The Twenty-Seventh City (Bestselling Backlist)

by Jonathan Franzen

  “Herb,” the General said, “Martin Probst. Martin, like you to meet Herb Pokorny.”

  The little man folded his arms behind his back. He wore a thin helmet of blond, wet-looking hair. His nose was flat and small, his skin pockmarked like weathered stone, his eyes shallow-set and practically lashless, and his lips the same beige color as the rest of his face. He reminded Probst of the famous sphinx whose nose Napoleon’s soldiers had shot off.

  “Glad to meet you,” Probst said.

  Pokorny looked at Norris.

  “Looks like a tasty breakfast you have there,” Norris said. “Herb and myself were just talking about a little hole here in your yard, Herb, you show him the little hole?”

  Pokorny took a step and pointed with a duck-booted toe at a patch of snowless, freshly turned earth between two azalea bushes.

  “You want to show him the footprint?”

  Pokorny pointed out a footprint in the snow to the left of the azaleas.

  “That your foot, Martin?”

  Several smart cracks occurred to him, but he said, simply, “No.”

  “It ain’t your gardener’s either.”

  Probst looked into the slowly churning sky. Four crows launched themselves from a hickory tree, their wingbeats wrenching out caws.

  “You been using that detector like I told you, Martin?”

  “I can’t say I have,” Probst said. “The novelty wore off after the first few months.”

  Pokorny scowled at this mild joke.

  “When’s the last time you swept your house?” Norris said.

  “Maybe three weeks ago,” he lied.

  “That’s very interesting. Because there’s been a receiver-transmitter buried in this here hole until last night about two-thirty a.m.”

  “We heard the thignalth.”

  “Oh really,” Probst said.

  “Yep. Digitized and coded, or we’d have been able to tell you what exactly they picked up. Not that we can’t guess.”

  “So there was a transmitter in what you’re calling this hole. It was transmitting coded messages. Now it’s gone.”

  “We only tuned in yesterday. They had one hell of a little processor buried there.” Norris nodded at the loose dirt. “Received signals from your house, digitized ’em, compressed ’em by a factor of a hundred or so, and sent ’em off in a burst every two hundred seconds at a variety of very high frequencies—that is, when it was active. Not a peep until you came home, I’d guess voice-actuated. So give Herb some credit. That ain’t a easy thing to discover.”

  “Very impressive,” Probst told Pokorny. “But then someone came in the night, dug it up, left one single footprint, and ran away.”

  “Bingo.”

  “You’ll pardon me if I don’t believe any of this.”

  “Show him the list, Herb.”

  Pokorny knelt in the snow and opened a cracked leather satchel. He handed Norris a folder from which Norris took a pair of dot matrix printouts, stapled together. He gave them to Probst.

  .

  .

  .

  Ahmadi, Daud Ibrahim

  * Asarpota, Mulchand

  Atterjee, T. Ras

  * Baxti, V. L.

  Benni, Raju

  * Bhandari, Karam Parmanand

  “Yes?” Probst said.

  “Suspects.”

  He yawned. “I see. What kind of suspects?”

  “All persons of Indian origin and Type Q profile known to have been in St. Louis between July 1 and—how up-to-date are we, Herb?”

  “Tuethday.”

  “Tuesday the, uh, twenty-seventh of February.”

  “What do the stars mean?”

  “They’re the ones that either we or reliable witnesses have seen meeting with Jammu. Now, have you—”

  “You’ll pardon me if this makes me a little ill, Sam.”

  The General’s eyelids twitched. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve raised no objections to your looking into something illegal like the stadium bombs, but this is something else entirely. Some kind of McCarthyesque stunt, if you ask me. This is guilt by association, by place of birth.”

  “You can spare us the editorial. I want you to read through this and tell me if you heard of or know of any of the persons on it. Do me that favor?”

  .

  .

  .

  Nand, Lakshmi

  Nandaksachandra (Hammaker), Parvati Asha Umeshwari

  Nanjee, Dr. B. K.

