Dreams of Innocence Read online

  He had shown her round Orion Farm himself. It wasn’t the usual sort of farm, but a breeding station for species that were dying out, shunned or killed off by the ardours of agro-business with its reliance on chemicals. Variety and purity, Max told her, were his key words. Variety, applied to the plants and the seedlings that were nurtured in greenhouses and on open ground, to the rare old breeds of cows and sheep. Purity, to the methods used. And, Helena had grown increasingly to think, to the way of life Max encouraged here. It was almost monastic in its simplicity and discipline.

  Apart from the core farm workers, there were twenty youths who were gathered together each summer for a kind of ecological camp. They worked the dairy and the vegetable gardens. And studied, under Max’s strict tutelage. Some of these youths returned in subsequent years, went on to spread the word, or begin their own enterprises. It was these, Helena liked to imagine, though she had no tangible proof, who formed the crack forces of an underground ecological army. That wasn’t simply wild conjecture on her part: she had met one of Max’s youths working for Greenpeace, another in the Sea Shepherds.

  The youths were housed either in outlying cabins or in the rambling main house where meals were taken in unison. At the crack of dawn there were gymnastics, in the evenings, music or storytelling, when weather permitted, around a bonfire.

  It was sometime in the course of that first visit that Max had fixed her with his soothing gaze and said, ‘It is young people like you, Helena, who are needed. Young people to prevent the apocalypse which is creeping up on us in the very midst of our plenty.’

  The words had fired her work ever since, her journalistic campaigning on green issues, her investigations into pollutants and pesticides, into sulphur emissions, the course of acid rain and the dying forests of Europe; into the export of fertilizing chemicals to the third world and the decimation of the rainforest; into cycles of flood and drought, into the breakdown of traditional communities. Most recently she had reported on the Bhopal disaster. Her work had won her prizes and a reputation as well as a post at The Sunday Times which gave her a great deal of freedom and a regular outlet. But it was Max she had learned from, been inspired by. In face to face meetings, telephone calls, letters.

  Her visits to the Farm became as regular as pilgrimages.

  She would always go there for at least two weeks sometime in early summer, and again in winter, to recuperate from the hurly burly of her increasingly successful journalist’s life. She thought of it as her retreat. There was a room which became hers, an attic space under the eaves of the house at a slight distance from the others. She was left largely to her own devices, to ramble and swim or ski and read, though Max always set time aside to talk to her.

  It was on the first of those longer summer visits that that strange incident, which she now saw as a turning point in their relationship, had taken place. She was swimming in the small lake behind the main house when her watch strap broke and noting it only after a few moments, she dove down to try and retrieve it. She was a strong swimmer with no particular fear of the depths, but after she had come up for air and plunged down a second time, Max was suddenly upon her, forcibly tugging her back to shore, his arm under her chin, as if she had narrowly escaped drowning.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he had asked her with something like panic in his eyes. And concern. The concern had stopped her from protesting that she had been in no danger, and she had simply nodded. Then too, the sensation of his arms around her, made her hold her breath. It was the first time he had touched her. With most men that first touch would have led to another. She was used to that, used to the fact, even then, that the accident of a harmony of features, long legs and corngold hair led to a flurry of advances from men of whatever age.

  Not with Max. He released her almost instantly and she thought she was grateful for that. But he had continued to look at her with a particular intentness as she had rubbed herself down, pulled on clothes, reassured him again that she was fine. From that moment, a palpable bond seemed to form between them - one based on more than simply her admiration of him. The bond was all the stronger, she thought, because, for all their closeness, it carried no taint of carnality. With Max, there was no prying, no delving into areas best left untouched, no questions which couldn’t be answered. He gave her peace.

  During the quiet winter months, Max used the extra space in the house to provide a writers’ retreat, a colony which had gradually gained in fame. The monastic calm was still there, perhaps even more so, but the faces were older, though they nonetheless looked to Max with something like worship on them. It was on one of her winter visits that she dared to ask him why there was never a woman amongst those faces. That was the one thing about the farm which troubled her.

