by Craig Nova
From the street, through the window, they ate slowly, picking at their food, although from time to time Gaelle looked up and spoke in quiet, intense bursts. She shook her head. She hadn’t meant anything wrong. Maybe she had tried to make herself safe, see, that was all she wanted, and so she had gone to Hauptmann, too, but was that so bad compared to what had happened to her? Did he need proof? Look at her face. She had done her best, and look what a mess she had gotten into. Karl ate slowly, nodding, looking around. So, yes, she had told the thugs, but they had leaned on her.
When they were done, he reached across the table, took her hand and said, “What are we going to do?”
“Let’s go back to my place,” she said. “We can talk about it.”
“Can I kiss you there?” he said. He touched her lip. “Right there.”
“Yes,” she said, turning her face toward him, offering it. “If you want. You can do anything you want.”
He held her hand and looked at the marks in her palm, which were like the plan for a tree. He traced the lines with his finger, touched her wrist, and all the while he kept his head down, as though not wanting to be seen. Then he looked up at her and dropped her hand.
“I’ve been thinking it over,” he said.
“And,” she said. “What do you think?”
“We’re in a bad spot,” he said.
“Where’s that?” she said. “Where’s the bad spot?”
“In the middle,” he said.
Mani pulled up his blanket and closed his eyes. If he could go back to sleep he could forget that the man from Moscow, Herr Schmidt, had been asking for him every afternoon. And when he forgot, he slipped into a world where the colors were bright again, but when he remembered Herr Schmidt, the reds, yellows, blues, and greens suddenly faded, like dry flowers. So he stayed in bed, suspended between the light of dawn, which came in his one small window, and the warmth under the blanket. The scent of coffee came from the café downstairs and then Mani sat up, put his feet on the floor, and rubbed his hair. It was possible that he was getting sick, but he knew this was just wishful thinking. He didn’t feel this way because of a cold.
He hated lies not because he loved truth, but because lies worked so badly and required so much attention. It was like having a kid, every time he told a damn lie, since it needed to be fed and looked after. The other problem with them was that they only worked short term, and sooner or later, a new lie was required. Late at night when he heard rats in the wall, he imagined that they were lies breeding, getting ready to make trouble, to demand more attention, to betray him. How could he keep track of all the lies he had to tell and all the new lies that the previous ones required? For the first time, he saw ordinary truth as pure and clean and dependable, but impossibly out of reach.
He went to the basin, washed his face, although he didn’t meet his eyes in the mirror. Then he sat at the side of the bed while he laced up his shoes. The first thing was to make sure that Gaelle went away, that there was no evidence of what Mani had done, no sign that he had indulged in factionalism. The most important thing was to keep a clear head and to work through his problems one at a time.
Mani went downstairs and sat in the corner, where Kathleen brought him a cup of coffee. His hands were shaking when he picked it up, and he looked around the room to see if anyone had noticed. Then he sat there and looked at the black circle of coffee in the cup. If he didn’t know better, he would say that his silence was a variety of prayer. Well, he would have to stop this bullshit, too.
The door opened with a white light, as in a newsreel of an explosion, and for an instant Mani hoped it was Karl. The figure in the doorway stood in a hazy nimbus, and as Mani squinted into it, feeling a gritty discomfort from not having slept, all he could make out was a blurry silhouette. Then, as the door closed, a tall, thin form coalesced out of the light.
“You’re a hard man to find,” said Herr Schmidt.
“I’ve been busy,” said Mani.
“Yes,” said Herr Schmidt. “That’s what I hear.” He took off his hat and put it on a chair, his long fingers lingering over it for a moment as he put it down. Then he sat down next to his hat and coat. “Very busy.
Right?”
“You could say that,” said Mani.
Herr Schmidt looked from one of Mani’s eyes to the other, as though they weren’t showing the same thing. Kathleen came out of the kitchen like a fireplug on wheels. Herr Schmidt glanced from her, to Mani, and then back to her and said, “Coffee. Black.” Then he looked at Mani. “So, tell me. What have you been doing?”
