soul. Alysse, at least, has a soul.’

‘Alysse?’ I asked. ‘And who is Alysse?’

He nodded towards the canvas. ‘My model,’ he said.

‘So, she is a real person then, not a fantasy?’

‘Of course she’s real! I could never paint something like this from my imagination. I’m not that creative.’

I could bear it no longer; I had to ask. ‘And are you in love with her?’ I asked.

‘Very much so,’ he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. ‘We are in love with each other.’

I sat back in the seat, staring at him in dismay. ‘If that’s the case,’ I asked, ‘then why have you never mentioned her until now?’

‘Well, I didn’t think—’

‘We’re friends, I thought? Although if it’s just a silly summer romance—’

‘But it’s not,’ he insisted. ‘It’s a lot more than that.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘I just am.’

I shook my head. ‘If you loved her that much,’ I said, ‘then you would have talked about her to me.’

‘If these were normal times, perhaps yes,’ he replied. ‘But they’re not normal times, are they? I have to be careful. We all do.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of everything. And everyone.’

I looked around. Suddenly it seemed to me that the entire tavern was listening in on us, watching us, aware of Oskar’s feelings for this girl and my feelings for him. In my heart, I had always known that Oskar did not share my romantic longings but it wounded me deeply to think of his being intimate with another.

‘I’m not certain that you’re right,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t the artist remain true to his own instinct?’

‘I can’t tell you what you should think, Oskar,’ I said. ‘I can only tell you what I feel.’

‘And you believe that I should destroy it?’ he asked.

‘I do. Not only that, but I don’t think that you should paint Alysse any more. Perhaps you’re too close to her. You should reserve your talent for something more appropriate.’

He blanched but I felt no remorse. I wanted him to burn the painting, to feel that it was so worthless he would abandon the concept entirely and, with it, the girl. Paint cows, I thought. Paint all the cows you like. Diversify into sheep if it satisfies your artistic needs.

‘And did he?’ asked Maurice, who had remained silent as I told him this story. ‘Did he destroy it?’

‘Yes, he did,’ I replied, unable to meet his eye. ‘We stayed in the Böttcher late into the night, becoming very drunk, and, as was his way at such moments, he turned maudlin, hanging his head and weeping for what he considered his lack of talent. And then, finally, he reached for the painting and ripped it in half, and then in half once again, and again and again.’

Maurice said nothing, but finished his drink while looking out towards the street.

‘I hope you don’t think less of me now,’ I said finally, and he shook his head, reaching over and placing his hand on mine, just as Oskar had done some fifty years earlier in Berlin.

‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘What you did, you did out of jealousy but also out of love. And you were just a boy at the time. None of us is in control of our emotions at that age.’

I glanced at my watch and sighed. ‘Anyway, we should get back to the hotel,’ I said. ‘I need to change.’

He didn’t show up in the bar that night after I returned from the publishers’ dinner. And, despite his instructions, I did stay up, hoping he might arrive later. But as the clock reached midnight I finally gave up on him and decided to return to my room, a little the worse for wear, pressing my ear against his door for any sounds from within, but it was silent. When I climbed into bed I was tired and ready for sleep but, before I turned the light off, I noticed the magazine that he had given me earlier sitting on the night stand and picked it up to turn to his story. It was not good. Not good at all. So bad, in fact, that I began to question whether he had sufficient talent to be a writer and if I was doing him a disservice by encouraging him. I flicked through the rest of the magazine and my heart sank as I noticed the credits on the final page, for the Editor-at-Large was none other than Dash Hardy, the American writer we had met in Madrid. It was he who had commissioned the piece, he who had seen merit in it and he who had published it.

Of course, looking back, I can see that I had used the wrong words to describe Oskar’s painting of Alysse. Despite my youth and ignorance of art, I knew it was the furthest thing in the world from unsophisticated or obscene. In fact, it was magnificent. The irony was that, in 1939, I had seen something beautiful and told its creator that it was a travesty. And now, almost fifty years later, I had read something terrible and, when asked, would surely praise it.

Really, it was unconscionable behaviour.

6. New York

The flight to New York was the first occasion that we actually travelled together and, while on the plane, we planned our itinerary. I was to give a reading at the 92nd Street Y, another as part of a panel of novelists at New York University and a third in a Brooklyn library, along with the usual interviews, signing sessions and radio broadcasts, and Maurice agreed to accompany me to all of these as long as he could keep one evening free to catch up with some friends who lived in the city.

The readings themselves went well, except for the panel event, where I was teamed with a much-praised novelist from Park Slope some twenty years my junior who looked as if he’d spent the entire day shooting a fashion commercial for a high-class designer label and a young woman whose debut had been published six years earlier but showed no sign of committing to a second book. For some reason, she insisted on calling me Herr Ackermann, despite repeated pleas on my part for her to call me Erich. (‘I couldn’t,’ she said backstage, as she demanded a glass of wine from a volunteer. ‘You’re, like, old enough to be my grandfather.’) The woman (let’s call her Susan) and the middle-aged man (we’ll try Andrew) sat on either side of me on the stage and, as Susan’s novel drew artificial and deeply contrived parallels between the political tensions in Germany during the thirties and American opposition to the Vietnam War some thirty years later, the moderator asked me whether I found that her writing accurately reflected my experience of the city during those days.

‘It’s so long ago that it’s difficult for me to remember,’ I said, looking out at an audience whose attention seemed entirely focussed on the younger man to my left. ‘You must remember that I was just a teenager then and my mind wasn’t particularly concerned with politics. I was thinking about my future and hoping for a career as a writer. However, while I think Susan’s book is very well researched – she certainly captures the geography of the city well – my concern would be for the lack of a moral compass among the German characters.’

This was a considerable understatement on my part for I had read the novel a few weeks earlier upon receiving my schedule and found it to be not only trite in its depiction of racial conflict but deeply naïve in its thinking, while her research seemed to have been conducted exclusively from watching old Second World War movies. At even the merest hint of criticism, however, she turned to me, instantly defensive. ‘A moral compass?’ she said. ‘Could you clarify what you mean by that, Herr Ackermann?’

‘The fact is,’ I replied, impressed by how she could use a form of address to suggest a lack of balance on my part, ‘there were some Germans during those days who were quite vocal in their dissent to the policies of Hitler and many who sought to escape the country entirely. It seems unfortunate to me that their presence is so rarely represented in war fiction.’

‘I don’t write war fiction,’ she said, making inverted comma signs in the air with her fingers. ‘Please don’t compartmentalize my work.’

‘I think you want to be very careful how you tread here, pal,’ said Andrew, who was sitting forward in his chair now, amusement and outrage competing for dominance in his tone. ‘Susan’s something of an expert on that period of history.’

‘And I actually lived it,’ I replied.

‘But like you said, you were just a kid.’

‘Yes, but people often assume that, after the rise of National Socialism, the entire nation turned, overnight, into a horde of anti-Semitic barbarians. Surely as writers of fiction we should look for the stories that are less often told? And some can be found in the lives of those who both took a stand against the Nazis and died for their troubles.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Susan, holding her hands in the air and looking as though she might need a tranquillizer if I were to continue speaking. ‘My best friend’s husband’s entire family was killed in the camps. So this is a very emotive issue for me. For you even to suggest, Herr Ackermann—’

‘I’m simply saying—’ I began, but was immediately cut off by Andrew, who placed a hand on my knee to silence me.

‘Am I right in thinking, Erich,’ he asked, ‘that you were a member of the Hitler Youth?’

‘Well, yes,’ I said, feeling a prickle of perspiration creeping along my back. ‘That’s been well documented. All boys my age had no choice but to sign up. Just as all girls had to be members of the Bund Deutscher Mädel.’

‘Women don’t fight wars,’ insisted Susan. ‘And they never start them.’

‘Tell that to Mrs Thatcher,’ I said. ‘Tell it to Helen of Troy.’

‘And you were a soldier in the German army?’ continued Andrew.

‘In the Wehrmacht, yes,’ I admitted. ‘I’ve never denied it. Although I didn’t see any action, of course. I was part of a clerical team in Berlin during—’

‘Then perhaps, before you tell us your stories about all the good Germans who tried to stop Hitler,’ he said, ‘you might just pause for a moment and give a thought to the families of those who lost their lives bringing freedom to the world.’

‘Hear, hear,’ agreed Susan, at which point the audience burst into tumultuous applause at such cod-patriotism, such crowd-pleasing cliché, offering Andrew a standing ovation that he pretended not to notice as he sipped his water and toyed with his wedding ring. From that point on, both novelists and the moderator ignored me entirely and yet afterwards, backstage, they each asked me to sign a copy of Dread and to pose for photographs, shaking hands as we said goodbye as if we were old friends.

‘Fucking arsehole,’ said Maurice, as we took a cab back to the hotel afterwards, referring to the male model in writer’s garb. ‘He was just playing to the gallery, that’s all. And did you see how people were congratulating him afterwards in the signing queue? As if he’d single-handedly led the charge on the beaches at Dunkirk? I mean, it’s not as if you actually killed anyone, is it? Like you said, you were just clerical staff.’

‘I suppose I can hardly sermonize about a Nazi resistance when I wasn’t part of it, though.’

‘You were following orders. If you hadn’t, you’d have been shot.’

I didn’t respond but stared out of the window at the passing streets and, for the first time in our acquaintance, declined a nightcap at the hotel, retiring to my room instead, where I took a long, hot bath and drank alone long into the night.

The next day passed with little incident and the morning after that I woke early, looking forward to meeting Maurice for breakfast. I had missed him the previous evening when he had been out with his friends but we had arranged to meet at ten o’clock in the foyer of the hotel. He didn’t show up and, hours later when I came downstairs for lunch, I saw him strolling through the doors behind me, wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing the night before, and looking rather dishevelled. The relief must have been evident on my face, however, for he looked a little guilty, claiming that he had over-indulged and decided to spend the night at the apartment of a friend.

‘You might have got in touch,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know whether you were alive or dead.’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Erich,’ he said, waving my concern away, and his disdain hit me like a punch to the guts. It seemed as if our relationship had begun to change and that he no longer felt the need to be quite as respectful as he once had.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m starving. Come upstairs while I order some food.’

I wanted to tell him no, that I had better things to do than to trail around after him all day, but he was already making his way towards the elevators and, knowing that I might not see him again for hours if I did not follow, I swallowed my pride and slipped between the doors as they closed and we rode silently up to our adjacent rooms on the eleventh floor.

I felt something of an erotic thrill entering his bedroom. His suitcase was lying open on a table and his bed was still unmade from a nap he’d taken the previous afternoon, the sheets in disarray. I could see underwear and socks scattered haphazardly around the floor and the intimacy of the scene was intensely arousing.

‘Have you had lunch?’ he asked, kicking his shoes off.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It’s gone two o’clock.’

‘Well, I’m starving. Do me a favour, would you, and order me some room service? A cheeseburger and fries. Something like that. I need a shower.’

I reached for the leather-bound folder by the desk and flicked through it.

‘Would you like something to drink with that?’ I asked.

‘A Diet Coke. Lots of ice.’

As I dialled the appropriate number and placed the order, he sat down and peeled his socks off, examining his toes for a moment, before pulling his T-shirt over his head to reveal his body to me for the first time. He was well muscled and hairless and, as he leaned over, the deep grooves of his abdominal muscles became sharply defined. A scar ran across his lower right-hand side. It was impossible not to stare and even when I knew that he was looking directly at me I could not avert my eyes.

‘I had an appendix operation when I was twelve,’ he told me as he stood up again. ‘The surgeon botched it, which is why the scar is so noticeable. If you touch it, it turns bright red. Try, if you like.’

I walked over to him and reached out, allowing the tip of my index finger to track its way along the wound, and sure enough it became slightly inflamed at my touch. When I arrived at the place where the redness blended back into his natural colouring I placed my palm flat across his stomach, feeling the warmth of his tight, young skin against my aged hand.

‘See?’ he said, stepping back and unbuckling his jeans before pulling them off and throwing them on the bed without any ceremony. He stood before me now in his boxer shorts and I forced myself to look away, catching a hint of a smile on his face as I did so.

‘I should go,’ I said.

‘No, stay here, if you don’t mind. The room-service guy might come while I’m in the shower and I’ll need you to let him in.’

He went into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar, and after a moment I heard the water pounding down on the floor of the stall and then the more muffled sound as he stepped beneath the spray. Had he been flirting with me, I asked myself, or did he just lack any sense of self-consciousness? There was something knowing in Maurice’s actions. I stepped over towards the bathroom door and peered inside at his naked form, hidden by the glass of the shower stall and the steam that surrounded him, and when he turned I walked back towards the bed, feeling an erotic desire that was almost overwhelming. It embarrasses me to recall how I buried my face in his pillow, hoping to catch something of his scent, but there was nothing there. Before I could embarrass myself any further, there was a knock at the door and his lunch arrived.

Emerging from the bathroom a few minutes later with a white towelling robe tied loosely around his waist, he invited me to share some of his food, but I declined, saying that I would return to my room.

‘No, stay,’ he insisted. ‘I hate eating alone. Tell me more about your friend Oskar.’

‘Some other time, Maurice,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I’m not in the mood for storytelling today.’

‘But I want to know. Sit down. Continue your story. Erich, sit.’

And of course, it was outside my capabilities to disappoint him so I did as instructed and began to talk.

It was the summer of 1939, only a couple of months before the war began, and I had arranged to meet my friend in our usual place to celebrate his seventeenth birthday. He was seated alone in the window as I crossed the road and when I knocked on the glass, waving at him, he broke into a wide smile and beckoned me inside. I felt such happiness as I entered and, when the waitress brought over our beers, we raised our glasses in salute.

‘Happy birthday,’ I said, reaching into my bag and taking out a present that I had carefully gift-wrapped earlier in the day. He sat back in some surprise as I placed it on the table between us. He ripped off the packaging and lifted the lid on the box inside. My gift to him was a fountain pen, one that my grandfather had given me for my own birthday a few years before. The finest of them all and the one that I treasured the most. I wanted him to have it.

‘Ah,’ he said, frowning a little, and his expression confused me for he did not look as pleased as I had expected. ‘This is very kind of you.’

‘Do you like it?’

‘I do,’ he said. ‘Very much.’

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

‘Nothing, why do you ask?’

‘I don’t know. There’s something, though. I can tell from your face.’

Before he could reply, a girl slipped into the seat next to him and looked back and forth between the two of us.

‘Alysse,’ said Oskar, turning to her. ‘This is Erich, who I’ve told you about.’

