"Wasn't it the pits, what they made you write? Haven't they taken advantage of you, shamelessly? So you simply give them notice, as of right away. Because you can't stand it in that cesspool a moment longer! In that computer stable!" He laughed.
I don't think sharks can laugh, but if they can, that's how Largent laughed. "If you want to, little girl, you come right along. I was to invite you, too. Almost forgot."
"To New York?" asked Irina.
"Sure."
"But—but I have something I must attend to here; so has Hen-Roland."
"This story!" Largent took a big swallow of his drink as if to wash down his contempt for it. "This fucking story. It'll never see the light of day!"
"I have given Herr Roland a signed release, for Blitz," said Irina.
"Really," said Largent, and laughed. "You don't know the meaning of the word, child. A release!"
"Would you like some more toast, Irina? Here's the butter. She knows what a release is, Largent, and I have contracted for releases from quite a few other people."
"Blitz can do you-know-what with those releases," said Largent, grinning.
"I have tapes, and we've sent in a lot of photos already."
"Engelhardt?"
"Yes."
"I don't care. Your story won't appear."
"That's what you think. They're already working on the advance publicity. They've already announced it."
"And they'll never print it!"
"What are you talking about?"
"Not a line," said Largent. "You can bet your sweet life on it. Advance publicity—maybe. So they'll recant. So what? It won't be the first time it's happened."
"How come you're so sure they won't print it?" I asked. I began to feel a little uncomfortable about the way the conversation was going.
"The nice old gentleman in Cologne."
I laid down my knife and fork. "That's not true!"
"May I drop dead if it isn't," said Largent. "The nice old gentleman in Cologne will have a nice little telephone conversation with your publisher. That should do it. Always did, didn't it?"
I said nothing. Yes, it had always "done it." Damn it all anyway, what sort of intrigue had I got myself into here? In order to explain briefly: "The nice old gentleman in Cologne," as he was called, was one of the richest men in the Bundesrepublik, the great father of the troubled and burdened millionaires of our country. He looked after them all. He was the chief of the clan, with the power of his billions. He helped make marriages and speed divorces; he covered up munitions scandals and prevented industrial bankruptcies. He also helped foreigners—French, English, Italians, but most of all, Americans. Only if they were members of the clan, naturally. The clan of the super-rich. The nice old gentleman of Cologne had a soft voice, he never raised it, and he knew everything. In the course of the years he had called up Thomas Herf ord several times when we were starting a series that didn't suit the clan. The nice old gentleman in Cologne then asked Herf ord, pleasantly, not to publish the series. Nobody in Germany would have dared cross the nice old gentleman in Cologne—because if he did, he was as good as dead. The nice old gentleman in Cologne could ruin bigger and better firms than Blitz, if he considered it necessary. If anyone at Blitz should happen to protest, it sufficed if suddenly there was no advertising from big industry, national and international, and from various other clients. Blitz would go broke. That's how things were done—amiably and with velvet gloves. Until now Herford had always given in.
Would he give in this time? And if he didn't, should I wait until he had to close shop and the Americans decided they could do without me? Smart rats don't stay on a sinking ship. One thing was certainly clear: There was a very good chance that the story would not appear.
But then why had the Amis told Seerose that they were taking Bilka to Helsinki and New York? Why had they given us so much information, so that Bertie was now on his way to Helsinki? First all smiles, and then, suddenly, the threat of the nice old gentleman in Cologne? Was Largent bluffing? I wouldn't have put it past him. I wouldn't have put anything past him!
"You'll bring the tapes with you to New York, of course," he -said. "Or—better still—give them to me when I come with the contract tomorrow morning."
"Oh, no!" I said.
"Oh, yes, Roland, man of character!" He laughed like a shark again. I looked at the figure on the paper. Four times what I was
making now. The nice old gentleman from Cologne I got the
feeling that Largent wasn't bluffing. But I couldn't fathom the whole thing. Just the same—no more Herf ord, no more Mama, no more Lester, no more sex shit. Instead—freedom to write what I wanted to write. In another country. With Irina.
