by Marc Levy
“You’re not going to capture the scene?” asked the young woman at his side.
“No, Marina, it’s pointless to take the same photo as fifty other people. It’s not exactly my idea of journalism.”
“With such a bad attitude, it’s a good thing you have a pretty face to balance things out.”
“That’s one way of admitting I was right. How about I take you to lunch, instead of listening to you lecture me?”
“What did you have in mind?” she asked.
“I didn’t. But I’m sure you do . . .”
A journalist from one of the radio stations walked past and kissed Marina’s hand before slipping away.
“Who was that?”
“Just some asshole,” replied Marina.
“He’s an asshole who wants to kiss more than just your hand.”
“Exactly that type of asshole. Shall we?”
“Let’s grab our passports and get out of here.”
Arm in arm, they left the large hall where the press conference had taken place and walked down a corridor toward the exit.
“What are your plans?” Marina asked as she presented her press pass to the security guard stationed near the door.
“Just waiting on news from my editors. I’ve been working dinky little gigs like this for three weeks, waiting for the green light to go to Somalia.”
“‘Dinky little gigs’! Even with me here?”
Ignoring this, he followed Marina’s lead and flashed his press pass in order to recover his ID, which every visitor to the Palazzo di Montecitorio was obligated to hand over before entering the building.
“Mr. Ullmann?” asked the puzzled officer.
“Right. My pen name as a journalist is different from the name on my passport. Same first name, though, and the photo matches my press card, if you need to make sure I’m me.”
The officer verified the faces were indeed the same and handed back the passport without any further questions.
“Where did you get the idea to write under a pseudonym? Some sort of celebrity ego trip?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” replied the reporter, wrapping his arm around Marina’s waist.
They crossed the Piazza Colonna under a blazing sun, dodging hordes of tourists clutching ice cream cones.
“Luckily, you kept your first name.”
“What difference does that make?”
“I like that name. It suits you. You look like a Thomas.”
“Oh, really? Names have faces now? What a strange idea.”
“Are you kidding? Of course they do. You couldn’t have any other name. I can’t imagine you as a Massimo or an Alfredo. Not even a Karl. Thomas is exactly the name you were meant to have.”
“You’re crazy. Where are we going?”
“All the tourists with ice cream cones have given me a killer craving for a granita. Let’s go to the Tazza d’Oro, by the Pantheon. It’s not very far from here.”
Thomas stopped at the foot of the column of Marcus Aurelius. As Marina looked over the bas-reliefs sculpted to glorify the column’s namesake, he opened his bag, chose a camera, attached a lens, and snapped a picture.
“Hasn’t that photo already been taken by fifty other people?” she asked, laughing.
“Fifty? Really, I had no idea I had so much competition,” Thomas said with a smile, clicking the shutter again for a shot with a narrower frame.
“I’m talking about the column! Was that of me?”
“Well, as far as I’m concerned, this old thing is just like the Victory Column in Berlin. But there’s only one Marina.”
“Like I said, you’d get nowhere without your pretty face—you’re a pathetic flirt, Thomas. You wouldn’t stand a chance here in Italy. Come on, let’s get out of here. This heat is killing me.”
Marina took Thomas’s hand, and they left the column behind them.
Julia ran her eyes up and down the Victory Column shooting up into the sky over Berlin. Seated at its base, Anthony shrugged at her.
“It’s not like we really expected to find him on the first day,” he said with a sigh. “You realize how strange it would have been if that guy at the dive bar had turned out to be your Thomas.”
“I know. I got it wrong, that’s all.”
“Maybe you were blinded by how badly you wanted it to be him.”
“He looked similar from the back. Same haircut, reading the newspaper the way Thomas used to, from back to front.”
“Why did the owner of the bar make that face when we asked about Thomas? He seemed pleasant enough when you were taking your little stroll down memory lane together.”
“Well, it was nice of him to say I haven’t changed at all. I can’t believe he even recognized me.”
“Who could forget you, my dear Julia?”
Julia gave her father a friendly jab in the ribs with her elbow.
“I’m sure he was just lying and remembered your Thomas perfectly. Why else would he clam up like that upon hearing the name?”
“Stop calling him ‘my Thomas.’ I don’t even know what we’re doing here. What’s the point of all this?”
“Yes, rather pointless, matters of life and death, my own recent demise and whatnot.”
“Will you give it a rest already? If you really think I’m going to leave Adam for a—a ghost, then you’re sadly mistaken.”
“My dear sweet girl, not to nitpick and risk kicking a hornet’s nest, but technically speaking, I’m the only ghost in your life, as you’ve reminded me so very often. You wouldn’t deprive a father of that exclusive privilege, considering the circumstances.”
“You’re not funny at all.”
“Very well. I’m not funny. Perhaps that’s why you cut me off every time I open my mouth. I may be humorless and you may not want to hear what I have to say, but judging by your reaction back there when you thought you’d seen Thomas . . . I wouldn’t like to be in Adam’s place. Now go ahead, tell me I’ve got it all wrong, that it’s not like—”
“Yes. You’ve got it all wrong!”
