The Looking Glass War Part 28

"If it stops altogether, keep searching and let me know."

"Pay attention," the captain warned as he dismounted. The sergeant was waiting impatiently; behind him, a tall building standing on wasteland.

In the distance, half hidden in the falling snow, lay row after row of small houses. No sound came.

"What do they call this place?" the captain asked.

"A block of flats; workers' flats. They haven't named it yet."

"No, beyond."

"Nothing. Follow me," the sergeant said. Pale lights shone in almost every window; six floors. Stone steps thick with leaves led to the cellar. The sergeant went first, shining his flashlight ahead of them on to the shoddy walls. The captain nearly fell. The first room was large and airless, half of brick and half unrendered plaster. At the far end were two steel doors. On the ceiling a single bulb burned behind a wire cage. The sergeant's flashlight was still on; he shone it needlessly into the corners.

"What are you looking for?" the captain asked.

The steel doors were locked.

"Find the janitor," the sergeant ordered, "quickly."

The captain ran up the stairs and returned with an old man, unshaven, gently grumbling; he held a bunch of long keys on a chain. Some were rusty.

"The switches," said the sergeant. "For the building. Where are they?"

The old man sorted through the keys. He pushed one into the lock and it would not fit, he tried another and a third.

"Quick, you fool!" the captain shouted.

"Don't fuss him," said the sergeant.

The door opened. They pushed into the corridor, their flashlights playing over the whitewash. The janitor was holding up a key, grinning. "Always the last one," he said. The sergeant found what he was looking for, hidden on the wall behind the door; a box with a gla.s.s front. The captain put his hand to the main lever, had half pulled it when the other struck him roughly away.

"No! Go to the top of the stairs; tell me when the driver flashes his headlights."

"Who's in charge here?" the captain complained.

"Do as I ask." He had opened the box and was tugging gently at the first fuse, blinking through his gold-rimmed spectacles; a benign man.

With diligent, surgical fingers the sergeant drew out the fuse, cautiously, as if he were expecting an electric shock, then immediately replaced it, his eyes turning toward the figure at the top of the steps; then a second and still the captain said nothing. Outside the motionless soldiers watched the windows of the block, saw how floor by floor the lights went out, then quickly on again. The sergeant tried another and a fourth and this time he heard an excited cry from above him: "The headlights! The headlights have gone out."

"Quiet! Go and ask the driver which floor. But quietly."

"They'll never hear us in this wind," the captain said irritably, and a moment later: "The driver says third floor. The third floor light went out and the transmission stopped at the same time. It's starting again now."

"Put the men around the building," the sergeant said. "And pick five men to come with us. He's on the third floor."

Softly, like animals, the Vopos dismounted from the two trucks, their carbines held loosely in their hands, advancing in a ragged line, ploughing the thin snow, turning it to nothing; some to the foot of the building, some standing off, staring at the windows. A few wore helmets, and their square silhouette was redolent of the war. From here and there came a click as the first bullet was sprung gently into the breech; the sound rose to a faint hail and died away.

Leiser unhooked the aerial and wound it back on the reel, screwed the Morse key into the lid, replaced the earphones in the spares box and folded the silk cloth into the handle of the razor.

"Twenty years," he protested, holding up the razor, "and they still haven't found a better place."

"Why do you do it?"

She was sitting contentedly on the bed in her nightdress, wrapped in the mackintosh as if it gave her company.

"Who do you talk to?" she asked again.

"No one. No one heard."

"Why do you do it, then?"

He had to say something so he said, "For peace."

He put on his jacket, went to the window and peered outside. Snow lay on the houses. The wind blew angrily across them. He glanced into the courtyard below, where the silhouettes were waiting.

"Whose peace?" she asked.

"The light went out, didn't it, while I was working the set?"

"Did it?"

"A short break, a second or two, like a power cut?"

"Yes."

"Put it out again now." He was very still. "Put the light out."

"Why?"

"I like to look at the snow."

She put the light out and he drew the threadbare curtains. Outside the snow reflected a pale glow into the sky. They were in half darkness.