  He had looked at her solemnly then, considered as he always did before answering, though this time she thought she saw something like a twinkle in those clear eyes.

  ‘You know, Helena, I haven’t known many women. I’m not very comfortable with them. I’m a solitary by nature, I guess. And if there were women, here, well, the atmosphere would be altogether different. Sometimes, even with you, - and you’re special, we have an affinity - I feel it, that distraction in the boy’s faces, that preening and forgetfulness.’ He shrugged, ‘Anyhow it seems to me that given how important women are in most men’s lives, it’s good for them to have some time on their own, away from all that, in nature, an opportunity to explore something else in themselves, something even deeper than the sexual challenge.’

  She hadn’t argued with him, had taken it, had carried away with her his sense of her own specialness, the affinity between them. Like a love affair raised above the norm by its purity. Something they could both treasure.

  And that, Helena thought, already more than half asleep, perhaps accounted for why Max had written to her and not to his Deputy, James Whitaker. Or did it? She switched off the light. If she were lucky, tomorrow might bring some answers.

  She woke to find pale sunshine curling round the heavy curtains. For a moment, she was uncertain where she was. As memory flooded through her, she leapt from the bed and dressed quickly. Barely seven o’clock. She had a good long day in front of her to reach the town on the postmark and to explore its surroundings.

  The hotel dining room was already crowded. Whatever revelry the evening’s carnival antics may have entailed, the dark-suited men trailing briefcases and the scent of aftershave seemed to have had nothing to do with it. They looked as orderly and as affluent as the pristine office buildings which had dotted the route from the airport.

  Helena took her first cup of coffee with the Süddeutsche Zeitung, the second with the maps she had purchased, then put both aside to dig Max’s new collection of essays out of her bag. She glanced at the inscription he had written for her: ‘To Helena, a staunch battler and as pure as the mountain air’. With a flush in her cheek, she turned to the essay she had begun rereading on the plane. ‘Homecoming’ it was called, one of Max’s more philosophical pieces and she wasn’t sure she altogether grasped its intent. But the language spoke to her almost as poetry might, a language of digging in dark loamy soil and walking in shaded woods, of coming upon hidden violets and daisy-strewn meadows, of the interconnectedness of things and an at-homeness in nature.

  She had first read this essay when Max had given her the book in Norway, at the environmental conference just outside Oslo. She had gone there specifically to see Max, needing to see him after those days in Bhopal. The foul scent of the blinding methyl isocyanate gas which had leaked from the chemical factory was still in her nostrils. The grim sight of those streets in which bodies lay dead and dying beneath a sky reddened by hundreds of funeral pyres pursued her. Only Max could provide some smattering of comfort, pull threads of direction from the disaster. And he had helped. Only then to vanish.

  Helena shivered, forced herself to concentrate on the essay. She had read it in Norway, because Norway was Max’s childhood home and she had thought that the essay would
tell her how he felt about returning there after all these years. Now it suddenly occurred to her that some of the images here were similar to those in his letter to her. She filed the thought for further reflection. It was time to set off.

  The Munich streets were unrecognizable now, somehow magically clean after the fervours of the night. Cyclists rode untroubled in their specially designated pavement lanes, as certain of their place as the brisk pedestrians and the gleaming cars.

  Helena crossed the imposing Marienplatz, paused for a moment in front of the twin towered bulk of the Frauenkirche to read a plaque announcing that the Messerschmidt firm, the famous arms manufacturers, were now patrons to the upkeep of the ancient ornate tombs which lined its brick walls. She smiled at the fittingness of it.

  At the car rental firm, she found to her consternation that only the BMW range was still available. She hated these rampant agents of pollution. But she settled for a discreet navy blue and with a sigh familiarized herself with gears and dashboard. Then, she spread Max’s letter and her maps out on the seat beside her. She was a born map-reader, the lines and curves and marks on the sheet of paper transforming themselves in her mind with easy fluency to the three-dimensions of streets and roads and surrounding terrain.