  Nissing, John

  Noor, Fatma

  Patel, S. Mohan

  Pavri, Vijay

  Probst gave the printout back to Norris. “Apart from Mrs. Hammaker, I can’t help you.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Norris exchanged a glance with Pokorny. “Well now, that’s interesting. Because from what I understand this one here—John Nissing—took some pitchers of your house.”

  “Oh did he.” Probst could see that Norris knew Barbara had left him. But how much more did he know? Had Pokorny seen her with Nissing? Snooped in New York? Probst saw no reason to discuss his private life here in the back yard with Pokorny making faces at him. “I never met the photographers,” he said truthfully. “Barbara dealt with, uh, them.”

  “And how is Barbie?”

  Norris knew. The whole world knew. Probst’s eyes wandered across the twig-strewn snow, up the walls of the garage to Mohnwirbel’s windows. “Fine. She’s in New York.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “With relatives.”

  A wind whispered in the azaleas. Probst’s arches were cramping in his tennis shoes, in the snow.

  “Okey-doke,” Norris said. Pokorny nodded, snapped his satchel shut and walked to the driveway. “I suppose I’m a little sorry about this, Martin.”

  “Sam—” Probst’s voice cracked; he realized he was angry. “Sam, I’d say that if you want to mess around with this kind of thing you’re going to get what you deserve.”

  “But don’t moralize with me.”

  “Private investigators deal in dirt. You give them enough time and money—”

  “Damn it, Martin, don’t moralize with me.”

  “I’ve been as good a listener as you’ve got. When you want help with a legitimate project, you know where to come. But an episode like this is what I’d call an abuse of—”

  “You do me a disservice. I apologize for disturbing you, but you do me a disservice. I already told you I could care less what goes on in your family. I told you that and—”

  “I want that little weasel off my property.”

  “I’ll let that pass. I’ll let that pass. Now listen. I’ve apologized for any embarrassment. Will you accept my apology.”

  Norris’s fingers dug almost desperately into Probst’s elbow. He couldn’t help feeling flattered. “All right.”

  “Thank you. Now just two things before you eat your breakfast and spend your day in Clayton, just two things. Will you listen?”

  Probst sighed.

  “One. You got to believe there was a device buried in your yard here. This ain’t conjecture, I can play you our tape if you like. Now I don’t guess you’d allow Herb—he’d do a neat job, of course—and it’d be very beneficial if he could do a search in your house right now—”

  “Not a chance.”

  “But you do believe me about the device.”

  “I suppose. I believe there’s a South Pole. I haven’t seen it and I don’t care, but I believe it’s there.”

  “You oughta work on your attitude—but but but but. The second thing is, just a simple yes or no. Was Mrs. Hammaker honest to God the only element on the list you’ve heard of?”

  “Quite frankly,” Probst said, wondering what he’d say. He found he didn’t care. “Yes, she was.”

  “All right. Sorry to bother you.” Norris walked to the driveway and kicked his feet clean of snow pellets. He turned. “You understand I believe what you say. You understand that.” Then he was go
ne.

  Probst went inside, finished his cold breakfast, and paced the kitchen trying to walk away his shaking, as he had over the years in the wake of various Sunday morning quarrels. He placed his cup and saucer on the Rubbermaid mat in the sink. A few days ago he’d turned over the mat to discover yellow patches of slime, clouded like the chicken fat in cooling soup.

  He went upstairs to his study, heaved a pyramid of second-class mail off his chair, and began to work through the three-inch stack of résumés his personnel director Dale Winer had given him. There were applicants for four new positions, one managerial, three clerical. His practiced eye homed in on misspellings, patterns of instability, overqualification, North Side high-school diplomas (affirmative-action-wise, they could really use two black women), wanton preening, irrelevant experience. Not that most of these applicants couldn’t have handled the jobs. But you had to pick and choose.

  The telephone rang.

