Room 101 was located upstairs, at the farthest end of the corridor, next to the central air-conditioning unit, which was so noisy that Levanter was sure that anyone cruising the corridor would turn back before reaching the end.
Levanter put on his gloves before opening the door and then locking it behind him. Lit only by one dim bulb, which barely dispelled the darkness, the room contained a wooden bunk with a mattress, a sheet and two pillows, a chair, a locker, and one small bed table. Levanter slipped the saber under the bunk and put the hammer on the table. He undressed, hanging his clothes in the metal locker next to the bunk, taking off the gloves only after unlocking the door. Then, wrapped in a towel, he went downstairs, leaving the door slightly ajar. He sat in the area where customers came to cool off after the sauna. From here he could watch the main entrance.
The hotel clerk arrived alone a little ahead of time and rented a room. Levanter went upstairs after him and returned to IOI. He hid his room key in his raincoat pocket and put on the gloves, then lay on the bunk, listening to the music from the corridor. In a few minutes there was a gentle knock at the door. Levanter rose, picked up the hammer with his right hand, and, holding it behind his back, opened the door with his left hand.
Stuttering, he greeted the clerk and invited him in. The clerk seemed uncertain, self-conscious, and timid in his towel, and said he would rather wait in one of the lounges downstairs. Levanter explained that he had just come up; there were too many unsavory types downstairs, he said, old men openly trading pep pills and snorting coke. He himself, he added, did not like to be exposed to such goings-on, but if the clerk was interested, he was certainly free to go. That remark did the trick. The clerk denied any such desire and, as the voice of Judy Garland floated in from the corridor speaker, he fumbled in the semidarkness to the chair beside the bunk. Levanter pushed the door closed with his left hand while with his right he hit the man’s head with the leather-covered hammer. Stunned, the man slumped, his towel fell off, and he collapsed onto the edge of the bunk. Levanter grabbed him by the legs and lifted his entire length onto the mattress. He pried the man’s mouth open and gagged him with a towel, then removed his room-key bracelet and put it on his own wrist. He turned the body face-down and, twisting the rope around the man’s neck, waist, knees, and ankles, he tied it securely around the length of the bunk.
Levanter dressed carefully, making sure that he forgot nothing. He put on his raincoat, wrapped the hammer in the scarf, and placed it in the shopping bag. He bent over the clerk and pinched him: a shudder ran through the man’s trunk; he strained, but he was too tightly gagged to utter a sound. Levanter reminded himself that what he was about to carry out was impersonal revenge, as simple as the verdict of a military tribunal.
He slid the saber from beneath the bed. Weapon in hand, its polished blade glistening in the blue light, Levanter stood at the foot of the bunk. He reached over the naked man and brought the tip of the saber to the narrow passage that, like a shadow, divided the man’s rump. He inched the end of the sword down the passage, until its tip touched the larger opening in the flesh.
Levanter leaned over; supporting himself with one hand, he thrust forward and, as if sheathing the weapon, plunged the blade deep into the opening. An intense spasm convulsed the body, followed by a shudder. When the entire blade had penetrated, the corpse lay motionless. Levanter covered it with the sheet.
He turned off the light and pulled the door tightly shut as he left the room. He put the gloves in the bag and, without hurrying, walked through the corridor. A few men stood embracing in doorways or inside dim rooms, their doors left open.
On the way out, he dropped the bracelet from his wrist onto the counter. The cashier, still absorbed in the afternoon tabloid, did not even raise his head as he mumbled a perfunctory response to Levanter’s quiet good-by.
Walking home through the park, Levanter slowly peeled off the wig, then the eyebrows, mustache, and beard, and threw them, one by one, into the bushes.
He thought about the public consequences of his personal deed. Both the authorities and the media would demand a direct connection between the crime committed and the reason for it. They would keep looking for a plot, and to look for a plot in this killing would be as useless as grooming a bronze horse; no one would be able to untangle the web of circumstances and motives that had led to the clerk’s death.
