The Sixth Key Read Free Page A

of his times. If you were to
ask him about the war against the Cathars, or something concerning Spanish
politics at the time of the Reconquista, he would have expounded clear and
concise views that were based on genuine insights; if you had asked him about
Don Quixote, or Parzifal, or even Sherlock Holmes, he would have had you
listening for hours! You see, when it came to the happenings of his day, he
could tell you about the latest Georg Wilhelm Pabst film, or the most recent
jazz recordings by Django Reinhardt – and not much else. The truth is,
talk of politics sent his mind into a fog and for this reason he was not in the
least bit interested in Hitler. This confounded his friends and irritated his
family. They argued that Hitler had united the nation by erasing inflation and
reducing unemployment and poverty; they even pointed out to him the language of
symbolism used by Hitler, as a way of raising his interest, but your character
was simply not convinced. He felt there was something rather sinister about the
way the little moustached man used the ideal of oneness that all Germans longed
for, and the symbols that they only half-understood, to gain power over them.
These things your character sensed, in the same way a deer senses the presence
of a hunter. It was an instinctive disquiet. For the ruthlessness of the new
leaders had not yet become outwardly apparent – except for the issue with
the Jews.
    ‘In his view, Hebrews were as well educated,
as polite, astute, sensitive and cultured as any other race. In fact, quite a
few of them were exceedingly talented in diverse fields and were, for the most
part, possessed of impeccable ethics and moral dispositions. He couldn’t
understand Hitler’s obsession with blaming them for everything, from the “stab
in the back”, to bad weather. On top of that there was the regime’s stern
attitude towards homosexuals, Communists and artists. In France he had grown
rather fond of bohemians and, he had to admit, since his return to Germany he
had found it rather bland. He was starved for good conversation! Where were the
intellectuals? Where were the poets, artists and philosophers?
    ‘Right now, standing before that apartment, he
weighs the risks. Who would believe him should it turn out to be a Jewish
publisher, or an enemy of the Reich, or a homosexual, or a liberal, or a
Communist waiting for him in that apartment? On the other hand, he knows he
can’t continue his research into the Cathar treasure without money. After all,
there are only so many radio interviews he can do – and only so many
times he can recount his exciting experiences potholing in the caves of
southern France looking for the Grail – without feeling like a parrot.
Moreover, his scripts for the filmmaker Pabst have come to nothing, and he’s
had enough of traipsing about the country working on film sets for a pittance.
No, this interview is his last resort and he resolves that should he not like
the look of the publisher, he will thank him politely and simply walk out. He
need never see the man again. After all, no one is going to hold a gun to his
head!
    ‘He knocks on the door. There is no answer.
This is the fork in the road, so to speak.’
    ‘What does he do?’ I
said, watching the fire.
    The Writer of Letters allowed a little silence
to pass. ‘If he had done differently, perhaps you wouldn’t be here? Perhaps
there would be no need for you to write this book at all? No, he knocks again
and when he hears nothing, a sudden relief washes over him. Providence has
saved him, he thinks – but from what? The truth is, had he left one
minute earlier he would never know, but his hesitation on descending those
steps now means that he is visible to the man who has, by now, unlocked the
door behind him. When he turns, he recognises the uniform. Who in Berlin
wouldn’t have?’

2
In the Belly of the Dragon
‘But the good champion Ethelred, now entering within the door, was sore
enraged and amazed