The Other Side of Silence

I sat down in the whitewashed dining room where the makings of breakfast had been laid and pretended as if I were prepared to eat it; but as soon as Ernest had left to make some fresh coffee I grabbed the suitcase again and went upstairs to the master bedroom, where I found the master sitting up in bed with a newspaper and a cup of tea in his unsteady hand. He was wearing white silk pajamas and half-moon glasses, and with the Chinese prints on the walls he looked like an older and rather less compassionate version of the goddess Kuan-Yin, whose imposing statue stood on the black floor of the downstairs hall.

“You don’t look like someone who’s had a stroke,” I said.

“I’m not,” he said coolly. “I feigned that in order to be rid of everyone. I’d had enough of the whole business. And now that they’ve all returned to London, I can return to normal.”

“I might have known.”

“Well, this is a surprise. I certainly didn’t expect to see you again, Herr Wolf. Or perhaps I should now say Herr Gunther. Have you come to shoot me?”

“Oddly enough I haven’t.”

“Pity. At my time of life one craves a little excitement. I rather think that being shot might have a very stimulating effect on my book sales, which, lately, have been in decline. Just as long as one didn’t die, of course. That would be too sad. Then I should miss the thrill of seeing myself once again at the top of the New York Times bestsellers list. ‘England’s Greatest Writer Shot by East German Spy.’ As a headline it has a certain newsworthy ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Yes. But as it happens I don’t work for East German intelligence. Or for that matter any other intelligence service. I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir, only I’m not a spy. I’m afraid your friends in MI6 were sorely mistaken on that score. And I do mean sorely. I’ve got the bruises to prove it. The fact is, I’m just a citizen with a past.”

“Aren’t we all, dear. Aren’t we all. But you have come to settle a score, have you not? With me.”

“Actually, I’ve come to do you a favor,” I said.

“Really?”

“I was hoping you might do me one in return.”

“This sounds suspiciously like a rather more subtle, slippery kind of blackmail. A squid pro quo, so to speak. Is it? Are you intending to blackmail me, Herr Gunther?”

“I said I was hoping you might do me a favor, sir. I wasn’t even thinking of demanding one with menaces.”

“Good point.” He nodded at a comfortable chair beside the bed. “And I beg your pardon for my presumption. Please. Sit down.”

I sat down a little too gratefully, leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and let out a sigh.

“You sound tired. And you look terrible.”

“I just want to go to bed and sleep for a thousand years.”

“I do hope you’re not planning to do that here,” he said. “At the Villa Mauresque.”

“Why would you think so?”

“That suitcase, of course.”

“That suitcase contains files about you. Lots of them. Compiled by someone called Anne French, who worked for the Stasi-the East German secret service-and who was, she alleged, planning to write a biography of you for some American publisher.”

“Oh, which one?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s true-about the biography, I mean. Actually, there’s very little I do know about this woman that’s true, probably. But the files are real enough. There was a whole drawer full of them in her filing cabinet. And now they’re all in this suitcase.”

“She’s the woman who Sir John said had been working with you and Harold Hebel all along. To blackmail me and, in turn, the British secret service.”

“That’s right. Only with you I was on the level. Which is more than I can say of her. Frankly, the idea that she and I were working together was painful news to me. Exquisitely painful. I thought we were just sleeping together now and then. I found out otherwise. It seems that she had her own clandestine agenda.”

“That’s fish for you.”

“Fish?”

“Sorry. Queer slang for women.”

“Oh. Right. Anyway, a great deal of what’s in those files is quite detailed and for all I know there may be something that you’d prefer never saw the light of day. You being a very secretive, private man.”

“I’m quite sure that’s true. I loathe the idea of a biography as another man might loathe the attention of a Harley Street proctologist. Especially at my time of life. So. What do you want for these files? Money, I suppose? There’s very little else I can give a man like you.”

“No. I’ve got some money.” I was already thinking of the ten thousand francs I planned to take from Hennig’s toilet bag at the Grand; there was no point in letting the French police have it when, eventually, they came to search his room. “No, all I want is something that you of all people should easily understand, Mr. Maugham.”

“What’s that?”

“I just want to be left alone.”

“Ah. Privacy. That’s the most precious commodity there is. You do know that, don’t you?”