There was a knock on the door. I jumped up and unlocked it. It was Jules with the entree. He rolled in a second table, pushed the first one aside, and got ready to serve. "I'll see to that," I said. He looked at Largent for a moment; then he nodded, an exemplary, discreet chef cT&age.
"If I may, madame?" he said, filled our glasses again, and opened another bottle. "Have you thought what you'd like for dessert, madame, monsieur?"
"I won't be able to eat anything after this," said Irina.
"No dessert," I said. "But another bottle of champagne, please."
"Very good, monsieur. Ill be back in twenty minutes." He wheeled out the first table and I locked the door after him.
"What a lif e!" said Largent. "But just think what it's going to be like in New York!" Suddenly his voice was cold, harsh. "Wake up, man!" I was just putting the chicken on my plate and had my back turned to him. "Wake up! It's your last chance!"
"What do you mean, 'last chance'?" Irina was startled.
"Look at his hands, young lady. They're trembling, the old lush."
"So if I'm an old lush, why do they want me? And for such an insane price!"
"Because they believe in you!"
"Aha!" I said. "And you believe in me, too, Largent?"
"And how! Haven't I been trying to get you for years? AD
right, all right, I'm on my way. You don't have to say yes now. Tomorrow will do." He got up. "Those are the tapes?"
"Hands off I" I said. "Don't you dare touch them!"
"Don't shit in your pants," he said. "Nobody's going to take anything from you. You'll come to New York. It's written all over your face. Don't try to tell me anything about German loyalty and all that jazz. I know my man. Tomorrow morning you'll sign. It's the best thing for you anyway, in my opinion, to get out of Europe. Oh, come on, don't look sheepish. Good old Uncle Largent is right, isn't he?"
Well ... he wasn't all wrong, either. "Wonderful chicken— isn't it, Irina?"
She didn't answer, just stabbed at the food on her plate. I gave her pommes frites and green peas and noticed that my hands were really shaking, and the other two noticed it, too. But it wasn't the liquor, it was tension. Suddenly I thought of the jackal. I didn't feel him, I only had to think of him, and I quickly emptied my glass.
"So that's that," said Largent. "Now you can let me out. I'll send a cable that you've agreed." I said nothing. "And tomorrow morning I'll be back. With the contract and money." He kissed Irina's hand and gave me a hard look.
I said nothing as I escorted him to the door. "So that's settled," he said. I said, "Good night," and opened the door for him. Then I went back to Irina, but suddenly everything I was eating had no taste. That was because—and I'd only just realized this—it was very easy to make a rat of me. Very easy.
Ten minutes later. "Some more chicken?" I asked Irina.
We hadn't spoken since Largent had left. Drunk? Yes, especially I. Irina had drunk quite a lot, too. The radio was still playing soft music. "I can't eat another thing. Walter, you can't do that."
"Do what?"
"Walk out on Blitz, just like that."
"No," I said. "Of course I can't."
Under her dress I could see her breasts rise and fall agitatedly. "But then why didn't you tell Mr. Largent right away?"
I poured more champagne into our glasses. "You know," I said, "the Americans are really offering me a horrendous sum of money. Don't you think I should at least give it a try?" I drank again. With the way my jackal was behaving, I couldn't be too careful.
"Pfui TeufeU" said Irina, and hastily covered her mouth with her hand. "Excuse me."
"Certainly."
After a while, during which she hadn't taken her eyes off me, she asked, "Is it true that you owe Blitz two hundred and ten thousand marks?"
"Yes," I said. "Why? A while ago it was three hundred thousand."
"But that big white car—it belongs to you, doesn't it?"
"Yes, it belongs to me. I—what's the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?"
She was tipsy, and she laughed tipsily. "I have a contract with you," she said, "according to which I am to receive five thousand marks."
"And?"
"And you've bought me a lot of things to wear, but you haven't given me any money yet."
"But I have!"
"No, you haven't."
