Now that Judit knew the man was Steinsaltz, she was stunned that she hadn’t recognized him instantly. He looked more or less the same since she had first seen him address the country on television when he’d been appointed prime minister in 1960, when she wondered why their leader was such an ugly man.
Once they’d finally gotten settled at a table, Steinsaltz had to urinate, and those same handlers reappeared and spirited him away. Judit’s relief was evident. Lehmann smiled and said, “Dear, you’ll have to get used to a few of those dinosaurs. They’re almost extinct, mind you, but then, when you look at a swallow, it can claim a dinosaur as its ancestor.”
Judit said, “It’s hard to believe, even if it’s true.”
As soon as she said it, she felt foolish, until Lehmann passed her the basket of rolls and added, “You can see them all along the walkway now that they nest under the bridge again. Messy, but it makes for a better atmosphere on the whole. Take a roll. Take more than one. I want to ask you, how do you like what I’ve sent you from Moscow?”
Judit said, “It’s hard to believe, even if it’s true.” Now, she didn’t feel foolish. She felt giddy. Sitting across the deliberately rustic wooden table was Grandmother Professor without a doubt, lighting yet another cigarette and smiling through her smoke at her pet student. Even in this strange environment, Lehmann managed to create real intimacy. Judit knew she was being clever when she added, “My role seems to be making facts believable, at least as I understand it.”
Lehmann buttered her own roll, and she drank a little of the white wine that the waiter offered. Then she leaned in closer. She still wore that strange over-dark lipstick, and maybe Prime Minister Sokolov dressed her now, but as she lapsed into her role as Grandmother Professor, even the new clothes turned into wallpaper from which her pale, broad face projected the old, wise cynicism. “Dear,” she said, “I have to say something before Anton returns. I’m quite impressed with your work. I’ve followed it since you left Leipzig, as I’m sure you are aware. But I did take the liberty of looking at some of what you sent up to Oscar. And I noticed a certain fixation.” She paused and dropped her voice. “I think you know what I mean.”
“You mean Leopold Stein?” Judit said. “You knew he was alive all this time, didn’t you?”
“That’s hardly who I mean,” Lehmann said. Then, with effort, she moved her chair closer until it actually touched Judit’s, and said, “Now Stephen Weiss is not irrelevant. Far from it. No more than Birobidjan or Palestine or Uganda. In fact, he’s fascinating. But you mustn’t let yourself be pulled in. He holds a lesson for us, and as is the case with all failed experiments, the lesson is corrective.”
Judit felt her skin against her blouse and jacket. She said, “None of that’s in the film, Professor.”
“Yet he still haunts you, doesn’t he? Of course. Why not? He’s in the air. It’s a common error,” Lehmann said, “to confuse cosmopolitanism with globalization. And this is a global age, my dear, as we both know. Weiss was no pragmatist.”
Now, in a low voice, willing herself not to look over her shoulder, Judit asked, “What was Weiss then?”
“See? You want to know, don’t you? It’s really rather simple. Weiss was a mystic. All Cosmopolitans are mystics. They don’t believe in global capital. They believe in something else.”
“What do they believe in?” Judit asked under her breath, and Lehmann quickly replied:
“You should know. You married one, didn’t you?” Then she added, “That new young man of yours might answer as well, I think. Goodness, what a fixation!” She actually laughed then, a strange sound Judit seldom heard, almost like indigestion. “I suppose you’ve read the manifesto. No? Perhaps it’s time for me to send you a copy.”
By then, Steinsaltz had reappeared, and the handlers moved him from his wheelchair to the table. He rubbed his hands together, and called the waiter to refill all three wineglasses. “Well, well,” he said, and then he managed to transform his old man voice, briefly, into the familiar politician’s trumpet that he’d blasted for nearly forty years. “We ought to toast the film’s premiere, I know. But it’s bigger than the film itself. I must say,” Steinsaltz added, as he raised his glass in his right hand, “that it is moving beyond words to see, in the twilight of my life, a planting come to harvest.”
“Anton,” Lehmann said, “you’re spilling wine all over yourself.”
“So my hand’s not steady,” Steinsaltz said, and he rested his left hand against it. His face was flushed; a rash climbed up his neck, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, he threw his glass of wine against the wall, and it shattered and sprayed glass and liquid all over the table.
Judit felt glass fly into the right side of her face, and when she brushed it off with a napkin, it left streaks of blood. The handlers rushed away to get whiskbrooms, and one of them gave a towel to Judit to mop up the wine on her lap and bread plate.
Lehmann shook her head and laughed. “Poor girl. She’s gotten the worst of it. You shouldn’t try to be so dramatic, Anton. It’s not in your nature. Besides,” she said, “it’s not your work. It never was. I think you meant to drink to Leopold Stein, didn’t you?”
Steinsaltz’s face was completely red now. He was speechless with embarrassment, and it was only with effort that he managed to work his mouth around what he said next. “Of course. Who else?” But no one drank now. They were moved to a different table, easy enough as they were the restaurant’s only party. Judit took her towel with her, and she could still feel glass splinters in her cheek. The cuts were shallow, though. If she washed carefully, by the time she got back to work, no one would notice.
6
JUDIT was the only member of the staff to get an invitation to the premiere screening, but she could select six guests. She realized, with some embarrassment, that aside from Gluck, she didn’t know any of the assistants, and she asked Gluck to make the selections himself. He surprised her by refusing.
“I can’t be your social director, Mrs. Klemmer,” he said. “I have three other projects running now, freelance jobs. After all, that’s paid work.” That’s when Judit realized that Sammy was still an intern.
“I’ll pay you,” Judit said, a little desperately. Gluck looked startled.
“How? Are you in charge of payroll now?” He shook his head. “No, if you’re asking me if I’ll go as your guest, of course I will. After all, I was the one who got this started. And if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to bring Patricia.”
“Who’s Patricia?” Judit couldn’t help but ask.
“I did introduce her to you a few times. But I guess she’s not too memorable. She’s just my wife.” Then, he must have felt embarrassed by his own rudeness because he lowered his voice. “Look, I guess a lot of us feel crummy about Oscar. But that’s not your fault. It’s just all the pressure riding on this makes me a little nuts, and sometimes a guy starts to feel like he has to take sides.”
He was solemn, and Judit couldn’t help but notice that he’d aged, these past few months. The bones of his face were more clearly defined. He looked almost handsome. She said, “I didn’t know you got married, Sammy.”
“We sent you an invitation, but maybe it went to your old address,” Sammy said. “Besides, you’ve been pretty busy.”
“You don’t have to take sides,” Judit said. “There are things that are true, and there are things that are false. How complicated can it be?”
Sammy looked at her. What he saw might have played with his own set of categories. He wanted to write her off as ambitious; she was not ambitious. He wanted to blame her for taking credit for his work; she desired no credit. Most of all, he wanted to tell her that everyone knew she was cooperating with the Stasi, and it would come back to haunt her. Judit watched all of this pass over Sammy’s face. Then he said, “Say, didn’t you want to get back into your old archive?”