  It was Jack DuChamp. Just checkin’ in, Jack said. Now that Laurie was confirmed she didn’t go to Sunday school, so he and Elaine and Laurie had started going to late church instead of early church because the kids were turning into late sleepers on the weekend. Elaine liked to sleep in too sometimes. Mark was taking a semester off from college, trying to get his act together, practice-teaching deaf children, enjoying it. But it was funny to have the extra hour or two on Sunday morning, funny to see new faces at late church, and Jack and Elaine had both made New Year’s resolutions to try to do something worthwhile in the extra time, which wasn’t really extra since late church meant coming home later too, but anyways, to try to improve life in little ways, as best they could, on Sunday mornings. Which explained why Jack was calling.

  “Yes,” Probst said.

  Laurie worked thirty hours a week now at the Crestwood Cinema on top of high school and rehearsals for Brigadoon, the spring musical, and—Did Luisa work?

  “She—”

  All the more time for her schoolwork. And it showed on the report cards, Jack was sorry to say, although he thought colleges these days were interested in more than just grades, that maturity and independence must count for a lot, and if they didn’t, then that said something about the college, didn’t it? Anyways, with Laurie working and Elaine with a light course load this semester, the two of them had been rediscovering their evenings and they wondered if Probst and Barbara—just the four of them—some night this week—maybe a restaurant so no one had to cook?

  Helping deaf children, Probst thought. Helping deaf children. Helping deaf children.

  Or next week, if this wasn’t enough notice.

  “Jack,” Probst said. “Barbara and I are separated.”

  Oh.

  It was the first time Probst had used the word “separated,” even in his thoughts, and the word rang in his head as if he were practicing it after the fact. Jack said some more things to which, unlistening, he replied that it was OK, it was OK. And as soon as they’d recovered, Jack said maybe a Blues game, the two of them, Saturday night. The Canucks.

  Then Luisa called. Duane was showing pictures at a gallery and the opening was Friday night. Could Daddy come? Daddy would love to come, he said. He sensed that she hadn’t called to chat, but he made her chat anyway. He cast out snare after snare, heard about her college choices, her grades, her eyes, her latest cold, her conversations with Barbara, Duane’s dealings with the gallery, Duane’s car’s new exhaust system. By the time they said good-bye it was 10:30.

  The phone rang again immediately. It was a woman, Carol Hill, calling from the West County Journal to confirm the quotes he’d given her the day before.

  “…The last one is, Ultimately we have to look at this in terms of democracy taxation without representation is a very old issue in this country and it’s a valuable perspective to keep in mind will the merger create a more or a less representative government for the residents of the county and I think the answer is pretty clearly no.”

  “Yes. That’s fine. I appreciate your checking this with me, Carol.”

  “No problem. Thank you.” Her voice became a dial tone.

  Probst looked into the hickory tree outside the window and cried, “Wait! It’s less! The answer is clearly less!” He shook his head.

  MARY ELIZABETH O’KEEFE. Born 6/16/59.

  The phone rang.

  He tossed the receiver onto his shoulder, pinned it with his ear, and heard Barbara’s voice. He spoke. She spoke. He spoke. She spoke. “…Maybe make this more formal,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, this is sort of an uncomfortable situation for both of us. I’ve been asked at parties and I don’t even know how to refer to it.” Parties. She was really ruthless. “Not to bring up a sore point, but if we could agree to call it—”

  “A separation,” he said. “I’ve been referring to it as a separation when people ask.”

  “That’s probably adequate.”

  Adequate: the term “separation” adequate on its own strength to induce them to hate each other where they otherwise might not have.

  “Look,” he said. “Do you want to divorce me?”

  There was a silence on her end of the line. But the silence was not complete, for Probst heard the vowelly edges of at least one murmured sentence. Nissing was in the same damn room with her! While they talked! She and Nissing discussing it! She spoke again. “It’s kind of—”

  “Because I don’t care if I ever see you again this side of hell.”

  “Martin. Please.”

  “Are you alone?” he said.