“Well, that’s one bad habit I’m not quite ready to kick,” Anthony retorted, crossing his arms.
Julia smiled.
“What? What is it now?”
“Nothing, nothing,” said Julia.
“Come on already. Tell me.”
“You’ve just got this side of you . . . that’s a lot more old-fashioned than I ever realized.”
“Don’t be so hard on your old man,” replied Anthony as he got up. “Come on, let’s get you some lunch. It’s nearly 3:00 p.m., and you haven’t had a thing to eat since breakfast.”
Adam stopped by the liquor store on his way to work. The specialist suggested a California wine, an exemplary vintage with elaborate tannins, a nice body, and a slightly high alcohol content. It sounded enticing to Adam, but he was looking for something a little more refined and elegant—something that more closely resembled the intended recipient. Immediately catching his drift, the salesman went to the back of the store and came back with an excellent bordeaux. It was a highly coveted year, and not at all in the same price range as the California bottle, but could you really put a price tag on quality?
Julia had once told Adam that her best friend couldn’t resist the lure of a good vintage. If the bottle was good enough, Julia had explained, Stanley completely forgot his limits. Two bottles should be enough to get him drunk; then whether he liked it or not, Stanley would let slip wherever it was Julia had run off to.
“Let’s review our strategy from the beginning,” said Anthony, seated on the outdoor terrace of a sandwich shop. “We tried the press syndicate, and his name wasn’t on the list. You’re convinced he’s still a journalist. We’ll trust your instincts, despite all evidence to the contrary. We paid a visit to where he used to live, and the building is long gone. That, my dear Julia, is what I would call making a clean break with one’s past. I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t all intentional . . .”
“W
hat exactly are you getting at? That Thomas has gone off the grid intentionally to put our relationship behind him? Fine, okay. Then let’s wrap this up and go home,” said Julia, her frustration getting the better of her. She gestured impatiently for the waiter to clear the cappuccino he had served her just moments before.
Anthony shook his head as though to say, Leave it.
“I know you don’t like my coffee, but give this one a try.”
“What do you care if I just want to drink tea the rest of my life?”
“Do what you like with the rest of your life. But while I’m still here, please . . . humor me.”
Julia swallowed a sip with abundant grimacing.
“Stop acting like it grosses you out. I get it. But I’m telling you, one day you’ll get past the bitter exterior and come to appreciate the inner flavor of things. And if you really believe that Thomas has intentionally cut all ties because of you, you’re overreacting. Maybe he just wanted to have a fresh start, not necessarily a break from the past you shared, but a break from his life in general. I don’t know if you realize how great of a struggle it must have been to adjust to a world so completely different from what he knew growing up. Every new liberty had to be acquired at the price of his childhood values.”
“That’s rich. Now you’re taking his side?”
“Only idiots never admit they’re wrong. The airport is just a half-hour drive from here. We could drop by the hotel, grab our things, and be on the next flight. You could sleep at your stunning New York apartment this very evening, if you like. At the risk of repeating myself, only idiots never admit they’re wrong, and you’d do well to think about that before it’s too late. Now, do you want to go home, or would you rather we carry on our search?”
Julia stood up. She drank her cappuccino in one smooth gulp and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Okay, Detective. Any new leads?”
Anthony left a few coins on the table and rose to his feet.
“Didn’t you once tell me about a close friend of Thomas’s, who spent a lot of time with the two of you?”
“Knapp? He was his best friend, but I don’t remember ever saying a thing about him to you.”
“Let’s just say my memory is keener than yours. Tell me about this Knapp. He was a journalist as well, was he not?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Perhaps it would have been a good idea to mention his name when we had that enormous list of journalists in front of us this morning.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“See? Like I was saying. This whole thing is clouding your mind. Let’s go, then!”
“Back to the syndicate?”
“No,” said Anthony, rolling his eyes. “I somehow doubt we’d get a warm reception the second time around.”
“So where?”
“Leave it to the old man to explain the wonders of the Internet to a girl your age. Laughable! And this, from someone who spends her life glued to a computer screen. There’s got to be an Internet café nearby. And pull back your hair, will you? In this wind, I can barely see your face.”
Marina insisted on paying for Thomas. Ever since they first met on an assignment in Berlin, Thomas had always been the one to pick up the check, but now that they were in her country, it seemed only fair. Thomas didn’t see the need to put up much of a fight over two iced coffees.
“Do you have to work today?” he asked her.
“Perhaps you haven’t noticed this, but the afternoon is almost over. Besides, you’re my work right now. No photos, no articles.”
“So what should we do?”
“Too early for dinner. How about a walk? It’s finally cooling off, and we’re in the middle of the city—let’s make the most of it.”
“I have to call Knapp before he leaves the office.”
Marina grazed her hand across Thomas’s cheek.
