“I tried calling you yesterday evening. A year ago your girlfriend”—she said the word as coolly as she could—“was living on Prince Street. A colleague of mine in the Russian Department had her in her conversation class.”
“Where?”
“In her conversation class … Oh, 160 Prince Street near Sixth Avenue and Houston.”
Georg took a deep breath. “Thank you, Helen. I hope this didn’t …”
“No, it didn’t put me out. I showed my colleague the picture, and she gave me her address. And her name: Fran Kramer.”
“Fran Kramer … I looked for Kramers in the phone book. You wouldn’t believe how many there are. Kramers, Krameks, Kramerovs, and so on. Three whole pages.”
“Mm.”
“Anyway, thanks. Would you be mad at me if I asked for one more favor?”
“If I was, you wouldn’t ask?”
“Since the CIA is already mad at me, or the FBI, or the police, I don’t know who, I’d be happier if you weren’t too.”
“What are you talking about?”
Georg told her. He had gone over the story so many times in his mind, in true and false versions, that he managed to tell her in a few words. “And as a result,” he concluded, “you’ll find me in today’s New York Times, on page fourteen.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I have no idea what they’re intending to do to me, how intensively they’re looking for me, or who’s looking. Can you call Townsend Enterprises and act like you are an executive secretary calling from IBM, Nabisco, or Mercedes-Benz, and tell them you would like to make an appointment for someone to discuss an important security issue? If they fall for it, then it would point to the fact that Townsend is an independent enterprise, rather than a branch of Gorgefield Aircraft.”
“Don’t you have more immediate problems?”
“I do, but this one I believe we can get to the bottom of. I want to know what’s going on at Townsend. Not to mention that it would be a relief to know I’m not up against America’s most important armaments enterprise, but that crazy cowboy Benton.”
“But isn’t it clear already that Gorgefield Aircraft … I mean, could Benton send government officers to do his dirty work?”
“Who knows? Would you do me the favor and call? Call from a quiet pay phone somewhere, and the matter can be dealt with in two or three minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll give it a try later this morning. This evening you can reach me at home. In the afternoon I’ll be at Columbia. Be careful.”
36
AT THE ENTRANCE OF the Seventy-ninth Street subway station Georg was about to rush down the stairs with the throng of people when he realized the absurdity of hurrying. The one thing he had more than enough of was time. He would walk.
He strolled up Amsterdam Avenue toward Columbia. He didn’t think the library would be open before eight. He remembered that he had walked up Amsterdam once before, on his first day in New York, from the Epps’ apartment to the cathedral. That had been two months ago. Back then nobody was out to get him, he knew where he would sleep, and he could return to Germany at any time. Nothing was left of that now. And yet he felt lighthearted. The first few weeks in New York he had been stumbling around in the dark. He had felt as if a wound was being relentlessly rubbed raw. He had arrived in America wounded, and every pointless movement had hurt and exhausted him, driven him further into the wariness and distrust he had brought with him from Cucuron. Bulnakov/Benton was right: he had become another person.
The cathedral loomed gray and heavy in the morning sun. Water was bubbling out of the fountain beside it, tables were being set up on the sidewalk in front of the Hungarian Pastry Shop, and workmen were laying pipes in the middle of the street. It was a pleasantly familiar scene, and because of that familiarity Georg let down his guard. Initially, he had intended to enter the Columbia campus from the back gate on Amsterdam Avenue, though he had no reason to think they would expect him to turn up at Columbia, and hence lie in wait for him. So he decided to head for the main gate, which was closer, and he turned onto 114th Street. Not because of the three minutes he would save. It just seemed to make more sense.
They must have been standing on the corner of Broadway, keeping an eye on the subway entrance; God knows why. Perhaps they’d been waiting on the corner of 115th Street by Larry’s apartment, and had gone for a stroll to stretch their legs. Georg saw the redhead and turned around, but the redhead had seen him and began to run toward him, as did the man who was with him.
