Around 11 a.m., Jonathan put in a call to Wister’s number in Hamburg, direct, not collect. Three or four minutes later, his telephone rang, and Jonathan had a clear connection, much better than Paris usually sounded.
‘… Yes, this is Wister,’ Wister said in his light, tense voice.
‘I had your letter this morning,’ Jonathan began. The idea of going to Hamburg —’
‘Yes, why not?’ said Wister casually.
‘But I mean the idea of seeing a specialist —’
‘I’ll cable you the money right away. You can pick it up at the Fontainebleau post office. It should be there in a couple of hours.’
That’s – that’s kind of you. Once I’m there, I can —’
‘Can you come today? This evening? There’s room here for you to stay.’
‘I don’t know about today.’ And yet, why not?
‘Call me again when you’ve got your ticket. Tell me what time you’re coming in. I’ll be in all day.’
Jonathan’s heart was beating a little fast when he hung up.
At home during lunch-time, Jonathan went upstairs to the bedroom to see if his suitcase was handy. It was, on top of the wardrobe where it had been since their last holiday, nearly a year ago, in Aries.
He said to Simone, ‘Darling, something important. I’ve decided to go to Hamburg and see a specialist.’
‘Oh, yes? – Perrier suggested it?’
‘Well – in fact, no. My idea. I wouldn’t mind having a German doctor’s opinion. I know it’s an expense.’
‘Oh, Jon! Expense! – Did you have any news this morning? But the laboratory report comes tomorrow, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes. What they say is always the same, darling. I want a a fresh opinion.’
‘When do you want to go?’
‘Soon. This week.’
Just before 5 p.m. Jonathan called at the Fontainebleau post office. The money had arrived. Jonathan presented his carte d’identité and received six hundred francs. He went from the post office to the Syndicat d’Initiatives in the Place Franklin Roosevelt, just a couple of streets away, and bought a round-trip ticket to Hamburg on a plane that left Orly airport at 9.25 p.m. that evening. He would have to hurry, he realized, and he liked that, because it precluded thinking, hesitating. He went to his shop and telephoned Hamburg, this time collect.
Wister again answered. ‘Oh, that’s fine. At eleven fifty-five, right. Take the airport bus to the city terminus, would you? I’ll meet you there.’
Then Jonathan made one telephone call to a client who had an important picture to pick up, to say that he would be closed Tuesday and Wednesday for ‘reasons of family’, a common excuse. He’d have to leave a sign to that effect in his door for a couple of days. Not a very important matter, Jonathan thought, since shopkeepers in town frequently closed for a few days for one reason or another. Jonathan had once seen a sign saying ‘closed due to hangover’.
Jonathan shut up shop and went home to pack. It would be a two-day stay at most, he thought, unless the Hamburg hospital or whatever insisted that he stay longer for tests. He had checked the trains to Paris, and there was one around 7 p.m. that would do nicely. He had to get to Paris, then to Les Invalides for a bus to Orly. When Simone came home with Georges, Jonathan had his suitcase downstairs.
‘Tonight?’ Simone said.
‘The sooner the better, darling. I had an impulse. I’ll be back Wednesday, maybe even tomorrow night.’
‘But – where can I reach you? You arranged for a hotel?’
‘No. I’ll have to telegraph you, darling. Don’t worry.’
‘You’ve got everything arranged with the doctor? Who is the doctor?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’ve only heard of the hospital.’ Jonathan dropped his passport, trying to stick it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘I never saw you like this,’ said Simone.
Jonathan smiled at her. ‘At least – obviously I’m not collapsing!’
Simone wanted to go with him to the Fontainebleau-Avon station, and take the bus back, but Jonathan begged her not to.
‘I’ll telegraph right away.’ Jonathan said.
‘Where is Hamburg?’ Georges demanded for the second time.
‘Allemagne! – Germany!’ Jonathan said.
Jonathan found a taxi in the Rue de France, luckily. The train was pulling into the Fontainebleau-Avon station as he arrived, and he barely had time to buy his ticket and hop on. Then it was a taxi from the Gare de Lyon to Les Invalides. Jonathan had some money left over from the six hundred francs. For a while, he was not going to worry about money.