‘At last,’ she said, extending a hand to me. I recognized her immediately from Oskar’s sketchbooks and paintings. She seemed anxious, glancing around the bar and trying to make herself small in the seat, as if by doing so she might avoid attention. ‘I thought Oskar was making you up. He mentions you so often but has never introduced us.’

‘It’s because I don’t trust him,’ said Oskar.

‘What?’ I asked, turning to him in dismay. ‘Why not?’

‘I thought you might steal her away from me,’ he continued, laughing. ‘I’m joking, Erich. Don’t look so horrified!’

‘No one could take me away from you,’ she said quietly, and they smiled at each other for a moment before leaning forward and allowing their lips to meet. When they separated again, they continued to grin like fools, giddy with love.

‘And what’s this?’ she asked, looking down at my grandfather’s fountain pen. ‘How beautiful.’

‘It’s Erich’s,’ said Oskar. ‘Or rather, it’s mine. He gave it to me for my birthday.’

She lifted it up and examined it from all sides. The light through the window sent a gleam sparkling off the gold inlay. ‘Erich,’ she said, her eyes wide as she looked at me, ‘what a thoughtful gift. It’s so beautiful.’

‘I don’t think Oskar likes it,’ I said.

‘He’s just embarrassed,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Show him,’ she added, turning to my friend.

‘No, it doesn’t matter,’ he said.

‘Show him,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t mind.’

He sighed and reached into his bag, removing another fountain pen, a far less expensive one, the type that could be purchased in any stationery shop, although it had been engraved with his initials, OG. ‘It was Alysse’s gift to me,’ he said. ‘A coincidence, that’s all.’

‘I’m defeated,’ she said, laughing. ‘Yours is so much better, Erich.’

‘Yes, it is,’ I agreed. ‘How long have you two known each other, anyway?’

‘About eighteen months,’ she said, ignoring my rudeness. ‘We were just friends at first and then, finally, things changed. He was too shy to kiss me for a long time.’

‘But not too shy to paint you?’ I asked.

She laughed but, to my disappointment, didn’t seem particularly embarrassed. ‘You mustn’t think I’m the type of girl who takes her clothes off for just anyone, Erich,’ she said. ‘I’m his muse. Oskar is going to be a great painter one day, I’m certain of it. My image might hang in the Louvre, like the Mona Lisa.’

‘Are you comparing yourself to her or Oskar to Leonardo da Vinci?’ I asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my tone.

‘Neither,’ she said. ‘I only meant—’

‘If you had a girlfriend as beautiful as Alysse,’ said Oskar, ‘wouldn’t you want to paint her too?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I said. ‘I’ve never had a girlfriend.’

‘That can’t be!’

‘But it is.’

‘Then perhaps I should introduce you to some of my friends,’ said Alysse.

‘Why bother?’ I asked. ‘Oskar and I will be off to war soon. We’ll be lucky if we’re still alive to see 1940. I don’t want to waste whatever time I have left trying to impress some tart.’

A silence descended on the table. Alysse’s smile faded completely and Oskar stared at me as if he could hardly believe that I’d said such a thing.

‘I’m just being realistic,’ I said, unable to look either of them in the eye. ‘They’re setting up more and more recruiting stations around Berlin as it is. A year from now, we’ll be eighteen, and what hope do we have then?’

‘They can set them up wherever they like,’ he said. ‘I won’t be entering any of them.’

‘Oskar!’ said Alysse.

‘But it’s true.’

‘Oskar,’ she repeated, quieter now, a note of warning in her tone.

‘What are you talking about?’ I asked.

They looked at each other and finally Alysse shrugged her shoulders. ‘You must keep this to yourself, Erich,’ she said.

‘Keep what to myself? What’s going on?’

‘We’re going to get out of here soon,’ he said. ‘We plan on living somewhere else.’

‘But where? Another part of Germany?’

‘Of course not. Away from Europe altogether.’

Alysse glanced at her watch and shook her head. ‘I should go,’ she said. ‘I have to collect my brother from school. I’ll see you later, Oskar, yes? You’re coming for dinner?’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there at six.’

‘Erich, it was nice to meet you,’ she added as she stood up and put her coat on. ‘But please talk about something else, all right? Something cheerful. It’s Oskar’s birthday, after all.’

I nodded and watched her leave.

A sound from outside made us both look out the window. Alysse had been stopped by the tall, red-haired SS guard and he was beckoning her towards him.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Oskar, frowning.

The guard said something to her and she reached into her pocket for her papers, handing them across, and he took them from her, staring at her for a long time before directing his attention to the pages themselves.

‘I’m going out there,’ said Oskar, standing up, but I grabbed his arm immediately.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Just wait. Let it play out as it will.’

He paused and we watched as the guard flicked through the papers, then removed his gloves and slowly reached up to run a finger across Alysse’s face. I could see him smiling and recognized the desire in his eyes.

‘That fucker,’ hissed Oskar, and it took all of my strength to hold him back.

‘If you march out there now, it will only cause trouble for you both,’ I told him, my lips close to his right ear. ‘Give it another minute and he’ll probably let her go.’

He relaxed a little and, as I had predicted, the guard eventually handed back her papers and she continued on her way, only turning around once to glance anxiously in our direction.

‘Well?’ I asked, when she was gone and we’d sat down again. I could tell how incensed my friend had grown; I had never seen such strong emotion on his face before. ‘What’s going on? You can’t possibly leave Germany.’

‘I have to,’ he said.

‘But why?’

‘Because of Alysse.’

‘What about her?’

He looked around nervously and, although the tables nearby were empty, he lowered his voice as he spoke. ‘I’m only telling you this because you’re my friend,’ he said. ‘You must promise not to breathe a word to anyone.’

‘You have my word,’ I said.

‘Alysse isn’t like you and me,’ he said. ‘You’ve read the Nuremberg Laws, haven’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘She’s a first-degree Mischling. She has two Jewish grandparents,’ he added for clarification. ‘And two German.’

‘But so what? The Führer himself has said that first-degree Mischlings will not be arrested.’

‘No, Erich, he’s said that they will not be arrested “at this time” but that he will decide their fate after we win the war. Which might be only months after it begins. And who knows if he will even stick to his word? He could change his mind in a moment and Alysse would be taken from me. As would her entire family. Jews are already being deported and sent to work camps. I’ve heard that some are even being shot.’

‘And because of that you’re going to abandon both your duty and the Fatherland?’

‘Don’t you ever feel,’ he asked, leaning forward now so our faces were practically touching, ‘that the Fatherland has abandoned us?’

‘No,’ I told him, retreating a little, feeling a mixture of anger, devastation and hatred. ‘No, I don’t feel that at all.’

‘You felt hatred?’ asked Maurice from a distance of some fifty years, sitting in that hotel room in New York as I told him this part of my story. His hair was lying flat on his head, dry now. His plate was empty, his knife and fork thrown to one side, and he was looking directly at me as I stared through the window at the skyline of the city. ‘But hatred towards whom?’

‘Towards Alysse, of course,’ I said, turning back to him. ‘I hated that girl with every fibre of my being. I don’t think I have ever felt such hatred for anyone, before or since. She was going to take Oskar away from me.’

‘But he loved her. And he could sense the danger that she was in.’ I shook my head. ‘I didn’t care,’ I said. ‘All I could see was the loss that I was going to suffer.’

We said nothing for a few moments and then Maurice rose, taking some clothes from his wardrobe and saying that he was going into the bathroom to change. I stood up and told him that I would see him later, perhaps for dinner. I heard the taps in the sink running as I left and noticed his satchel on the floor, lying where he had discarded it earlier. I reached down to pick it up and lay it on the bed and as I did so a book fell out and I glanced at the title.

It was the latest novel by Dash Hardy and I rolled my eyes in irritation. Why was he reading such rubbish? I asked myself. On a whim, I turned to the title page and somehow wasn’t surprised by the inscription I found there. For Maurice, it said, with my fondest love.

He had dated it too. He must have signed it earlier that morning before Maurice left his apartment.

7. Amsterdam

There was only one city left on my promotional schedule but I was in two minds about inviting Maurice to accompany me. His increasing arrogance was becoming tiresome to me but more wounding still was the knowledge that he’d established some type of connection with Dash. And yet, despite my sense of grievance, he was on my mind as much as ever and I desperately wanted to see him again, particularly since this would mark the end of our time together. So I booked his ticket and, although I received neither a phone call nor a letter in reply, he showed up at the Amstel Hotel on the appointed evening in high spirits.

My publisher had booked me a suite with a view of the canals but once again the hotel had let me down and Maurice’s more basic room was on the other side of the corridor, overlooking Professor Tulpplein. I was not as desperate for us to be next to each other any more but when he saw where I was situated he seemed so entranced by the vista that I offered to switch with him and he accepted immediately, moving his belongings into the suite while I took mine to what was known as a ‘classic room’.

Having undertaken all the usual interviews and given a reading in a city-centre bookshop, our final evening in Amsterdam was free of promotional duties and we found a cosy bar overlooking Blauwbrug Bridge, where we sat at a small table near the rear, surrounded by cushions and candlelight.

‘Our last night together,’ he said as we clinked glasses. ‘The last six months have been a great experience, Erich. I’m very grateful.’

‘Well, you’ve been a terrific help,’ I told him. ‘Not just because of your efficiency but also your companionship. I don’t know how I would have got through all these trips without you. I imagine successful novelists must have a terrible time of it.’

‘But you are a successful novelist,’ he said, laughing. ‘At least you have been since you won The Prize.’

‘I mean the very rich and famous ones,’ I said, correcting myself. ‘Those who have readers, not those who win awards.’

‘Do the two have to be mutually exclusive?’

‘In a perfect world, no. But in the real world, they generally are.’

‘I’m going to be different,’ he said, nodding confidently.

‘Oh really? In what way?’

‘I’m going to have readers and win prizes.’

‘You don’t want much, do you?’ I said, smiling a little.

‘My agent thinks I can combine commerce with art.’

I looked up, taken aback by this latest revelation. ‘Your agent?’ I said. ‘Since when have you had an agent?’

‘Didn’t I tell you? It hasn’t been long. I met her when we were in New York and she asked to read my novel.’

‘How did you even find her?’

‘Do you remember when we were in Madrid and a lunch was thrown for you in the Prado?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘The Spanish novelist seated next to me. He put me in touch with her. She’s his agent too, you see.’

I took a long sip from my glass, trying not to allow my thoughts to get the better of me. ‘And your novel,’ I asked finally. ‘You can’t have finished it already?’

‘No, but it’s almost there. I gave her a few sample chapters. She’s waiting to read the entire thing but she liked what she saw so much that she signed me up as a client.’

‘I see,’ I said, trying not to make my irritation too obvious. ‘You do realize that I have an agent too, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but you never offered an introduction.’

‘Because you hadn’t finished anything yet!’

‘Well, I suppose my friend in Madrid felt that, on the basis of what I’d already written, I had something special.’

‘How prescient of him,’ I said. ‘So when will this masterpiece be ready?’

‘Over the next couple of weeks, I hope. And there’s no need for sarcasm, Erich, it’s unbecoming in a man of your years. She hopes to start submitting it to editors in the spring.’

‘Well, I look forward to reading it,’ I said. ‘Did you bring the chapters for me?’

‘Oh no,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘No, I’m sorry but I don’t want anyone to read it until it’s published.’

‘Don’t you mean unless it’s published?’

‘No, I mean until. I choose to look on the positive side of things.’

‘I just don’t want you to feel upset if—’

‘Why aren’t you supporting me in this?’ he asked, putting his glass down and giving me a quizzical look.

‘I am,’ I said, my face flushing a little. ‘I just happen to know how unkind this business can be, that’s all, and I’d hate to see you disappointed. Some young writers have to write two or three novels before they produce one that’s good enough to find a publisher.’

‘You sound as if you’re jealous.’

‘Why on earth would I be jealous?’

‘No reason that I can think of, which is what makes your attitude so peculiar. I can’t decide whether you don’t think I’m good enough to succeed or whether you’d just prefer me to fail. I can’t be your protégé for ever, you know. Nor will I always need a mentor.’

‘That’s unkind,’ I said. ‘Surely you must know by now that I’m on your side.’

‘I’ve always assumed that you were.’

‘I am, Maurice, I am,’ I insisted, reaching across and attempting to place my hand atop his, but he pulled away from me, as if my touch might burn him. ‘Perhaps I expressed myself wrongly, that’s all,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m sure you’re right and your novel will be a great success.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, without any great enthusiasm.

‘I suppose that means you won’t be available next year?’

‘Next year?’ he asked. ‘For what?’

‘For the paperback publication of Dread. I imagine that I’ll be invited to other countries, other cities and other literary festivals. You could always join me again if you wanted to? We could see—’

‘I don’t think so, Erich,’ he said. ‘It’s probably time for me to focus on my own career now and not yours.’

‘Of course,’ I said, feeling humiliated, and as I lifted my glass I could see that my hand was shaking a little.

‘Anyway, as this is our last night together,’ he said, smiling again, looking as if he wanted to restore our equanimity, ‘then I’d like to know how things turned out between Oskar and Alysse. Did they escape Germany in time?’

‘Oh, that’s all so long ago,’ I muttered, in no mood now to return to those dark days, wishing instead that we could simply go back to the hotel and retire for the night. I felt very low, close to tears. Was I jealous? I asked myself. And if so, of what?

‘But I have to know how it ended,’ he insisted. ‘Come on, you’re a storyteller. You can’t walk away without revealing the final chapter.’

‘There’s not that much more to tell,’ I said with a sigh.

‘There must be. When we were in Madrid, you said that Oskar and Alysse had decided to leave Berlin. That she was a… what was the word you used again?’

‘A Mischling,’ I said. ‘And it wasn’t Madrid, it was New York.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’m so well travelled now that I get confused.’

I knew that I had no choice. I had got this far, after all. In the fifty years since the start of the war, those events had stayed with me, a shadow across any possibility I might have had for happiness. In fact, as I had walked to the stage on that evening in London to collect The Prize, I had thought of them both, had even imagined that I saw them seated in the audience near the front, a small boy between them, the only three people not applauding or standing in an ovation but sitting side by side, looking exactly as they did in 1939, all the time staring at me and wondering how such extraordinary success could be visited upon a man who had committed such a heinous and unforgivable act.

The fact was, there was no way that I could have permitted Oskar and Alysse to leave Berlin together. My feelings for him were too strong and in my sexual confusion I had allowed myself to become so overwhelmed that I simply could no longer think straight. I had convinced myself that if I could somehow persuade him to stay, then our friendship would transform into something more intimate. Two days after his birthday he left a note for me at my home, asking me to meet him in the late afternoon by the entrance to the Tiergarten Zoo and, as we walked back towards Maxingstraße, I begged him to reconsider his decision.

