Free The Berlin Connection by Johannes Mario Simmel

police barrier and stormed across the street. Tires screamed on the rain-soaked asphalt; the traffic came to a halt. I saw many people waving autograph books and photographs. Two men came running toward me. One held a microphone, the other the cable. The people in the crowd were yelling joyfully. The picture was a familiar one. As did Dr. Pavlov's dog, my reflexes reacted too, the way I had been taught a long time ago. I opened my arms wide, nodded and waved, smiled, to show I loved them all.
    I heard boos, derisive laughter. Then the reporter had reached me.
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    "Stop it, man," one of them yelled. The other pushed me and cried, "Get out of the way! You are blocking the cameraman's picture!"
    Stumbling, I reached the other side of the street. Now I was in the midst of the crowd of screaming women. They were all staring at the hotel entrance. There I now saw Sophia Loren and Vittorio de Sica.
    His white hair shone in the bright lights. Sophia Loren wore a mink coat over a skin-tight, gold lame dress. She was throwing kisses, De Sica opened his arms wide, just as I had done a moment ago. The crowd was in a frenzy, the police powerless. I was pushed towards the entrance of the hotel bar, and I heard De Sica exclaim, "Amici, si-amo fehci d'essere in Germania!"
    And Sophia Loren, "Questa bella citta d'Amburgo!"
    The crowd roared.
    I heard whistles, patrol cars arrived. Policemen were trying to control the crowd and move the stopped traffic. I watched the beautiful Sophia Loren and De Sica, whom I admired as an actor and director, smilingly sign autographs. I recalled the time, the crowds, the conmiotion, now long ago and forgotten, when I, a httle boy in a pageboy haii:cut, had appeared. The chaos at the Waldorf-Astoria, the hysteria at the Colonial House in Tokyo, where fans had torn my clothes to get hold of souvenirs, hotels in Vienna, Quebec and Rome.
    Suddenly I felt sick and fearful again. I had felt well when I awakened an hour ago. I had showered, eaten and written two letters which I was now taking to the nearby post office. Those letters had to go cpiickly and I did not trust the bellboys. Since my attack I distrusted everybody. The waiter serving dinner seemed to be smiling ironically. Walking through the foyer I had the feeling that the desk-clerks were exchanging meaningful looks . . .
    I had noticed a new symptom: agoraphobia. It had been extremely difficult for me to walk through the foyer. This was not a new symptom, once before, as I left my

    apartment, I found myself unable to enter the elevator. I was certain I could never descend in this narrow, hot cell with its mirrored sides without—
    Without what?
    Without doing something which would attract attention, something alarming, something I could not control. The realization gave me a fright; I ran back to my apartment where I felt safer as soon as I had shut the door. I was supposed to stay in bed. I had given Natasha my promise.
    But the letters had to be mailed. Shirley and I were at stake.
    I had to have a drink. There was enough left in the bottle. Then I tried again. This time I could not leave the elevator on the main floor but quickly pressed the sixth-floor button and went back upstairs. My heart was beating furiously. Another Scotch. I dropped into a chair. It was growing dark. I stared at the fog shrouding the Al-ster River.
    Now I knew self-pity. I was alone in Hamburg, very ill. The symptoms terrified me. A long way from home. Which was my home? The Spanish-style ghostly house? A double bed alongside an unloved wife? The bungalow with Shirley, who was expecting my child?
    I could not stand these thoughts and drank again. Then, with great concentration I tried the descent into the foyer once more. This time with success. I was somewhat confused but not drunk. I was standing away from the crowd, looking at the radiant Sophia Loren, the distinguished De Sica.
    It's just as well no one knows me, I thoueht. In my condition I would hardly be able to