"You said we'd love now," she complained.

"Listen; what's your name?"

He heard the rustle of her raincoat.

"What is it?" His voice was rough.

"Anna."

"Listen, Anna." He went to the bed. "I want to marry you," he said. "When I met you, in that inn, when I saw you sitting there, listening to the records, I fell in love with you, do you understand? I'm an engineer from Magdeburg, that's what I said; are you listening?"

He seized her arms and shook her. His voice was urgent.

"Take me away," she said.

"That's right! I said I'd make love to you, take you away to all the places you dreamed of, do you understand?" He pointed to the posters on the wall. "To islands, sunny places-"

"Why?" she whispered.

"I brought you back here. You thought it was to make love, but I drew this knife and threatened you. I said if you made a sound, I'd kill you with the knife, like I-I told you I'd killed the boy and I'd kill you."

"Why?"

"I had to use the wireless. I needed a house, see? Somewhere to work the wireless. I'd nowhere to go so I picked you up and used you. Listen: if they ask you, that's what you must say."

She laughed. She was afraid. She lay back uncertainly on her bed, inviting him to take her, as if that was what he wanted.

"If they ask, remember what I said."

"Make me happy. I love you."

She put out her arms and pulled his head toward her. Her lips were cold and damp, too thin against her sharp teeth. He drew away but she still held him. He strained his ears for any sound above the wind, but there was none.

"Let's talk a bit," he said. "Are you lonely, Anna? Who've you got?"

"What do you mean?"

"Parents, boyfriend. Anyone."

She shook her head in the darkness. "Just you."

"Listen; here, let's b.u.t.ton your coat up. I like to talk first. I'll tell you about London. You want to hear about London, I'll bet. I went for a walk, once, it was raining and there was this man by the river, drawing on the pavement in the rain. Fancy that! Drawing with chalk in the rain, and the rain just washing it away."

"Come now. Come."

"Do you know what he was drawing? Just dogs, cottages and that. And the people, Anna-listen to this!-standing in the rain, watching him."

"I want you. Hold me. I'm frightened."

"Listen! Do you know why I went for a walk? They wanted me to make love to a girl. They sent me to London and I went for this walk instead."

He could make her out as she watched him, judging him according to some instinct he did not understand.

"Are you alone too?"

"Yes."

"Why did you come?"

"They're crazy people the English! That old fellow by the river: they think the Thames is the biggest river in the world, you know that? And it's nothing! Just a little brown stream, you could nearly jump across it in some places!"

"What's that noise?" she said suddenly. "I know that noise! It was a gun; the c.o.c.king of a gun!"

He held her tightly to stop her trembling.

"It was just a door," he said, "the latch of a door. This place is made of paper. How could you hear anything in such a wind?"

There was a footfall in the corridor. She struck at him in terror, the raincoat swinging around her. As they came in he was standing away from her, the knife at her throat, his thumb uppermost, the blade parallel to the ground. His back was very straight and his small face was turned to her, empty, held by some private discipline, a man once more intent upon appearances, conscious of tradition.

The farmhouse lay in darkness, blind and not hearing, motionless against the swaying larches and the running sky.

They had left a shutter open and it banged slowly without rhythm, according to the strength of the storm. Snow gathered like ash and was dispersed. They had gone, leaving nothing behind them but tire tracks in the hardening mud, a twist of wire, and the sleepless tapping of the north wind.

The End

About the Author.

John le Carre is the pseudonym of David Cornwell. Born in 1931, he attended the universities of Berne and Oxford, taught at Eton, and later entered the British Foreign Service. His first two novels were Call for the Dead (1961) and A Murder of Quality (1962). His third novel, The Spy Who Came In from the Cold (1963), was greeted with great enthusiasm and secured his worldwide reputation. John le Carre is also the author of The Naive and Sentimental Lover, A Small Town in Germany, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, The Honourable Schoolboy, Smiley's People, The Little Drummer Girl; A Perfect Spy; The Russia House; and The Secret Pilgrim. He lives in London.