‘I can’t,’ he told me with utter certainty. ‘For heaven’s sake, Erich, you live in this city. You’ve seen what’s happening. I won’t stand by and wait for them to take Alysse away.’

‘Oh, just listen to yourself,’ I said, raising my voice in frustration. ‘They’re Jews, Oskar. I know you think that you love her but—’

‘Erich, you’re a Jew,’ he pointed out.

‘I’m not,’ I insisted. ‘Not really.’

‘If either of us needs to be worried about how things are changing here, then it should be you, not me. Anyway, it’s all been decided so there’s no point in trying to change my mind. We’re going to America, her entire family and me. That’s why I wanted to meet you this afternoon. To say goodbye.’

I stared at him, feeling a sickness build at the pit of my stomach. ‘You’ll need tickets,’ I said, when I could find my voice again.

‘Her father has them already. We’re going to take a train to Paris and travel from there to Calais. Then we’ll take the ferry across the Channel to Southampton and, in time, journey on to New York.’

‘And what will you do when you get there?’

‘I’m not sure, but Alysse’s father is a resourceful man. He knows a lot of people in the city. Perhaps we’ll start a business, I don’t know. All that matters is that we’ll be safe.’

‘And the checkpoints?’ I asked. ‘You know that you’ll never get through them, don’t you? Your papers won’t be in order.’

‘You’d be surprised the work that forgers can do these days, Erich. In this climate, they’re making a fortune.’

‘And I suppose her father paid for that too?’

‘He has a little money.’

‘Of course he does,’ I said bitterly. ‘They all do. The fucking Jews have more money than the rest of us combined. Perhaps Hitler is right in what he says. Perhaps we’ll all be better off when they disappear from Germany.’

His smile faded now a little. ‘They don’t have anything,’ he said. ‘You know as well as I do that they’ve all been shipped off to God knows where over the last year. How many Jews have you even seen on the streets in recent months? They’re all gone. It’s the same all across Europe. First degree, second degree, none of these distinctions will matter if Hitler gets his way. The Nuremberg Laws will be ripped up. The time to leave is right now.’

‘When will you go?’ I asked finally.

‘Tonight. At nightfall.’

‘But that’s too soon!’

‘We’re ready. There’s no reason for us to stay any longer. I’ll write to you when we reach England. In the meantime, we must pray that, if there is a war, Germany loses.’

Without thinking, I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into a side lane empty of people, pushing him up against the wall.

‘Don’t say things like that,’ I said. ‘If you’re overheard you will be shot.’

‘All right, Erich. Let go of me.’

‘Not until you promise not to leave. The day will come when you’ll regret this decision. You’ll realize that you deserted the Fatherland at the moment of its greatest need and hate yourself for it. And for what? For some girl?’

‘But she’s not some girl,’ said Oskar. ‘Don’t you understand that I’m in love with her?’

‘You’re seventeen years old,’ I said. ‘You’d say you were in love with a wild boar if it let you have your way with it.’

His smile faded and I could see his face grow dark. ‘Be careful, Erich,’ he warned. ‘I care about you but there’s a line that I won’t allow you to cross.’

‘You’re confusing loyalty with love, that’s what’s wrong here.’

‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘And one day, when you fall for someone, you’ll understand that.’

‘You think I don’t know what it is to be in love?’ I asked.

‘I’m not being cruel but there’s no girl in your life, is there? And there never has been. At least none that you’ve told me about, anyway.’

‘I don’t need a girl to understand love,’ I said, taking his face in my hands and pressing my lips against his. For a moment, perhaps in surprise at what I was doing, I could feel his lips part a little and a certain lack of resistance from him. But then, just as quickly as it had started, the only kiss of my life came to an end. He pulled away from me, wiping his hand across his mouth and shaking his head. I didn’t turn away. I felt no shame and looked directly at him, hoping to challenge him with my eyes just as Alysse had done when she turned in the painting and stared out at the viewer. I didn’t know what to expect next, whether he might run away from me or lash out in anger, but in fact he did neither of these things, simply looked at me with a sorrowful expression on his face and let out a disappointed sigh.

‘I suspected as much,’ he said quietly. ‘But whatever you’re hoping for, it’s not possible.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because that’s not who I am,’ he said.

‘If you tried—’

‘I don’t want to try, I’m sorry. It doesn’t interest me.’

‘But instead you’ll fuck that whore?’ I shouted, feeling humiliated now, tears streaming down my face.

‘Stop it, Erich.’

‘Well, how else would you describe her? Taking off her clothes so you can paint her like that. And that’s the girl you want to give up your life for?’

‘I’m leaving now, Erich,’ he said, turning away.

‘Don’t!’ I shouted, reaching out for him. ‘Please, I’m sorry.’

But it was too late. He was gone.

I chose not to follow him. Instead I turned and made my way back in the direction of home, a rage building inside me like none that I had ever known before, one that threatened to explode from inside my chest as I passed the Böttcher Tavern, where we would drink no more. Leaning against the wall, I caught my distorted reflection in the glass and that of the building behind me.

The offices of the Schutzstaffel.

I turned to look at them and there was the red-haired soldier standing on duty outside as always, looking bored as he watched the street, until his eyes landed on me. Without stopping to think, I marched across, pulled my papers from my inside pocket and demanded to speak to the Untersturmführer on duty.

‘What do you want?’ he asked me.

‘I have information.’

‘So tell me. I’m in charge.’

‘Not you,’ I said. ‘Someone more important. I know something. Something that your superiors will want to know.’

He raised an eyebrow and laughed, as if I were just a child. ‘Go home,’ he said. ‘Before you get yourself into trouble.’

‘I know where the Jews are,’ I hissed, leaning forward so he could surely see the rage in my eyes. ‘They hide in the sewers like rats.’

‘Go home,’ he repeated.

‘If you don’t let me speak to the Untersturmführer,’ I said, ‘I will write a letter to your superiors and by then it will be too late for them to act. And you will be blamed. I will say that you sent me away.’

He took a long time to decide but, perhaps feeling the same fear of the SS officers that everyone else felt, he led me with little graciousness inside the building, my anger only increasing as I waited. Finally, I was summoned into a small, cold room, where a tired man in a grey uniform sat before me.

‘You want to report something?’ he asked, sounding completely uninterested.

‘Jews,’ I told him. ‘An entire Jewish family. Four of them. Living not far from here. In the centre of Berlin itself.’

He smiled and shook his head. ‘There are no Jews left here,’ he told me. ‘They’ve all been removed, you must know that. And certainly a family of four would have been apprehended by now.’

‘Everyone knows that there are people in hiding,’ I said. ‘The ones you don’t even realize are Jews, with their forged papers and counterfeit documents.’

He narrowed his eyes as he stared at me.

‘And if the SS don’t know who they are, then how do you?’ he asked.

‘Because she told me herself.’

‘Who did?’

‘The girl. The daughter.’

He laughed a little. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘A lover of yours? Did she jilt you for another boy and now you’re trying to avenge yourself on her by inventing some story? Or did she just turn down your advances, was that it?’

‘It’s nothing like that,’ I said, leaning forward and allowing my fury to escape me now. ‘You think I’d fuck a Jew? Maybe that’s what you enjoy, is it? Is that why you don’t seem keen on pursuing this matter? Perhaps I shouldn’t be talking to you at all, Untersturmführer. Perhaps I should be looking for your Obersturmführer instead?

‘Tell me more about this family,’ he said finally, opening his notebook and licking the top of his pencil before starting to write.

‘I told you, there are four of them. A man and his wife, their daughter and a young boy. He’s just a child of five or six, I think. They claim to be Mischlings, second degree, so they’ve been left alone until now. But it’s not true! They’re fully Jewish, all four grandparents were Jews, and they live here in contravention of the Race Laws. But they’re worried that they will be exposed. They have money and they have papers. They plan on travelling to France and crossing the English Channel. Then onward to America.’

‘We’ll visit them tomorrow,’ he said. ‘It won’t be difficult to find out the truth.’

‘Tomorrow will be too late,’ I told him. ‘They leave tonight.’

He looked up at me sharply. ‘You know this for a fact?’ he asked. ‘They’ve pulled the wool over your eyes,’ I said, hearing a certain hysteria creep into my tone now that I seemed to be convincing him. ‘They stayed here even as you deported the others. They’ve been laughing at you as they spread their filthy Jewry before the children of the Reich and within hours they will be on their way out of the Fatherland to use their money to build an army against us.’

‘Give me their names,’ he said. ‘And their address.’

I didn’t hesitate.

A moment later he left the room and I heard the sound of soldiers assembling in the courtyard outside and realized that he was not going to return to me. Running out of the building on to the street, I saw a group of six soldiers, led by the Untersturmführer himself, pile into a jeep and watched as they drove off in the direction of Alysse’s home, a short journey of only a few minutes. I felt a moment of terror then, a sickness inside at the thought of what I’d done, but still I believed that if Alysse and her family were only sent away, then Oskar would stay in Berlin and in time he would forget her and our friendship could continue as before. Perhaps he would even miss her so much that there would be no more talk of girls ever again. Instead, there would just be the two of us.

I ran through the streets in pursuit of the jeep and, when it approached Alysse’s front door, the driver pulled in as the Untersturmführer looked towards the upstairs windows, where the shades were drawn but a low light could be seen seeping through the thin fabric. Giving a signal to his Rottenführer, the young man used the butt of his rifle and his right foot to kick the door in and the SS soldiers poured inside, roaring at the top of their voices, an insult to the peaceful dignity of the night.

It took only a few moments before the family were dragged outside and lined up on the street. I could see their neighbours peeping anxiously through their curtains, no doubt fearing that the next door to be knocked down might be theirs. Two of the soldiers guarded Alysse’s parents with their rifles while the rest ransacked the house, looking for anything incriminating. The little boy remained brave and silent while Alysse appeared terrified, shaking visibly in the coldness of the night. From where I stood, half hidden in the shade of a sidestreet, it gave me great pleasure to see her undone.

The Untersturmführer came out after a few minutes, brandishing train tickets in his hand. He waved them in the face of Alysse’s father, who protested his innocence, but it was to no avail, as an SS lorry arrived and the back doors were pulled open, ready to transport the unfortunate group to a place from which there could be no return. I began to grow anxious now, desperate for the scene to end and for them to disappear into the night.

But before the last of the passengers – the little boy – could be loaded into the lorry, I heard the sound of someone running along the street behind me and turned to see Oskar, charging towards the German soldiers with a pistol in his hand as he threw his suitcase to the side of the street. He was quick with his gun, pulling the trigger as a first soldier fell, then pulling it again as another went down. Alysse’s mother screamed and the rest of the soldiers turned as one in his direction, opening fire, a hail of noise and bright lights in the darkness of the night, and it took only a moment for him to fall too. His body collapsed close to my feet, blood pouring from his mouth and spreading from a wound in his chest across his coat, and I stared down at him, paralysed with fear, before Alysse screamed his name and leaped from the lorry to run in his direction, her younger brother following her, calling her name, as their parents cried out for them both to come back. Oskar was still alive – just – but with little time left. His breathing was failing, and she reached him just before the soldiers shot again, falling across his body with a scream, and as I stepped closer to them, the child was lifted off his feet too and fell to the ground after his sister, the back of his head blown away, his brain spilling like mud across the cobbled street. Oskar and Alysse stared up at me without emotion, their bodies jolting in trauma, and within a minute their lives had drawn to a close.

They were dead. I had killed them all.

Throughout my story, I had kept my eyes focussed on the table before me, not at Maurice. Now, however, there was nothing left to say so I lifted my head, uncertain what expression I would find on his face, but it was neutral.

‘And after that?’ he asked me, seeing that I was not going to speak again until he did.

‘After that I went home,’ I told him with a shrug. ‘I never saw Alysse’s parents again. I assume they were taken to the camps and that they died there. The next day, when I returned to that street, the bodies had been taken away and the only evidence remaining was the blood between the cobbles and on my own boots. And soon there was a war and I took part in it, and then the war ended and I came to England to read and to write. The rest of my life was peaceful until I won The Prize. And until I met you,’ I added carefully.

‘I think we should go back to the hotel,’ he said, looking away.

‘But don’t you want to talk more? To ask me anything?’

‘No,’ he said, standing up and putting his coat on. ‘I just want to sleep, that’s all. We’ve talked enough. I’ve heard all that I need to hear.’

I nodded as I rose, feeling wounded that he was not willing to comfort or condemn me. This was my story, the story that defined my life, and yet he seemed impervious to it.

In the hotel, however, alone in my room, I became upset. I had hidden these secrets inside myself for half a century and to reveal them to anyone, let alone to one who had reawakened in me a desire that had lain dormant for decades, was so overwhelming that I knew I would not sleep. I paced in my room for a long time before crossing the corridor towards his suite, knocking cautiously on the door. When he opened it, his shirt unbuttoned, his feet bare, he seemed both surprised and irritated to find me there.

‘What?’ he asked. ‘It’s late. What do you want?’

‘I thought perhaps we might talk,’ I said.

‘I don’t think so, no.’

I pressed forward, trying to get through the door, but he held out a hand and placed it firmly against my chest.

‘Please,’ I said. ‘I had an idea, that’s all.’

‘So tell me your idea.’

I hesitated. I didn’t want to speak of it out here in the corridor but it was clear that he was not going to let me inside. ‘You know I return to Cambridge tomorrow?’ I said.

‘Yes, of course. What of it?’

‘It’s a very good place to write.’

‘So do some writing.’

‘I thought you might like to join me there, perhaps. I daresay I could find you rooms—’

‘I’m not interested in living in Cambridge,’ he said. ‘Don’t you ever think, Erich, that perhaps you’ve seen me as you wanted me to be and not as who I am?’

I frowned, unwilling even to consider this as a possibility. ‘You might like to read for a degree there,’ I continued. ‘Even if you don’t have the necessary school results, I’m sure—’

‘Erich, I said I don’t want to live there.’

‘But it’s such a beautiful city. Sometimes I’ve thought it might be nice to buy a house,’ I added, making up new ideas as I went along. ‘You could have a room there,’ I added, unable to look him in the eye now but staring down at the floor. ‘A room of your own, of course. And as I have no children, then someday—’

‘I’m tired, Erich,’ he said. ‘I’m going to bed.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said, turning away, my voice barely audible in my distress. ‘It was a foolish idea.’

I began to make my way down the corridor towards my room but his voice calling out to me made me turn around.

