Orlando's back felt elastic and warm under my hand. He purred like a wound-up spring toy.
"Where did they bury him?"
"That was difficult finding out. It took me almost three days of digging. The name Gregorovius is Greek, you know. You've heard about how incredible they are as fighters in war? I guess they're used to it, if you look at their history. Well, old Greek Elisabeth got some kind of small revenge on her father-in-law. Because she was next-of-kin to both Benedikts, the authorities went to her about disposal of the body. You know what she did? Donated it to the medical school to be cut up! Whatever was left of him after they finished was probably burned, but who knows?"
"What happened to her child?" It was the only important question.
"Can't help you there, Walker. I assume it was born and is still around. You'll have to go to Elisabeth for that. I've got pictures and Xeroxes and other things for you. When do you want to get together?" He snorted. "You want to meet at the Cafй Museum so I can give them to you?"
I decided not to tell Maris anything until after I had spoken with the Gregorovius woman. When Maris returned from her apartment, she was wearing a green dress I had never seen before. With her California tan against it, she looked as though she'd been on the beach rather than a plane for the last twelve hours.
We went to dinner and talked about getting married. What Venasque and Buck had told me sat calmly with its hands folded in its lap, waiting its turn. I felt isolated from her because of the information I'd learned that afternoon, but didn't feel I was keeping anything back because it all had to be thought about first, and put in proper perspective. There was no question about telling her everything – I would. I only wanted some time to get it straight and . . . cooled off before putting it in front of her for the Maris reaction.
"I know what I want to give you for your birthday."
"My birthday? I'm thinking about it as our wedding day now."
"That, too. I got an inspiration when I was home. It's going to take me some time, so don't be impatient if you don't get it on the day. It'll be worth waiting for. I hope.
"Hold my hand, Walker. That always feels good. Now, something happened I didn't tell you about. The most prestigious gallery in Los Angeles wants me to do a one-man show for them. It's the big break for me."
My jaw dropped. "That's, uh, pretty important information, Maris. How come you didn't tell me?"
"Because I had to think about it awhile first. It happened right before we left America. Also because you had enough to think about with all that Venasque stuff."
"The biggest gallery in L.A.? That's a hell of a great thing, isn't it?"
She squeezed my hand and blushed. "Yes. I think this is it."
"I'm proud of you. Also a little pissed off that you didn't tell me immediately."
"You like my work, don't you, Walker? That makes me feel surer."
"I love it! Where do they come from? I know you're not supposed to ask the artist that question, but really – where do the cities come from?"
"Now? My dreams, mostly. Both daydreams and night dreams." She sat forward and her expression grew more excited. "But dreams aren't dangerous, or thrilling, until we think of them as real possibilities. It's our own fault . . . and responsibility if we let that happen. Dreams make no promises, you know? In mine, I see these cities, but then it's up to me whether I can bring them together the way they appear in my head. I want to show exactly what's passed through me. Sometimes I think it's like a hand grenade thrown into my . . . gut. I try to cover it and absorb all of the impact. Does that sound goofy?"
"Inspired."
She sat back. "Did I ever tell you about why I made the first city?"
"Never. What happened?"
"Well, my father is a selfish man and can be pretty cold. But when I was seventeen, he was stabbed and almost died. We were living in New York then. My heart had pretty much closed toward him in a lot of ways, especially since I was going through my own typical teenage hell. But seeing him in such bad shape opened me up pretty damned fast. Suddenly I felt this complete . . . agony of love for him. He didn't deserve it, but that's what I felt. Lying in that hospital bed, his face as empty and gray as a beach in winter . . . It almost drove me mad. So, almost unconsciously, I found myself in a store one day buying a LEGO set with this dim idea. I wanted to build him a city where he could live while he was recuperating. I spent a week working on it. I built him the kind of hospital he should be in, the house where he should live afterward. Big picture windows, a veranda, a giant lawn . . . I got so carried away, I even bought in a model train store the kind of dog I thought should be at his side while he sat there in a pink chair and waited for his body to return to him.
"It gave me such peace and pleasure to construct I just continued doing it."
"Did it help your father? I mean, after you gave it to him?"
She smiled. "He looked at it once and said it was 'sweet.' It doesn't matter. I don't even know if I was making it for him. I believe my mind was telling me there was a place I could go, or build for myself, where I could be alone and happy. It was one of the things that saved me.
"I wasn't so happy when I was young. But now I am because I love you." Her napkin fell on the floor. Bending over to pick it up, she cried out, "Ow!"
"What's the matter?" My first thought was the child inside her.
"Oh, I do that sometimes. I'll make the dumbest motion, like pick up a napkin, and throw my back out. Now it'll be like this for three days. Damn!"
"Can I do anything?"
"You can let go of my elbow. You're squeezing it to death. Don't worry – it's not major. Just Maris York growing older. Maris Easterling growing older. How does that name sound? I keep trying it out on my tongue."
"You're sure you're all right?"
"Yes. You didn't answer me – how does Maris Easterling sound?"
"Good. Like a Southern belle. You don't want to keep your own name?"
"No. Then we'd sound like a British law firm, Easterling and York." Do you think your parents will like me?"
I looked at her and thought about Moritz Benedikt telling his father he was going to marry Elisabeth.
My parents. Would my real parents like Maris? First I had to find them. First I had to find him.
Elisabeth Gregorovious Benedikt sounded nervous but interested when I called. I told her I had discovered her husband's grave at the Zentralfriedhof by accident and, amazed by the physical resemblance between us, had done some further research on him. Could I come and talk to her?
"You know what happened to my husband?"
"Yes."
"You know about his father? What happened to him?"
"Yes."
"How come you want to see me?"
She lived on the fifth floor of a walk-up near the Prater. Although it was a good distance away, the giant ferris wheel in the amusement park loomed behind her building. Inside, the place smelled pleasantly of freshly baked bread, which was incongruous because everything else in there was dark and defeated. The second Bezirk is a worker's district. Buildings there are either new and dull and functional, or old and dying. Many of the older ones show signs of one-time grandeur or imagination on their faces, whether via Jugendstil facades or the interesting simplicity of the Bauhaus style. But like the old movie queen who has turned seventy or eighty, whatever beauty or appeal remains shows more what has been lost, rather than what is left.
The stairway was wide enough for three people, and at every landing there was a stained glass window of a different kind of flower. Out of curiosity, I opened one and looked down at the courtyard below. Yugoslavian kids were kicking a soccer ball around, shouting at each other in their staccato, brusque language. One of them looked up, waved, and shouted, "Immer wieder Rapid!"