Georg ran back down 114th Street to Amsterdam. The other two were fast catching up. He turned to look, and was alarmed at how close they were getting. He wouldn’t be able to keep up this speed. If he could get to the cathedral before the others did he had a chance! If it was already open, if the others didn’t know about the little side entrance, if the side entrance was open. If not—he didn’t have the time to think about that. He sprinted across the street, cars honking their horns and braking. His heart was pounding, his legs weren’t as fast as he wanted them to be. Before the others managed to cross the street, he had reached the steps in front of the cathedral leading up to an array of doors that were always locked and one door that he hoped to God was open. He raced up the steps two at a time, his legs getting weaker. He pushed against the door. It didn’t move. He pushed harder, rattled it, the door moved, and, as he pulled, it swung open heavily. He looked back over his shoulder—the others had crossed the street and reached the bottom of the stairs. Would they try the wrong door? He ran through the nave. He kept looking back, hoping his footsteps wouldn’t give him away. The columns blocked his view of the doors, and he walked slowly. The interior of the cathedral was warm. The air was musty and heavy. It was quiet, the church was empty. From the ceiling hung a large fish made of pipes which from the tail to the head grew in length and then became shorter again, bright colors shining as the pipes trembled in the cathedral’s draft. Far behind him he heard a door slamming shut.
He had reached the side door before the others saw him. It wasn’t locked and he slipped out, closing it silently behind him. Again he ran: through the yard, the garden, across Amsterdam Avenue, along 110th Street to Broadway, and down into the subway station.
He hadn’t seen the redhead or the other man come out of the cathedral, and hadn’t seen them when he’d looked back on Broadway. Down in the subway he kept his eyes on the stairs until the train arrived, and kept looking at the platform from the subway car until the doors slid shut and the train jolted into motion.
He sat down, leaned his head against the window, and closed his eyes. He felt a pain in his chest, and his legs were heavy and tired. Those men meant business. They were out to get him. Where else might they be looking for him? In hotels? Did they have pictures of him? Was his picture now flickering on every monitor in every police station?
The train rolled from station to station. People got on and off. He would have loved to sit like this forever, fall asleep, and wake up in another time and place.
Part Three
37
GEORG GOT OFF THE SUBWAY. The stairs leading up to the street stank of piss. Trucks roared along Houston Street, and the air they churned up made shreds of paper and newspaper pages flutter like tired birds over the dusty median strip. In the distance he could make out green fire escapes fronting red brick facades, which looked like urban hanging gardens.
On the right he looked down quiet, well-tended streets. Behind a church dedicated to Saint Anthony of Padua, whose Romanesque style reminded him of the Wilhelmine style of his high-school gym, he turned onto Thompson Street. Again, well-preserved four- and five-story buildings, on the ground floor shops selling antiques, art, or fashion. Above the buildings at the end of the street the towers of the World Trade Center seemed near enough to touch. At the next intersection Georg was on Prince Street.
Only by looking closely could he read above the entrance of the building on the corner, in faded gold lettering,
160 PRINCE. Café Borgia II was just opening for business across the street. He sat by the window and ordered an orange juice. He studied the building on the corner as if he would have to sketch it from memory one day. Red brick, high windows, decorative gables whose gray stone rose up like crowns, forming little temple friezes on the top story. Beside the entrance, there was the Vesuvio Bakery on one side and on the other a bar whose window advertised Miller beer in swooping, red-neon writing. The building had five stories. Between the second and third a band of gray stone looped around the building. There were black fire escapes, and a hydrant in front of the entrance.
The café was empty. The radio was playing oldies. On the street a Vesuvio Bakery delivery truck drove up. A mail truck came, stopped, and drove on.
Even before he could make out Françoise’s face he recognized her walk, the bouncy swing of her skirt and hips, the small quick steps of her short legs. She was pushing a shopping cart; sometimes she gave it a forward push, letting it roll, then catching up with it. She was laughing. No, it wasn’t a shopping cart, it was a stroller; out of which two tiny arms reached up.