‘What was his name?’ he shouted.

‘What?’ I asked, confused by his question. ‘What was whose name?’

‘The boy. Alysse’s younger brother. Do you remember his name, or was his life as meaningless to you as hers? What was his name, Erich?’

I stared at him, swallowing hard. I looked around me, at the carpet, the paintings, the lampshades, hoping for inspiration, but nothing came to mind. I turned back to him and shook my head.

‘I don’t remember,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure that I ever even knew.’

He smiled at me, shook his head, and then he was gone.

The following morning, when I came downstairs with my suitcase, I enquired after him and the receptionist told me that he had checked out an hour earlier.

He had left no message for me.

8. West Berlin

True to his ambitions, Maurice’s debut novel was published the following year to both positive reviews and strong sales and, in his first interviews, he revealed that his central character, a young homosexual falling in love with his best friend in pre-war Berlin, was based on me.

‘All of Ernst’s actions in my novel come from stories that Erich Ackermann told me about his own life,’ he repeated time and again on television, on radio and in the newspapers. ‘Although I’ve invented some characters and amalgamated others to serve the story, the basic facts remain true. Having been a great admirer of Herr Ackermann’s work since my teenage years, I was naturally shocked by some of the things he revealed to me about his past, but while no decent human being could condone his behaviour, whatever he did fifty years ago does not detract from the power of his fiction. He remains a very impressive writer.’

The first I knew of any of this was during a lecture I was giving at Cambridge on Thomas Hardy. It was one that I had given many times in the past and I was interrupted halfway through when the door swung open to reveal a cameraman and a young news reporter who stormed towards the lectern without introduction to ask the question that I had been expecting for most of my adult life:

‘Professor Ackermann, do you have any reaction to claims by the novelist Maurice Swift that you wilfully sent two Jews to their deaths in the Nazi death camps in 1939 by reporting them to the SS, and also provided information that led to the murder of two other young people on the same night?’

The silence that filled the hall seemed to go on for a terribly long time. For me, it was like time itself had stood still. I looked down at my notes with a half-smile, and it was difficult not to feel the finality of the moment as I shuffled my papers and returned them to my satchel, glancing around the lecture theatre in the certain knowledge that I would never speak from that or any other dais again. Looking out at my students, I saw them staring back at me in a mixture of disbelief and confusion and my eyes settled on a girl whose hand was covering her mouth in shock. She was a mediocre student and I had recently given her a low grade for one of her essays, and I knew immediately that she would take pleasure in my downfall, revelling in the fact that she had been present to witness it. I was there, she would tell her friends. I was there when they confronted the old Nazi and told him they knew all the things he’d done. I wasn’t surprised. I could always tell that he was hiding something. He broke down and cried. He started screaming. It was horrible to watch.

‘In fact, it was three young people who were shot that night,’ I said to the reporter, stepping off the stage and making my way towards the door without undue haste. ‘Although you’re correct that two were sent to the camps. So the number of deaths on my conscience is actually five.’

Events moved quickly after that. Perhaps if I had not won The Prize, the newspapers would not have taken as much interest in me but of course I had acquired some small measure of celebrity that was pure oxygen to the fire of publicity that followed. Also, it was 1989 and the last of the war criminals were still being discovered in places as far removed as South America, Australia and Africa. To add the name of a small provincial English university town to that list provided a scandal that the columnists could live off for months. As a writer, I could hardly blame them for drawing as much blood from the story as possible.

The authorities at Cambridge suspended me immediately, issuing a press statement to the effect that they had known nothing of my wartime activities and had taken me at my word that I had engaged in no criminal behaviour during the Nazi era. They summoned me to an emergency meeting but I declined the invitation, as perhaps I should have declined all invitations over the previous year, and offered my resignation instead by letter, which they gratefully accepted by return of post.

Bookshops across the world removed my novels from their shelves, although the organizers of The Prize itself refused, in the face of staunch criticism, to rescind my award, saying that it had been given to a book, not to an author, and that Dread remained a sublime work, regardless of the monstrous actions of its creator. In response to this a great number of writers boycotted The Prize that year, refusing to enter their books, and only when the fuss died down did they seek the approbation of a small glass trophy and a sizeable cheque once again. A film adaptation of Dread, scheduled to begin shooting two months later, was promptly cancelled, while representatives from my publishing house – a company with whom I had worked since my debut novel appeared in 1953 – contacted me to say that in the light of recent events they felt they could no longer offer the level of support to my writing that they had done in the past. I was released from my contract with immediate effect, they added, and my six novels would soon be allowed to fall out of print. (They made no mention of my ill-advised collection of poetry, although I can only assume that this was an oversight on their part.) So my work was to be obliterated, my contribution to literature over half a century expunged from the record as if I had never once put pen to paper. And I accepted all of this without rancour. What, after all, could I possibly have said to justify myself?

It took me some time to move my belongings from my rooms. There was a lifetime’s worth of books there, not to mention decades of correspondence and papers to organize, and to my great dismay some five hundred students, many of whom I knew personally and with whom I had formed what I’d believed to be friendly connections, paraded through the streets while I remained in situ. They held banners with my picture in the centre, a Hitler moustache drawn above my upper lip and a red line slashed through my face. Nazis out! they cried. Nazis out! A stone was thrown through my window and the culprit, an undergraduate in the history department, was suspended from classes for three weeks. A petition was delivered for his reinstatement and he acquired heroic status among his peers, even appearing on an episode of Newsnight to defend his actions. Oh, how the young people delighted in their outrage!

Most of the major newspapers and media organizations contacted me directly with requests for interviews – my agent had stopped representing me, of course, so their invitations came by phone to the college porter – offering ridiculous amounts of money in exchange for putting what they termed as ‘my side of the story’ in the public domain, but I declined every bid, making it clear that I had nothing to say in my defence. I committed the acts of which I am accused, I told them. I am guilty as charged. What more do you want from me?

I chose not to read Maurice’s novel at first but then one afternoon, as I was making my way through Heathrow Airport for the last time, I saw it displayed in considerable numbers at the front of a bookshop:

I thought it a lazy title and, had I been in his position, might have gone for something a little more sensational, but I picked it up nevertheless and glanced at the endorsements on the back cover. Naturally, both Dash Hardy and the Spanish novelist had offered glowing praise for the book.

I did, however, eventually read it over the course of a single afternoon. It had many flaws. For a start, it was too long. Over three hundred and fifty pages for a story that could have been told in half that amount. There were an extraordinary number of anachronisms, place names that didn’t exist at the time, and some of the prose was unnecessarily purple. I had warned him about this in the past. Just say what you have to say, I had told him, and then move on and say something else. Sometimes, after all, the sky is just blue.

But then I recalled something else I had told him in Copenhagen and felt rather proud that he had taken me at my word. Everyone has secrets, I had remarked. There’s something in all our pasts that we wouldn’t want to be revealed. And that’s where you’ll find your story. He must have scribbled that down in his ubiquitous notebook and, when a story began to be revealed to him, he knew exactly what to do with it. I had, quite literally, been the author of my own misfortune.

A photograph of Maurice appeared on the inside jacket and he looked a lot more adult than before. Gone were the checked shirts, blue jeans and stubble; now he wore an elegant suit with an open-necked white shirt and a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses. The great mess of dark hair had been tamed too for a more mature look. The photographer’s name, I noticed, was Clémence Charbonneau, and I wondered about that. Was this the friend he had met in Paris who had photographed him nude?

It took quite some time for me to have an emotional response to my relationship with Maurice but it happened at last after I had returned to West Berlin, where I rented a small apartment at the top of a building quite near what had once been the Böttcher Tavern but was now a supermarket. It was in this flat that I had chosen to spend whatever remained of my life, close to the happy memories of my childhood. I was sorting through some paperwork one evening and happened to come across the receipts for the air and train fares that I had purchased for him over the course of our time together. Copenhagen, Rome, Madrid, Paris, New York and Amsterdam. The cities where we had talked, where I had revealed so much about myself, and where I had behaved foolishly in the hope that this manipulative boy would fall in love with me. I broke down as I threw them in the wastepaper basket, wondering whether the pain that he had inflicted, the heartless manoeuvring and theft of my life story, had been worth it to him. And as I sat there weeping, I thought of Oskar, Alysse, her younger brother and the rest of her family and felt that my heart was ready to give way with grief and guilt. What right had I, I asked myself, to feel aggrieved over Maurice’s actions? All he had done was take my memories and turn them into a bestseller that would be forgotten in time. How could I possibly compare his crimes to my own?

I saw him once more.

It was a few months after I’d moved back to West Berlin and by then his novel had not only been translated into German – ironically, by the same publisher who had once produced my own books – but had become an enormous success, the biggest of the season, and I saw an advertisement in a newspaper for a reading and public interview that he was due to give at the Literaturhaus. I debated whether or not to go but, on the evening itself, my feet took me there as if by their own design. I adopted a slight disguise in case anyone present might recognize me, a pair of old glasses that I had no real use for and a hat. Plus, I had recently grown a beard and moustache, and had aged considerably.

An enormous crowd had gathered for the event and I took a seat towards the back, flicking through a brochure from the bookshop advertising their new titles. There was a flurry of applause when Maurice made his way towards the platform and, to my astonishment, I recognized the man who accompanied him and took to the microphone first. It was the same disgruntled actor who had been unwilling to read my chosen excerpt from Dread all that time ago; he had been hired once again for this evening and must have been happier with Maurice’s selection than he had been with mine for he read with great spirit, receiving a hearty round of applause from the audience when he had finished. Afterwards, as Maurice proceeded to answer questions posed by a journalist on stage, it struck me how confident he was up there, how knowledgeable in his literary allusions and witty in his self-deprecating remarks. He was a natural, I realized, and would surely be a great success for the rest of his life. His writing would improve and the media would embrace him with open arms. I felt certain that his future was guaranteed.

When audience members asked about me he answered them honestly and said nothing that was either slanderous or untrue. He did not try to denigrate me and continued to maintain that while his book was a work of fiction based on fact, this did not take away from the novels that I had written over the course of my life.

‘I do not believe that Erich Ackermann was an evil man,’ he remarked at one point with a shrug. ‘Just a misguided one. What you might call a fool in love. But a fool in love at a very dangerous time.’

I rolled my eyes at this. It sounded like something he’d said a hundred times before, a piece of bland fortune-cookie wisdom that he knew would lead the audience to nod wisely and consider him both forgiving and charmingly naïve. When the event ended he stood up, revelling in the applause, and a queue formed for his signature. I was uncertain at first whether to join it but finally took a German-language edition from the pile and took my place at the back. He barely glanced up when it was my turn, asking, ‘Would you like me to put your name on this?’ but then he caught my eye and what else could I do but smile at him? He had the good grace to blush as I turned the book to the title page, shook my head and said, ‘Just a signature, please,’ which he offered with a trembling hand, watching in some surprise as I walked away. I felt a certain victory over him at that moment, although for the life of me I don’t understand why, as I had achieved nothing of consequence.

Soon, life returned to normal and the media found someone else to persecute. I had saved my money well over the years and, coupled with the royalties I had made from the sales of Dread, not to mention the financial compensation that had come with The Prize, I knew that I could survive comfortably for the rest of my life, which, I guessed, would only be a year or two longer at most. I could feel it slipping away from me already. My spirit was gone. I would write no more. And without writing, without teaching, there was really nothing left for me.

And then, one evening, the wall came down.

It was November 1989 and I was at home when the reports began to filter through over the radio that the German Democratic Republic had finally reopened its borders after more than forty years of closure. Within the hour the streets below my apartment window were filled with people and I had a perfect view of the crowds as they marched along, calling up to the guards standing on the watch-towers. I watched with a mixture of dread and excitement and then, just as I was about to turn away and retire to bed, I noticed a young boy of about sixteen, beautiful and dark-haired, filled with the exhilaration of youth, rising up unsteadily on the shoulders of his friends, his hands reaching out to grip the top of the wall as he pulled himself up to stand on it, his arms raised in the air in triumph now as the people cheered him on. A moment later he turned around for his first view of the East and someone there must have caught his eye for he reached down in turn, holding out his hand to help a boy from the other side, the same age as him, who had also scaled the wall in an attempt to reach the summit.

I watched closely, my face pressed against the window, waiting for their fingers to touch.

Interlude The Swallow’s Nest

Howard had gone into the village to buy peaches and Gore sat alone on the crescent terrace overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea wearing linen trousers, a white, open-necked shirt and a pair of scarlet slippers crafted for him by Gianni Versace and handed over with great ceremony when the designer had come to stay a few months earlier. There was something faintly papal about the footwear that appealed to Gore’s dual passions: history and power. He had only ever met two popes – Montini and Wojtyła – and they’d both appeared overwhelmed by a sense of their own destinies, although his grandfather had once told an amusing story about an evening he’d spent in the company of Pacelli, which had turned sour only when the burdensome subjects of Judaism and the Reich had been raised.

On the table before him was a cappuccino, a pair of binoculars, a Fabriano notebook, a Caran d’Ache pen, the galleys of his new novel and two books. The first was the latest work by Dash Hardy, which he’d read a few weeks earlier and despised for its insipid prose and the author’s reluctance to describe basic anatomy. The second had been sent to him a month earlier but he hadn’t got around to it yet. He supposed that he should at least have given it a cursory glance since its author, a young man whose features were not offensive to the eye, was due to arrive later that morning with Dash to spend the night at La Rondinaia.

But it was impossible to keep up with the multitude of books that arrived, unsolicited, day after day, week after week, month after month, an endless haul that had caused Ampelio, their mail carrier of many years, to write an outraged letter of complaint, citing back injuries from scaling the steps with so many packages. Fortunately, Ampelio had recently relocated north along the Amalfi Coast towards Salerno and been replaced by a lithe, brown-legged nineteen-year-old aptly named Egidio – young goat – whose hare-lip offered him an erotic appeal that otherwise would have left his face beautiful but unremarkable. Egidio, who revelled in the athleticism of his youth, fairly bounded up and down those brutal steps with what could only be described as gay abandon and no further complaints had been issued, but as much as Gore welcomed the boy’s daily appearances and cheerful greetings, he wished that the parcels would become a little less numerous. Over the last couple of years, he’d transported most of his own books, the ones he actually wanted to surround himself with, from Rome but they took up so much space in the villa that he sometimes felt a little claustrophobic, although Howard, peaceful Howard, never complained. Would there be no end to publishing? he wondered. Perhaps it would be a good idea if everyone just stopped writing for a couple of years and allowed readers to catch up.