  Her silence hummed with pictures, the frantic glances at her lover, the hand waving him from the room, Nissing taking his time. “I—no, and you’re right. You’re right. This isn’t the time to be discussing this. Can I call back?”

  “Take your time.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  He swiveled in his chair. “I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to talk to you, I just, don’t, want, any of this. I’m sitting in my chair. I’m just trying to sit here. I’m.”

  Out of the receiver came the words “Martin, I love you,” and she hung up.

  I love you? What was that supposed to mean?

  All at once Probst had doubts. Her haste, the consultations. It was possible, he realized, that Nissing was somehow keeping her in New York against her will. That Nissing was a criminal or conspirator, that there really had been a transmitter in the back yard. That Probst as Municipal Growth chairman had been singled out for psychological torture in order to influence his decisions, that Jammu was behind it, that Norris was right about something damned peculiar happening to the local leadership and that Probst, since Luisa left—since Dozer was hit by a van!—had been a target, that the ongoing crisis in his family was not the inevitable product of its history, but a condition imposed from without: that Barbara did love him.

  Hastily he dug through the papers on his desk and found the number she’d given him. He’d never used it. He dialed the 212 and the other seven alien digits, and after a pause that seemed unusually long to him, the connection went through. “Hello!” said a plangent male voice.

  “This is Martin Probst. I’d like to speak to my wife.”

  “It’s your husband,” Nissing said. Probst heard Barbara laugh. “Yes?” she said.

  “It’s me. Are you alone?”

  He heard her say, “Get out of here, please,” and the rest muffled except for a laugh from Nissing. He heard her lips return to the phone. She was breathless. “I thought you didn’t want to talk to me.”

  “I don’t. Believe me. But I’d like to see you for a little while and get some things straightened out. Do you think you could manage to fly here for a day this week?” He thought to add, on the chance of its hurting: “I’d pay.”

  She sighed. “As I was about to explain when I called, John and I are flying to Paris for a week and a half, we’re leaving tomorrow. We’ll be back on the fifteenth. So maybe then, if you think it would help.”


  “I don’t know. You see what I mean about not wanting to get into it. It’s not as if I don’t have plenty to do myself.”

  “After your election, how about. I told Lu I’d like to see her on my birthday. Maybe then. Early April. Time’s been going very fast, at least for me.”

  Probst cleared his throat. “All right.” A headache was developing behind his eyes. “Why did you hang up on me?”

  After a pause she said: “Use your imagination, Martin. Picture a small apartment, all right?”

  She didn’t sound like his wife. She sounded like a different woman. Maybe the woman she’d always wanted to be. Maybe that was the idea.

  As soon as he’d hung up, the phone rang yet again.

  “Probst,” he said.

  “Hello. Mr. Probst. George Snell. Newsweek. Sorry to bother you at home on a Sunday. Like to see if we can arrange an interview for tomorrow or Tuesday. Your press secretary indicated you’d be agreeable.”

  “Well!” Probst said. “Certainly. My schedule’s plenty packed, but I’m sure we can arrange something.”

  “Glad to hear you say that. Tomorrow?”

  “We’d better say Tuesday. Breakfast time? Lunch time? After hours? It’s up to you.”

  “Could you give me an hour in the middle of the day?”

  Probst reached and parted résumés to find his appointment book. His recollection was that Tuesday was wide open, but—

  A woman broke into the conversation. “This is the operator, I have an emergency call for 962-6605.”

  “That’s me,” Probst said.

  “Fine,” said George Snell. “If I don’t catch up with you, we’re listed. Newsweek.”

  “Thanks, uh. George.”

  He broke the connection and waited for the next call. It was John Holmes.

  “Martin, I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. I’ve got some very bad news.”

  “What.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you. Ross is dead.”

  Probst stared at Tuesday. “I see. An accident?”

  “No. He was shot in his home last night, late last night. It looks like he interrupted a burglary.”

  He wrote NEWSWEEK between noon and one o’clock as though this were his last chance ever to do so. “I can’t believe this, John.”