Back in his apartment, Levanter felt safe and secure. Scarcely an hour had passed since the clerk had entered Levanter’s room at the baths. But what had taken place there had already receded into a remote corner of his memory. It was nothing but an old Polaroid snapshot; no negative, photographer unknown, camera thrown away.
Knowing Jacques Monod did not have much time left, Levanter decided to go to Cannes to be with him. When he arrived in town, Levanter discovered that the annual Cannes Film Festival was taking place at the resort. Although Monod had been born and raised in Cannes and in later years spent most of his vacations there, he told Levanter he had never been to the Festival. As Levanter spent part of every day with Monod, he persuaded him to attend a few film events; and he introduced his ailing friend to some filmmakers, hoping they would provide amusing distraction.
After a film screening one afternoon, Levanter noticed a starlet staring at Monod. She approached them and asked guardedly whether Monod was one of the famous stars, like Charles Boyer, who were said to have come to Cannes for the release of Hollywood, Hollywood!, a selection of fragments from their old films. Monod was about to introduce himself when Levanter cut in and said that Monod was indeed a famous star, but from another galaxy.
“Another galaxy?” asked the wide-eyed young woman. Levanter nodded. She apologized for not having seen Another Galaxy yet, but assured him that she would as soon as it was released.
Later a distinguished French movie director saw Monod on the hotel terrace and recognized him instantly. He greeted him respectfully and introduced himself. “We don’t see many Nobel Prize winners here!” he exclaimed solemnly. Then he introduced Monod to his companion, a statuesque brunette. “This is Doctor Jacques Monod,” he said, “the author of a book that influenced me tremendously.”
The woman smiled coyly but said nothing.
“You know Chance and Necessity, that book you saw on my night table?” said the director in a tone of reprimand.
The woman extended her hand. “But of course! I’m delighted to know you, Doctor,” she said, placing the other hand on her hip and leaning slightly toward him. “Are you in Cannes because of the film based on your book?” she asked, obviously pleased with herself for thinking of the question.
Monod, visibly amused, was prepared to answer. But the director, rolling his eyes in frustration, grabbed the woman by the arm and yanked her away.
At a gala after one of the films, two starlets asked Levanter who his handsome friend was. Levanter asked them to guess.
“He’s handsome enough to be a movie star,” said one, glancing at Monod coquettishly.
“Couldn’t be,” the other argued. “He’s too distinguished-looking.”
“The head of a film studio?” the first guessed.
“Too self-assured,” commented the second. “Studio heads only try to look self-assured. He really is.”
“A director?”
“Too natural and too well dressed.” She looked at Monod intently. “He might be a scientist,” she said after a pause.
“Why would you think that?” asked Levanter.
“He looks at you with such analytical eyes,” she murmured.
They talked and joked in the afternoon sun on the verandah of Monod’s family home. Levanter picked up his camera to photograph Monod. Only from behind the viewfinder did he dare to focus on the barely perceptible evidence of Monod’s illness. There was no startling change, yet certain physical clues, uncharacteristic tiredness, suggested that the disease had made further inroads on his health.
Later in the day, Monod escorted Levanter to his car. “Unt
il tomorrow then?” said Levanter from behind the wheel. Monod stood beside him but did not answer. Levanter raised his eyes. The two men looked at each other. Levanter knew it was for the last time.
“Farewell, my dear boy,” said Monod, finally breaking the silence.
Levanter could not speak. Mute, dispirited, he started the engine. Without pausing to look back, Jacques Monod walked away. As he started to climb the steps to the house, the last rays of the setting sun wrapped him in their glow.
The dark-haired woman stepped off the boardwalk and strode through the sand to the last empty lounger, just next to where Levanter sat. She untied her robe and slipped it off as she lay down. Like most women on the hotel’s private beach, she was going to sunbathe naked. Her body was evenly tanned; her skin was smooth, unbroken by fat or wrinkles. She raised her head toward the sun.
Levanter looked at her face. A slight thickening at the top of her nose made her face familiar.
He moved his lounger closer and leaned toward her.