On the plane, he half slept, with a magazine in his lap. He was imagining being another person. The rush of the plane seemed to be rushing this new person away from the man left behind in the dark grey house in the Rue St Merry. He imagined another Jonathan helping Simone with the dishes at this moment, chatting about boring things such as the price of linoleum for the kitchen floor.
The plane touched down. The air was sharp and much colder. There was a long lighted motorway, then the city’s streets, massive buildings looming up into the night sky, street lights of different colour and shape from those of France.
And there was Wister smiling, walking towards him with his right hand extended. ‘Welcome, Mr Trevanny! Had a good trip? … My car is just outside. Hope you didn’t mind coming to the terminus. My driver – not my driver but one I use sometimes – he was tied up till just a few minutes ago.’
They were walking out to the kerb. Wister droned on in his American accent. Except for his scar, nothing about Wister suggested violence. He was, Jonathan decided, too calm, which from a psychiatric point of view might be ominous. Or was he merely nursing an ulcer? Wister stopped beside a well-polished black Mercedes-Benz. An older man, wearing no cap, took care of Jonathan’s medium-sized suitcase, and held the door for him and Wister.
‘This is Karl,’ Wister said.
‘Evening,’ Jonathan said.
Karl smiled, and murmured something in German.
It was quite a long drive. Wister pointed out the Rathaus, ‘the oldest ia all Europe, and the bombs didn’t get it’, and a great church or cathedral whose name Jonathan didn’t get. He and Wister were sitting together in the back. They entered a part of the town with a more countrylike atmosphere, went over still another bridge, and on to a darker road.
‘Here we are.’ Wister said. ‘My place.’
The car had turned into a climbing driveway and stopped beside a large house with a few lighted windows and a lighted, well-kept entrance.
‘It’s an old house with four flats, and I have one.’ Wister explained. ‘Lots of such houses in Hamburg. Converted. Here I have a nice view of the Alster. It’s the Aussen Alster, the big one. You’ll see more tomorrow.’
They rode up in a modern lift, Karl taking Jonathan’s suitcase. Karl pressed a bell, and a middle-aged woman in a black dress and white apron opened the door, smiling.
‘This is Gaby.’ said Wister to Jonathan. ‘My part-time housekeeper. She works for another family in the house and sleeps with them, but I told her we might want some food tonight. Gaby, Herr Trevanny aus Frankreich.’
The woman greeted Jonathan pleasantly, and took his coat. She had a round, pudding-like face, and looked the soul of goodwill.
‘Wash in here, if you like.’ said Wister, gesturing to a bathroom whose light was already on. ‘I’ll get you a scotch. Are you hungry?’
When Jonathan came out of the bathroom, the lights – four lamps – were on in the big square living-room. Wister was sitting on a green sofa, smoking a cigar. Two scotches stood on the coffee-table in front of Wister. Gaby came in at once with a tray of sandwiches and a round, pale-yellow cheese.
‘Ah, thank you, Gaby.’ Wister said to Jonathan, ‘Late for Gaby, but when I told her I had a guest coming, she insisted on staying on to serve the sandwiches.’ Wister, though making a cheerful remark, still didn’t smile. In fact his str
aight eyebrows drew together anxiously as Gaby arranged the plates and the silverware. When she departed, he said, ‘You’re feeling all right? Now the main thing is – the visit to the specialist. I have a good man in mind, Dr Heinrich Wentzel, a haematologist at the Eppendorfer Krankenhaus, which is the main hospital here. World famous. I’ve made an appointment for you for tomorrow at two, if that’s agreeable.’
Certainly. Thank you,’ Jonathan said.