“We’re making plans. We’re going to have street theater. Songs. We’re going to march.”
“Uh-huh,” said Herr Schmidt. “What do you hear about Breiter?”
“Nothing yet,” said Mani. “I’m asking around. We put out feelers. We’re looking into it.”
“Uh-huh,” said Herr Schmidt. “Where’s the accounting you’ve been keeping?”
“Upstairs,” said Mani.
Kathleen came in and put the coffee on the table. Then she turned away, as though she had just served a condemned man. Herr Schmidt took a taste.
“It’s hard to get coffee like this in Moscow,” he said. “But, you know, it’s possible to miss home, even when things are difficult. I miss the landscape around Moscow. The river. Eel cooked in the Georgian way.”
“And Ukrainian dishes?” said Mani.
He hadn’t meant to ask. It had just come out.
Herr Schmidt looked at him for a long time, trying to decide if the question was anything more than a matter of asking about food. People weren’t starving yet in the Ukraine, but it wouldn’t be too much longer.
“I like good, Russian food. Soup with meat, palmeni, food you can trust,” said Herr Schmidt. “The Ukrainians are interested in factionalism, in independence. That’s not going to be tolerated.”
They sat quietly for a while. In the kitchen Kathleen and the young man who helped her were arguing and banging pots around, and when Kathleen chopped onions and turnips, the whack, whack, whack had a staccato quality, but it was still domestic and cheerful.
“We understand that a big man was involved in the Breiter matter,” said Herr Schmidt. “Broad in the shoulders. Like a barn door. Do you know anyone like that?”
“Well, I guess there are people like that around,” said Mani.
“Hmpf,” said Herr Schmidt. “I have a little advice for you. The first thing is to get your accounting in order. You’ve been given quite an honor.”
“What’s that?” said Mani.
“You’ve been invited to Moscow,” said Herr Schmidt.
Mani was sweating in earnest now. He licked his lips and put his hands together, and then he took them apart and put them on the table.
“Something wrong?” said Herr Schmidt, who looked again from one of Mani’s eyes to the other.
“No,” said Mani. “Nothing.”
“You act as though this was something to worry about. Believe me, being invited to Moscow is a sort of prize. For doing good work here.”
“I see,” said Mani.
“Good,” said Herr Schmidt.
“I’ll need a little time,” said Mani.
“Of course,” said Herr Schmidt. “We must make plans. I have to make reservations. We have to take care of things here. So, you’ll have plenty of time.”
Herr Schmidt reached over for his hat, his long fingers picking it up with an almost tender gesture, like removing a bottle from the hands of a sleeping baby, and as he put it on, he looked right into Mani’s eyes.
“I will contact you when I have the date,” said Herr Schmidt. “It will give you plenty of time to make sure the accounting is in order. And to finish up with the Breiter matter.”
He held his hat with the tips of his fingers.
“Do you think it would be a good idea to go to Moscow with Breiter not explained?”
“No,” said Mani. “But what’s it to you? Or to anyone. Who cares?�
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“You are supposed to be disciplined. If we care, then you care.” He cleared his throat. “Well, until next time,” said Herr Schmidt.
Then he got up and walked through the room, opening the door and letting that white light come in, like a flash, and then went out, into the fuzzy illumination.
“Do you want something to eat?” said Kathleen.
“No,” said Mani. “I’m fine.”
Mani climbed the stairs to his room like an old man whose joints hurt, but he stopped on the first landing, hand on the shiny banister, head cocked to listen to small sounds in the building. It creaked and sighed, and water hissed in the walls. Mani waited. Was anyone following him? Then he went up to his floor and into his room, where he shut the door and leaned against it. He looked at the manufactured receipts, and somehow the brownish stains seemed uniform, all of the same kind. It was an amateur job, and he flipped through one and then another, as though each were another dangerous thing to have.
