A kind of fury surged through me, scalding and bitter. “Why did you make me wait?” And then, before he could answer, “I know why. It’s because you thought I’d be a monster, didn’t you. And maybe that’s exactly what I am — to you.”
“This is ridiculous,” he said.
“You abandoned me …” But all the force had gone out of me, and I sounded sulky, a typical teenager, a spoiled child.
“Stop it.”
“I wish my mother was the one who was alive and you were dead. At least I could talk to her —”
I began to cry.
“Is everything all right?” Our waiter had returned and was standing at my father’s elbow, one hand cradling the other.
“Everything’s fine,” my father said, looking blankly into the middle distance. “Thank you.”
For the rest of the evening — and the visit — we did our best to avoid each other. I was horrified by what I’d said. I didn’t wish him dead. Of course I didn’t. At the time, though, I felt he hadn’t taken me seriously. He had driven me to it. I’d had to say something. To make matters worse, I had embarrassed him in one of his favorite restaurants, something he wouldn’t find it easy to forgive. Address one grievance and you create another. It seemed I couldn’t win.
Oswald calls out to me. “This way.”
We cross a bridge. Off to one side and far below are warehouses and lorry parks. A canal glistens like a seam of coal.
“Oswald,” I say suddenly, “I’m not going to sleep with you.”
He doesn’t respond.
When I glance at him, his eyes are lowered, and he has a frown on his face, as if he is trying to solve a problem that involves his shoes. Josef trots along beside him, looking worried.
I repeat the words twenty minutes later, when we’re slouched in a booth in the corner of a dimly lit bar.
“I wasn’t thinking about that.” He reaches for his beer, then puts it back on the table without drinking. “I mean, to be honest, I’ve probably thought about it,” he says after a while, “but I could never do it. I wouldn’t be able to. You’re too sort of — I don’t know — exotic.”
I laugh. “Exotic? You can talk, with a name like Oswald. I didn’t think anyone called Oswald still existed. I thought they all died out about a century ago — or maybe longer.”
He watches me with distance in his eyes, as if I’m a shimmering figure on the horizon, approaching slowly, and he’s curious to see who I turn out to be.
“When will you go back to Italy?” he asks.
“That’s not on the agenda.”
“Maybe your agenda needs updating.”
“It’s being updated right now. I’m just waiting for certain documents to come through.”
“More negotiations?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Do you need money?” He studies me for a moment. “No, probably not.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t answer.
I think of his kitchen — the queasy green walls, the broken central heating. “You haven’t got any money anyway.”
“Someone’s looking after you. Someone’s paying.”
Since I told him I’m not going to sleep with him he seems to have become stronger. More of a man.
“I’ve got a free place to stay,” I say, “if that’s what you’re driving at.”
“Are you —” He checks himself.
“Am I what?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re jealous.”
He gives me a look.
“You can’t have me,” I say, “so you want me gone.”
“There could be some truth in that.” He smiles wistfully down into his drink. “But it wasn’t what I was about to say.”
Later, on Britzerdamm, a white stretch limo glides past, tires trickling on the tarmac. A window opens. A pale hand waves. I’m reminded of the night I last saw Massimo, the boys with their Roma scarves and their loud mouths. Sometimes, when I think of where I am, I shiver, and I’m not sure if it’s terror or delight.
“I’m going home,” Oswald says.
It will take me an hour to get back to Cheadle’s apartment, and dawn isn’t far away. “Oswald, can I sleep at your place?” I pause. “Just sleep, I mean.”
After the way I spoke to him earlier he probably can’t believe what he’s hearing, but when I keep looking at him, too tired to be capable of anything manipulative, let alone flirtatious, his gaze drops to the pavement and he shakes his head.
“Come on, then,” he says.
/
When I walk into Cheadle’s apartment the next day, I find him sitting at the kitchen table with Anna. Dressed in a black coat with a fake-fur collar, she is showing him a series of images on a digital camera. In the daylight she looks even paler, and the pores show in her cheeks and in the sides of her nose.
“Where did you get to last night?” Cheadle says.
“I stayed at a friend’s house.”
“The dentist?”
“No.”
Cheadle and Anna exchange a look.
Anna reaches sideways into a bag and takes out an unsealed envelope. “Your visa,” she says, “and a letter of invitation.”
My heart leaps. “That was quick.”
“I told you. We have a contact.”
I open my passport and find the visa, which occupies an entire page. The date of entry is October 10. The visa expires on November 9.
“Thirty days,” I say.
Anna nods. “Yes.”
“And if I stay longer?”
“It’s illegal. If the police stop you, you will have big problems. Also when you try to leave the country.”
I turn to the letter. Since it’s written in Russian I can’t understand a word, but I spot my name in the middle of a paragraph, surrounded by Cyrillic script, like a ship in rough water. I ask Anna what it says. Cheadle answers. The letter is from an acquaintance of Oleg’s, who remembers having met my father at a conference in Geneva. He has invited me to stay with him and his family in Arkhangel’sk, and assures me of a warm welcome.
“This man never met your father in Geneva,” Cheadle goes on, “or anywhere else, for that matter, and there will be no warm welcome. When you get to Arkhangel’sk you’ll be on your own.”
I nod, then turn to Anna. “Perhaps I will also visit your hometown.”
Nothing shows in her face, though I sense rapid thoughts beneath the surface, a kind of scurrying, like rats inside a wall.
“You’re from Cherepovets,” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “But it’s a steel town. Very industrial. Not so much to see.”
“There’s always something. You just have to look.” I glance at my Russian visa. “I can’t thank you enough for this. You’ve been very kind.”
Anna’s eyes glint, as sequins do when they catch the light, and she says something to Cheadle in Russian. Her words have a flat interrogative sound.
“In exchange for the visa,” Cheadle says, “Anna will require your services.”
In the kitchen no one moves. Even the fridge seems to be holding its breath.
“My services?” I say.
“It won’t take up more than a few hours of your time.”
I swallow. “What’s involved?”
“You’ll go to a hotel — the Kempinski — where you’ll meet a man called Raul. You’ll be his companion for the evening.”
Raul. I’ve heard the name before. In the restaurant on Schlüterstrasse.
“Who is he, this Raul?”
“That’s none of your concern,” Cheadle says.
The fridge shudders, then begins to hum.
“What about Tanzi?” I say. “Wouldn’t she be a better choice?”