  A little bemused to find herself on the right-hand side of the street in this fat smooth car, Helena drove slowly through the morning traffic, heading south. When suburbs gave way to countryside, she relaxed. On the left hand side of the Autobahn, she noted a large industrial complex, smiled when she saw the logo of Deutsche Aerospace on the main building: she had arrived at the precincts of the keepers of the Frauenkirche tombs. Could Max have had any interest in the workings of the firm?

  Towards Sauerlach, she headed off the Autobahn into quieter roads. It was beautiful here, the meadows still flecked with white, the covering of frost on the serried ranks of fringed pine giving them the aspect of hoary bearded regiments. In the distance the mountains with their snow capped peaks were already visible.

  She stopped the car in a lay-by to have a proper look, breathed deeply of the cold morning air, and then headed off again. More alert now to descriptions which might tally with Max’s letter, she travelled south east over gently rolling hills, past lumber mills and farmhouses sporting bright traditional figures and intricate painted scenes. Astonishingly fat sheep grazed in the meadows between the wayside crucifixes.

  She reached Wolfratshausen well before noon. Suddenly nervousness coursed through her. She had arrived at her first destination. A stamp on an envelope had become a handsome Bavarian market town, complete with creamy yellow and green houses, an onion-domed church, and a lazy river swarming with ducks and plump swans. Her task now was to do the round of hotels and guesthouses and ask for Max Bergmann. Not that she expected, though she hoped, to find him, but she needed to pick up his trail.

  She started with the hotel first to hand, just doors away from the onion domed church.

  A sturdy woman with thick sausage curls smiled at her from behind a gleaming counter.

  ‘Ich süche einen Herrn Max Bergmann. I believe he’s staying with you.’

  Helena was grateful for the growing smoothness of her German. Again she thought of Emily, who had encouraged her to learn the language, not because Em had an Austrian grandmother, but because as she had insisted, ‘If you understand German, you’ll understand a good deal about this century of ours.’

  The woman looked up from the register and shook her head. ‘Nein, kenne keinen. There’s no one here by that name.’

  Her accent gave Helena pause, but she plunged on after a moment. ‘That’s strange, I had a letter from him saying he was here. Perhaps you might check back in your register, see if he left a forwarding address.’

  The woman looked at her sceptically now. ‘I don’t remember anyone by that name. Bergmann…,’ she turned a page, ran a blunt finger cursorily down it, shook her head again.

  ‘You’re certain? He’s a tall man. Looks about sixty, very handsome, with white hair, speaks English. Perhaps he used a different name…’

  Suddenly the woman’s face was all suspicion. ‘We check all passports,’ she said huffily, closing the register with an audible slam.

  ‘Well, thank you for your help,’ Helena smiled brightly, but she could have kicked herself. She would have to modify her questioning technique so as not to arouse undue suspicion. Of course identities would be checked. Still smiling, she said goodbye and on her way out picked up a little brochure about the town.

  There were five other hotels and guesthouses listed. It wasn’t a big town. She tried one, then another, and another, and cursed herself for not having thought in her hurry to bring a photograph of Max. Her hopes dwindled as she approached the last address.

  There was no one behind the counter here. The single flowery sofa in the reception area looked worn. With a shrug, Helena pressed the desktop bell and waited. At last a youngish man appeared, his face visibly lightening as he looked at her.

  ‘A room for you, Fräulein?’ His eyes skimmed over her.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Helena was never averse to using any methods she could muster, including her charms. ‘But first of all, I’m looking for a Herr Max Bergmann. I believe he may be staying with you.’

  The man’s face fell a little. He glanced at the register quickly, then shook his head.

