During Karen’s first semester he dutifully visited each week, usually taking her to dinner. Their conversations were strained, awkward. When she inquired about taking one of his classes, he found himself subtly steering her elsewhere, and later wondered why.
It wasn’t fear of favoritism, he decided, or a lack of confidence in his lectures. Nat was an engaging speaker, with a wall full of teaching awards. Then it came to him. He realized he had become the very sort of professor she would see right through and, ultimately, despise—glibly entertaining on the podium but AWOL whenever students or office hours beckoned. Sort of like the father he had been. Always leaving others—his graduate assistants, Karen’s mom—to deal with the messier affairs of disputed grades, delicate egos, and the youthful need to feel loved and included.
Symptomatic of this approach was his standard preamble, the one he had been using for years to open each and every course:
Faces to the front, you sons and daughters of YouTube and Facebook. Cell phones off. BlackBerries disabled. iPods silenced. Mouths shut.
I will offer this information only once, so take heed. Henceforth we will proceed at my pace, not yours. No one is to ask me to back up, start over, or slow down. The lazy and the inattentive will be summarily abandoned, and from here onward you will need to know exactly where we are, where we’ve been, and where we’re going. Those, after all, are the reasons we study history, correct? History plays for keeps, and so do I.
Until Karen’s arrival he had always thought of his little intro as standard shock therapy for bored undergrads, a mildly clever alternative to merely handing out the syllabus. But as he sat across from her in a downtown eatery, telling her once again why it might be wiser to take Mainstream Currents in American Political Thought, he realized he would never be able to repeat those words with her in the audience. They were too much of a self-reproach, a confession of the sort of person he was becoming.
Not long afterward they achieved a breakthrough, when Karen became infected by the same sort of intellectual fever that had possessed him at her age, under Gordon’s influence. For her the subject was poetry—specifically, the poems of Emily Dickinson. Hardly the first time a female undergrad had fallen under the spell of the Belle of Amherst. Then again, Nat hadn’t exactly been the first male smitten by the Past.
In any event, it gave him an easy point of entry into her inner life, since he knew firsthand the excitement she was feeling. It was a little bit like watching someone fall in love. He was charmed, even a little jealous, wishing he could borrow some of her spark for his own hurtful romance with History.
By encouraging her enthusiasm he first won her gratitude, and then her trust. He ordered a poster from the Emily Dickinson Museum, which she immediately tacked up above her desk. He then sealed the deal by beginning a father-daughter parlor game of swapping Dickinson quotes whenever they met, with each of them tailoring the passage to prevailing circumstances. Thank goodness the Belle wrote a zillion poems, giving Nat gobs of material. Their exchanges became well known in the history and English departments, prompting a colleague of Nat’s to remark archly, “If her life had stood a loaded gun, does that make dear old dad a vintage Luger?”
So now, standing in the diner as her number rang, he searched his memory for an appropriate stanza. About then he happened to glance out the window of the diner, just as the door was opening on the Chevy that had followed him into town. The mystery woman from the courtroom got out and headed his way. His stomach fluttered. By the time Karen answered, he was fumbling for words.
“Dad?”
“I’m here. Just give me a sec. Got to load some quarters.”
“I heard about your cell phone. That was a very dramatic note you left behind.”
“So the FBI called?”
“At, like, seven this morning. Just what my hangover needed.”
“Sorry. I realized later I’d overreacted.”
“Where did they take you?
“Up to Gordon Wolfe’s summer house.”
“The one with, like, fifty deer antlers in the living room?”
“That’s called Adirondack style. I’d forgotten you’ve been there.”
“I was only eleven. But even then I remember thinking he was a scary old guy.”
“Not anymore. They’ve thrown him in jail.”
“Wow. Crimes against humanity?”
“Seriously, he’s in deep trouble. They found a stolen archive in his kitchen. That’s why they brought me in.”
“To do what?”
He quoted the stanza that had popped into his head:
“ ‘He ate and drank the precious words, His spirit grew robust.’”
“You’re, uhhhh, appraising the archive?”
“Like, very good. Unfortunately they’re only giving me two days.”
“What does Professor Wolfe think of all this?”
“He’s surprisingly supportive. Seems to think I can help his case. None of which I’m supposed to be discussing, by the way.”
“And with a blabbermouth student, no less. Does the FBI have your cell phone?”
“They’re supposed to. Why?”
“Well, about an hour after they called I got a hang-up from your number.”
“Checking out my call menu, I guess. Natural-born snoops.”
“Except this was some guy with an accent, wondering who I was. When I asked for his name, he hung up.”
“Hmm. Could’ve been Sobelsky. His carrel’s next to mine, and he’s Polish. Maybe he was sleuthing on my behalf. I should call him.”
“Better cancel your service before somebody runs up the bill.”
“As if you’d know anything about that.”
“No comment. When do you get back?”
“Another day or two, probably. Meaning I won’t be there to help you move in. Can you get your stuff over from the dorm okay?”
“Don’t worry. Dave said he’d help.”
Dave, her campus boyfriend. Meaning they’d be alone in Nat’s house. Great.
“I know what you’re thinking, Dad. I won’t be stupid.”
“Just as long as Dave isn’t. Say hello to your mom for me. But I wouldn’t mention the moving arrangements if I were you.”
“Like I said, I won’t be stupid.”
He smiled as they hung up. But something about the news of the hang-up didn’t sit well, not with the skittish way Holland was acting—as if this really was some sort of big deal concerning national security. Nat would have dialed up his cell number to see who answered, but he was out of quarters.
Instead, he scanned the diner for the mystery woman. No sign. He slid back into his booth to find that his coffee was going cold. Finally he could relax, and he felt the weariness of the long night settling into the backs of his eyes. It would have been quite easy to stretch out on the banquette for a nap, and he was on the verge of nodding off when someone sat down in the opposite seat.
He opened his eyes to see the woman from the courthouse sitting directly across the table. Again he was struck by the intensity of her eyes, which gave him a jolt as potent as the coffee. Her blouse smelled like cigarettes. From that, and from the choppy hairstyle, he deduced that she was European. When she spoke, her accent confirmed it.
“Hello, Dr. Turnbull. My name is Berta Heinkel.”
“Heinkel? Same as the aircraft?”
“Yes. No relation.”
German name, German accent. He thought immediately of the hang-up call to Karen, but that had been a man.
“So I guess you’re not one of the feds after all.”
“Feds?”
“The FBI.”
“No.” She glanced behind her. “Will they be joining you?”
“Not if I can help it. Who are you, then?”
“A historian, like yourself. I have an interest in the materials.”
She handed him a business card: Professor Doktor Berta Heinkel from the Free University of Berlin.
“How do you even know about ‘the materials,’ Dr. Heinkel?”