"Do you think I'll live long enough to see it again?"
"Of course you will. Why not?"
"It would be so awful if I didn't. I've waited so long."
"It will be rather different from what we remember," I said.
She thought that over. "But something will be left. And they weren't all Nazis."
"No," I said, and stood up. I couldn't stand this kind of conversation for long. "We'll be able to think about that later on."
I went into the other room. Tannenbaum was sitting there with a sheet of paper. Kahn had just come in.
"It's my blood lust," said Tannenbaum.
"What's that?"
"A list of Germans who've got to be shot." Tannenbaum helped himself to a piece of Strudel.
Kahn glanced at the list. "Not bad," he said.
"More names will be added, of course."
"By whom?" Kahn asked.
"Suggestions are accepted from all."
"And who's going to do the shooting?"
"A committee. Well have to set up a committee, but that's easy."
"Are you going to head it?"
Tannenbaum considered for a moment. "If I'm elected."
"I have a suggestion," said Kahn. "You shoot the first man on the list, and I'll take care of the rest. Okay?"
Tannenbaum thought about it. Gräfenheim and Ravic were watching him. "I mean you yourself," said Kahn. "Not through an anonymous committee, but with your own hand. Okay?"
Tannenbaum said nothing. "It's lucky for you," said Kahn, "that you didn't answer that one. If you had said okay, I'd have socked you in the jaw. I'm fed up with this bloodthirsty drawing-room chitchat. Stick to the movies."
He went in to see Betty. "He's got the manners of a Nazi," Tannenbaum muttered behind him.
I left with Gräfenheim. He was living in New York now, interning at one of the hospitals, for which he received sixty dollars a month", board, and lodging. "Let's go up to my place," he suggested.
"Glad to," I said. It was a pleasant evening; the heat had let up. "What about Betty?" I asked. "Or arent you allowed to say?"
"Ask Ravic."
"He'd tell me to ask you."
He hesitated.
"They cut her open and sewed her up again," I said. "Is that it?"
No answer.
"Had she been operated on before?"
"Yes," he said.
"Poor Betty," I said. "How long do you think . . ."
"We don't know. Maybe weeks, maybe years."
Gräfenheim's room at the hospital was small and simple. The only conspicuous object was a large heated aquarium. "An extravagance," he said. "I treated myself to it when Kahn brought me that money. In Berlin my waiting room was full of decorative fish." He looked at me apologetically out of his nearsighted eyes. "We all have our hobbies."
"When the war is over," I asked, "would you like to go back to Berlin?"
"My wife is still there."
"Have you heard from her?"
"We agreed not to write. They open all the mail. I hope she managed to get out of Berlin. Do you think they've locked her up?"
"Why should they?"
"Do you think they need reasons?"
"Some of them, yes. The Germans are bureaucrats even in their crimes."
"It's hard to wait so long," he said. "Do you think they've let her go to the country? To some place that's not being bombed?"
"I should think so."
The irony of the situation did not escape me—Gräfen-heim deceiving Betty, and me deceiving Gräfenheim. "The worst part of it is sitting here with my hands tied," he said. "Not being able to do anything."
"That's true," I said. "We're nothing but onlookers. A lot of people must envy us because we're not allowed to do anything. That's what makes our existence here so shadowy and almost obscene. In part, the Allies are fighting for us, but they don't want our help. Except in very special cases."
"In France they let us volunteer for the Foreign Legion," said Gräfenheim.
"Did you try?"
"No."
"You didn't want to shoot at Germans. Is that it?"
"I didn't want to shoot, period."
I shrugged my shoulders. "Sometimes we have no choice. We have to shoot somebody."
"Why not ourselves?"
"Nonsense. But it's true that a lot of us didn't want to shoot Germans. They knew that the people they wanted to kill were not at the front. At the front were only obedient law-abiding citizens. Cannon fodder."
Gräfenheim nodded. "They don't trust us. They don't trust our hatred. We're like Tannenbaum. He draws up his lists, but he'd never shoot anybody."
"They wouldn't even take Kahn. And I think they were right"
"An apartment!" I said. "Lamps! Furniture! A bed! A woman! A glass of vodka! The bright side of my unfortunate life. I'll never get used to it, and that's all to the good. Whenever I come here, I enjoy it as much as the first time. I'm Robinson Crusoe, and every time I come here I see Friday's footprints in the sand. You're my woman Friday. The first woman."
"What have you been drinking?"
"Nothing. Coffee and sadness."
"Are you sad?"