Gore had known Dash for decades and although he liked him well enough he knew that he was essentially a hack with a modicum of talent who’d managed to sustain a career by taking care never to offend the middle-aged ladies and closeted homosexuals who made up the bulk of his readership. His books were efficiently written but so painfully innocuous that even President Reagan had taken one on holiday to California with him towards the end of his bewildering reign and declared it to be a masterful depiction of American steelworkers, unaware that the steelworkers in question were laying their pipes with each other in the gaps between the lines. Gore liked to think that Nancy – who had been such fun in the old days, before she sold her soul to the Republicans – knew what was really going on there but had declined to tell her beloved Ronnie for fear of destroying his innocence.

The two writers had first met at a queer club in the West Village in the 1950s. Gore had already published a few novels, pirouetting across the scandal caused by The City and the Pillar with the grace of a young Margot Fonteyn, and his reputation was more firmly established than those of most men of his age. He trotted around parties hand in hand with Kennedys, Astors and Rockefellers, with Tennessee and Jimmy Dean, and invariably left some remark in his wake for the guests to gossip over the following morning. It wasn’t uncommon for a boy to approach him at one of these gatherings, offering his cock or his ass in exchange for an entrée into the world of the privileged, but Gore preferred not to indulge in such base transactions. We can fuck, if you want, he would tell them if they were cute enough, but don’t expect anything more from me than an orgasm. Not that he liked fucking, or being fucked. He’d tried it a few times but it wasn’t really for him. He was a man of much simpler tastes. A hand-job was pleasure enough. A little frottage, perhaps. And as much as he admired the Roman emperors he’d never been interested in emulating any of their more lurid escapades.

On this particular evening, however, he’d noticed the young man staring at him from across the room but, as he resembled nothing more than the love-child of Charles Laughton and Margaret Rutherford, he’d done nothing to encourage his interest. Gore had been sitting with Elizabeth and Monty, but they’d left early when he said something that made poor Monty cry, and he’d been thinking of going home alone when the young man – Dash – came over and sat down at his table with a sailor, introducing himself as the author of a debut novel due to be published that fall.

‘How thrilling for you,’ he’d muttered, scarcely taking the writer in but enjoying his view of the sailor, who looked at him with the type of smile that made it clear he had only to say the word and they could run the Jolly Roger up the flagpole together. ‘But don’t tell me anything about it, dear boy. Otherwise it will spoil the joy of reading it.’

Dash had looked crestfallen. He’d clearly wanted to recite the entire story from beginning to end and for Gore to tell him how wonderful it sounded. The sailor, perhaps having already spent too long as an uninterested audience, stood up and walked towards the bar to buy three banana daiquiris and, while he was gone, Dash told Gore how much he respected his work, offering him a blow job in gratitude in the men’s room, a proposal that Gore politely declined. It wasn’t just that he was saving himself for the sailor later, there was also the fact that the image of this boy on his knees, his fat lips wrapped around his cock, was repulsive to him.

‘But you’re very kind to offer,’ he added, not wishing to appear rude.

‘Oh, it’s my pleasure,’ said Dash. ‘I’d do the same for anyone.’

‘And how do you know… what’s his name, anyway? Anchors Aweigh over there.’

‘Gene,’ replied Dash, glancing towards the bar, where the boy was busy fending off the advances of a much older man who seemed keen to squeeze his buttocks. The sailor’s Dixie Cup was cocked to the side of his head in a coquettish fashion, revealing neat blond curls that reminded Gore of the boy he’d loved in St Albans before the war.

‘Gene,’ he repeated quietly. ‘Like Gene Kelly. Appropriate, I suppose. Although my own father was also named Gene and he bowed to no man in his admiration for the cunt.’

‘Have you ever visited?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Gore with a shudder. ‘And you?’

‘Once,’ admitted Dash. ‘My mother wanted me to marry one Clara Day-Whitley, a debutante from Maryland, and in a moment of weakness, fearing for my inheritance, I agreed to do so. Only Clara insisted that we do the vile deed before she made her mind up as, in her words, she didn’t want to be stuck with Floppy Joe for the rest of her life. In retrospect, I think she was a nymphomaniac. She couldn’t keep her hands off me. Anyway, I agreed to her terms and we went to bed together one Saturday afternoon while her parents were at a meeting of the Rotary Club. I’m not a bad actor but it didn’t take long for her to realize that she was being sold a bill of goods.’

‘Your mother must have been devastated.’

‘She was.’

‘Did you tell her the truth subsequently?’

‘Oh no, I couldn’t do that. It would have brought on one of her hearts. She’s still keeping an eye out for a suitable wife for me but I’m hopeful there’ll be no further developments on that score.’

‘And your novel?’ asked Gore. ‘Is it a romance?’

‘Of sorts. A young man meets a girl who—’

‘Yes, yes. I daresay you’ll send me a copy. I promise I’ll read it.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course. I’m moist with anticipation,’ he added, writing his address on the back of a napkin and passing it across. He suspected that Dash would frame it and keep it for ever although on this point he was wrong for when Dash returned home that night – alone, for Gore had indeed left with the sailor and Dash had been happy to give the boy up to him – he copied it into his address book, before crumpling the napkin up and throwing it in the wastepaper basket like a normal human being.

When the novel arrived a few weeks later, Gore had been true to his word and, to his surprise, had rather admired it, writing to Dash to tell him so. From an unpromising beginning, a friendship of sorts had developed and they saw each other whenever they were in the same city or travelling nearby. For many years, Gore had dutifully read each of his books as they were published and, although he felt that Dash had diminished as a writer, he found that he liked him more as a person. Perhaps that was the generosity of age, he reasoned. Dash could be a fool, at times, but he was never disagreeable. He didn’t have the tendency towards spite or envy that Gore had, although he’d been hurt many times over the years, always by young men who’d used him for his connections before disposing of him like yesterday’s newspapers. Dash had no Howard, he’d never had a Howard, and his life would have been improved immeasurably by one. But then, as Gore knew, Dash didn’t want a Howard and wouldn’t have accepted one. He wanted, for want of a better word, a Howie. A kid just out of college with a pretty face, tight abs and ass cheeks that could crack a walnut. Well, he’d liked that sort of thing himself once upon a time and still did, occasionally, when the boys from the nearby villages came up to the Swallow’s Nest for parties, but in truth he’d grown less and less interested in carnal pleasures with the passing of the years. Sure, if it was there for the taking and there were no complications attached, then why not? But not if he had to put any particular effort into the seduction.

The sound of voices distracted him and he noticed a small sailboat in the distance and three – no, four; there was one in the ocean – boys diving from the deck into the dark blue water. They were young, no more than fifteen, with brown bodies and energy to burn. He reached for his binoculars and put them to his eyes, watching as each one dived, swam and returned to the boat to ascend the ladder and start all over again. He recognized one of them as Alessandro, defender of mankind, the son of the woman who came twice weekly to clean La Rondinaia, and thought the second was Dante, a boy who helped out at his father’s art gallery on weekends. Gore rather liked Dante. He’d once observed him fucking his girlfriend behind the church of Santa Trofimena, his buttocks moving back and forth with a machine-like efficiency as he pressed her against the wall; he’d yelped like a startled dog when he came. The other boys he didn’t know and they weren’t much to look at so he put the binoculars down again and finished his coffee.

They would be here soon, he knew, glancing at his watch. A part of him was looking forward to seeing his old friend again and discovering whether his latest acquisition was as handsome in the flesh as he appeared in his author photograph. The other part wished that this had all taken place the week before and was now a fading memory. The truth was, he would have preferred to spend the day reading and writing, with the promise of a few cocktails on the terrace with Howard later to sustain him through the sunshine. Easy conversation. No need to be on. But Dash had written to say they’d be passing through the Amalfi and hoped that it wouldn’t be too much trouble if they spent the night, and Gore, who’d been in an uncommonly good mood that morning as he’d had an amusing conversation with a shirtless Egidio, had replied to say that of course they must stay, that he’d be offended if they didn’t, and Dash had subsequently sent a telegram, which was quaint, to say: THERE ON 11TH STOP CANT WAIT STOP LOVE TO HOWARD STOP

Perhaps an hour later, having worked his way through a few dozen pages of his galleys, he watched as a car began to ascend the hill and let out a deep sigh. He had ten more minutes before they would reach the top, when they would inevitably ring the doorbell and Cassiopeia would call down to say that his guests had arrived.

He looked out into the sea again, reaching for his binoculars, but while the sailboat was still in situ there was no sign of the young swimmers. Perhaps they’d all drowned, he thought, realizing that he didn’t care very much if they had. The bodies would wash up on to the rocks eventually, after all, and their mothers would have the time of their lives screaming through the streets, pulling their hair out and ripping their clothes as they grieved publicly for their lost heroes.

As it turned out, the boy was even better-looking in person than he was in his author photograph, but there was something about his character that made Gore immediately suspicious. He’d been beautiful himself once, of course, and knew the power that handsome boys could wield over ageing homosexuals, men who longed not only for the feel of their young skin but for the delusional sensation that they too remained objets du désir, despite wrinkled faces, varicose veins and hair that sprouted from ears and nose. There were boys in the village who flattered both Gore and Howard with their attentions when they discovered them sitting alone at local cafés, scanning the pages of a two-day-old New York Times, and he indulged them occasionally, enjoying their smiles, their white teeth and the way they reached under their T-shirts to scratch their flat stomachs, revealing a treasure trail of dark hairs that ran from navel to groin. He never paid for a boy, he hadn’t done so in years, but when he was going he would always leave a tip for the waiter and another for the youth, who would sweep the money up quickly in his brown hands and say, Grazie, grande uomo, before scampering back to his friends to say that fifteen minutes of conversation with the famous writer from La Rondinaia could earn you enough lire to take a girl to the movies that night and buy her a gelato e espresso afterwards.

From the moment he arrived on the terrace, it was obvious to Gore that the young man had put a lot of work into his appearance from the simple fact that he looked as if he’d just fallen out of bed. His dark hair was neatly cut, hanging low enough over his forehead that he was forced to brush it back time and again with his fingers. He wore an expensive white shirt, carefully crumpled, and a pair of navy shorts that reached just below the knee, revealing strong calves and pleasingly hirsute legs. A pair of espadrilles and the type of sunglasses that Marcello Mastroianni had worn in La Dolce Vita completed the look while a light breeze carried an appealing scent in Gore’s direction, a mixture of cheap soap, shampoo, bedsheets and boyish sweat.

Dash, poor defenceless Dash, was obviously besotted, placing metaphorical palm leaves before the boy’s feet as he wandered around the terrace, taking in the view. But where Jesus had approached Jerusalem weeping aloud for the suffering that awaited the city upon the destruction of the Second Temple, Gore lamented quietly, his heart grieving for the pain that this young man would inevitably cause his friend.

‘It’s stunning,’ said Maurice, lifting a hand to his forehead to keep the sun from his eyes as he looked across the water. ‘And these cliffs,’ he added, leaning over and peering forwards at the steep rock face. ‘To live surrounded by such beauty… I can scarcely imagine it.’

‘The Greeks,’ said Gore, walking over to join him and waving a hand in the direction of the stone, ‘believed that these cliffs housed the four winds maintained as familiars by Aeolus.’

‘Aeolus?’ asked Maurice, turning to his host, who was momentarily caught off guard by the boy’s blue eyes, which matched the colour of the water below. ‘Poseidon’s son?’

‘No, but that’s a common mistake,’ replied Gore, shaking his head. ‘Different Aeolus, perhaps not quite as well known. This Aeolus, my Aeolus, was the son of a mortal king, Hippotes. You’ve read The Odyssey?’

‘Of course.’

‘Recall, then, the scene where Odysseus and his crew arrive on the island of Aeolia having fled the Grotto of Polyphemus. Aeolus delivers them a west wind to speed their journey back to Ithaca but, as they approach their homeland at last, the foolish sailors open the ox-hide bag that Aeolus has given them containing all the winds of the world save the west wind. They are blown back then to their benefactor, who determines that the gods are opposed to their return. I have some nice editions of Homer in my library upstairs. I’ll show you if you like.’

‘I’d like that very much.’

‘Maurice is a compulsive reader,’ said Dash, coming over to join them, standing to the boy’s right, so close to him, in fact, that Gore realized he was making a declaration of ownership. He returned to the table, irritated that his friend was so possessive of a prize that, like the work of a mediocre painter, might look good on an initial viewing but would eventually reveal itself to be holding little of substance beneath the brushstrokes.

‘Well, what else is there to do?’ asked Gore. ‘Although I must admit there are times when I think that I should only read the work of dead writers. I’m not sure that the living have very much to say any more.’

‘I can’t agree with that,’ said Maurice defiantly, strolling away from Dash and taking a seat opposite Gore. ‘I find that it’s only bitter and disappointed old men who say such things. They want to believe that literature will come to an end when they’re six feet underground.’

‘Charming,’ said Gore, impressed by how the boy held his ground. So many others just gave in instantly, frightened of incurring his tongue. ‘You’ve only been here a few minutes and you’re already insulting me.’

‘I didn’t mean you, of course,’ said Maurice, flushing a little, and Gore realized that, yes, it was possible to discomfit the boy. It didn’t take very much work at all, in fact. ‘It’s just that, when you’re a young writer, it can be hard for one to be taken seriously.’

‘It’s the same for old writers,’ said Gore with a shrug. ‘They think I’ve already said everything I have to say because I’m too old. If only we could all remain middle-aged for ever, then they would carve our every sentence into stone.’

‘I don’t want to wait that long, Gore,’ said Maurice, who, Gore noted, had not been invited to use his given name but was apparently not planning to stand on ceremony.

‘Come with me, Mr Swift,’ said Gore, smiling, and then, perhaps aware that his own teeth did not equal the dazzling brilliance of his young companion’s, stopped. He pointed towards the staircase that led into the villa proper. ‘Let me show you my library. Dash, you stay down here and relax, I insist upon it. Your face is quite flushed and I’ll be damned if I’m going to be calling any ambulances to collect you later.’

Upstairs, Gore led the way through the large, airy rooms into the one he had designated for his books and Maurice entered, looking around with appreciable awe as he moved towards the stacks.

‘It’s like a church,’ he whispered.

‘A cathedral,’ said Gore, who took great pleasure in showing his collection to true aesthetes, and whatever else he might be, it seemed clear from the look on Maurice’s face that he was a believer, a young man who felt more comfortable around books than people.

‘I could live here,’ said Maurice.

‘I’d have to charge you rent.’

‘Oh, you never know,’ replied the boy, turning around and smiling at him. ‘Maybe you’d just take pity on me and make me your ward.’