"Yes, I have," I said, thinking suddenly of Bertie on his way to Helsinki. "You just don't pay enough attention. Take a look under the couch, at the top end."
Irina stood up, swaying a little, and knelt in front of the couch. After fishing around under it for a while, she brought out an envelope. She tore it open and bills fell out of it. "Seven hundred marks 1" she cried.
"Don't be so materialistic, Comrade," I said. "There's a letter in it, too." And now the game with the letters I had hidden began. And I had meant it to begin now. It was all part of my plan. I had had such a beautiful plan for every hour of this night during which I was supposed to look after Irina, during which the Americans were flying Jan Bilka to New York with the first batch of microfilm of the plans of the Warsaw Pact Nations in case of war—
Still kneeling in front of the chaise, Irina read aloud what I had written: '"Enchantingly beautiful lady! The man writing these lines is the poorest creature of all the creatures on this earth. If you want to know why, look behind the curtain on the wide window in the salon '"
Irina got up, none too steadily, and laughing, ran over to the curtain, and found the second envelope. When she opened it, two large bills fell out. "Two thousand marksI"
"Read the letter."
She read the letter. "'He is the poorest of all living creatures because he has had to spend fifty hours with you without being allowed to kiss and caress—' No, really, Herr Roland! This is too much!" She was red with embarrassment.
"Go on," I said, and drank Pommery.
"... to kiss and caress your hair, your throat, your beautiful big eyes, because he ... To be continued in the bathroom behind my shaving kit/"
Now she was laughing again. With the envelopes, the letters, and the money in her hands, she ran into the bedroom. Just then there was a knock on the door. Jules, with an ice bucket and a new bottle. "Let's have it," I said, and started to open the botde. There was very litde left in the second one.
Jules arranged the dishes on the table he was about to remove. "Everything's going well, monsieur. I just spoke to Monsieur Seerose. He is in close contact with the Americans, and you are getting additional information from him."
What the hell's going on? I wondered. Was Largent bluffing after all? Or are the Americans bluffing? Do they really want to rock the boat, and have they managed to hoodwink ultrasmart Monsieur Seerose? We had covered quite a lot of ground and found a lot before the Amis had suddenly decided to be so helpful. Are they being so helpful because they're afraid that in the end we might spoil everything? And is it their intention to fuck us up afterwards? Largent had implied this, indirecdy. But if so, then he was the biggest fucker-up of all! But what reason could he have for bringing me to New York? His percentage! Of course! And yet—I had to put off thinking about this thing for a while.
"And what about the big news agencies?" I asked.
'They won't be allowed to touch it."
A joyous scream from Irina in the bathroom. "What's that?" asked Jules.
"A little money from my publisher, a few kind words from me, just as you prescribed. You see, things are in best order here, too."
Jules laughed. "Bonne chance y monsieur/' He had set down a tray with fresh champagne glasses. Now he rolled the table out. I waved good night and locked the door after him, then I filled the two clean glasses with champagne.
Irina came out of the bedroom. She had another letter, another envelope, and more money in her hands, and she looked flushed. Her eyes were blazing. "You're fresh!" she said.
"Don't you want to read it aloud?" I asked.
"You know very well that this is nothing that can be read aloud!"
I walked up to her. "Has nobody ever told you anything like that?"
"Anything like'that, and put just that way? No! Never! No one."
"But may I say so?" I took her arms, but she freed herself wildly. "Let me go! I have to look under your typewriter for the next one!"
"But first—" and I handed her her glass.
She looked at me with her black, restless eyes. "You want to make me, drunk, don't you? Shall I get drunk? Really drunk?"
"Yes, please," I said, and thought of Bertie, and Largent and his office, and then I thought that I wanted Irina very much, wanted her now!
"Well, then, I'll get drunk—roaring drunk. Why not?" She drained her glass and handed it back to me. Then she ran over to the typewriter and found the envelope under it, tore it open, and again money fell out.
