Breslow respected Willi Kleiber. He had been a tough, honest soldier who could hold his drink, go days on end without sleep and who was never heard to complain. And yet Breslow’s respect for Kleiber fell far short of admiration. Kleiber’s avowed enjoyment of army life had in peacetime been replaced by his pleasure in hunting and camping trips, always in the hardest and bleakest of environments. Kleiber liked shaving in cold water by the light of a gas lamp at four o’clock in the morning inside some icy-cold tent in some god-forsaken part of the world, with the prospect of wading for hours in a cold swamp to shoot a few wretched ducks. Such strenuous pursuit of discomfort seemed childish to Breslow, and he made sure that he did not join such expeditions.
For all these reasons, Breslow was determined not to accept the spartan accommodation that Kleiber had prepared at the house on the lake shore. Breslow had been taken to inspect the bleak little uncarpeted room at the top of the house. The folding bed covered with two thin blankets and a threadbare cushion to be used as a pillow was not to Breslow’s taste, neither was the chilly bathroom which was one flight of stairs and a long draughty corridor away.
Kleiber was disappointed when Breslow told him that he had already booked a suite at a luxurious downtown hotel. He had keenly looked forward to an evening of cigar smoke and schnapps, as they swapped stories about life at the Führerhauptquartier or discussed intimate details about Kleiber’s latest mistress. He had even put a bottle on ice and bought a box of hand-rolled Havanas from the duty-free shop at the airport.
Max Breslow relented a little. ‘I’ll have a bath and some dinner and come back for a drink,’ he finally offered his friend.
‘That’s good,’ said Kleiber, his disappointment changing suddenly to manifest pleasure. ‘I’ll drink you under the table, Max. Be warned.’
Breslow managed a brave smile, although he dreaded the prospect of such an evening. ‘I mustn’t be too late to bed,’ he mumbled.
‘Nonsense,’ said Kleiber, patting his friend on the back. ‘A Saturday evening in August with the whole town waiting for us-how can you talk of going to bed early? We’ll probably end up in that new striptease club I was telling you about, or we could go across the border to Evian and try our luck at the casino. Or, if it’s girls you are in the mood for… ’
It was difficult to counter Kleiber’s persuasive ebullience. ‘I don’t know how you do it, Willi. I really do not.’
Kleiber straightened himself to his full height and smiled to show his pleasure. It was easy to compliment him, thought Max Breslow-one had only to imply that he was a libertine or a rogue to earn his eternal approval.
‘Meet me here at 8.30,’ suggested Kleiber. ‘It will give you time for your preening, and give me time to win a new client. If the new job is what I think it is, Max, the evening is on me.’
‘Something good?’
‘When a man calls long distance every thirty minutes and says he needs to speak to me concerning a matter of great importance, it usually turns out that his wife is jumping into bed with his chauffeur.’
‘Does it, Willi?’
‘Or that his mistress is jumping into bed with his chauffeur,’ said Kleiber. ‘The more they make it sound like if s a matter of international diplomacy, the more certain I become that it’s a little domestic drama.’
‘I didn’t know your company took on such domestic dramas nowadays.’
Willi smiled again. ‘My staff are very highly paid. They don’t mind if they are guarding the President or recording the whispers of an insatiable wife, and why should they mind? I tell these clients that using my organization will cost them ten times what a small company specializing in divorce would charge. They don’t care, Max. They want to pay more. The elemental fury of vengeance motivates these people; they want to hurt, they want to humble, they want to assault the one who has caused them pain. Lacking the physique or the skills or the temperament to do it directly, they use the only weapon they have-money! They pay, Max, because they want to pay.’ He smacked a fist into an open hand to illustrate the similarity between the act of violence and of payment. ‘Yes, I’ll take on a domestic drama.’
Max Breslow smiled, but the smile was a fixed one. He remembered the terrible arguments between his parents that had woken him as a child. Unable to hear the words, he had understood the hatred in the cadences of their voices. Those duets had climaxed in a harmonic hysteria and the bang of the front door, as one or the other of his parents stormed out of the house.
‘I’ll give this fellow thirty minutes,’ said Willi Kleiber. ‘He’s a wealthy man, he’s come all the way from Dortmund to see me. It will save me seeing him tomorrow morning.’
‘If it develops into something important,’ said Max Breslow, ‘phone me at the hotel and let me know.’ He tried to hide from his voice any suggestion that he would infinitely prefer an evening on his own.
‘Thirty minutes is all he gets,’ said Kleiber. ‘I’ll see you here at 8.30 tonight, and that’s a promise.’
Max Breslow took his leave. He sighed. With a person such as Willi Kleiber one had to be grateful for even a couple of hours off duty. Once back in the hotel, he made phone calls to California. It was Saturday morning in Los Angeles and his production manager was just beginning a day’s work.
The Chancellery set was completed and they were about to take it from the workshops and store it ready to erect in the studio. The Kaiseroda mine-entrance set was being built, the plasterers would begin work on Tuesday morning and it would be ready for Friday. The location manager was excited by an office building near the Music Center. He said it would be suitable for the scene in which General Patton tells Eisenhower about the discovery of the treasures in the mine. Breslow listened to all the details of the production and found little to criticize or change.
Reassured by all that, Breslow took a bath and then ordered a small bottle of burgundy and a grilled steak from room service. He phoned his wife and told her that everything was all right. His wife was nervous about flying, and Breslow had got into the habit of phoning her after every flight, and phoning her every day he was away. It was an extravagance but it all went on to the film production account. They talked about the weather, the price of gasoline, the enormous estimate for repairing the Mercedes. Max listened dutifully. He had never told his wife much about the freeway accident, and certainly not told her that he’d pretended that it was an attempt on his life. Mrs Breslow also made passing mention of Billy Stein. He was still out of town, she said. Mary had become moody and difficult because she had not heard from him. Billy’s father said merely that his son was in Europe on business; Mary had sobbed.
By now, Max Breslow had hoped that his daughter’s infatuation would be waning but his wife said nothing to confirm this hope. On the contrary, Mrs Breslow spoke rather warmly of the Stein boy. So even his own wife was not immune to the Stein kid’s smooth charm and good looks. Perhaps that motivated Breslow to abandon the potato salad, bread, butter and cream untouched on his tray. It influenced him too when later he chose his favourite dark blue worsted suit and knitted tie. Damn it, thought Breslow, perhaps he would go with Kleiber across to the casino at Evian. He could afford a small wager at the gaming tables, and who was to say he would not win?
Geneva was not a town that Breslow knew well. He kept to the most obvious route, going to the centre of town and looking for the autoroute signs. The lake was beautiful at this time of evening. Tourists crowded the promenade. He stopped his car at a pedestrian crossing where three young girls waited to cross.
One of them, in a see-through top, smiled at him. She had long hair and a round baby face with large eyes, and he was suddenly reminded of a girl he had once known in Dresden, before the war. It was strange how such memories surfaced without warning after being so long forgotten. Were those two pretty girls waiting for a ride to Lausanne… to dinner… to bed? As he pulled away again, the car spluttered. These damned rented cars were all alike-shiny and clean interiors but mechanically always second rate.