The more he ignored her, the more lethal her voice became. “Don’t you think it’s cruel to pretend not to know someone? It’s the most awful thing, believe me, to have your view of reality denied. Are you trying to make me doubt my whole system of perception? Is that your intention? I can’t believe you’d be so heartless.”
Even if she were in the right — surely the crowd must recognize that — her reaction was far in excess of provocation. He strove for a posture of heroic (and compassionate) indifference.
“It’s not true that he doesn’t know me,” she said in a strident voice, attracting the embarrassed attention of a half a dozen people around them. “It’s not true and he knows it’s not true.”
She went on in the same vein, pleading her case to a circumstantial jury, increasing the stakes of her complaint. He had ruined a number of women, she said, had humiliated them in unimaginable ways. Terman stared at the floor, refused to acknowledge that the outburst of this impossible woman concerned him.
As gratuitously as she started her assault, Lila gave it up. The potentiality of its return filled the air like some unaccountable hum. When he felt he could do it inconspicuously, he looked around to see where she had gone. Their eyes met — she had been waiting for him to seek her out — and she mouthed, “I’m still here.”
He had a momentary loss of focus where he had to remind himself why he was there, studying the illegible faces of people he didn’t know and was not likely to see again. The crowd thinned and after awhile he discovered himself its sole survivor. Even Lila had gone on to other business. It seemed uncanny that he and Tom should miss connection.
He had Thomas Terman paged over the loudspeaker and when he heard the mostly familiar name in the air, he had the urge to answer the call himself.
The international long distance lines were oversubscribed and Terman had to wait for the longest time before he could get his call through to New York.
“Is something wrong?” Magda asked as soon as she recognized the voice.
“I was going to ask you the same question. Did Tom make his flight?”
She sighed, a woman who valued competence above all other virtues. “As far as I know. Isn’t he there with you?”
“You saw him board the plane?”
“I would have heard from him by now if he hadn’t gotten on. How could you have missed him?”
“Magda, he wasn’t there. I waited for him at Immigration for over an hour.”
She made a groaning sound. “You’d better do something to find him. If you want my advice, that’s what it is.”
His pose of sensible concern at great distance from what he really felt, he said, “I’ll keep in touch, Magda.” He swallowed the name.
She said nothing he could hear, withdrawing from the connection like someone backing out a door.
He had Tom paged one more time. The call produced Lila Parsicki who sidled up to him just as he was leaving the Pan Am desk. She thought he ought to know, she said, moments before he arrived someone who resembled the Tom she remembered, though he was just a child when she’d seen him last, had passed through Immigration and gone on without stopping. “What did he look like?” Terman asked.
“He had the same blue eyes as Magda,” she said.
It was not impossible. Terman reconstructed the scene. Not seeing his father as he came through Immigration and unsure of the arrangements they had made, Tom had assumed that he was supposed to go on to his father’s house in London and had proceeded accordingly. The misunderstanding was grave but forgivable. With barely a nod of thanks to Lila for her information, he hurried off to his car and fought his way back through traffic in half the time of the original trip.
The Holland Park house was dark on his return and Terman rang the bell to no answer before letting himself in with his key. He made himself a double Scotch with Perrier water, sat down on the least comfortable chair in the front parlor and wondered what steps a man in his situation ought to take next.
A few minutes after he decided that the next move was Tom’s the phone rang. It took him a while to answer, undecided as to which extension to pursue, though he was naturally eager to get the news.
The voice was not the one he expected so diasappointed him, the disappointment mingled with relief. It was Isabelle’s husky purr at his ear. She was staying with a friend in Battersea, would see him, she said, tomorrow or the day after. He didn’t urge her return, although it was a recurrent intention. “I can’t live without you,” he said to her at some point, which produced a moan or a laugh. No mention was made of his son, no questions asked.
He sat up by the phone in his study, kept close watch on it, awaiting Tom’s call, but after a while he dozed in his chair and when he woke up it was the next day.
The morning passed without word from Tom. The only call had been from Max Kirstner to remind him of an appointment at his office for two that afternoon. Terman didn’t mention Tom’s disappearance, said he would be by as arranged, though when he was off the horn he had the distinct recollection that their appointment had been for the following day. Max never had to change his mind; he just revised the past.
The fourth complete version of the “The Folkestone Conspiracies” was opened in front of him on the desk and though he couldn’t bear to look at the screenplay again, he read through the opening scene.
Screenplay by Max Kirstner and Lukas Terman
The screen is gray, almost black. If we look closely enough, we can make out the silhouette of a man. He could be anyone. He seems to be speaking, though perhaps the voice comes from elsewhere.
Voice: I cannot reveal my identity to you at this time. If it were known that I was telling you this story, I would be permanently silenced, rubbed out as if I were no more substantial than a typographical error. I mention this so that you will excuse the rudeness of my not showing my face. The story I am to tell is true, as true as any story you’re likely to be told in the dark. My connection to these events is not important. Let it be said that I had a seat on the periphery of the action. The story starts — I was about to say our story, but unfortunately the story at the moment is mine alone — in a European country known for its neutrality in international affairs. A shabby, unprepossing man of early middle age, rumored to have some connection with Interpol, has arrived this morning and taken a room in the capital city’s second finest hotel. On his visa where it says profession, he has written “Journalist.” Where it say purpose of visit, he has written “Holiday.”
The gray screen seems to be a curtain and is pulled open to reveal the registration desk of the Hotel Candide.
Attendant: You are in Room 917, Monsieur Berger. The room you request is occupé, though you will find the one we have given you has nothing to be said against it.
Berger: Who may I ask is Room 1017?
Attendant: It is in the process of renovation.
We cut abruptly to the small elevator as Henry Berger gets in. As the doors close, we see a tall man wearing dark purple gloves, bis face obscured, say something to the desk clerk. The clerk looks puzzled, shakes his head.
We see Henry Berger entering his hotel room. He tips the bellhop more than he expects, says: “My wife will be joining me later.” When the bellhop leaves, Henry Berger walks to the window to check the view. He puts his suitcases on the bed, opens one of them, takes out a change of shirt and then, as if an afterthought, a small revolver which he rests next to the shirt. He walks around the large room, looking for something — a bugging device, it soon becomes apparent — and seems disappointed not to find one. He then picks up the phone and makes a call.