The Informer

by Craig Nova

  “That’s all right,” said Mani. “I’ll get some in a minute.”

  “Are you sure?” said the man. “Oh, here she is. One coffee for Mani. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “Yes,” said Mani.

  Gerhard Schmidt had been right about the coffee, and this seemed to reassure him. He knew, or so he seemed to say, what Mani wanted. Mani looked around the room, caught Karl’s eyes. Karl shrugged. That’s the way it begins, he seemed to say.

  Kathleen brought the coffee in a small cup and put it down.

  “You take it the way I do,” said Schmidt. “Bitter.”

  Mani had a sip, hoping the caffeine worked quickly and that he could shake off his lassitude, that feeling of gravity being stronger than usual.

  “So,” said Mani. “How are things in Moscow?”

  “Excellent,” said Herr Schmidt.

  “Here, in Berlin …,” said Mani.

  “I know where we are,” said Herr Schmidt with a smile.

  “Yes,” said Mani. He swallowed. “We’ve heard about some arrests and interrogations in Moscow.”

  “Of course,” said Herr Schmidt, but that’s all he said. Then they sat together in silence.

  “What do you want?” said Mani.

  They drank their coffee for a while. Mani wanted to say nothing, or as little as possible, and he realized that the man opposite him was trying to get him to give away some small, exquisitely telling detail. This made Mani more reluctant, since even small talk could get him into trouble. Maybe particularly small talk, since he wasn’t on guard when he indulged in it. That was the danger. Even your shield could cause you trouble. Maybe he should offer the accounting now. If he did that, maybe it wouldn’t be looked at, just filed away, like a ticking bomb. No, he thought, keep your mouth shut.

  “Let’s not worry about Moscow,” said Schmidt. “It’s done. The interrogations, the arrests. That’s over. It isn’t our concern anyway.”

  “All right,” said Mani.

  “I wanted to tell you that we have been watching your work,” said Schmidt. “Even the chairman knows your name.”

  The Boss, thought Mani. This should have been an honor, but Mani saw the room brighten with terror.

  “Does he?” said Mani.

  “Oh, yes. He said he had heard good things about Mani Carlson in Berlin. We get regular reports,” said Schmidt. “He is prepared to be generous.”

  “And what about you?” said Mani. “Are you part of this?”

  “I am just a messenger,” said Schmidt. “I try to keep it simple.”

  Mani swallowed. If he could only find some way of slowing things down, of thinking clearly for a moment, or to understand what was happening. He tasted the bitter coffee.

  “I am a practical man,” said Schmidt.

  Mani started sweating all the harder and then looked down at his cup. When he glanced up Schmidt was looking directly at him. What Mani wanted, right then, was to be in the street opposite one of those young men who shouted insults, who called him Red Scum. Then he would know what to do. Instead, he found himself shaking, and when he tried to be quiet, he was left with an interior noise that was so much like a nightmare.

  Maybe this was an interrogation. In that instant, he thought of the advice he had heard from people who had been through it: don’t hold anything back. If they arrest you and put you in a cell, don’t eat the bread. Only drink the water. The bread just makes you hungry. Don’t eat the salt fish. Come clean. If you hold back, they will never be satisfied, since they will think you are always holding something back. You can’t throw yourself on their mercy. That is not part of it. You must make your confession as quickly as possible. That is the best you can hope for. For one instant, Mani wanted to talk and get it over with but then realized this was hysteria.

  “I’ve come to ask for your help,” said Schmidt. “I came here to see how things were going.”

  “Of course,” said Mani. “I have my accounting upstairs.”

  “Yes, good,” said Schmidt. “But my job has changed. I’m interested in something else now.”

  Mani drank the bitter coffee.

  “We’re concerned about a murder in Berlin.”

  “Well, if I can help, I’m at your service,” said Mani.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said Herr Schmidt. “A man was doing us a service. It doesn’t matter what it was. It was important to us. It was important to the chairman.”

  Mani looked down at the table.

  “Hans Breiter was the name of the man,” said Herr Schmidt.

  “What was he doing for you?” said Mani.

  “For us,” said Herr Schmidt. “Your interests are the same as ours in Moscow.” Herr Schmidt turned his coffee cup up to get the last, bitter dregs. “You will do what we tell you. I am giving you your orders.”

