“All those names are from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. What I don’t understand: You said that these men destroyed your life in Cucuron. Why did they do it, and how come they managed to do it?”
“I don’t know. They must have some link to the French secret service.”
“How can the Russian or Polish secret service have a link to the French one? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Don’t ask me. Either way, I didn’t get any more translation work, and I had all kinds of trouble with the municipality, the police, the bank, and my landlord.”
“What did they figure they’d get out of this?”
“I’ve asked myself that too. Perhaps they wanted me to be stamped as untrustworthy. Then there wouldn’t be anybody I could turn to with my story.”
“And you think they also found out about your coming to New York from the French secret service?”
“How else would they have? At any rate, the French customs officer asked me all kinds of questions on my way to Brussels to catch my flight to New York. The French secret service could have found all this out from customs, and the Polish or Russians from them.”
“I don’t like all this.”
Georg still felt that she was convinced he ought to go to the CIA. Was she right? For her the issue didn’t seem to be a possible threat to United States’, or to European national security. It doesn’t matter where the secret service sets up shop-it can do so anywhere. That its work is compromised if people report its activities, if its agents are extradited, and its branches have to move, is of less importance than national security. Georg took Helen’s love for the Union Square area seriously. She had a point. Furthermore, he found the idea attractive that a city is a small mirror of the world, containing within it life and work, business and religion, wealth and poverty, black and white, CIA and KGB. That’s what he liked about New York: it is the whole world, more so than any middle-class German city could be. He tried to explain this to Helen, but couldn’t convince her.
31
GEORG ASKED IN FOREIGN bookstores and libraries whether anyone knew Françoise. He showed her photograph at the cash registers and the counters of diners and stores near the MacIntyre Building. To no avail. He called Helen every evening, and she always came up with some excuse about why she hadn’t called him, though she had promised to. She hadn’t reached any of her colleagues yet.
He no longer cared whether he was being shadowed or not. On the last day of his reconnaissance in the area around the MacIntyre Building, he went into a diner, and, as he stood waiting for a table, saw the redhead having lunch. The diner was packed, and waiters were rushing past with laden trays, while the owner sat more customers by shouting at them where to sit. The redhead was eating a hamburger, drinking a Coke, and reading a newspaper. Just another regular.
Georg made his way through the diner and sat down at the redhead’s table. For an instant the man looked surprised, but then recovered his professional cool. “Don’t let me disturb you,” Georg said. “I think there’s no need for introductions. You might know me better than I know you, but I know you well enough to be able to ask you to pass on a message. There’s a gentleman in your-your organization with whom I would like to speak. He was working in France not too long ago; perhaps he’s still there, I don’t know. He called himself Bulnakov. A short man, stout, sixtyish. Do you know him?”
The redhead didn’t say anything, nor did he nod or shake his head.
“I’d like to speak to him. I doubt you have his schedule handy, so have him call me to set up an appointment. Tell him it’s important. I don’t want to be melodramatic, but tell him too that it wouldn’t be a good idea to have me killed. I’ve written down everything I know, and mailed it out. If my friends don’t hear from me, they’ll mail the information on to Mermoz, the police, and the newspapers.”
“Can I take your order?” the waiter asked.
“Could I have a Coke?”
“Diet?”
“No, regular.”
“Have you ever thought of dyeing your hair?” Georg asked, feeling like all three musketeers in one. The redhead ran his fingers through his hair. No, he didn’t look pleasant after all. His eyes were too small and his nose too wide. Georg didn’t wait for his Coke. He got up.
Outside, he was suddenly gripped by fear. Have I gone crazy? How can I get out of this now? Leave the country? Does he know I didn’t mail anything to my friends? Georg looked around, saw an empty cab, and flagged it. He had to get home. The trip took half an hour, and thoughts swirled through his mind. He broke into a sweat. He stared intensely at the streets, the traffic, and the people: the horse-drawn carriage that turned in to Central Park; Columbus on his tall column; the Metropolitan Opera; the movie theaters; the restaurants that had been too pricey for him and of which he made a mental note for better times; the benches on the median strip of Broadway, where he wanted some day to while away an afternoon; the little park on 106th Street, whose grass, trees, and benches had turned gray from the pollution; the ladders hanging from the fire escapes.
He waited for the elevator, his knees shaking. The other day Helen hadn’t felt too well, and told him “My legs are like noodles,” and he had asked her, “Al dente?” at which she had laughed. The silly scene seemed to him the height of happy normalcy. In his room, he lay down on his bed. He fell asleep and dreamed of Françoise, Bulnakov, and the redhead-he was being shadowed, he ran for all he was worth; then he was sitting on a rock in Central Park, the clouds black and hanging low, but the sun had found a hole and made colors shine. There was utter silence. Georg tugged at a blade of grass, and when it came out of the ground together with a long root, he heard a whimpering that grew louder and louder, until it boomed through the park like a thundering howl. He woke up drenched in sweat. Down in the street a police car had driven by. He heard the siren fade in the distance. He got up and took a shower. His fear was gone. He was ready for action.
32
THE CALL FROM TOWNSEND ENTERPRISES came the following morning at ten.
“Georg! Telephone!” Larry shouted from the kitchen where he was eating breakfast.
“It’s a woman, not Helen, though,” he whispered to Georg. He and Larry had had dinner with Helen the previous evening. Georg had talked a lot, joked, flirted, and Larry and Helen had looked at him in surprise. What had gotten into this quiet roommate and difficult bedfellow? When Georg took Helen home, they walked past a panhandler, and Helen dropped a coin into his cup. She told Georg how in her first few weeks in New York she had been appalled at all the poverty and had put money in all the cups, until a man called out after her, “Hey, you just threw a quarter in my coffee!” Georg shook with laughter. He got the impression that Helen might have liked to take him upstairs but that she found his sudden cheeriness a little frightening. She still hadn’t found anything out about Françoise.
“Mr. Polger? I’m calling from Townsend Enterprises. Mr. Benton would like to know whether you could come by this afternoon. Do you have our address?”
“Please tell Mr. Benton that I’ll be there at four.”
Georg hung up. He could tell that Larry was curious, but didn’t say anything to him. Georg took a cup of coffee to his room, and got a pen and some paper.
Dear Jürgen,
I’m sure you’ll be surprised at getting a letter from me from New York. You’ll be even more surprised that I am asking you to open the enclosed envelope only in the event that you don’t hear from me again within four weeks. I know it sounds a bit cloak-and-dagger, maybe even foolish. It might even remind you of the games we used to play. And yet, it might not sound childish to you at alclass="underline" as the district judge for Mosbach you must have gotten used to all kinds of things. Be that as it may, I would be grateful if you did this for me, and hope to be in contact with you very soon. Give my best to Anne and the children. Your old friend-