‘We’re not living in a Victorian novel,’ said Gore. Was it any wonder that Dash was completely under his spell? He had an answer for everything and was willing to flirt to assert his dominance.

‘You know, the last person to set foot in here was Henry Kissinger,’ said Gore, recovering himself slightly as the boy turned away to scan the shelves, hands held behind his back as if he didn’t want to leave finger-marks on anything. His lips moved a little as he read the names of the authors and titles under his breath. ‘He visited just a few weeks ago and stayed the night. I found him in here at five o’clock in the morning, reading Polybius, The Rise of the Roman Empire. He’d still be here right now if his Secret Service detail hadn’t insisted that it was time to go.’

The boy turned around and smiled but remained silent, his expression asking, Are you trying to impress me with such shameless name-dropping? Gore could name-drop all night, after all, if he had to. He’d known everyone worth knowing and still did. Even now he was almost sixty-five, people came to La Rondinaia on pilgrimages. Politicians, actors, musicians, film-makers, novelists. The Jameses and the Forsters, he called them. The former being his American visitors, the latter being his English. They all romanticized Italy and moved in circles wealthy enough that they could ignore the squalor. They loved the Amalfi Coast for its privacy and it went without saying that they all adored, and feared, Gore.

‘I have something over here that might interest you,’ he said, reminded now by these thoughts of a particular treasure and strolling over to a wall where two piles of books were separated by a small Picasso that took pride of place in the centre. It took him only a moment to find the one he wanted. ‘It’s a first edition. You’ve probably read it.’

‘Maurice,’ said Maurice, flipping it from front cover to back and running his finger along the lettering before opening it to the frontispiece. ‘Yes, I’ve read it. I love Forster. It’s signed and dedicated to you,’ he added, a look of wonderment spreading across his face now as he looked up. ‘You met him, then?’

‘Several times,’ replied Gore, retrieving both the book and his authority as he opened the volume at a random page, reading aloud the first lines upon which his eyes fell: ‘With the crudity of youth he drew his mother apart and said that he should always respect her religious prejudices and those of the girls, but that his own conscience permitted him to attend church no longer. She said it was a great misfortune. Mothers,’ he added. ‘My own mother, Nina, started off as an actress, you know. But then she forswore that career to become an alcoholic, a slut and a certifiable lunatic. I don’t know why she couldn’t have done both. Historically, the two careers have not proved mutually exclusive.’

‘You’ve said that before, haven’t you?’ asked Maurice, smiling. ‘It sounds rehearsed.’

‘No,’ said Gore, shocked by such a brazen remark. Who on earth did this boy think he was?

‘What was he like, anyway?’ asked Maurice.

‘What was who like?’

‘Forster.’

Gore hesitated before answering. He felt a sudden desire to anger-fuck the boy, then toss him over the cliffs into the sea below, to watch as his body bounced off the rocks and his bones smashed into a thousand pieces. ‘Prissy,’ he said finally, somehow managing to quell his growing temper and sense of discombobulation. ‘Mannered. Officious. If the gods had descended from Mount Olympus and used a pitiless blend of blood, bone and skin to craft a creature best suited for spending its days cloistered behind the walls of King’s College, Cambridge, then that creature would surely have gone by the name of Morgan. He could barely function in the real world. I daresay he started to tremble and perspire whenever he popped down to his local supermarket to buy toilet paper. Actually, it’s rather hard to imagine Morgan using toilet paper, isn’t it? One rather suspects that he was too prudish to engage in such a human act as excretion. Where’s Morgan? Oh, he went off to take his morning shit. No, I can’t imagine it at all. Anyway.’

He looked over at Maurice, hoping for a laugh, but the boy simply nodded, which irritated him. He’d thought all of that was rather good and deserved a little more appreciation. It was good form, after all, to laugh at the jokes of one’s betters. The Queen’s eldest boy, that otter-like cuckold breathlessly longing for his own ascension, had come to dinner one evening the previous year and Gore had laughed at all his jokes, despite the fact that the man was about as humorous as a member of the Sonderkommando. He’d barely eaten, he remembered that about him too, pushing a very good piece of fish around his plate as if he were searching for a piece of broccoli under which to hide it.

‘I don’t suppose your parents named you for him, did they?’ he asked, returning the book to its allotted place on the shelf.

‘No,’ replied Maurice, shaking his head. ‘No, they weren’t readers. I doubt they’d ever even heard of Forster.’

‘That’s a Yorkshire tone to your voice, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘But you’re trying to shake it off by doing a poor impression of an announcer from the BBC World Service.’

‘I’m not trying to shake anything off,’ said Maurice. ‘But yes, I’m from Harrogate. Although I’ve spoken this way since I was a child.’

‘You’ve wanted it that long, then?’ said Gore quietly, and the question might have been a rhetorical one.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I wonder what else I can show you that you might appreciate.’

He turned and walked around the library, looking for something appropriately impressive. ‘What were you reading on your journey here, by the way?’ he asked.

‘Dash’s new novel. He gave it to me when we met at Heathrow. I already had something in my bag that I’d been looking forward to but I had to set it aside.’

‘How incredibly crass. Do you mean to tell me that you sat on a flight next to each other – I’m assuming you sat next to each other – and were forced to read his book while he watched you turn the pages? And then on the train from Rome too?’

‘Yes,’ said Maurice.

‘Pathetic behaviour,’ said Gore dismissively. ‘It reminds me of an occasion when I agreed to meet another novelist for dinner in Cologne, a mediocre hack if I’m honest. He deliberately kept me waiting in the lobby of his hotel, possibly to assert some sort of dominance over me, and when he finally deigned to appear he was carrying a book with him, one of his own, and he claimed he’d been re-reading it on the flight. What an ass, I thought. Still, I suppose someone had to read the damned thing. It’s not as if the general public took to it.’

He waited for Maurice to ask who the novelist had been and, when the question didn’t arrive, he felt a mixture of disappointment and frustration.

‘What did you think of it, anyway?’ he asked. ‘Dash’s book, I mean.’

‘It’s not one of his better ones,’ replied Maurice quickly. ‘I still have three hundred pages to go too. I’d give up if it weren’t for the fact that he’ll want a full report later.’

Gore smiled and tapped his finger on the desk. Interesting, he thought. How easily the boy mocks his benefactor.

‘I should have asked,’ he said. ‘What was the book you were intending to read?’

‘Myra Breckinridge,’ said Maurice, and Gore couldn’t help himself. He burst out laughing.

‘Oh, my dear boy,’ he said. ‘You are good at this, aren’t you? I can see you’re going to be a tremendous success.’

Over dinner, the discussion turned to Maurice’s novel. Gore had avoided making any direct reference to it all afternoon but Howard, who had returned home in disarray, having had his wallet stolen in a café before unsuccessfully chasing the thief through the streets of Ravello, asked when it would be published.

‘Oh, but it’s already out,’ said Dash, delighted that the conversation was turning to his protégé at last, which was far more appealing to him than the lecture on the Emperor Galba that Gore had been delivering for almost forty minutes. ‘The British edition, that is. And some of the European ones. But the Americans don’t publish until September. That’s where you come in, Gore.’

‘Me?’ asked Gore, lifting a prawn from his plate and shelling it in a trio of expert movements before dipping the crustacean in Cassiopeia’s excellent chilli dressing and popping it into his mouth. There were hundreds of reasons for spending the autumn of one’s life on the Amalfi Coast but the quality of the seafood was near the top of that list. ‘What have I got to do with anything?’

‘We thought you might offer an endorsement. You don’t mind our asking, do you?’

‘We being…?’

‘Maurice and I.’

‘Dash, please,’ said Maurice, doing his best to look uncomfortable but proving himself an imperfect actor.

‘Is that what you hoped for, Maurice?’ asked Gore, turning to the boy and looking him directly in the eye. ‘Did you hope that I might endorse your novel?’

‘Actually, I’d prefer if you didn’t,’ he replied.

‘Maurice!’ cried Dash, appalled.

‘Really?’ said Gore, equally surprised by this remark. ‘May I ask why?’

‘Because I wouldn’t want you to think that’s the only reason I came here tonight. When Dash suggested you might host us for dinner, I knew I would cancel anything on my calendar in order to attend. I’ve been an admirer of yours for many years and the opportunity to meet you in person was one that was too good to pass up. But I wouldn’t want you to think that I came here only to exploit your good nature.’

Gore couldn’t help but laugh at the suggestion. Many outrageous things had been said about him over the years, after all, thousands of unkind comments from the likes of Truman, Harper, Norman, Buckley, Tricky Dick, Updike and all the rest of them, but no one had ever had the bad manners to accuse him of having a good nature. He glanced towards Howard, who was smiling too as he poured more wine.

‘So how about I say that, even if you were to offer an endorsement, I would reject it,’ continued Maurice.

‘If your editor could hear you now, he’d put a gag across your mouth.’

‘Of course, should you find the time to read my novel, I’d be very interested to know what you make of it. In a private capacity, of course. Man to man.’

Gore sipped his drink and, for once, felt stuck for words. Exactly what game was the boy playing? It was difficult to decipher. Was he serious when he said that he would turn down a quote from him if one was offered and, if so, was that an insult or a compliment? Perhaps, he thought, his name no longer held enough weight to warrant a sentence or two across the dust jacket of a debut novel. If that was the case, then it might be time to leave Italy and return to public life. Or did the boy not want the patronage of a man Gore’s age, preferring the support of younger, more fashionable writers? A weight of sorrow fell upon him and, as he reached for another prawn, he changed his mind and dropped it back into the bowl with its fellows, his appetite destroyed.

‘What’s your novel about, anyway?’ asked Howard, sitting back in his chair and looking at Maurice with an expression that suggested he would have no objection to the boy slowly removing his clothes as he answered.

‘It’s about Erich Ackermann,’ said Dash, leaning forward enthusiastically, his face lighting up with the enthusiasm of a fat man at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

‘Who’s Erich Ackermann?’

‘Dread,’ said Gore. ‘You’ve read it.’

‘Have I?’

‘Yes, you admired it.’

‘All right.’ Howard considered this for a moment. ‘He wasn’t the fellow we met at that festival in Jaipur, was he? With the moustache and the pipe? The one who kept bursting into song at inappropriate moments?’

‘No, that was Günter Grass.’

‘Oh yes. I liked him.’

Gore raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t wild about Howard liking other writers, particularly eminent ones. Although he didn’t much care for him liking younger writers either, those whose eminence was only imminent.

‘Actually, it’s not about Erich Ackermann,’ interrupted Maurice, a note of irritation in his voice. ‘Seriously, Dash, I wish you’d stop saying that. It’s a novel, after all. A work of fiction. Not a biography.’

‘You’ve written a novel that features Erich Ackermann as a character?’ asked Howard.

‘I suppose that’s a reasonable way of putting it, yes.’

‘And does he mind?’

‘He hasn’t said one way or the other.’

‘Did you have to ask his permission?’

‘No.’

‘Isn’t there some sort of moral conflict there then?’ asked Howard.

‘None whatsoever,’ said Dash. ‘There can be no discussion of morality when it comes to art. A writer must tell the story that captures his soul. Gore’s written about Aaron Burr, after all. And Lincoln. And the Emperor Julian.’

‘Yes, but they’re all long dead. Ackermann is still alive, isn’t he?’

‘He teaches in Cambridge,’ said Gore. ‘Just like Morgan did back in the day.’

‘Not any more,’ said Maurice. ‘He left. Before they could dismiss him.’

‘Oh, I hadn’t heard. Driven out, no doubt, by the forces of the politically correct and the righteously indignant. Poor Erich.’

‘He lives in Berlin now.’

‘Back where his story began.’

‘Poor Erich?’ repeated Dash, leaning forward on the table. ‘Gore, did you just say, Poor Erich? Haven’t you kept up with the news? Don’t you know what he did?’

‘I’ve read a few things,’ replied Gore dismissively. ‘Some columns in the papers, and I glanced at a typically fatuous essay that Wolfe wrote for the New York Review of Books. And as far as I can tell, half the world’s novelists have chimed in with their opinions, which has provided each one with their intended few minutes of publicity. How competitive everyone is in expressing their outrage! As far as I can tell, Bellow is the only one who’s said anything sensible on the subject.’

‘Why, what did he say?’ asked Maurice. ‘I haven’t heard.’

‘That he didn’t give a flying fuck what Ackermann did when he was a boy. All he was interested in was the man’s books.’

‘So much for solidarity,’ said Dash, disgusted.

‘Solidarity among whom?’ asked Gore. ‘Jews? Jewish writers? Old men? With whom is he supposed to share this unanimity of spirit? The fact is that we all have skeletons in our closets, histories of which we would prefer the world to remain ignorant. You should know some of the things that I did as a boy. Or that Howard did. And I daresay you were no saint either, Dash.’

‘No, but I never sent a family of Jews to the gas chambers.’

‘But it’s a matter of perspective, surely,’ said Gore calmly, picking at his food again. In debate, his appetite had returned. ‘Had you, Howard or I been nineteen years old and living in Herr Hitler’s Germany, where the boys gathered to march their marches and salute their salutes, filing through the streets in their handsome Hugo Boss uniforms, their hair reeking of pomade beneath striking caps, their bodies crackling like wet firewood under the weight of their exploding hormones, wouldn’t we have signed up for the Hitlerjugend too, before graduating to the Wehrmacht? I was born in West Point, for heaven’s sake. I was a military brat. It’s all just a circumstance of birth, isn’t it? Ackermann was doing his duty by his country. Should we criticize him for that? Why, even young Maurice here might have betrayed his friends had he been alive at that time.’

‘I don’t believe I would have,’ said Maurice, shaking his head.

‘It’s easy to say when the question is a hypothetical one. There are people who will sacrifice anyone and anything to get ahead, after all. They’re rather easy to spot if you know the signs to watch out for.’ An uncomfortable silence ensued, during which Gore looked rather pleased with himself, Howard appeared amused, Dash seemed outraged and Maurice looked entirely out of his depth. ‘Of course, I’m talking about Ackermann,’ added Gore eventually. ‘Not you, dear boy. I’m sure you’re a fellow of great integrity.’

‘And have any of Ackermann’s friends stepped up to defend his reputation?’ asked Howard.

‘No one would have the gall,’ said Dash.

‘What was it Woodrow Wilson said?’ asked Gore. ‘That loyalty means nothing unless it has at its heart the absolute principle of self-sacrifice? Something along those lines?’

‘And you think other writers should sacrifice themselves for the likes of Erich Ackermann?’ asked Dash. ‘Would you?’