  ‘He’s an old man, tall, whitehaired, speaks English,’ Helena lowered her voice confidentially. ‘My father, in fact,’ her voice caught as she said it. Why had she said it? She put the question aside, raced on. ‘He’s been ill, I’m afraid he may have given a false name. Perhaps…’

  The young man chuckled, ‘You mean he may be here with someone else.’ He glanced at Helena meaningfully, turned the register towards her. ‘These old ones, eh? Some of them know how to live.’

  Helena blanched. It wasn’t what she had meant at all. But perhaps the man was right. That hadn’t occurred to her. No, Max couldn’t disappear because of a woman. She looked through the register, tried to see a signature which might match Max’s, whatever the name. But there was none she could be certain of.

  ‘Nothing?’ the young man was leaning nonchalantly towards her. ‘I know, let’s ask Berta in the restaurant. She keeps an eye on everyone.’

  He ushered her towards a door and suddenly Helena found herself in a largish, slightly gloomy restaurant with thick oak panelling and chequered green table-cloths. The place was all but filled with lunchtime customers digging into heaped plates.

  A blousy middle-aged woman with bright rose-bud lips greeted them.

  Helena began her description again. The woman looked into the distance reflectively. ‘Let me think now, rather gaunt, with deepset eyes that stare right through you. Walks very straight. Does that sound like him.’

  Helena took a deep breath, nodded. ‘Could be.’

  ‘Well, if that was the man you’re looking for, he hasn’t been back here for some three, maybe four weeks. I noticed him because he sat so quietly. Lost in thought, he was. Yes, that’s it.’ She preened herself a little at the find. ‘Lost in thought.’

  ‘That’s him,’ Helena said. For a moment she didn’t know whether to be thrilled or disappointed. So Max had been sighted here. But she had already known he must have been here from his letter, unless someone else had posted it for him. With a sigh, she tore a piece of paper from her notebook and wrote her name on it, handed it to the woman. ‘If you see him again, will you ask him to leave a message for me. I’ll come back and get it. Perhaps tomorrow.’ She paused, added, ‘By the way, was this man alone?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Strangely relieved, Helena looked towards the hotel assistant.

  ‘And that room?’ he prodded her.

  ‘Not straight away,’ she gave him her most brilliant smile. ‘When I come back.’ She waved at them both.

  Outside, she paused for a moment. What next? The Post Office: there must be a poste restante and some directories. The slope roofed building was
a block away. She stood in a queue for a few minutes only to be met by a blank stare when she asked if there was any post for Max Bergmann.

  It had been a stupid thought she realized, as stupid as her search of hotel registers. If Max had deliberately disappeared, he could hardly have done it under his own name. The telephone directories were more promising and at the same time more distressing. There was a rash of industries Max might have been interested in: fertilizer factories, timber firms, power plants. Where to start? With no particular guide, except the size of the entry, Helena wrote down some addresses.

  She got into the car reflectively, started to drive south, randomly following side roads which might take her to the sites Max had described. His letter had given her the sense that he was in trouble. But what kind of trouble could there be in these ancient Bavarian villages sitting astride hilltops or nestling in quiet valleys. She passed a sleepy Dorf, a monastery with bulbous spires, saw the craggy peaks looming in the distance.

  She had said to that man that Max was her father. It was an odd thing to have come to her lips. Helena suddenly shivered despite the warmth of the car. She switched on the radio. A Schubert sonata, wistful, lulling.

  It was her friend Claire who had put it into her mind. She had rung Claire just before leaving London to tell her she had heard from Max, that she was off, was finally going to take that holiday her editor had been urging her to take ever since she had come back from the harrowing trip to India. She had asked Claire if she would once again look after cats and plants and check through her post for her.

  Claire didn’t approve of her going, didn’t altogether approve of Max. They hadn’t got on when they had met. And yesterday, she had chided Helena for wasting a holiday and setting off on a wild-goose chase. ‘Max isn’t your responsibility,’ she had said to her. ‘He’s neither your lover nor your father.’