"A man with my kind of life can't be sad for very long. Sadness is only a background; the joy of life stands out more clearly against it Sadness sinks to the bottom like a stone, and the water level of life rises. Am I telling the truth? No, not exactly, but I want it to be true, and actually there is some truth in it"
"It's good you're not sad," said Natasha. "I don't need your reasons. Reasons are always suspect"
"I worship you. Is that suspect?"
She laughed. "It is rather sinister. You wouldn't have these exaggerated reactions unless you had something to hide."
I looked at her in consternation. "What makes you think that?"
"Just so."
"Do you really believe it?"
"Why not? Aren't you Robinson Crusoe, who keeps having to convince himself that he's seen footprints in the sand?"
I didn't answer. Her words had touched me deeply. Was it possible that where I hoped to find solid ground there were only loose pebbles that would slip from under my feet at the first shock? Did I exaggerate in order to convince myself?
I tried to shake off my thoughts. "Natasha," I said. "I don't know. AH I know is that I worship you, even if you find it suspect."
She sat down beside me. "There's something awfully elusive about you," she said.
"I'm afraid so."
"And something tells me you enjoy it."
I shook my head. "No, Natasha. I only kid myself."
"You do a good job of it."
"Like Kahn, you mean? There are active and passive refugees. Kahn and I prefer to be active. In France we were active. We had to be. Instead of bewailing our lot, we tried, whenever possible, to call it an adventure. A pretty desperate adventure it was, too. Couldn't we stop talking about it now?"
"Why?"
"Because it's not over yet."
"You can say that again. One of these days you'll just disappear."
I opened the window and looked out. "It's cooled off, Natasha," I announced. "For the first time in weeks. You can breathe."
She joined me at the window. "The fall is coming," she said.
"Thank goodness!"
"Don't say that. You mustn't wish the time away."
I laughed. "You talk as if you were eighty."
"It's no good wishing the time away. It's like wishing your life away. And that's what you're doing."
"Not any more," I said, but I knew I was lying.
"Where do you want to run off to? I know. You want to go back."
"Don't be silly, Natasha. I've just got here. Why should I think of going back?"
"Don't try to kid me. You think of nothing else."
I shook my head. "I've stopped thinking ahead. It will be fall and winter and spring and summer and then fall again, and we'll laugh and well still be together."
She pressed close to me. "Do
n't leave me. I can't bear to be alone. I'm not a heroic woman."
"Who wants you to be? Instead of regretting the turn of the seasons, let's just switch off the air conditioning and go out for some real air."
"That's a very good idea."
We rode down, meeting no one. The poodles and their masters seemed to have settled in for the night.
"The summer's over," Eddie called out to us from his stand.
"Thank goodness," said Natasha.
"Don't gloat so soon," I said. "It will be back again."
"Nothing ever comes back," said Eddie. "Except trouble and those lousy poodles that keep pissing on my magazines. Paper?"
"Well pick it up on the way back."
These little neighborhood chats always gave me the same thrill, the thrill of a man who no longer has to hide. True, my presence in this country was tolerated, rather than accepted, but at least I was not hunted.
"Shall we do the Tours de Grand Ducs?" I asked.
Natasha nodded. "Yes. Let's have plenty of light. The days are getting shorter."
We went to Fifth Avenue, past the Sherry-Netherland, toward Central Park. We could hear the roaring of the lions through the hum of the traffic. We stopped outside La Vieille Russie to look at the icons and the onyx-and-gold Easter eggs that Fabergé had fashioned for the family of the Tsar. The White Russian refugees still seemed to have these things to sell.
We stopped across from the park. The trees were groaning in the wind, and the first leaves were falling. "It looks too sad," said Natasha. "Let's go down the Avenue."
The fall fashions were being shown in the shop windows. "That's ancient history to me," said Natasha. "We photographed those things in June. I'm always a season in advance. Tomorrow we'll be doing furs. Maybe that's what makes me feel that life is passing so quickly. While other people are still enjoying the summer, I've got the fall in my blood."
I stopped and kissed her. "How we talk!" I said. "Like characters in Turgenev or Flaubert. Natasha, harbinger of the seasons. Now I suppose you've got the winter in your blood, with snowstorms, furs, and chimney corners."
"What about you?"
"Me? I don't know. I don't know anything about autumn and winter in America. I only know this country in the spring and summer. I don't know what skyscrapers look like in the snow."
We turned east on Forty-second Street and walked back on Second Avenue. "Here time is asleep," I said. "These antique shops know nothing of autumn and winter. To them one century is as good as another. Nineteenth-century chandeliers make their peace with twentieth-century electricity. In those mirrors the eighteenth century reflects the light of the present If we could only be as wise as those inanimate objects and stop worrying about time!"