‘Probably not. But then I barely know the man.’

‘Well, then.’

A silence descended on the table, a mutual understanding that, were they to pursue this topic, the evening could end in an argument that no one had the stomach for. Howard opened another bottle of wine, poured a fresh drink for everyone, and the clinking of their glasses determined the end of that particular conversation.

‘Can I ask how long you two have been together?’ asked Howard when the silence became uncomfortable, looking back and forth between Dash and Maurice.

‘Well, it’s difficult to put an exact—’ began Dash.

‘We’re not together,’ said Maurice, speaking over him. ‘We’re friends, certainly. But that’s all.’

‘You’re not lovers?’ asked Gore.

‘We’re friends,’ repeated Maurice.

‘But you’ve been lovers? In the past, I mean?’

‘These are such personal questions.’

‘Are they? I don’t see why. You’re not a child and we’re not gathered together at the annual convention of Stick-up-your-ass Puritans. There’s nothing so peculiar about being lovers, is there? What say you, Dash?’

‘As Maurice says,’ replied Dash quietly, looking crestfallen, almost as if he might cry. ‘We’re friends. Very good friends. We care enormously for each other.’

‘It doesn’t matter a damn to Howard or me, you understand,’ said Gore. ‘So there’s no particular reason for secrecy. But if you want to keep the nature of your relationship ambiguous, feel free. Although I can’t help but think it’s a little ridiculous. It’s 1990, after all.’

‘From a purely logistical point of view,’ said Howard, ‘we need to know whether you require separate rooms tonight. Naturally, Gore and I assumed that you’d be two gentlemen sharing.’

‘If you only have one prepared,’ said Dash, ‘then please don’t put yourself to any trouble on our behalf. I’m happy to share if—’

‘Separate rooms, please,’ said Maurice, looking at Howard. ‘I wouldn’t want to keep Dash awake with my snoring.’

‘But you don’t snore,’ said Dash.

‘Ah,’ said Gore with a smile, winking at Dash, who blushed scarlet then looked up at his host, biting his lower lip.

‘I’ll let Cassiopeia know,’ said Gore, ringing a bell and passing some instructions in Italian to the maid who appeared on the terrace above them. ‘Anyway, whatever your arrangement is, I’m sure it’s a very sensible one. Howard and I have always maintained separate rooms and we find it a very satisfying way to live. Dash, will you have some more wine?’

‘No thank you, Gore,’ said Dash.

‘You look upset. Has someone said something to distress you?’

‘No, I’m just tired, that’s all.’

Gore softened a little. Dash was a fool and, worse, a mediocrity in his chosen profession, but there was no reason for him to be so ill-used by a child he’d taken under his wing. He had known boys like Maurice all his life. When he was young and starting to make his way in books, they’d come crawling out of the woodwork, attaching themselves to him, and then, once they made a name for themselves, dropping him without a second thought. At first, their Machiavellian ways had proved hurtful. Then, for some time, it had simply been annoying. But soon enough he mastered the rules of the game and used the boys purely for sex, giving them nothing in return, throwing them out before they had an opportunity to ask for favours. If only Dash could be so shrewd. Time to cheer him up a little, thought Gore.

‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I meant to tell you that I’ve read your new novel.’

‘You have?’ asked Dash, looking up hopefully.

‘Yes. It’s your best in many years, if you don’t mind me saying so. I thought I might write a little notice about it for the New Yorker, if that’s all right with you. Something to recommend it to readers.’

‘That would be very kind of you,’ said Dash. ‘Every little helps, as you know.’

‘Maurice was telling me earlier that he was reading it on the plane,’ said Gore.

‘Yes, I must admit I was flattered when he plucked it out of his bag as we took our seats.’

Gore, lifting his wine glass, set it down and looked from Maurice to Dash and back to Maurice again.

‘You brought the novel with you?’ asked Gore.

‘Of course, I posted him a copy upon publication,’ continued Dash. ‘But I know how busy he is and didn’t expect him to find the time to read it.’

‘I thought you said that Dash gave it to you at the airport,’ said Gore, looking at the boy.

‘You must have misunderstood,’ said Maurice. ‘I said that there were many copies of it in the airport bookshop.’

‘Is that what you said?’ asked Gore. ‘I remember differently.’

‘It’s a fine piece of work, Dash,’ said Maurice, turning to his benefactor. ‘Very moving and insightful on the ways of the flesh. I hope to be able to write as well as you one day.’

Dash looked around the table proudly, beaming from ear to ear, while Maurice reached for his wine glass and drained it in one go. Gore enjoyed the look on the boy’s face at that moment, although it was almost impossible to interpret exactly what he was thinking. Why, he thought, he could write a thousand words on that expression alone.

He discovered Dash walking the grounds early the following morning, when Howard and Maurice were still asleep. Gore usually took a walk at this time of day, immediately following his bath, the morning air clearing his mind of the fog that lingered from the night before. In recent times his dreams had become disturbing and his sleep more fretful, a condition he put down to looming old age. He would be sixty-five this year. Pensionable. Neither of his parents had made it past seventy-four and the idea that he had less than a decade to live was alarming to him. There were still so many books to write and, although he feigned indifference to the current publishing world, so many that he wanted to read.

Sometimes he wondered who would go first, he or Howard. Wasn’t there something in Wuthering Heights about Heathcliff wanting Cathy to die before him so she wouldn’t have to go through the trauma of a life spent alone? Or was it the other way around? He couldn’t remember. It had been so long since he’d read the novel. But the line was in there somewhere. Do I want Howard to die before me? he asked himself now; and no came the unequivocal answer. Let me go first, he muttered, appealing to the gods. Let him deal with the loneliness. In ancient times, a sacrifice would have been offered for such petitions. An animal slaughtered and its vital organs burnt upon an altar while the priest wore a mask to prevent himself from witnessing evil rising in the smoke. For a brief moment, he considered how easy it would be to set out a dais at La Rondinaia and how he could procure a young lamb from one of the village boys, but then shook his head, laughing at the absurdity of the notion. Howard would have him committed if he came out to discover him dressed like a monk and chanting incantations on the terrace.

He spotted Dash strolling where the garden met the cliff-face, cutting a ridiculous figure in a garish Hawaiian shirt and shorts that revealed pale, hairless legs. Gore’s first instinct was to walk back towards the villa, where he could breakfast in solitude, but his friend’s dejected gait and unhappy expression persuaded him to walk in his direction.

‘Mio amico,’ he said, raising a hand in greeting, and Dash smiled back, nodding gloomily. He looked tired and Gore suspected that he hadn’t slept well. Cassiopeia had put Dash and Maurice in adjoining rooms, only a thin wall separating the beds from each other, and it was possible that he had heard the young man rising in the night as he went about the business of ambition.

‘Hello, Gore,’ said Dash. ‘It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?’

Gore didn’t reply for he hated talking about the weather and despised people who did so. But his step fell in time with Dash and they walked in silence at first, looking at the wild flowers as they made their way in the direction of the olive groves and the vineyard.

‘You’re lucky to live in so beautiful a place,’ said Dash eventually.

‘I am,’ admitted Gore. ‘I don’t believe I could ever leave.’

‘Don’t you miss America?’

‘Not particularly. I’ve had enough of America to last me ten lifetimes. It’s not the country it was. Occasionally I even find myself missing Nixon and, when things have reached that point, it’s time to wave goodbye.’

Dash smiled. ‘Who do you see?’ he asked. ‘From the past, I mean?’

‘Everyone. Sometimes when I’m awake, sometimes when I’m asleep. I was sure that I could sense Nina here last month, even though she’s been dead more than ten years.’ He paused, reached down for a stone and threw it casually into the greenery. ‘Jackie comes when she’s in Italy, which is good of her. She and Lee visited together last year, in fact. We got drunk and took turns seeing who could make the most vulgar comments about George Bush.’

‘Who won?’

‘The Princess Radziwill, of course. She may be a terrible actress but she knows more dirty jokes than a sailor and her delivery is always pitch-perfect.’

Dash said nothing as Gore cocked his head back a little, closing his eyes and breathing the scent of the flowers deep into his lungs.

‘You’re working on something new, I suppose?’ Dash asked after a while, and Gore nodded.

‘A compendium of my essays,’ he told him.

‘All your essays?’

‘Well, a lot of them, anyway. It’ll be a big book.’

‘Will you come home to promote it?’

‘My dear Dash, I am home.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I expect so,’ said Gore. ‘I may even stay for a month or two. Catch up with whoever’s still alive and terrified of running into me.’ In the olden days, of course, he would have been invited to stay in the White House when he was visiting Washington but there was precious little chance of that now. He’d slept in the Lincoln Bedroom dozens of times when Jack and Jackie were in charge. Never under Lyndon, who’d frozen him out because he didn’t like the idea of a queer sullying the bedsheets. Twice under Tricky Dick, including a night where they’d got drunk on whisky and ended up making midnight raids on the kitchen, like a pair of teenage boys, leading Pat to come down and give them a thoroughly enjoyable scolding. Ford had never liked him, Carter had never understood him and Reagan had never approved of him. Bush, he assumed, had never even heard of him. So that was that, he was certain, until a cultured Democrat, if such a thing still existed, got elected again. ‘Shall we sit?’ he asked, indicating a bench that stood beneath the shade of an olive tree, facing in the direction of the coastline.

‘What plants are these?’ asked Dash, pointing to a cluster of bright pink five-leaved flowers with serrated edges that resembled the hem of a debutante’s ballgown.

‘Yes, they’re pretty, aren’t they?’ said Gore. ‘But you’d have to check with Howard. He’s the gardener. Are you in love with the boy, Dash? Is that what this is all about?’

His companion didn’t seem surprised by the question or by how suddenly it had been asked. He swallowed and looked down at the ground, where an elongated family of ants were scuttling past in single file, and nodded.

‘It’s ridiculous, I know,’ he said. ‘I’m fifty-eight years old, after all.’

‘And what is he?’

‘Twenty-four.’

‘Is he a bugger? It’s hard to tell. He was so enigmatic on the subject over dinner last night.’

‘I think Maurice is whatever he needs to be, whenever he needs to be it. He’s an operator, that’s for sure. And I don’t much like him, Gore, if I’m honest. Sometimes I think I might hate him. He’s rude and unkind, utterly self-centred, and treats me like a dog. But I can’t seem to break away from him. When we’re together, I’m in torment, but when we’re apart he’s all that I can think about. I wonder who he’s with and what he’s doing and whether he’s thinking of me at all. It wasn’t like that when we met, of course. I had the upper hand then. I’m… well, I am what I am.’

‘A successful writer,’ said Gore, placing a hand on his friend’s arm. ‘And a good one too. A rare dyad.’

‘A competent one,’ said Dash, offering a half-smile. ‘Let’s not pretend otherwise. I can write, yes, but I won’t be remembered. Not like you. My books lack whatever alchemy is needed to ensure immortality. You’ll be read when we’re both worm food, Gore. I won’t.’

Gore said nothing. This was an accurate representation of the future, as far as he was concerned, and he had no wish to patronize his friend by pretending otherwise.

‘When I first met him,’ continued Dash, ‘it was as if every nerve in my body became alert to his presence. I couldn’t take my eyes off him and when I approached him—’

‘Where was this?’ asked Gore.

‘In the Prado.’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘I know, it’s the stuff of clichés. Like something out of a terrible Hollywood film.’

‘There’s no other sort, as far as I can tell, these days,’ said Gore. ‘What room was he in?’

‘What?’

‘Maurice. When you discovered him. Do you remember what room he was in? What he was looking at?’

‘The El Grecos. He was wearing white trousers and a navy shirt, the colour of which matched his shoes. He wore no socks and his cologne contained a scent of lavender. He was carrying a rather nice shoulder bag, leather and cream, and a copy of that morning’s El País, featuring a large photograph of Felipe González on the front page, pointing a finger at Francisco Ordóñez.’

‘Oh, my dear Dash,’ said Gore, shaking his head sadly. ‘You do have it bad, don’t you?’

‘Of course, he was with Erich at the time.’

‘With him in what sense?’

‘It’s hard to know, although I’m reasonably certain that nothing physical happened between them. He was simply using him the same way he’s been using me. Poor Erich was in love with him too, of course.’

‘You chastised me last night for using the phrase Poor Erich.’

Dash shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’m feeling rather better disposed towards him today. He probably went through the same level of torment that I’ve been going through over the last couple of years.’

‘He doesn’t let you touch him, does he?’ asked Gore, and Dash shook his head. ‘And nor does he touch you?’

Dash said nothing, simply staring into the distance, watching the spin and roll of the early morning waves.

‘I don’t quite see it,’ said Gore when it became clear that Dash wasn’t going to reply. ‘He’s good-looking, yes. He has an undeniable sex appeal and he’s aware of the power of his beauty. Too aware, some might say. But so do most boys his age. What’s so special about him? What is it that you and Erich see in him that I’m missing?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Dash. ‘But whatever it is, I’m enslaved to it. As was Erich, I’m certain. I was so incredibly jealous when I first encountered them together. I assumed that Maurice was just some trick that Ackermann had picked up on his travels. But I quickly realized that their relationship was more complicated than I’d initially understood it to be. I wanted to break them up from the moment we met and, once I put it into Maurice’s head that he’d gained everything he could from mentor number one, it wasn’t difficult to persuade him to move on to mentor number two. Someone with an “in” on the New York literary scene. Which Erich never really had, even after Dread.’

‘And, what? He just dropped Ackermann?’

‘Like a red-hot coal. Erich was devastated. Maurice didn’t tell me much, he can be rather discreet when he wants to be, but it wasn’t long before the poor man’s life fell apart.’

‘But surely that was due to the revelations in Maurice’s book?’

‘I think he could have fought his way through them if he’d wanted to,’ said Dash. ‘But I suspect he didn’t have the energy for the battle, not without the boy by his side.’

‘And since then?’

‘Well, Maurice’s novel has been a tremendous success. He’s much in demand, the hot young star of London literary circles, while I’m nothing more than the desperate old fag whose best work is behind him, trotting around after a young boy with his tongue hanging out, humiliating himself more and more at every turn. There are times that I wish he was dead or that I was dead or that we both were dead. Yesterday, while we were driving up the road to your house, I gave serious thought to tipping us both over the edge into the sea. But I couldn’t do it, of course.’

Gore reached over and took Dash’s hand in a gesture of friendship, squeezing it tightly.

‘And what happens next?’ he asked. ‘When you leave today, I mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Dash. ‘He’s going back to London, he’s already working on his next novel. I offered to accompany him but he said he’d prefer if I didn’t. He told me he’d catch up with me the next time he was in New York. Catch up with me! I suppose I’ll just go home and wait for him. There’s nothing else I can do.’

