“So, you know this place?” he said standing, playing host. “A coffee? You’ll join us?”
Ben shook his head. “I’m with somebody. Just a hello.”
“A little bit of Europe,” Ostermann said, gesturing to the patio. “Not a real Biergarten, but still, trees. You can pretend.”
Ben looked down at their plates-sausages and deli potato salad, what they might in fact have ordered at Hechinger’s.
“That’s what everyone does here,” Kaltenbach said, waving his hands to take in the city. “Pretend.” He looked over at Ben, excited. “Do you know that I am going to Berlin?”
“Berlin,” Ben said, thinking of smashed bricks, jagged walls.
“Yes, I know, it’s bad now, you hear it from everyone, but still, Berlin. Something survives. I thought I would never see it again. I thought I would die here.” He gestured to the sunny patio, the healthy salad eaters, seeing something else. “And now-”
“How did you arrange it?” Ben said. “I thought nobody could get in, except the Army. A few reporters. You need a permit.”
“Yes, yes, another exit visa. But Hans here will write a letter. Thomas Mann, too. Who would say no to them? Why would they keep me here? On relief. Eighteen dollars and fifty cents a week. A charity case. You don’t think they’ll be happy to see me go? One last visa and it’s over. If Erika were still alive, think how happy.”
“Maybe you should wait,” Ben said, “until things are better. It’s difficult now, just to live.”
“No, they’re giving me a flat.”
“Who?”
“The university. I’m invited to accept a chair at the university.”
“But it’s in the Soviet sector.”
“Yes, of course, that’s who invites me.”
Ben glanced at Ostermann, who met his eye but then looked deliberately away, toying with his fork.
“They are going to print my books again.”
“The Soviets?”
“My friend, one conqueror or another, what’s the difference? Germany lost the war. Do you think the Russians will leave now? How else can I do this? I can be a writer again. I can be in Berlin,” he said in a kind of rush, emotional now, almost touching it. “Excuse me,” he said, putting a fingertip to his eye. “So foolish. Old age. And now the bladder. I’ll be right back.”
Ben watched him head for the men’s room.
“He’s not a political man,” Ostermann said quietly.
“He will be. The minute he gets off the plane. German writer returns. To the East. Which makes them look legitimate. They don’t care about his books. They just want him for show.”
“I know. They’ve asked some of the others. Even Brecht is reluctant and he-”
“They ask you?”
“No.” He glanced up, a slightly impish smile. “Maybe they don’t like my work. Too bourgeois.”
“You can’t let him do this. Do you know what it’s like there?”
“What do I say to him? He lives in one room. On money we give him. His friends. Each handout a humiliation. His wife committed suicide. For her, it was too much. And now they come to him. A professor. With a flat. His books. What do we offer instead?”
“Not a prison. At least here-”
“Reuben,” he said, using his full name as a kind of weight, “he doesn’t even know he’s here. He’s somewhere else, waiting. So let him go.”
“This isn’t going to make him popular with the State Department. Or you. Writing letters.”
“An act of friendship, not politics. Or isn’t that possible anymore? I thought that time was over. Well, it doesn’t matter for me. I don’t want to go back. The conscience of Germany? I don’t think they want that now. And maybe I don’t want them, either.”
Ben looked toward the other end of the patio. The man in the gray suit, paper down, was now sipping coffee. Just having lunch.
“A thousand apologies,” Kaltenbach said, joining them at the table. “And after so many kindnesses. I’m not myself these days.”
“Herr Kaltenbach,” Ben said, a sudden thought, “how did the offer come, from the university. A letter? It’s official?”
“Yes, yes. Hand delivered by the Soviet consul, all the way from San Francisco. So I would know it was genuine. You know, you don’t trust the mails for such an offer.”
“Ah, the consul,” Ben said. Someone who would certainly be watched everywhere, each contact another string to follow. “Well, I hope everything works out. Berlin-”
Kaltenbach nodded. “You don’t have to say. I’ve seen the pictures. A wreck. But look at me. So maybe we’ll suit each other.”
There was another minute of bowing farewells, a European leave-taking, before Ben could go back across the patio. Kelly was waiting, smoking over the debris of his Crab Louis, but instead of turning to their table Ben kept going, an impulse, toward the gray suit.
“Excuse me. You were at my brother’s funeral, but we weren’t introduced,” he said, extending his hand. “Ben Collier.”
For a second, the man simply stared, as if the approach had violated some rule, then lifted his hand to shake Ben’s.
“I didn’t know who you were. They told me later. You had different names?” he said, keeping his eyes on Ben, reading him.
“My mother changed it. How did you know Danny?”
“We did some work together.”
“You’re in pictures?” Ben said, surprised.
“Technical advisor. To get the details right.”
“On the series? Police details? My friend over there thought you might be. Maybe FBI.” The man said nothing. “He thought you might be tailing him.”
“Yeah? What’d he do?” he said, playing with it, then looked at Ben and shook his head. “I’m retired.”
“From what?”
The man hesitated, thinking through a chess move, then nodded. “The Bureau.”
“You don’t look old enough to-”
“I took a bullet. That buys you a few years.”
“So what do you do now?”
“Have lunch,” he said, stretching his hand toward his finished plate, implying long afternoons.
“And work for Danny.”
“I gave him advice, that’s all. We helped each other out.”
Ben looked up, an off phrase, but so innocuous there was nowhere to take it.
“Well, thanks for coming to the funeral. Funny running into you again.”
“No, I’m here most days.” He got up to go, taking his hat off the table. “I’m sorry about your brother. That was a hell of a thing.”
“Whatever it was.”
The man stopped, his eyes fixed on Ben. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just a little fuzzy, wouldn’t you say? What happened? You’re the pro.”
He waited. Finally the man looked away, putting on his hat.
“I wouldn’t know. I’m retired.” He paused. “It’s tough to get over something like this. You should take it easy.”
“Everyone says. Would you? Your brother?”
“Something worrying you? You were close? Maybe he said something to you.”
Ben shook his head. “What would he say?” Now a cat and mouse game, but no longer sure who was which.
The man shrugged, then took out his wallet. “Sometimes you start something, you don’t know what you’re getting into. Here.” He took out a card and handed it to Ben. “If you need any technical advice.”
Ben looked at it. Dennis Riordan. No affiliation, just a telephone number.
“Technical advice,” Ben repeated.
“Maybe he left something. Might explain it. Maybe I could help. Figure it out.” He began to move off. “Anyway, tell your friend to keep his nose clean. Stop imagining things.”
“What about German writers?”
Riordan turned. “You’re a suspicious guy.” He looked down at the table. “It was just lunch.”
He crossed the patio to the exit near the vegetable stalls, unhurried, not even a backward glance.
“What the hell was that?” Kelly said at their table.
Ben handed him the business card. “What you thought. The Bureau. But retired.”