“Forgive me, Signorina,” he said, overlaying his French with an exaggerated Italian intonation to mask his own accent.
She turned her head in his direction. He could see that she was annoyed. “Yes?” She opened one eye.
“I can’t help admiring your face. Your nose fascinates me particularly,” he said.
She sighed. As she opened the other eye, he noticed that her irises were as dark as they had seemed in the black-and-white snapshots he had seen years ago. He knew who she was.
“Here I lie naked, Signore,” she said, “yet all that fascinates you is my nose? I should be offended.” She closed her eyes once again.
“There is drama behind that irregularity at the bridge,” Levanter went on. “Perhaps your nose was injured in a lovers’ quarrel?”
She didn’t respond.
“When I look at you lying near me,” continued Levanter, “I can almost see this handsome, strong man — your boyfriend, perhaps — as he enrages you. I see you fighting him, scratching his face. He slaps you hard. You fall, bleed. Then the hospital. They fix the bone — but leave a small bump. Charming, really charming.”
He waited for her to react. Still, she did not.
“I see this man who broke your nose wanting to leave you. And you don’t want him to go, even though he hurt you. You cry. You make love. You fight again. He gets letters, many letters, urging him to leave. Then he leaves.” Levanter paused. “I see him among tall buildings and villas and beautiful people — then I don’t see him anymore. He vanishes. Maybe he is dead? Now I see you alone.”
Slowly she sat up and turned to him. “You are the first fortuneteller I’ve ever known who reads not from the palm but from the nose,” she said. “Unless my nose is only a pretext?” She caught him glancing at her body. “What else do you see?”
Levanter closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his brow. “I see another man, in America. You never knew him, but he saw pictures of you. I see him writing to your lover, begging him to go to America, to leave Europe — and you — behind. I see you in another fight, angrily tearing up these letters. I see him leaving you, and I see that man greeting him in New York.” Levanter paused and glanced at her. She was lying down again. Her eyes were shut, but her head was twisted in his direction. He closed his eyes once more. “Ten years have passed. I see you sunbathing naked in Cannes. I see the man who wrote the letters. He sits beside you on the beach.”
She sat up again and faced him. She put on her sunglasses and studied him. “Then you must be that man: George Levanter,” she exclaimed. “Levanter!” she repeated. “How I once hated that name!”
“Only the name?” asked Levanter. They were both speaking their native Slavic language now.
“That was all I knew.” She turned and lay down on her front, her chin resting on one hand. She looked straight ahead and spoke in an even voice. “When I met ‘this handsome, strong man’ — Woytek — you had been in America for years.”
“Woytek often told me you were the most beautiful girl he had ever seen,” said Levanter. “He said you were still in grade school when he met you and that he started sleeping with you right away. Was that true?” he asked.
She shrugged. “It was and it was not. Who cares? He was my first lover. Later, you started writing to Woytek, urging him to defect to the West. Your letters turned our life upside-down. Suddenly, all Woytek talked about was Levanter — his closest friend, already settled in America, while he was wasting his time with me. He imagined himself with you in Paris, London, New York, Los Angeles. With a successful investor for a friend in the West, how could he fail? And how could I, simple flesh, compete with such a vision? So I lost him to you, Levanter. And to Gibby, that American heiress you found for him. And look how it all ended!” She took her suntan lotion out of her bag and handed it to Levanter. “Could you put some on my back?”
He took the tube, stood up, and leaned over her. He squeezed the cream onto her shoulders and began spreading it. Her skin felt warm and smooth. When he reached her waist, she looked back over her shoulder at him. “There was a time,” she said, smiling, “when if any man touched me, Woytek would take him apart.”
As Levanter spread the lotion over her hips and thighs, he found himself thinking back to the time when securing Woytek’s future in America was his main concern.
Levanter had telephoned Gibby and told her he had to see her alone to talk about Woytek. They met at a café near Central Park.
“How is Woytek’s English coming along?” he asked.
“It’s improving,” she said. “But surely you didn’t ask me to meet you to talk about Woytek’s English.”