‘That gives you a chance to catch up on your sleep. Your wife didn’t mind too much, I hope, your taking off on such short notice? … After all it’s only intelligent to consult more than one doctor about a serious ailment…’
Jonathan was only half listening. He felt dazed, and he was also a bit distracted by the décor, by the fact it was all supposed to be German, and that it was the first time he’d been in Germany. The furnishings were quite conventional and more modern than antique, though there was a handsome Biedermeier desk against the wall opposite Jonathan. There were low bookshelves along all the walls, long green curtains at the windows, and the lamps in corners spread the light pleasantly. A purple wooden box lay open on the glass coffee-table, presenting a variety of cigars and cigarettes in compartments. The white fireplace had brass accessories, but there was no fire now. A rather interesting painting which looked like a Derwatt hung over the fireplace. And where was Reeves Minot? Wister was Minot, Jonathan supposed. Was Wister going to announce this or assume that Jonathan realized it? It occurred to Jonathan that he and Simone ought to paint or paper their whole house white. He should discourage the idea of the art nouveau wallpaper in the bedroom. If they wanted to achieve more light, white was the logical —
‘… You might’ve given some thought to the other proposition,’ Wister was saying in his soft voice. “The idea I was talking about in Fontainebleau.’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t changed my mind about that,’ Jonathan said. ‘And so this leads to – obviously I owe you six hundred francs.’ Jonathan forced a smile. Already he felt the scotch, and as soon as he realized this, he nervously drank a little more from his glass. ‘I can repay you within three months. The specialist is the essential thing for me now. – First things first.’
‘Of course,’ said Wister. ‘And you mustn’t think about any repayment. That’s absurd.’
Jonathan didn’t want to argue, but he felt vaguely ashamed. More than anything, Jonathan felt odd, as if he were dreaming, or somehow not himself. It’s only the foreignness of everything, he thought.
‘This Italian we want eliminated,’ Wister said, folding his hands behind his head and looking up at the ceiling, ‘has a routine job. – Ha! That’s funny! He only pretends it’s a job with regular hours. He’s hanging around die clubs off the Reeperbahn, pretending he has a taste for gambling, and he’s pretending he has a job as a oenologist, and I’m sure he has a chum at the – whatever they call the wine factory here. He goes to the wine factory every afternoon, but he spends his evenings in one or another of the private clubs, playing the tables a little and seeing who he can meet. Mornings he sleeps, because he’s up all night. Now the point is,’ Wister said, sitting up, ‘he takes the U-bahn every afternoon to get home, home being a rented flat. He’s got a six-months lease and a real six-month job with the wine place to make it look legitimate, – Have a sandwich!’
Wister extended the plate, as if he had just realized the sandwiches were there.
Jonathan took a tongue sandwich. There were also coleslaw and dill pickle.
The important point is he gets off the U-bahn at the Steinstrasse station every day around six-fifteen by himself, looking like any other businessman coming back from the office. That’s the time we want to get him.’ Wister spread his bony hands palm downward. The assassin fires once if you can get the middle of his back, twice for sure maybe, drops the gun and – Bob’s your uncle as the English say, isn’t that right?’
The phrase was indeed familiar, out of the long ago past. ‘If it’s so easy, why do you need me?’ Jonathan managed a polite smile. ‘I’m an amateur to say the least. I’d botch it.’
Wister might not have heard. The crowd in the U-bahn may be rounded up. Some of them. Who can tell? Thirty, forty people maybe, if the cops get there fast enough. It’s a huge station, the station for the main railway terminus. They might look people over. But suppose they look you over?’ Wister shrugged. ‘You’ll have dropped the gun. You’ll have used a thin stocking over your hand, and you’ll drop the stocking a few seconds after you fire. No powder marks on you, no fingerprints on the gun. You have no connection with the man who’s dead. Oh, it really won’t come to all that. But one look at your French identity card, the fact of your appointment with Dr Wentzel, you’re in the clear. My point is, our point, we don’t want anyone connected with us or the clubs …’
Jonathan listened and made no comment. On the day of the shooting, he was thinking, he would have to be in a hotel, he could hardly be a house-guest of Wister, in case a policeman asked him where he was staying. And what about Karl and the housekeeper? Did they know anything about this? Were they trustworthy? It’s all a lot of nonsense, Jonathan thought, and wanted to smile, but he wasn’t smiling.
‘You’re tired.’ Wister informed him. ‘Want to see your room? Gaby already took your suitcase in.’
Fifteen minutes later, Jonathan was in pyjamas after a hot shower. His room had a window at the front of the house, like the living-room which had two windows on the front, and Jonathan looked out on a surface of water where there were lights along the near shore, and some red and green lights of tied-up boats. It looked dark, peaceful and spacious. A searchlight’s beam swept protectively across the sky. His bed was a three-quarter width, neatly turned down. There was a glass of what looked like water on his bed-table and a package of Gitane maïs, his brand, and an ashtray and matches. Jonathan took a sip from the glass and found that it was indeed water.