‘Will you start work on a new book?’

‘I’ll try. It’s hard to imagine being able to focus on a novel when I feel so overwhelmed by desire.’

‘You know he won’t come, though, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know that when he says goodbye today, it will most likely be for ever?’

‘I know.’

He sighed and watched as a bird landed on one of the flowers, investigating its stamen for a few moments before looking up, its beak quivering slightly.

Movement on the terrace caught Gore’s eye. Two men, walking towards the breakfast table.

‘They’re up,’ said Gore. ‘Should we go back?’

‘I suppose so.’

They rose and started to walk towards the villa.

‘Did you ever wish you had a wife?’ asked Dash. ‘Did you ever wish that you could just have lived a normal life instead of suffering the endless pain that men like us undergo, falling for beautiful boys who will never stay with us, no matter what we do for them?’

‘No,’ said Gore, shaking his head. ‘No, I’ve never wished that for a moment. The very idea seems hellish to me.’

Ahead, Maurice was leaning over the railing, watching them approach, and, Gore thought, enjoying how Howard was staring at him from behind. He was shirtless, his muscles glistening in the sunlight, the definition of his abdomen startling and his hair, still wet from the shower, brushed away from his forehead.

‘That line from Villette,’ said Dash quietly. ‘How does it go? Where is the use of caring for him so very much? He is full of faults.’

‘Funny,’ said Gore, laughing a little. ‘I was thinking about Wuthering Heights earlier, just before we met. You know you’ve gone off the deep end when you start obsessing about the Brontës.’

The bedroom door was ajar and he pushed it open wordlessly, watching as the boy lifted the shirt he’d worn the night before from a chair and folded it carefully before placing it in his suitcase.

‘Gore,’ said Maurice, looking up and smiling. ‘How long have you been standing there?’

‘Not long,’ replied Gore, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. ‘You don’t mind if I come in, do you?’ he added, his tone making it clear that he didn’t much care whether the boy minded or not.

‘Not at all. I was just finishing packing.’

‘You slept well?’ he asked, sitting down heavily in a wicker armchair by the window and crossing his legs.

‘Very well, thank you.’

‘Greta Garbo slept in that bed once, back when we lived in Rome,’ said Gore, glancing around the room as if he were checking the inventory. The paintings were still hanging on the walls. The objets d’art seemed to be still in place. ‘So did Bettino Craxi. Nelson Rockefeller. Princess Margaret. Here in Ravello, it’s played host to Paul Simon, Edmund White. Paul and Joanne. The list goes on. It makes one wonder, doesn’t it?’

‘Makes one wonder what?’ asked Maurice.

‘How you,’ said Gore, pointing a finger at the boy, ‘ended up sleeping in it. A Yorkshire lad, barely in his twenties, with not much to show for his life so far.’

‘Well, except a fairly successful novel.’

‘Yes, but I’m not sure that means very much any more.’

Maurice rolled his eyes and Gore felt a stab of irritation. He was a giant and would not be dismissed by a boy who had barely started to shave. ‘You’re not going to tell me that literature is over, are you?’ Maurice said. ‘We’ve argued that point already.’

‘I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort,’ replied Gore, trying to control his annoyance. ‘You must remember that I published Williwaw when I was nineteen. And I was only your age when The City and the Pillar appeared, provoking a scandal. E. P. Dutton told me that I’d never be forgiven for it and for years the New York Times blacklisted me and wouldn’t review any of my books. I had to go to work in Hollywood to earn my living on account of their puritanism. And believe me, you don’t know what it’s like to roll around in the shit until you find yourself driving in and out of a studio gate every day.’

‘I have no interest in film,’ said Maurice carelessly. ‘I only want to write novels.’

‘So, no, literature is far from over,’ continued Gore, ignoring the interruption. ‘What you’re doing to Dash, you know. It’s deeply unkind.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Of course you do. Don’t play the fool.’

‘And have you always been kind, Gore? Because from what I’ve read about you, I suspect that you’ve hurt many people along the way.’

‘That’s probably true. But I don’t believe I’ve ever deliberately set out to ruin a man. No, I don’t believe I’ve ever done that.’

Maurice said nothing, but returned to his packing.

‘But you haven’t answered my question,’ said Gore.

‘What question was that?’

‘How a young man like you ended up sleeping in a bed like that.’

‘Howard told me to use it. He said it was more comfortable than the one he was giving Dash.’

Gore smiled. ‘Some might say that your mentor should have been assigned the better room.’

Maurice frowned. ‘I’m not sure I’d describe Dash as my mentor.’

‘No? How would you describe him then?’

‘I told you last night. A friend. Someone I admire. He’s a good writer, is Dash.’

‘He’s a good writer, is Dash,’ repeated Gore, mimicking the sudden appearance of the boy’s accent. ‘Be careful, Maurice. Your roots are showing.’

‘Yes, and that’s all he’ll ever be. Let’s not pretend he’s Proust.’

‘No, he’s not Proust,’ admitted Gore. ‘But he’s shown a generosity of spirit towards you for which you should feel grateful.’

‘And I do,’ said Maurice. ‘Have I done something to make you think otherwise?’

‘The way you look at him. The contempt with which you treat him. How you keep him dangling on a string, desperate for some affectionate word from you. I assume you’re finished with him now and are ready to move on to pastures new?’

Maurice shrugged. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘My life has become rather busy of late. And Dash can be… How shall I put this? Very needy. It becomes exhausting after a while.’

‘I can only imagine. I have to hand it to you: you know what you want out of life and you’re determined to get it. Perhaps I wasn’t so very different to you when I was your age. Although I was better-looking, of course.’

Maurice smiled. ‘I’ve seen the pictures,’ he said. ‘And yes, you were.’

‘So, is this it?’ asked Gore. ‘Being a writer. This is all you’ve ever wanted? There’s nothing else?’ Maurice hesitated, and Gore noticed him biting his lip. Was there a weakness in there somewhere, a chink in the boy’s armour? ‘There is something, isn’t there?’ he said. ‘There’s something more that you want? I took you for utterly single-minded, but no. Tell me, I’m intrigued.’

‘You’ll laugh,’ said Maurice.

‘I won’t.’

‘It will seem ridiculous.’

‘Probably. But everything seems ridiculous to me these days.’

‘I’d like a child,’ said Maurice.

‘A child?’

‘Yes, a child.’

Gore sat back in his chair, his eyes opening wide. ‘A child?’ he repeated.

‘God, is it so unusual?’

Gore stared at the boy, uncertain what to make of this declaration. ‘I thought I could see right through you,’ he said finally. ‘But I must admit I hadn’t expected that. What on earth do you want a child for? What good is a squealing infant to anyone? They demand instant attention. A puppy, I could understand. But a child? Really?’

Maurice shook his head and smiled. ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he said. ‘You’ve obviously never wanted one.’

‘I don’t even like passing them in the street. Children are banned here at La Rondinaia.’

‘Well, there you are. You met me for the first time twenty-four hours ago, Gore. Don’t presume to understand me. You don’t.’

‘All right. But you know what they say in Italy, yes? Quando dio vuole castigarci, ci manda quello che desideriamo.’

‘Which means?’

‘When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.’

A long silence ensued, one that neither man seemed keen to break. Gore could scarcely remember any of his writer colleagues over the years talking about children. Not even the women. Especially not the women.

‘Well,’ he said finally, unwilling to leave the room while he was still one game down. ‘You know, I stayed up late last night.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes, I decided to read your novel.’

Maurice sat down on the bed now and ran a hand across his chin, looking a little apprehensive. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘And what did you think of it?’

Gore glanced up towards the ceiling for a few moments as he considered his answer. ‘You write well,’ he said. ‘You’re very good on place. The dialogue rings true, even though it must have been difficult for you to recreate it from such a distance of time and geography. I struggled with that too on Burr and Lincoln, but you work through it successfully. Perhaps you’re a little too fond of alliteration and you’ve clearly never met a noun that you didn’t think would look better all dressed up in an adjective. But there’s a strong erotic element to the book that works very well. The moment where Erich and his friend go to the lake and Oskar strips off, it’s rather arousing on a purely physical level.’

‘I wanted to write Oskar Gött as shameless about these things.’

‘I didn’t read him as shameless so much as proud. But also a little naïve. It wouldn’t have crossed his mind that Erich wanted to touch him. I liked when they both woke up on the bank afterwards, tumescent, and were uncertain how to explore the moment. Yes, it’s a good book, I really can’t offer any major criticisms. I’m not surprised it’s doing so well for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Maurice, looking relieved. ‘It means a lot to hear you say that.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why does it mean a lot?’

Maurice shrugged, as if the answer was so obvious it was hardly worth pointing out. ‘Well, because you’re you, of course. And I’m only me.’

‘And what does it mean for me to be me and for you to be you? What is it that you think separates us, other than forty years?’

‘You’re a significant figure in twentieth-century literature. You’ll be remembered.’

‘Will I?’

‘Yes, I think so. I’m certain of it.’

Gore smiled. ‘Dash said something similar to me earlier,’ he said. ‘Although to be honest, I couldn’t give a fuck whether I am or not.’

Maurice smiled too and shook his head. His teeth were gleaming white. ‘I don’t believe that for a moment,’ he said.

‘Sic transit gloria mundi,’ said Gore.

‘All glory is fleeting. Erich used the same line with me once. When we were in Rome.’

Gore’s smile faded a little now. He hadn’t expected the boy to know what the words meant. Nor did he enjoy repeating the lines of others. He needed to be first, always first.

‘Last night,’ he said.

‘What of it?’

‘It must have been three or four o’clock. I’d finished reading and switched my light off. And then the strangest thing happened.’

Maurice looked at him, his expression controlled. ‘And what was that?’ he asked.

‘Very quietly, the door to my bedroom opened and a figure stepped inside, dressed only in a red bathrobe. He closed the door behind him and walked across to the window before turning around and looking down on me. I opened my eyes and wondered whether I was lost in the midst of a dream. I’ve had such dreams in the past, you know. Of boys I’ve known, boys I’ve never known and boys I’ve wanted to know. Anyway, the moonlight was entering the room in such a way that the figure was only half illuminated but when he removed his robe, letting it fall to the floor, he was naked underneath, his body a work of art. Michelangelo might have sculpted it and failed to capture its beauty. The fierce definition of the pectoral muscles. The stomach so lean. The impressive member that lay between the boy’s legs, apparently ready to offer pleasure if given a signal of consent.’

‘And what did you do?’ asked Maurice.

‘I turned over,’ said Gore. ‘Not to invite the figure into my bed, you understand. But to make it clear that I had no interest in him.’

‘Perhaps you’ll live to regret saying no,’ said Maurice, standing up and gathering the remainder of his belongings, not bothering to fold them now, simply tossing them carelessly into his case. ‘One day it might feel like a lost opportunity.’

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ admitted Gore. ‘I’m not made of stone, so I considered it. But I resisted because I’m not a fool. I feel rather pleased with myself this morning that I said no. Something tells me that, had I lifted the covers and invited the figure in, my life would have taken an unhappy turn afterwards.’

‘Maybe you ate some rotten cheese before you went to bed,’ said Maurice.

‘We didn’t have any cheese.’

‘Then perhaps you’re just losing your mind.’

‘Oh, I’ve been doing that for years. But not long enough not to recognize when I’m being played.’

‘You think I’ve been playing you?’

‘I think you came here hoping to. And have been disappointed to find that I’m not such an easy mark. Erich Ackermann was one thing, a pussycat I imagine. And Dash, what is he? A tomcat. Slinking around the neighbourhood, hoping for a little night-luck. But I’m a different beast entirely, aren’t I? I’m a lion. I belong in the jungle. And so, I suspect, do you. This is why things could never work between us.’

Maurice said nothing but walked to the window and stared out at the view. The sea was calm but, from somewhere beneath the cliffs, the playful sounds of young swimmers could be heard. When he turned around again, his face was cold.

‘You’re probably just having sex dreams because you’re not getting any,’ he said. ‘It’s not as if anyone in their right mind would want to fuck Howard, after all.’

‘My dear boy, that’s not how things are between us,’ said Gore, momentarily thrown off guard. ‘Don’t imagine you understand what goes on between Howard and me because you don’t. What exists between us runs far deeper than sex.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Maurice. ‘I mean, the image of two fat old men writhing around on top of each other, tugging at each other’s limp old cocks, would rather make me want to throw up.’

‘Dash might be a fool,’ said Gore, rising from his chair now and making his way towards the door, shocked to realize that he was more susceptible to insults than he had imagined. Better men than Maurice had abused him over the decades and he’d never given a tuppenny damn before. ‘And Ackermann might have been a fool too, for all I know. But I’m not. So do me the courtesy of remembering that when you reconstruct the events of last night in whatever medium you choose, portraying yourself as the innocent victim of an old man’s lecherous advances.’

Maurice said nothing, simply stared at him as if he’d grown tired of this entire conversation.

‘I’ve known a lot of whores in my life,’ added Gore, running his hand along the red bathrobe that hung on the bedroom door before stepping outside into the corridor. ‘Both men and women. And in general, I’ve always found them to be good company, with a highly evolved sense of honour. A whore will never cheat you, they have too much integrity for that. But you, Mr Swift, you give the profession a bad name.’ He shuddered as he glanced around the room, unwilling to look the boy in the eye for fear of what he might see there, disinterest being the worst horror. ‘I’ll be out on the terrace in a few minutes to wave you both off. I’m looking forward to saying goodbye.’

‘So?’ asked Howard when they were alone later, sipping cocktails on the terrace, enjoying the eternally rewarding view of the sea. The sailboat and the boys were back – none of them had drowned after all – and this time they had brought some girls with them. They were screaming in delight and desire as they dived from the deck into the water and scrambled up the ladder to do it all over again, pulling up their ill-fitting trunks as they went, a glimpse of white backside occasionally visible against their tanned skin. ‘What did you make of him? Handsome, yes?’

‘Oh yes,’ agreed Gore.

‘And Dash is crazy about him.’

‘Besotted.’

‘Do you think he’ll make it?’

‘As a writer?’ He thought about it and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to imagine a literary world of the future, one that he would no longer be a part of. ‘I don’t doubt it for a moment,’ he said. ‘The boy will be an extraordinary success.’

‘Good for him,’ said Howard.

‘One thing,’ said Gore. ‘The bed in the guest room. The one that Maurice slept in last night. We’ve had it for so many years. I think it might be time we got rid of it, don’t you? Invested in something new?’