“I didn’t. It’s about the two of you.”
Gibby looked apprehensive, almost panicky. “Did Woytek ask you to talk to me?”
“No.”
“What is it then?” She stared at him, her eyes magnified by the thick lenses of her glasses.
Levanter was having difficulty beginning.
“I know you and Woytek have no secrets from each other,” she encouraged. “You’re his only close friend in New York. You can be direct with me.”
“Ever since I introduced you to Woytek,” said Levanter, trying to sound casual, “you and he have lived in the same tiny West Side studio. Yet you have unlimited charge accounts at all the best shops in town, your wardrobe is made by the finest designers, and your jewelry is worth thousands of dollars. Woytek doesn’t have a penny. If he wants to buy a pack of cigarettes, he has to borrow money for it from his friends. He’s wearing the clothing he arrived in from Eastern Europe because he can’t afford anything new. It looks to me as if you’ve suddenly turned into a penny-pinching shrew, acting as if you were on your own.”
Gibby shifted in her chair. “What’s wrong with being on your own?”
“Nothing. But you aren’t exactly on your own. You come from one of the richest families in the country and have a trust fund that yields a great deal of money. On top of that, there have been large financial gifts and inheritances over the years. Still, with all your wealth, you won’t help Woytek, the man you love.”
“I won’t give Woytek money, if that’s what you mean. I don’t want people to think that the one man I want is the one I have to pay for,” she said stubbornly.
“Are you going to live your life with Woytek according to what other people might think?” asked Levanter.
Gibby looked away. For a moment, Levanter thought she wasn’t listening. He grew impatient.
“If you’re so concerned with what people think, why do you tell them everything about yourself? Why do you say that before you met Woytek your life oscillated between drinks and sweets, with pot in between? That, intellectually, Woytek is the first man you haven’t had to talk down to? That only with Woytek can you be open and honest?”
Gibby interrupted. “Woytek loves me for what I am. What I do with my money is my own business.”
“But not what you do with Woytek,” said Levant
er. “I feel responsible for him. I arranged a blind date for you and Woytek so he could have someone intelligent to speak French with, since that was the only other language he knew then. I didn’t expect him to be destroyed. With you, he’s vegetating, but he loves you too much to leave you. It seems to me that you are preventing both of you from enjoying your money and the life it could offer: the world of travel, of new experience, of ideas, of people.”
“I don’t want Woytek to be known as a man without a profession, living off my money,” said Gibby. “I don’t care what kind of work he does, as long as he supports himself like everybody else.”
“But he’s your lover, and you’re not like everybody else,” Levanter said sharply. “You are unusually rich. You and your lover are thereby excluded from the fate of the ordinary. Woytek was once a wealthy and educated man. Then he became a refugee. He’s been here only a year — half of which he’s lived with you. He doesn’t know English well enough yet to pursue his profession. You quit your own job when you fell in love with him. Why do you want him to work? Don’t you understand that getting a job would keep him from studying English? And what do you suppose he could do? Don’t try to answer me,” said Levanter. “Just listen for a minute.”
Gibby glared at him.
“All Woytek is suited for at the moment is menial labor: parking cars, scraping paint off ship decks, cleaning bars, something like that. He could earn about as much in one month as you spend in one week on restaurant tips when you take your rich cousins to lunch. And it costs you more to pay your monthly phone bill for long-distance calls to your college chums than Woytek would make in an entire year.”
Levanter paused. Gibby did not speak.
“What is your reasoning?” Levanter asked. “Do you believe that as long as he’s penniless everyone will think Woytek stays with you for yourself, whereas if you give him money, everyone will think he loves you just for the money?”
Gibby remained silent.
Levanter went on. “Woytek was a superb athlete. He used to play soccer and basketball and was one of the best swimmers in his country. He loved company and enjoyed being surrounded by creative people. Now he’s cooped up in your ground-floor apartment where he can’t even see daylight, and he can’t afford to go out. You’ve made him your prisoner.”