Maybe a drink would help, he thought. If he could just get calm enough to think clearly. He went down the stairs, which were circular, like those in a lighthouse, and when he came to the bottom and opened the door, Karl stood in the middle of the room, head down under the overhead light. They looked at each other and then they sat down at one of the small tables, Karl’s hands hard and gray, as though he had been mixing cement.
“You want coffee?” said Mani. “A drink?”
Karl shook his head.
Mani looked around the room at the rough tables, the fireplace with the smoke stains on the plaster above it, the mismatched chairs, the posters on the walls. All bland now, terrifying in the way that he felt no connection to them at all. It was as though he were falling. Get a grip on yourself, he thought, are you up to this or not?
“So,” said Mani. “Where are we now? I’m mean with Gaelle?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” said Karl. “To do anything to her.”
“Why not?” said Mani.
“We can just let it go,” said Karl.
“What makes you think we can do that?” said Mani.
“We can agree that we’ll just keep it between you and me. See? That way nothing happens.”
“Oh,” said Mani. “That will do it?”
“We can keep it quiet,” said Karl.
Karl looked down.
“What happens when she sees a chance to make some money out of what she knows?” said Mani.
“No one should try to do anything to her,” Karl said.
Mani tasted the bitter coffee.
“I want you to understand that. I mean no one,” said Karl.
“You aren’t safe,” said Mani. “You may think you are, but that’s not the way it is. You understand that?”
“I can take care of myself,” said Karl.
“Don’t be too sure,” said Mani.
“That’s the way it is going to be,” said Karl. “That’s it. Leave her alone.”
He stood up and pulled his cap over his face so that half of his features were sliced by a shadow. He rolled a shoulder, as though he had a cramp.
“Leave her alone,” said Karl. “That’s what I came to say.”
He turned and started walking toward the door, going around the clutter of chairs and tables, the atmosphere of smoke and stale soup, and as he went, Mani said, “You should understand….”
Karl came back.
“What should I understand?” said Karl. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m telling you there are other people involved,” said Mani.
“I couldn’t care less,” said Karl. “About Herr Schmidt.”
Karl made a brushing gesture, as though sweeping some crumbs aside.
“Let them be concerned,” said Karl. “I couldn’t care less. I have other things on my mind.”
Karl turned in earnest now and went through the chairs and tables, and then up to the door. The light from outside came into the room like an explosion without the sound: a sudden, silent eruption of light. Mani sat there, watching the door swing slowly closed so that the room was only filled with shadows. Then he went back to his coffee.
In the evening, when it was foggy, Mani went out. He had a bundle of notes from the briefcase where he kept the money from Herr Schmidt, and it felt like a small brick in his pocket. The dampness made him keep his head down, like a man going into the wind. Every now and then a figure approached, looming up out of the fog.
Mani stopped at the door of a bar, which was the headquarters for Immertreu, one of the Rings in the city. The windows in the front of it were large, light falling out of them in a steep angle, and as Mani looked into the bar, the small beads of water on his coat appeared like jewels.
The Ring had prostitutes and pickpockets on the street, a gambling setup for boxing, and the six-day bicycle races, and they passed counterfeit bills they got from Switzerland. They fenced goods, and they knew how to break into safes. Mani had once seen their work with blowtorches and crowbars: a torn-open safe, the metal edges ragged and curled, blackened, violated. Immertreu also sold funeral insurance.
Mani went down to the end of the bar to Franz Nachtmann. On first sight Nachtmann appeared almost mild, even warm, especially in his posture, in his expression and features, which were rotund and seemingly cheerful. His cheeks were full, and he had a pug nose, which gave him the aspect of eternal youth. His lips were full, almost to the extent of looking sensual, and the feature that made him seem most harmless and even sweet, on first impression, was the groove in the middle of his upper lip.
