Free The Valley of Unknowing by Philip Sington Page B

he had taken a spell of leave in Berlin and would not return until January. I left messages, asking him to call me back. Finally, one evening, he did.
    ‘Happy New Year,’ I said. ‘How are things in Berlin? How’s . . . ?’
    ‘I’ve got news,’ he said.
    ‘About Paul?’ I felt sure if it was bad news it would be bad news about that. The sudden dash to Berlin, just the state of the boy. It was good news that would have been surprising. ‘What’s happened?’
    ‘It’s not about Paul. It’s about Wolfgang Richter.’
    ‘I’ve finished his book,’ I said. ‘But I really think we have to . . .’
    ‘I just got a call from his father.’ Schilling drew a long, unsteady breath. ‘Wolfgang Richter is dead.’

11
    The facts were these: upon his return to the valley, the young screenwriter had reportedly contracted a rare and deadly disease. It had incubated in his blood or his lymph for a week or so, then struck at the lining of his brain. According to his father, he had collapsed on a quiet street in the district of Loschwitz, on his way back from a party. He had been taken unconscious to a small hospital nearby and placed in intensive care. Treatment with antibiotics proved ineffective. He never regained consciousness and was dead within twenty-four hours. The microbe responsible was reportedly a meningococcal bacterium, one the authorities feared might be highly contagious. That was one reason his father had telephoned Michael Schilling: to warn him.
    ‘And now you’re warning me,’ I said.
    By this time I was in my chair, staring out at the steely blue dusk. Fingers of sleet were running down the window, gathering soot as they went.
    ‘Yes,’ said Schilling.
    ‘We didn’t meet. I never spoke to Richter. I didn’t even shake his hand.’
    ‘Maybe you wouldn’t have to. Maybe this bug spreads through the air. We were all in the same room with him when you got your award.’
    ‘So we were.’
    ‘Although what we’re supposed to do about it, I don’t know. Get a blood test, I suppose.’
    ‘Right. We should definitely do that.’
    I put a hand to my forehead. It felt distinctly clammy. And there was an unfamiliar tension in my shoulders and my neck.
    ‘There’s something else,’ Schilling said. ‘The funeral. Wolfgang’s father asked if you were going to be there.’
    ‘He did? Why?’
    ‘He was a great admirer of yours. The Orphans of Neustadt was one of his favourite books.’
    ‘The father or the son?’
    ‘The son. It was the reason he took up writing. Apparently he was always talking about you.’
    How little fathers knew about their sons, I thought. How little they understood. If Wolfgang Richter had talked about me at all, it would have been the way Lenin used to talk about the Tsar, with a view to his overthrowing him, and the sooner the better.
    ‘But I didn’t know him,’ I said. ‘We were virtually strangers.’
    ‘Herr Richter just asked. Still, I got the impression it would mean a lot to him, and his wife. Maybe it would be a kind of validation for them.’
    ‘What are you talking about?’
    ‘Their son was an artist. They want to think he’ll be remembered.’
    For Two on a Bicycle ? It didn’t seem all that likely. As artistic legacies went, it was decidedly slim; another tragic case of promise unfulfilled. Except, of course, there was his unpublished novel . . .
    ‘I still don’t understand how my name came up,’ I said.
    ‘They knew where you’re published. I expect Wolfgang told them. Look, it doesn’t matter. I just thought if you didn’t have anything better to do. It’s this Wednesday at the Tolkewitz Crematorium. Two o’clock.’
    ‘The day after tomorrow? That’s a little quick, isn’t it?’
    ‘The authorities at the hospital arranged it,’ Schilling said. ‘Apparently they don’t want to take any chances with this bug.’
    It was a cold, grey afternoon. I took a tram to the Johannis Cemetery, then walked up the long avenue towards the