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He had reached the side door before the others saw him. It wasn’t locked and he slipped out, closing it silently behind him. Again he ran: through the yard, the garden, across Amsterdam Avenue, along 110th Street to Broadway, and down into the subway station.

He hadn’t seen the redhead or the other man come out of the cathedral, and hadn’t seen them when he’d looked back on Broadway. Down in the subway he kept his eyes on the stairs until the train arrived, and kept looking at the platform from the subway car until the doors slid shut and the train jolted into motion.

He sat down, leaned his head against the window, and closed his eyes. He felt a pain in his chest, and his legs were heavy and tired. Those men meant business. They were out to get him. Where else might they be looking for him? In hotels? Did they have pictures of him? Was his picture now flickering on every monitor in every police station?

The train rolled from station to station. People got on and off. He would have loved to sit like this forever, fall asleep, and wake up in another time and place.

Part Three

37

GEORG GOT OFF THE SUBWAY. The stairs leading up to the street stank of piss. Trucks roared along Houston Street, and the air they churned up made shreds of paper and newspaper pages flutter like tired birds over the dusty median strip. In the distance he could make out green fire escapes fronting red brick facades, which looked like urban hanging gardens.

On the right he looked down quiet, well-tended streets. Behind a church dedicated to Saint Anthony of Padua, whose Romanesque style reminded him of the Wilhelmine style of his high-school gym, he turned onto Thompson Street. Again, well-preserved four- and five-story buildings, on the ground floor shops selling antiques, art, or fashion. Above the buildings at the end of the street the towers of the World Trade Center seemed near enough to touch. At the next intersection Georg was on Prince Street.

Only by looking closely could he read above the entrance of the building on the corner, in faded gold lettering, 160 PRINCE. Café Borgia II was just opening for business across the street. He sat by the window and ordered an orange juice. He studied the building on the corner as if he would have to sketch it from memory one day. Red brick, high windows, decorative gables whose gray stone rose up like crowns, forming little temple friezes on the top story. Beside the entrance, there was the Vesuvio Bakery on one side and on the other a bar whose window advertised Miller beer in swooping, red-neon writing. The building had five stories. Between the second and third a band of gray stone looped around the building. There were black fire escapes, and a hydrant in front of the entrance.

The café was empty. The radio was playing oldies. On the street a Vesuvio Bakery delivery truck drove up. A mail truck came, stopped, and drove on.

Even before he could make out Françoise’s face he recognized her walk, the bouncy swing of her skirt and hips, the small quick steps of her short legs. She was pushing a shopping cart; sometimes she gave it a forward push, letting it roll, then catching up with it. She was laughing. No, it wasn’t a shopping cart, it was a stroller; out of which two tiny arms reached up.

In front of the entrance she carefully lifted up the baby. When Georg was fifteen, and for the first time unhappy in love, at school one afternoon he saw his sweetheart from a landing. She was down in the hall, leaning on the railing, cuddling a kitten from the litter of the janitor’s cat. Nevertheless, jealousy tore through him so painfully, so physically, in a way he had never experienced since. Now he saw Françoise holding the baby on her arm and wrapping it in a blanket, and for a moment jealousy convulsed his body and reminded him of the scene with the kitten.

With her foot and free hand Françoise folded the stroller and went into the building. Rage built up in Georg, a cold, bright desire to strike out, hurt, destroy. He paid and went across the street. Fran Kramer, fifth floor, apartment 5B. The outer door was open. He went up the stairs. Bicycles, strollers, tied bundles of cardboard, and garbage cans stood on the landings. The folded stroller was leaning beside the door to 5B. He rang.

“Coming!”

He heard her move a chair, come to the door, put on the security chain, and unlock the door. The child was screaming. The door opened a crack. He saw the chain and Françoise’s frightened, familiar, and forlorn face.

With a kick he broke the chain and pushed the door open. She recoiled, pressed herself against the wall, covering her breast with her hands. He was struck by the stains on her blouse and her oily hair; he had never seen her other than well-groomed and stylish.

“You?”

“Yes, me!” He stepped into the small vestibule and shut the door.

“But how… what… what are you doing here?” She looked at him horrified.

“What am I doing here in your apartment?”

“In my apartment, in the city… where have you been? How did you know?”

“That you lived here?” he asked.

“How did you find out?…”

“You mean to tell me you didn’t know I was in town? You of all people?” He shook his head. “The child is crying.”

Steadying herself against the wall, she made her way to the living room. “I’m sorry… I was just…” She went over to the baby, who was lying on a blanket on the floor waving its arms and legs, and picked it up. Her blouse fell open and he saw her breasts. She sat down on the sofa and put the dripping breast into the crying mouth. The child closed its eyes and sucked. Françoise looked up. No longer upset, no longer afraid. She pushed her lower lip out a little. He knew that gesture. She knew she looked coquettish and sulky like that. In her eyes was the plea for him not to be angry at her, the certainty that he couldn’t be angry.

His anger burst out again. “I’m going to stay here for a while, and if you tell Bulnakov or Benton or the CIA or the police… if you mention anything to anybody, I’ll kill the child. Whose is it? Are you married?” He hadn’t even considered this possibility. He glanced around the living room and through the open door at the bedroom, looking for signs that a man was living here.

“I was.”

“In Warsaw?” he asked, with a scornful laugh.

“No,” she answered seriously, “here in New York. We’ve just divorced.”

“Bulnakov?”

“Nonsense. Benton’s my boss, not my husband.”

“And whose child is it?”

“No… yes… well, whose do you think?”

“For heaven’s sake, Françoise, can’t you say anything besides no and yes?”

“And can you stop cross-examining me in this terrible, revolting way? You come bursting through the door, break my lock, upset Jill, and me as well. I don’t want to hear any more!” She said that in her little girl’s voice, whimpering and tearful.

“I’ll beat it out of you, Françoise, word for word if I have to! Or I’ll hang the child up by her feet until you tell me everything I want to know. Who is the father?”

“You are-you won’t harm her, right?”

“I don’t want to hear any of your nonsense! Who is the father?”

“My ex. Are you satisfied?”

He felt his old helplessness return. He knew he could not hurt her or the baby, but he doubted that she would tell him the truth even then. He would only hear what she thought he wanted to hear in order to get the painful situation over with. She was a child who lived in hope of immediate reward and in fear of immediate punishment. She had no sense of the importance of the truth.