Still, after even a short period of time Nachtmann, who ran the Ring, seemed to change, particularly if he had been considering a possibility. He leaned his head one way and another, and his thinking, his pursed lips, his finger picking at something in his ear all suggested a greasy malice. It was all the more shocking, since the features that had seemed so trustworthy and considerate appeared malignant and cruel, and it was this change that had given him such advantage in the negotiations he carried on almost every day of the week. I’m just a sweet guy, he seemed to say when he first shook someone’s hand. His eyes were a gray-blue, and his initial expression was often one of charming surprise. You really want to talk to me? he seemed to say. How nice. I’m so flattered, really. Here. Have a seat. Then he got down to business.
“Well, Mani,” said Nachtmann. “How nice to see you. It’s been a while. And what have you been up to. Staying out of trouble?”
“Not really,” said Mani.
“Well, tell me about it. Sit down. Sit down. A brandy for my friend Mani,” he said to the bartender, who brought it almost instantly.
“Thanks,” said Mani.
“Anything for an old friend,” said Nachtmann.
Mani took a sip, licked his lips, and looked around.
“So?” said Nachtmann. He turned his eyes toward Mani now and dropped the expression of mild surprise.
Mani reached into the pocket of his coat, took out the bundle of money, and put it on the bar, giving it one small shove. Nachtmann looked at it for a moment, and said, “Well, I’m sure this isn’t a present.”
“No,” said Mani.
“All right,” said Nachtmann. “What’s on your mind?”
“We have some people who aren’t reliable,” said Mani.
“That’s too bad,” said Nachtmann.
“Yes,” said Mani.
“So,” said Nachtmann, taking the money and giving it to the bartender. “Who are they? Maybe we can work something out.”
“You know Karl? He worked with me? He’s got a girlfriend now, Gaelle? The gravelstone with the scar,” said Mani. He looked around.
“Sure,” said Nachtmann.
Karl had been to Wannsee once before, and he thought that he and Gaelle could mix in with the crowd of holidaymakers, or go to the beach where the sailboats drifted by on the lake like white triangles. Perhaps they could take a tour boat, the uuuuuunnh, uuuuuunnh of its deep horn stirring things
up. He never understood why the sound of a ship’s horn, or a train whistle late at night, filled him with turmoil, but he knew that if he heard it now, while he was with Gaelle, it would be stronger than ever. Maybe she would feel it, too, that deep, vibrating reminder of impulses and hopes that are so deep and strong as to require a constant effort to deny them. Longing and regret. Or, perhaps these desires were so large that you could only feel them a little bit at a time, just for an instant at the unexpected sound of a boat horn, or a train whistle you heard as you tried to sleep.
Karl suspected they were being followed. In the beginning he looked at the men who had obviously been up all night on a party, the ones who were sick as they stood by the lake, their beards gray-blue, hungover, sour when someone tried to get them to have a good time, and while at first Karl wasn’t sure why he was keeping an eye on these people, soon he knew there was a good reason for it. He guessed someone would try to kill them here.
So, he thought, who is it?
The holidaymakers on the train from Berlin to Wannsee had been dressed more formally than Karl and Gaelle. The other passengers glanced at him and then Gaelle, their disapproval sweeping over them lightly, like the touch of a feather, but leaving an impossible weight behind.
Gaelle stared straight ahead. He did, too. She whispered to him, “Don’t give them a second thought.”
It was the end of the season. On the train, the men told jokes and laughed too hard. The women smiled and wanted to make the day cheerful. It was going to be the last one for a while, and that was enough to try to make it the best day of the season. The children sat with their towels and sand toys. The mob of holidaymakers were hilarious as the train approached Wannsee, although when the first glimpse of the water came into view, everyone became quiet. The end of summer, the flirtations that were coming to their only half-realized conclusions, a sense of evanescent romance, all seemed to linger in the train like the scent of suntan lotion. Karl looked around, his eyes flitting from one man to another.