6
JONATHAN sat on the edge of his bed, sipping coffee which Gaby had just brought. It was coffee the way he liked it, strong with a dash of thick cream. Jonathan had awakened at 7 a.m., then gone back to sleep until Wister had knocked on the door at 10.30 a.m.
‘Don’t apologize, I’m glad you slept.’ said Wister. ‘Gaby is ready to bring you some coffee. Or do you prefer tea?’
Wister had also added that he had made a reservation for Jonathan at the Hotel – Victoria was its name in English, anyway, where they would go before lunch. Jonathan thanked him. No further conversation about the hotel. But that was the beginning, Jonathan thought, as he had thought last night. If he were to carry out Wister’s plan, he mustn’t be a house-guest here. Jonathan, however, felt glad he was going to be out from under Wister’s roof in a couple of hours.
A friend or acquaintance of Wister’s named Rudolf something arrived at noon. Rudolf was young and slender with straight black hair, nervous and polite. Wister said he was a medical student. Evidently he did not speak English. He reminded Jonathan of photographs of Franz Kafka. They all got into the car, driven by Karl, and set off for Jonathan’s hotel. Everything looked so new compared to France, Jonathan thought, and then recalled that Hamburg had been flattened by bombs. The car stopped in a commercial-looking street. It was the Hotel Victoria.
They all speak English.’ Wister said. ‘We’ll wait for you.’
Jonathan went in. A bellhop had taken his suitcase at the door. He registered, looking at his English passport to get the number right. He asked for his suitcase to be sent up to his room, as Wister had told him to do. The hotel was of middle category. Jonathan saw.
Then they throve to a restaurant for lunch, where Karl did not join them. They had a bottle of wine at their table before the meal, and Rudolf became more merry. Rudolf spoke in German and Wister translated a few of his pleasantries. Jonathan was thinking of the hour 2 p.m., when he was due at the hospital.
‘Reeves —’ said Rudolf to Wister.
Jonathan thought Rudolf had said it once before, an
d this time there was no mistake. Wister – Reeves Minot – took it calmly. And so did Jonathan.
‘Anaemic,’ said Rudolf to Jonathan.
‘Worse.’ Jonathan smiled.
‘Schlimmer,’ said Reeves Minot, and continued to Rudolf in German, which seemed to Jonathan as clumsy as his French, but was probably equally adequate.
The food was excellent, the portions enormous. Reeves had brought his cigars. But before they could finish the cigars, they had to leave for the hospital.
The hospital was a vast assembly of buildings set among trees and pathways lined with flowers. Karl had again driven them. The wing of the hospital where Jonathan had to go looked like a laboratory of the future – rooms on either side of a corridor as in a hotel, except that these rooms held chromium chairs or beds and were illuminated by fluorescent or variously coloured lamps. There was a smell not of disinfectant but as of some unearthly gas, somewhat resembling the smell Jonathan had known under the X-ray machine which five years ago had done him no good with the leukemia. It was the kind of place where laymen surrendered utterly to the omniscient specialists, Jonathan thought, and at once he felt weak enough to faint. Jonathan was walking at that moment down a seemingly endless corridor of soundproofed floor surface with Rudolf, who was to interpret if Jonathan needed it. Reeves had remained in the car with Karl, but Jonathan was not sure if they were going to wait, or of how long the examination would take.
Dr Wentzel, a heavy man with grey hair and walrus moustaches, knew a little English, but he did not try to construct long sentences. ‘How long?’ Six years. Jonathan was weighed, asked if he had had any weight loss recently, stripped to the waist, his spleen palpated. All the while, the doctor murmured in German to a nurse who was taking notes. His blood pressure was taken, his eyelids looked at, urine and blood samples taken, finally the sternum marrow sample taken with a punch-like instrument that operated faster and with less discomfort than Dr Perrier’s. Jonathan was told he could have the results tomorrow morning. The examination had taken only about forty-five minutes.