"Will you be spending the night with me?" Natasha asked.
"May I?"
"You certainly may. I don't want to be alone tonight. It's going to be windy. If the wind wakes me up, I want you to be there to comfort me. I want to be very sentimental and to let myself be comforted and to fall back asleep in your arms and be reminded of the autumn and forget it and remember it again."
"I'll stay."
"Then let's go to bed. Let's look at ourselves making love in the mirror and listen to the storm. And then you'll hold me tight and tell me about Florence and Paris and Venice and all the.places we'll never go to together."
"I've never been in Venice or Florence."
"Never mind. You can tell me about them; it will be the same as if you'd been there. Maybe I'll cry and look terrible. Crying doesn't become me. You'll forgive me and forgive my sentimentality. We've got to be sentimental once in a while; it's like a fresh-flowing stream that washes off the protective coating of cynicism we wear in our everyday lives. Can you bear it?"
"Yes."
"Then come and tell me you'll always love me and that we'll never be any older."
XXII
"I've got some interesting news for you," said Silvers. "We're going west—to conquer Hollywood. How does that strike you?"
"As actors?"
"As art dealers. I've thought about it a long time, and now I've made up my mind to go."
"With me?"
"With you," said Silvers in his expansive tone. "You've learned the trade very nicely, and I can use your help."
"When?"
"In about two weeks. That gives us time to get ready."
"For how long?"
"Two weeks is my present idea. Maybe longer. Los Angeles is virgin soil. Paved with gold."
"Gold?"
"Thousand-dollar bills. Why these niggling questions? Anybody else would be jumping with joy.'Or don't you want to go? Then I'd have to look for another companion."
"And fire me?"
"What's the matter with you?" he asked angrily. "Of course I'd have to fire you. But why shouldn't you want to go?" He paused for a moment "Maybe you think you havent the right clothes for it? I can advance you the money."
"For the clothes I'm to wear while slaving for you? My business equipment, so to speak? And you'd expect me to pay it back?"
He laughed. "Well, that's one way of looking at it."
I was stalling. I wasn't too eager to leave New York. I didn't know a soul in California, and the prospect of being dependent on Silvers for company didn't exactly thrill me.
"Where will we stay?" I was thinking of those interminable evenings together in some hotel lobby.
"I'll be staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel and you at the Garden of Allah."
I looked up. "Lovely name. Sounds like Rudolph Valentino. So we won't be staying at the same hotel?"
"Too expensive. They tell me the Garden of Allah is very nice. And it's right nearby."
"And how do we handle our accounts? My hotel bill and so on?"
"I'll pick up the tab."
"You mean I'm supposed to take all my meals at the hotel?"
Silvers threw up his hands. "You're being awfully difficult You can eat where you please. Any more questions?"
"Yes," I said. "I need a raise. A man in my position has to dress properly."
"How much?"
"A hundred a month."
Silvers jumped. "That's ridiculous. What's the matter with your suit? It looks good to me."
"It's not good enough for Mr. Silvers' right-hand man. And maybe I'll need a dinner jacket."
"We're not going to Hollywood for the night life."
"You never can tell. It mightn't be a bad idea. Night clubs are a good place for softening up millionaires. For persuading them to improve their social position by buying paintings."
Silvers gave me an angry look. "You are not to repeat my business secrets, not even to me. Anyway, well need a différent approach with those Hollywood millionaires. They regard themselves as cultural leaders and they're not worried about their social position. However, I'll give you a twenty-dollar raise."
"A hundred," I said.
"Don't forget I'm employing you illegally. I'm taking a big risk on your account"
"Not any more," I said. I looked at a Monet on the wall across from me: a white-clad woman in a field of poppies.
"They've extended my residence permit for another three months," I said. "And the next extension will be automatic."
Silvers bit his lip. "So what?"
"So I'm allowed to work." This wasn't true, but the authorities were not being very strict just then.
"You mean you're considering a different job?"
"Of course not. Why should I? At Wildenstein's I'd probably be standing around the gallery all day. I'm happier with you."
I could see that Silvers was reckoning, trying to figure out how much what I knew about him was worth—to him and to Wildenstein. He was probably kicking himself for having initiated me into so many of his tricks. "You ought to compensate me," I said, "for what you've done to my morals. Why, only the other day you made me palm myself off as a former assistant curator of the Louvre. Not to mention my knowledge of languages; that ought to be worth something."
He finally agreed to a seventy-five-dollar raise. I had counted on thirty. All the same, I decided, I wasn't going to buy a dinner jacket.
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