"But that's too much!" she stammered. "Two thousand again? That's more, much more than five thousand altogether." She read the letter aloud. " 'Not all the banks in the world have the amount of money I would like to give you. Just as all the men in the world—'" She stopped. "Oh, my God! If anybody ever read this! I must tear this letter up and burn it right away!" But she didn't tear it up and burn it; she read on. "'Continued under the cushion on your bed.'" She smiled at me, very tipsy now, and ran off into the bedroom. I picked up the receiver and asked for the bar. Charlie answered, and I spoke quickly. "Very good, Hen-Roland," he said.
I put down the receiver and walked into the bedroom, taking
two full glasses of champagne with me. There was a radio in the bedroom, too, built into one of the bedside tables. In the bar they were playing "I'm Always Chasing Rainbows."
Irina was standing beside the bed in a great state of excitement. She had dropped all the envelopes and letters and money on the bed and was staring at me. "You're out of your mind!"
"Of course," I said. "And it's all your fault."
"Two hundred and ten thousand marks in debt... and then to do a thing like this! Oh, dear God, I've never seen so much money in my life! Why did you do it?"
"It's all in the letter," I said. "Because... well, why?"
She read obediently, "'Because I love you!' Such nonsense!"
I gave her her glass and both of us drank. Then I took her glass from her and put it down beside mine on the table, and took her in my arms again. "It's not nonsense," I said. "It's the truth." And as I said it, it was the truth. I had done many reprehensible things in my life, but this was really true.
"We don't know each other at all!" said Irina, in my arms now but no longer protesting. "We don't know anything about each other."
"I know all I want to know about you," I said, holding her close. "I fell in love with you when you walked into Fraulein Louise's room in the camp. I fell in love with your eyes and your black hair, which actually is blue-black, like your eyes... and
with your voice " And at that moment the music began what I
had asked Charlie to play... "Reigen." I let Irina go and swept money and paper off the bed onto the carpet. Then I took her in my arms and tried to get her to lie down. "No," she said. "No... please!"
"Yes," I said. "Yes, my darling... please!"
Her knees gave way, she sank down on the bed, and I sank down upon her and kissed her lips, her f
orehead, her throat...and began to undo the zipper on her dress. "If somebody comes "
"The door is locked," I said, and found the light switch beside the bed and put out the ceiling light. Now only the bedside lamp with its red silk shade was on.
We didn't say anything more. She twisted and turned in my arms, and I took off her dress, her brassiere, and her white panties, and she moved under me like a snake and moaned softly. Her gold shoes fell on the floor and she lay naked under me,
nothing on but her garter belt and stockings, and she was beautiful... so beautiful.
I got up and undressed quickly. I threw my clothes on the floor and lay down beside her and caressed her and kissed her—her throat, her eyes, her ears, her breasts, her stomach. My lips moved lower, her moans grew louder, and now she was lying motionless. Her legs parted as I reached the place I was seeking, and I pressed my face against it and was as gentle as I could be. Irina's fingers gripped my hair, I could feel her excitement growing, and I was excited as never before in my life. But I went on kissing her and waited until she had had enough and cried out to me. She did so suddenly, and with a little sob, "Come—come into me quick—now, now—come!"
I lay on top of her and it seemed to me that the music of "Reigen" grew louder and louder, as if the beautiful melody was sweeping everything away, all restlessness and insecurity, all grief, tension, doubt, and anxiety. And the jackal. Yes... him, too.
The "Reigen" was over. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, naked. Now they were playing the theme song from the motion picture Laura. Irina was sitting on the bed, naked, her knees drawn up to her chest, her hair tousled, the tears streaming down her cheeks. She was very unhappy and I was furious. I looked in the pocket of my jacket, lying on the carpet in front of me, for my cigarettes and lighter, and found both; but the lighter wouldn't work, and I threw away the cigarette I'd already put in my mouth, cursing, and dropped the lighter. "Now you're mad," said Irina.
"Not at all." I began to dress.
"Yes, you are. And I can understand it, and it's all my fault."
I took a swallow of the champagne and shook myself. It was
lukewarm. I put on my pants, my loafers, and my jacket. With
The Traitor Blitz Page 44