In front of the entrance she carefully lifted up the baby. When Georg was fifteen, and for the first time unhappy in love, at school one afternoon he saw his sweetheart from a landing. She was down in the hall, leaning on the railing, cuddling a kitten from the litter of the janitor’s cat. Nevertheless, jealousy tore through him so painfully, so physically, in a way he had never experienced since. Now he saw Françoise holding the baby on her arm and wrapping it in a blanket, and for a moment jealousy convulsed his body and reminded him of the scene with the kitten.
With her foot and free hand Françoise folded the stroller and went into the building. Rage built up in Georg, a cold, bright desire to strike out, hurt, destroy. He paid and went across the street. Fran Kramer, fifth floor, apartment 5B. The outer door was open. He went up the stairs. Bicycles, strollers, tied bundles of cardboard, and garbage cans stood on the landings. The folded stroller was leaning beside the door to 5B. He rang.
“Coming!”
He heard her move a chair, come to the door, put on the security chain, and unlock the door. The child was screaming. The door opened a crack. He saw the chain and Françoise’s frightened, familiar, and forlorn face.
With a kick he broke the chain and pushed the door open. She recoiled, pressed herself against the wall, covering her breast with her hands. He was struck by the stains on her blouse and her oily hair; he had never seen her other than well-groomed and stylish.
“You?”
“Yes, me!” He stepped into the small vestibule and shut the door.
“But how … what … what are you doing here?” She looked at him horrified.
“What am I doing here in your apartment?”
“In my apartment, in the city … where have you been? How did you know?”
“That you lived here?” he asked.
“How did you find out? …”
“You mean to tell me you didn’t know I was in town? You of all people?” He shook his head. “The child is crying.”
Steadying herself against the wall, she made her way to the living room. “I’m sorry.… I was just …” She went over to the baby, who was lying on a blanket on the floor waving its arms and legs, and picked it up. Her blouse fell open and he saw her breasts. She sat down on the sofa and put the dripping breast into the crying mouth. The child closed its eyes and sucked. Françoise looked up. No longer upset, no longer afraid. She pushed her lower lip out a little. He knew that gesture. She knew she looked coquettish and sulky like that. In her eyes was the plea for him not to be angry at her, the certainty that he couldn’t be angry.
His anger burst out again. “I’m going to stay here for a while, and if you tell Bulnakov or Benton or the CIA or the police … if you mention anything to anybody, I’ll kill the child. Whose is it? Are you married?” He hadn’t even considered this possibility. He glanced around the living room and through the open door at the bedroom, looking for signs that a man was living here.
“I was.”
“In Warsaw?” he asked, with a scornful laugh.
“No,” she answered seriously, “here in New York. We’ve just divorced.”
“Bulnakov?”
“Nonsense. Benton’s my boss, not my husband.”
“And whose child is it?”
“No … yes … well, whose do you think?”
“For heaven’s sake, Françoise, can’t you say anything besides no and yes?”
“And can you stop cross-examining me in this terrible, revolting way? You come bursting through the door, break my lock, upset Jill, and me as well. I don’t want to hear any more!” She said that in her little girl’s voice, whimpering and tearful.
“I’ll beat it out of you, Françoise, word for word if I have to! Or I’ll hang the child up by her feet until you tell me everything I want to know. Who is the father?”
“You are—you won’t harm her, right?”
“I don’t want to hear any of your nonsense! Who is the father?”
“My ex. Are you satisfied?”
He felt his old helplessness return. He knew he could not hurt her or the baby, but he doubted that she would tell him the truth even then. He would only hear what she thought he wanted to hear in order to get the painful situation over with. She was a child who lived in hope of immediate reward and in fear of immediate punishment. She had no sense of the importance of the truth.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said.
“How am I looking at you?”