“I know you’d do anything to get away from me as soon as possible, but don’t be so anxious. You’ll make it to Somalia. Knapp needs you there. You explained it to me a hundred times; I know the story by heart. He’s got his sights set on becoming the editorial director, you’re his best reporter, and the work you do is essential for his promotion. Give him the time he needs to get things lined up.”
“He’s been lining things up for three damn weeks!”
“He’s just being thorough. Because you’re his friend. Don’t hold it against him! Come on, take a walk with me.”
“All of a sudden, it’s like we’re switching roles.”
“I thought you were going to say switching positions.”
“You just couldn’t resist, could you?”
“Never!” replied Marina, and she burst out laughing.
She led him toward the Piazza di Spagna and the Spanish Steps, pointing out the twin bell towers of Trinità dei Monti.
“Is there any place on earth more beautiful than this?” asked Marina.
“Berlin?” Thomas replied without the slightest hesitation.
“Blasphemy! If you promise to behave and cut out that nonsense, I’ll take you to Caffè Greco. You have one sip of their cappuccino and then tell me if you can find them like that in Berlin.”
Eyes glued to the computer, Anthony tried to decode the text that unfolded before his eyes.
“I thought you spoke fluent German,” said Julia.
“Spoken, yes. Reading and writing is another story. But this is a technological problem, not a linguistic one. I can’t make heads or tails of this damn machine.”
“Let me give it a shot,” said Julia, taking command of the keyboard.
She started tapping away, and a search engine appeared on the screen. She began to enter the word Knapp, then stopped short.
“What is it?”
“To tell you the truth, I can’t even remember his full name. I don’t even know if Knapp was his first or last . . . We just always called him Knapp.”
“Let me try,” said Anthony. He added journalist to the search.
A list of eleven results appeared—seven men and four women with the name Knapp, and all of them in the same profession.
“That’s the one,” exclaimed Anthony, pointing to a Jürgen Knapp on the third line.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Just a hunch. It says he’s managing editor, and if I recall the way you talked about him as a young man, he seemed to be of sound enough intelligence to have advanced at least a bit in his chosen profession by the age of fifty. If not, he would have surely switched career paths, just like your Thomas. You should be praising my analytical mind, instead of questioning my judgment.”
“I have no memory of telling you about him at all, and certainly not enough for you to complete an in-depth personality profile,” replied Julia, stupefied.
“Please. Are we really still testing the accuracy of your memory? If we had relied solely on that, we would have spent our evening reminiscing about a library instead of finding the bar right across the street. The Knapp we are seeking works as an editor at the Der Tagesspiegel. International news desk. Shall we go pay him a visit, or would you rather we keep shooting the breeze over another cappuccino?”
It was rush hour, and the streets were clogged with cars. It took them ages to cross Berlin, until the taxi at last dropped them off at the Brandenburg Gate. After having endured the grueling traffic, they now had to blaze a trail through the dense crowd of locals returning home from work—not to mention the swarms of tourists gawking in front of famous monuments. It was here that Reagan had once called upon Gorbachev to “tear down this wall” and help bring peace to the world. In those days, the concrete borderline was still visible behind the columns of the huge gate. For once, two world leaders had actually listened to each other and worked together to reunite East and West.
Julia picked up the pace, and Anthony had trouble keeping up with her. He called out her name several times, sure he’d lost track of her in the crowd, but always managed to spot her o
utline eventually, somewhere in the flood of people streaming into the Pariser Platz.
She waited for him at the front door of the building. They entered together and presented themselves at reception. Anthony asked in English if he could see Jürgen Knapp. The receptionist dialed a number, but then put the call on hold and asked if they had an appointment.
“Trust me. He’s going to be delighted to see us,” promised Anthony, throwing a grin toward his daughter, who leaned against the desk.
“And who may I ask is here to see Mr. Knapp?” asked the receptionist.
“Julia Walsh,” she replied.
Seated behind his desk on the third floor, Jürgen Knapp had to politely ask the receptionist to repeat the name again. He asked her to hold a moment, muffled the receiver with the palm of his hand, and crept over to the sloping glass facade that overlooked the glass ceiling of the lobby below.
From that vantage point, he had a clear view of the entire front hall and the reception desk. The woman waiting there removed the scarf from her head and ran her fingers through her hair. The hair was different, the years had been long, but there was no doubt in his mind: the elegant woman pacing across the lobby a few stories down was the very same woman he met in Berlin twenty years before.
He spoke back into the phone.
“Tell her I’m out of town, traveling all week. In fact, say I won’t be back until the end of the month. And please . . . make it convincing!”
“Very well, sir,” the receptionist replied with cool professionalism, deftly avoiding the use of his first name. “I also have a call for you. Shall I put him through?”
“Who is it?”
“I didn’t have time to ask.”
“All right, go ahead and put the call through.”
The receptionist hung up.
“Jürgen?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Thomas! You really couldn’t tell it was me?”
“Sorry, you know—my head’s all over the place.”
“They kept me on hold for at least five minutes, and I’m calling from abroad. Did you have a prime minister on the line or something? Hell of a long time to make a guy wait . . .”
