He didn’t know what to say. He had imagined all sorts of things: a furious eruption, coolly walking out on her, a stormy or a dignified reconciliation.
“Do you want to get back together with her?”
“I…” he began, but fell silent.
“There’s not much prospect of success when one has to fight so hard for someone. Being back together might at first be heaven on earth. But then, how can she ever repay what you have suffered on her account? Why should she even want to repay it? Did she ask you to suffer?”
Georg looked at her downcast.
“Call me one of these days,” she said, kissed his cheek, and left.
Georg bought a beer and sat down on a bench in Riverside Park. He had no idea what to do, what his next step should be. Tomorrow, he told himself, tomorrow I’ll make up my mind. Or else things will figure themselves out. Perhaps patience is a virtue also when it comes to decisions. Perhaps things fall into place on their own.
29
THE FOLLOWING DAY GEORG took particular care with his disguise: the brown tanning color, the black hairspray, mustache, sunglasses, jacket, and tie. The previous day the redhead had turned up at a quarter past eight. Georg waited by the sports store. He saw the redhead arriving, crossed the street, and reached the door just as he did. The redhead looked pleasant enough: his face was scarred by acne, but he had clear blue eyes, strong cheekbones, and a broad smile. With his gray suit and buffalo-leather briefcase, he would have blended in at any investment bank or law firm. He looked at Georg blankly, though perhaps with a touch of curiosity, and rang the fourth-floor bell. Georg pressed the eighth-floor bell.
“Another hot day,” Georg said.
“Mm.”
The door buzzed. The floor of the hallway and the stairs were covered with gray construction paper. The woodwork and banisters had been sanded down, and a first coat of paint had been applied to the walls. Two wood planks were nailed across the missing elevator door.
“They’re still working on the elevator,” the redhead said. “You’ve got quite a climb.”
“At least I have company halfway.”
The construction paper covering the stairs was slippery. Above the third floor there was a new dark gray carpet, the walls were light gray, and the woodwork had been painted Bordeaux red. There was still a smell of fresh paint. On the fourth floor the redhead wished him a nice day and opened a heavy metallic door that bore no inscription. Georg continued climbing the stairs. On the fifth floor was an opaque brown-tinted glass door that read TOWNSEND ENTERPRISES in gold letters, and on the sixth and seventh floors there were again bare metallic doors. The door on the eighth floor stood ajar and he pushed it open.
The floor was unoccupied. Here, too, there was a fresh coat of paint, construction paper on the floor, ladders, and trestle tables. From a corner window he could see Union Square across tarred rooftops, and farther away the Twin Towers. The redhead probably knew that the eighth floor was empty. He might be suspicious.
Georg went down to the fourth floor and rang the bell at Townsend Enterprises. The door swung open with a soft click and he saw a large room, and on the wall an inlaid gold and bronze map of the world. The door fell shut behind him, and from a hall to the left a woman appeared in a pink blouse, a gray suit, with extravagantly pinned-up black hair and ugly pink glasses.
“Can I help you?”
“I was looking for the law firm of Webster, Katz, and Weingarten on the eighth floor. Do you know where they might have moved?”
“We’ve only been here for two weeks. I don’t know anything about previous tenants. Would you like me to check the phone book?”
“That’s very kind of you, but thanks all the same.” As he turned to leave, he saw her press the city of Lima on the map, at which the door sprang open. He also noticed to her right a spiral staircase in the corridor leading to the floor below.
He called Mr. Epp from a public phone.
“Do you know how I can find out what kind of company Townsend Enterprises is? It’s at 874 Broadway?”
“You could ask for a credit report.”
“Where?”
“I’ll do it for you. Call me back in a few hours.”
Two hours later Georg found out that Townsend Enterprises imported rare woods and precious metals, and that it had gone bankrupt six months ago and been taken over.
“Who took it over?”
“The report doesn’t say,” Mr. Epp replied.
“But where there’s a seller there has to be a buyer.”
“You’re right, but the buyer didn’t appear on the credit report.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that the buyer didn’t take out a loan to take over the company. If, for instance, you buy an apartment on Central Park South and pay cash, there won’t be a credit report on you. That’s a bad example, though, because you’d arouse suspicion if you turned up with half a million dollars in cash. Nor is it necessarily a given that the buyer didn’t borrow any money: if he has enough assets to cover the credit, then the creditor doesn’t care whether he uses the money to buy Townsend or to go to Bermuda on vacation.”
“So how can I find the buyer?”
“If he doesn’t want to be found by you or someone like you, there’s nothing you can do.”
“What about the seller?”
“You can try that. Townsend Enterprises belonged to a Mr. Townsend, who lived in Queens. Perhaps he still does. Would you like his address?”
Georg wrote it down. He went to Queens, but didn’t get very far. Mr. Townsend said he wouldn’t tell him anything. No, he wouldn’t let him in. No, he didn’t care how important it was. No, he wouldn’t talk to him, even if he paid him. Mr. Townsend kept the chain on the door.
Georg called home to Germany, the call costing him more money than he had. But in the end his parents and some friends promised to wire him seven thousand marks.
Then he called Helen. “Can we meet this evening? I have a problem I can’t solve. I’d like to discuss it with you.” It was a difficult call for him to make.
“All right,” she replied hesitantly.
30
THEY MET AGAIN AT PERTUTTI and waited for a table.
“What did you do today?” he asked.
“I spent the day writing.”
“What were you writing?”
“My thesis.”
“What part are you working on right now?”
“The Brothers Grimm had various versions of their fairy tales, and… oh, let’s forget about that. You’re not really interested, and I’m not either right now. If you aren’t ready to start on what you wanted to talk to me about, then don’t say anything. That seems to be your specialty.”
They remained silent until they were seated at the table, had ordered, and had a bottle of wine in front of them.
“It’s about that girl from France, the one I told you about.”
“The one you’re looking for? You want me to help you find her?”
He rolled the wineglass back and forth between his palms.
“That’s what it is, isn’t it,” she continued. “You sleep with me, but she’s the one you want to be with. And now you’re asking me to help you get back together with her? Don’t you think that’s a bit twisted?”
“I’m sorry if I hurt you, Helen. I didn’t mean to. The night we spent together was wonderful, and I wasn’t thinking about Françoise. You asked if I still love her. I really don’t know. But I must find her. I need to know what it was between her and me-whether it was all in my imagination. I don’t trust anyone or anything anymore, especially not myself and my feelings. I… it’s as if everything is blocked and grinding to a halt.”
“What is it you imagined?”
“That everything between her and me was perfect. Like with no other woman.”
Helen looked at him sadly.
“I can’t tell you the whole tangled story,” he went on. “I think you’ll see why when I tell you what I can tell you. If you’d rather I didn’t”-he looked up and saw that the waitress had brought their food-“then we can just have our spaghetti.” He sprinkled some cheese on his dish. “You told me last night that I need to figure out what I want. I don’t just want to find her-I want to put my life back on track. I want to be able to connect with people again, to talk about myself, listen to people, ask for advice when I’m stuck, and even for help. I don’t think you took what I said before seriously, but it is true, I have lost my social skills. I think I’ll go crazy if I go on like this.” He laughed. “I know I can’t expect people to welcome me back with open arms, but I also know I can’t go off and feel sorry for myself if they don’t.” He wound the spaghetti around his fork. “You know, I probably should be happy I could even ask you.”