“Critically … no, judgmentally.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I didn’t know … didn’t want things to happen the way they did,” she said. “It lasted much longer than I thought it would, and it was so wonderful to be with you. Do you remember what we were listening to when we were driving to Lyon? A potpourri of music.”
“I do,” he said. How he remembered the trip, and the night, and the other nights, and waking up beside Françoise, and coming home every evening to Cucuron. The memories were about to seize him and bear him away like a wave. Sentimentality was the last thing he needed.
“Let’s talk about that some other time,” he said. “I slept last night on a bench in the park, this morning I was chased by Benton’s people, and I’m dog-tired. Since Jill is asleep, put her in the crib in the bedroom and I’ll sleep there in your bed. I’m going to lock the door from the inside. I know Benton’s men can break the door down, but don’t forget that I’ll be right next to your child, and can get at her before anyone comes bursting in.”
“But what if she starts crying?”
“Then I’ll wake up and let you in.”
“But I don’t understand.…”
She looked at him helplessly, and he noticed again the little dimple above her right eyebrow.
“You don’t need to understand,” he said. “Just behave as if nothing happened, forget you saw me today, forget that I’m here, and see to it that no one finds out!”
She remained seated. He took the baby from her arms, laid it in the crib, and pushed the crib into the bedroom. He locked the door, undressed, and lay down to sleep. He smelled Françoise. From the adjoining room he heard her weeping softly.
38
HE WOKE UP AROUND TWO. There was a gentle knocking. He got up and looked at Jill—she was sleeping with her thumb in her mouth.
“What is it?” he whispered at the door.
“Will you open up?”
He thought for a moment. Was it a trap? If it was, and the child in his power didn’t offer him any protection, then he had no chance anyway. He pulled on his jeans and opened the door.
She was wearing the dress she had worn on the trip to Lyon, the pale blue- and red-striped dress with the big blue flowers. She had washed her hair, put on makeup, and was holding a baby bottle in her hand.
“I think Jill will wake up in about an hour,” she whispered. “Will you give
her her bottle? When you’re finished, hold her upright on your shoulder and gently tap her on the back until she burps. And if she’s wet, you’ll have to go get a fresh diaper. They’re in the bathroom.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have to deliver some translations.”
“You’re no longer working for Bulnakov?”
“Yes, I am, but I’m still on maternity leave. I’m translating as a sideline—New York is expensive, you know.”
“Were you at the Yankees-Indians game last week?”
“It wasn’t much of a game. Did you see it? Now I have to go. Thanks for babysitting.” From the apartment door she waved to him, that coquettish fluttering of her hand.
He lay down again. He couldn’t sleep anymore, and listened to Jill’s satisfied cooing and gurgling. Then he took a shower and shaved with the pink ladies’ razor he found on the edge of the bathtub. Under the sink he found some detergent, soaked his underwear, shirt, and socks, and put on his jeans and the biggest sweater he could find in Françoise’s closet. When he went over to Jill’s crib, she was lying with her eyes open. She looked up at him, screwed up her mouth, and began screaming until she turned red. He lifted her up, forgot where Françoise had put the bottle, and ran through the apartment looking for it. Jill wouldn’t stop screaming.
He had never wanted to have children. He had also never wanted not to. The subject had just never interested him. When he and Steffi had gotten married, it was understood that one day they would have children. And with Hanne, who had had herself sterilized, having children was not an option. He had a godson, the oldest son of his school friend Jürgen, who had become a judge in Mosbach, married at twenty-three, and had had five children. Georg had taken his godson to the Frankfurt Zoo and the Mannheim Observatory, had read him bedtime stories whenever he visited, and for his tenth birthday had given him a big Swiss army knife with all its blades, screwdrivers, bottle openers, corkscrews, scissors, file, saw, magnifier, tweezers, toothpick, and a tool to scale fish. Georg would have liked to have had a knife like that himself. It was too heavy for the practical boy, who wasn’t the least bit interested in fishing.