  “What happens if I have things to do here? Action to take that I see as being important,” said Mani. “What about people who betray us?”

  Herr Schmidt took a deep breath and then took a moment to stare at Mani. It was as though he had been given something shoddy, a lousy coat when he had paid for a good one.

  “I’m giving you your orders,” said Herr Schmidt. “You have no interests aside from the Soviet’s. That’s it. It doesn’t matter what you think, or what you want to do. Why, you may have all kinds of crazy ideas. But you will do what we tell you to do. And that is to attack the Weimar government. That’s it. If you are worried about anything else, then you aren’t doing your job.”

  “And what about the thugs?” said Mani.

  “Your job is to attack the government,” said Herr Schmidt. “We’ll worry about the Nazis and the others.”

  “From where? Moscow? What about what’s happening here?”

  “I’m giving you your orders,” said Herr Schmidt. “Is that clear? Attack the government. Find out about Breiter.”

  Mani nodded.

  “Say it,” said Herr Schmidt.

  “What was Breiter doing for you?” said Mani.

  Herr Schmidt put out one hand, as though asking for an instrument used in interrogations. Then he nodded, bit a fingernail, and stared at Mani. How much to tell? Just enough to make Mani feel on the inside, but really just enough to make sure he would be eliminated soon? Was that the right summation?

  “Breiter did some negotiations for us with the German army. The Boss wants a strong Germany between us and Europe. Maybe that means helping the Germans rearm. Maybe it means helping the Germans get around the limitations on arms from the Treaty of Versailles. Breiter helped. So, of course, we want to know why someone did this. That’s all.”

  Mani swallowed and glanced at Karl. Then Mani swallowed again, but it felt like he was choking.

  “Here,” said Herr Schmidt. “Have a little coffee.”

  Mani had a sip of the cold coffee.

  “Will you find out who did this?” said Herr Schmidt.

  “Yes,” said Mani. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his face.

  “Strangely hot in here, isn’t it?” said Herr Schmidt.

  “Yes,” said Mani. “Maybe I’ve got a fever.”

  “Why, you should take care of yourself,” said Herr Schmidt. He reached over and put his fingers on Mani’s forehead. “Cool as a cucumber.”

  “Maybe it’s an allergy,” said Mani.

  “Yes,” said Herr Schmidt. “Of course. That’s probably it.” Then he laughed and said, “Mani, Mani, don’t worry. I’m your friend.”

  Mani tried, by force of will, to stop sweating, but it didn’t do any good. He couldn’t swallow either.

  Herr Schmidt pushed the suitcase toward Mani.

  “This is a gesture from the chairman. You are going to be paid more and more regularly. You can do your work here. Keep after the government. Make trouble.”

  “Of course,” said Mani. “I’ve appreciated what I had before.”

  “I’m very glad to hear about the accounting,” said Herr Schmidt. “We will take a
look at that.”

  “Yes,” said Mani.

  “So, find out about Breiter,” said Schmidt. “Find out who did this thing.”

  He pushed the suitcase farther toward Mani. Then he finished his coffee and put it down with a harsh click.

  “Count your blessings,” he said. “It’s hard to get good coffee in Moscow.”

  “How long are you going to be in Berlin?” said Mani.

  “Oh,” said Schmidt. “I have some things to do. I’ll be around. I’ll check in on you. And, if I miss you I can always ask you to come to Moscow. You’ll come, won’t you, if we ask? You can bring the accounting.”

  The coffee cup made a diminutive click, like a tumbler falling into place, when Mani put it down.

  “Will you come?” said Schmidt.

  “Yes,” said Mani.

  “Glad to hear it,” said Schmidt. “Everyone will be glad to hear it.” He pushed the suitcase against Mani’s leg. “Don’t spend it all in one place. And, of course, go on with the accounting. A revolution means keeping track of everything.”

  The man from Moscow stood up, like a piece of equipment being unfolded from a case, a camera tripod, for instance, and with his legs apart, he reached down and picked up his coat, which he swung around and stuck his arms through, as though he had practiced putting this coat on in a hurry. He looked around the room, as though taking inventory, and then down at Mani, who tried to appear calm, businesslike, although he was still sweating. He looked like something that had been dragged out of the river, hair pasted to the side of his face, skin white.

