Extract - Chapter 1

Trinity Lane, Cambridge, 1936

Night slipped down Trinity Lane. The cast iron lampposts shone a warm light that gently enveloped the alley, lending the present the density of memory.
Greenhall slowed down; he glanced at his companion over the shoulder of his heavy coat, draped in his college’s black cloak. Trinity.

“She thinks. She reflects, she dreams and she is afraid,” he said. “Do you want me to tell her ... that Berlin will be a little less dark tomorrow?”
His cigarette butt expired beneath his boot.
Dr Arthur Lawson suppressed a spasm of satisfaction. He understood the political frustration that plagued his student; for several months he had even guessed at its full potential.

“No, no, of course not, Rupert,” he whispered, his gaze fixed on the wet flagstones; “All you have to do is sleep with her. But understand that in her position, her thoughts can only be dreams ...”
“All you have to do is sleep with her ...” Not long ago Rupert would have followed the strict letter of his instructions; followed it till he found himself between her thighs. Not now. Not now that Silke was in his life. He had met her on a day of rain; he hadn’t seen at first that she was crying. Rupert had confused the pain of a German girl with a caprice of the heavens... Heaven, for its part, had already understood and lent her drops enough to hide her sorrow.

“ But when did your Silke arrive?” asked Lawson.
“Last September. The university offered her father, Professor Mandelbaum, a permanent position ... at least until 37 ...”
“Yes, yes, I’ve heard of Professor Mandelbaum of course ... Brilliant I’m told. And Silke ...?” “... followed him. After a few months stuck in Vienna, a smuggler helped them reach England. She’s studying Art history and English at Cambridge, Girton College. Gives some piano lessons.”
“Her mother ?” Lawson asked.
“Stayed behind ... At the last minute, she just wasn’t there ... a matter of papers ...”
“A matter of politics,” Lawson corrected. “Professor Mandelbaum, if he’s who we're talking about, hasn't been hiding his Communist sympathies since arriving at our college ...”
“No doubt,” Greenhall replied. “But who could blame him?” he retorted, digging at Lawson with his dark eyes.
Greenhall wondered what more he needed to say for Lawson to finally trust him.
“Who indeed? Who but a few legions of darkened souls?” the teacher asked.
Perched atop his long, slight body, his emaciated face gave nothing away.
“Her mother was campaigning against National Socialism between two underground concerts... Do you think she's dead?” Rupert said, his gaze fixed again upon the horizon again.
“I hope so - for her own sake," Lawson said without hesitation.

His words scratched at the cold air. Passers-by carpeted under hats and tassels brushed against their secrets. Silence nestled between the two men. A few hurried students shivered under the cloaks of their various colleges as Lawson weighed each second; his gaze lingered on the profile of the young man barely five years his junior. He watched his lips. But more than their admittedly perfect curve, he appreciated their sudden stillness; a stillness that held despite the muffled anger that quivered behind them. Rupert Greenhall could be silent. A student at Trinity College, he excelled however more in his homework on political economy than in discretion. He’d come close to expulsion twice. The first reason sported a simply irresistible décolletage but had not escaped the surveillance of the college porter; the second reason featured the equally compelling chin of a British Fascist Union activist.
Dr Arthur Lawson, was beginning to believe that Rupert Greenhall, was not, after all, a bad candidate.
“Did you know, Rupert, that night is beginning to fall right here, over this college? Over Trinity? Delicately it drops its first seed of darkness, then the rest follow like shells ... Nobody holds it back. The day gives up. While elsewhere at the very same time, a few streets away... you see the light still defending itself. How do you explain that ?”
He let his last sentence fall, without even turning his head. He paused, time hanging from their lips. Rupert moved closer to him; against the high stone façade, their shadows merged. Lawson felt the young man's halting breath against his cheek. Rupert whispered, his eyes locked on Lawson's:
“This darkness is apparently all the more impatient since you arrived at Trinity.”
“Rumor, rumor, creeps by night ... Come on Greenhall, don't overestimate my power over the stars.”
“You don't mean a word of what you just said. Not a word,” Greenhall objected, moving closer to him again.
Lawson hesitated. What if he were wrong? He always ran that risk. But shouldn't he take it one more time? He suddenly strode away. Rupert caught up with him.
“Your friend... Silke... is right to be afraid. But maybe she's right to dream again,” Lawson said in the firm tone of a man who had just made up his mind.
They turned onto Trinity Street.
“What do you mean by that ?” Greenhall suddenly inquired. His voice was low, as if struck by a hunch that the dream was suddenly a crime.
“I imagine that her dreams taste like blood: sometimes those dreams touch reality a little more closer. Maybe I could even make them come true.”
Bicycles staggered on the shiny cobbles. Greenhall didn't have time to even say a word. The Professor had already crossed the road and was waving to a figure on the sidewalk opposite. He watched them disappear into the growing fog.
Lawson quickened his pace. With his fingers clenched on his whiskey flask, the newcomer whispered to him:
“So?”
“We need him. But you were right. He seems a little too attached to this Silke Mandelbaum... but she can't be part of the equation... you understand?” he added without even turning his head.
“I do. But I'm not sleeping with her...” objected his companion.

They went through the gate of Trinity College. The porter, squat in his his lodge-front, greeted Lawson from under his bowler hat.
“If he just slept with her, that wouldn't be a problem ...” he continued in a low voice. “But he’s weighted down with real feelings ... feelings that will prove too heavy if he needs to run.”

He paused. Their soles hammered the walkway surrounding the college's huge rectangular courtyard. Busy students filtered past or rushed through low arched doors that tore open ancient buildings. Arthur Lawson's voice creaked again:
“Of course, we could always give Fraulein Mandelbaum a good reason to leave...”