  Mani began to stand up.

  “No,” said the man from Moscow. “Don’t bother. I’ll let myself out.”

  The man turned toward the door and moved with that same precision, as though counting the number of feet between the door and the table, and when he was about to disappear into the street he smiled. Everything was as it should be, right? Then he put on his hat, the brim over his eyes, and went into the street, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Mani stuck his foot out and touched the heavy suitcase. Could there be that much money in it? As he pushed it this way and that with his foot, the weight of it left him more confined than before: if it was as much as he thought it might be, he was that much more obligated. It had the weight of a ball and chain.

  He glanced across the room. Karl sat there, nursing his brandy, his ugly, collapsed face curious and still cautious, too, as though while he wanted to walk across the room and ask a question, he wanted to make sure that Herr Schmidt had disappeared. Kathleen came from the back, and Mani said, “Could I have a brandy?”

  “I didn’t like the look of him,” said Kathleen.

  “That’s not our job,” said Mani. “To make such judgments.”

  She raised a brow, and then brought back a glass that was filled almost to the rim. At least she could show in this way that she understood: he was scared, and that he hadn’t liked the look of the man from Moscow either.

  Mani hoped that the brandy would do some good, but it made him more jittery than warm, as though the alcohol brought out latent uneasiness, or enhanced what was already there rather than smoothing it over. The pendulum of the clock on the wall swung back and forth. Not even twelve-thirty. How was he ever going to get through until dawn?

  Karl walked across the room and pulled out a chair so he could sit down.

  “What’s wrong?” said Karl. “You look dizzy. I knew a guy who looked like that and when they cut him open they found a tumor as big as a cobblestone, but sort of yellow.” Karl tapped his temple. “Right here.”

  Mani shook his head. It was harder to swallow than ever.

  “They put it in a jar so his wife could see it. She charged money to take a look.”

  Mani sipped the brandy, but slowly so as not to get sick.

  “Of all the people,” said Mani.

  Karl waited. An emotional flat tire is the way Karl thought of him.

  “Breiter was the wrong guy to play with,” said Mani.

  “Just keep quiet,” said Karl.

  “The people in Moscow want me to find out who did it,” said Mani.

  “Well, that should be easy,” said Karl.

  “Very funny,” said Mani. “And I’ll tell them you were there, too. How about that?” Mani swallowed.

  “So,” said Karl. “Do you want to wait for the roof to fall in?”

  “No,” said Mani. “Let’s not wait.”

  “It looks like we’ve got something to work with, too,” said Karl. He kicked the suitcase. “How much do you think is there.”

  “A lot,” said Mani.

  “All right,” said Karl. “Only three people know about Breiter.”

  Mani had a sip of his brandy and felt the burning sensation of it on his tongue.

  “Yes,” said Mani. “Three of us.”

  “There’s you and me,” said Karl. “We don’t have to worry about us, do we?”

  “No,” said Mani.

  “So, that leaves Gaelle,” said Karl. “She was hanging around with the other side, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she seeing some Brownshirt?”

  Mani nodded. Yes. She was.

  “Well, that puts her in the middle. They get rid of people all the time.”

  “I guess,” said Mani.

  “There’s no guessing,” said Karl.

  “And you’d be willing …,” said Mani.

  “What choices have we got?” said Karl. “Have you got any ideas?”

  Mani shook his head. “No,” said Mani.

  “Buck up then,” said Karl. “Christ. What a mess. You want to do one thing and then you get windy.”

  “I’m not windy,” said Mani.

  “Hold out your fingers,” said Karl.

  They trembled.

  “See?” said Karl. “You’ve got to get a grip on yourself.”

  “You’ll take care of this?” said Mani.

  “Well, who else is going to do it?” said Karl. “You?”

  “If I had to,” said Mani.

  Karl stared at him for a while, then stood up and rolled his shoulder. The overhead light appeared like it was ready for an interrogation. “Sure,” said Karl. “You’re as windy as they get.”

  “So, will you do it?”

  “Calm down,” said Karl.

  “Did you see Herr Schmidt?”

  “Okay,” said Karl. “All right. All right. As soon as I can.”

  “How soon will that be?” said Mani.

  “Didn’t I tell you to calm down?” said Karl.

  Mani swallowed.

  “It’s got to be soon,” he said.

  The setting sun covered Gaelle with a reddish and gold cast, and the figures who approached from the west looked like phantoms, shapes that vanished when they stood directly in front of the reddish globe at the end of the avenue. She’d managed to make everyone angry, that is, if they knew what she had done, and how long would it take for everyone to find out? It was all the fault of the scar, which she touched now, as though it was a toad. She had heard that informers had been killed in a particular way: often they had their lights shot out, that is, someone shot them in the eyes. Gaelle tried to stand absolutely still, as though if she were absolutely quiet, frozen in one place, she would be more safe. Or at least more invisible.

  “Well, well,” said Felix. “Look who’s here.”

  Armina’s hair was also bathed in the roseate light. Gaelle looked down at the cobbles, shifting her weight.

  “Oh,” said Gaelle. “It’s you.”

  “I was around,” said Armina. “I thought I’d see how you are doing.” The cars made a sound like distant thunder where the tires went over the cobblestones.

  “It’s slow,” said Felix. “Nothing’s happening.”

  The trees at the edge of the park looked like lacy seaweed against the light: plants or living things from the depths of the ocean, which left Gaelle with a sense of the pressure at the bottom of the sea.

  “Yeah,” said
Gaelle. “It’s slow. What’s it to you?”

  “I just thought I’d drop by,” said Armina. “Maybe we could talk.”

  “No,” said Felix. “I don’t think so.”

  Gaelle looked Armina up and down, from her dark shoes to her gray jacket. No jewelry, not much makeup. Can you trust someone like that? Then Gaelle went back to trying to stand still, but the world seemed poised, as though ready to spring on her like a tiger.

  “The stores are still open,” said Armina. “We can go shopping.”

  “Shopping?” Gaelle said.

  “There’s a sale,” said Armina.

  “It’s your funeral,” said Felix.

  “Stop saying that,” said Gaelle. “If you say that one more time … All this talk about funerals. No more. I mean it.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Felix. “It’s just a way of talking. You know, a saying.”

  “One more time and you can look for someone else to work with.”

  “All right,” said Felix. “I get the message.”

  “Let’s go shopping,” Gaelle said to Armina. “It’s hard to breathe around here.”

  “I said I was sorry,” said Felix.

  “I’m taking a break,” said Gaelle.

  “You know,” said Felix. “I didn’t mean anything.”

  “Then don’t say anything,” said Gaelle.

  “OK, OK,” said Felix. “I’ll line something up. Get something nice.”

  Gaelle and Armina walked up to the streetcar stop and Gaelle looked around, as though the solution to her trouble could be found in the passing cars, the lights of the city, the last of the blue-gold light. The most important thing was not to make any more mistakes.

  On the streetcar they sat side by side, Gaelle in her slinky dress, her silver stockings and shoes, her silver handbag in her lap. What would happen if she turned to Armina and said, I’ve informed on everyone. They all are after me. Can you help? And I’ve killed someone, too? The instant Gaelle decided she couldn’t say a word the turmoil seemed to rise from the darkness of her sense of herself, a sort of black rush that left her blinking and trying not to cry. How could she become so sentimental when she needed to be so tough? Because I am trapped, and when you are trapped you can’t have the luxury of sentiment.

  She wanted to ask if Armina had a boyfriend, and did he look at her as though she meant the world to him? Well, maybe she did, and that was one of the things that separated them. No one looked at Gaelle that way, and yet, even though she liked to think she was tough, like the cobblestones, like the sidewalk they walked on, she still wanted someone to say, “I love you, darling. You are everything.” The impossibility of this happening to Gaelle seemed like a river between her and Armina, a cold one, dark, topped with dirty froth. Gaelle kicked her heels against the seat of the streetcar, the constant knocking only making her angrier. Yes, she thought, maybe I’ll ask this cop about that. Maybe she has some ideas about how to get across that river. Although I doubt it: I bet she doesn’t even know it’s there.