The Gordian Knot

  Jonathan and Fern were cooking, and invited Georg to dinner. Cordial and interested, they asked what his business was. He suffered from his evasive answers, again longing to be normal and open. The couple was happy, although Fern was between jobs and Jonathan had had to interrupt his painting to earn some money. Then all three of them drank too much, and Jonathan became loud and boisterous, took his pistol out of a desk drawer, and shot out the streetlight across the street. Fern laughed and played along, but knew how to let Jonathan know when it was time to go to bed. Georg, too, longed for a relationship that would make him feel as whole and accepted as Fern’s. What the hell, he thought, I long for Fran, whether or not she accepts me or pushes me away. I long to have the life with her that we only lived the shadow of in Cucuron and New York. And if living with Fran is like Fran herself, and there’s nothing left to discover behind what I see and know, nothing more to awaken with a kiss, then I want and like what I see and know.

  Everything else could go to hell, he thought: Joe, Mermoz, and Gorgefield, his revenge, the big money. He knew that the next day he would go on looking for the meeting place, drive to Gorgefield, and speak with Buchanan. He realized that the two things didn’t go together or belong together, just like the clarity and intoxication in his head.

  42

  THE NEXT MORNING GEORG found himself alone in bed. Fern had left him a note that she was letting him sleep in and had taken Jill to go walking with the dog. In his pajamas he strolled through the apartment with a cup of coffee, looking at Jonathan’s paintings.

  They were big oil paintings, six by nine feet and larger, in dark, matte colors out of which shone through, here and there, the glowing blue or red of the pattern of a carpet. They showed a nude at the desk, a nude on the sofa, a nude sitting on the floor with her back leaning against the wall, an empty room in which the torso of a man sleeping on the floor stood out against the wall. All the paintings radiated coldness, as if the air in those rooms were thin and the people frozen in their attitudes. Georg took a gulp of hot coffee. Or had Jonathan painted the pictures with painfully restrained passion, the paintings turning lifeless in the process? The next painting was of the back of a television set and a couple: she was sitting on the sofa looking at the screen, while he was standing behind the sofa and turning to leave. Or does Jonathan want to prove that communication is impossible and loneliness unavoidable? Then there were paintings of nature, a glacier landscape in front of which two men were locked in combat; a meadow with a couple sitting, more next to each other than with each other; a forest clearing in which a man is kneeling, holding and kissing a little girl. Now Georg saw the paintings from a different angle. Jonathan didn’t want to prove that loneliness was unavoidable, but everything went to show that it was, whether he wanted it to or not, presumably even against his will and against his attempts to capture and represent closeness. The closed eyes of the man kissing the little girl didn’t express self-abandon but tension; the girl seemed to want to run away.

  Georg remembered how Fran had given Jill her breast, and how he hadn’t seen any closeness, warmth, or intimacy in it. Am I the man for whom loneliness has become unavoidable, communication impossible, even the perception of communication? A pack of cigarettes was lying on the table. He lit one. In New York one day he had simply stopped smoking. Now, after weeks of not smoking, the first deep draw was like a blow to his throat and his chest. He took another draw, went into the kitchen, held the cigarette under the running water, and threw it in the trash can.

  The door to Jonathan’s bedroom was open, and Georg went in. Outside the window, at the level of the sill, was a terrace covered with gravel. He climbed out and looked down at the tops of the trucks and shipping containers of the transport company, and across the way at a loading dock; behind it were warehouses, the insulators and wires of an electricity substation, a tall chimney. And he looked down a street that led to the bay and ended there in an earthen berm. Georg swung himself up onto the roof above Jonathan’s bedroom and stood there. It was a corner building; Georg could see the intersection and had an unobstructed view of all four streets and, farther away, a view of a hill, a freeway, and a gas tank.

  There it is! Georg thought, that’s the place I’m looking for! The street leading to the bay must be Twenty-fourth Street, the cross street is Illinois, and its parallel street is Third. I have the Russian take a cab to the corner of Third and Twenty-fourth streets and walk east to the end of Twenty-fourth. From up here I can see the cab stopping on the corner, the Russian walking up Twenty-fourth, and also see if beforehand or at the same time a suspicious car appears and stops on Twenty-fourth Street or Illinois, where there’s never much traffic.

  Georg swung himself down. He got dressed and went out. When he stood on the earthen berm, he realized that it must be what was left of a park. Benches, paths, a dock for fishing, two blue port-o-johns, brown grass, and brown bushes. To the left was a short canal; behind it, old trolley cars, the warehouses again, and the chimney of a now audibly humming power plant. To the right was a fenced-in plot with construction material and machines, open ground with man-high underbrush, garbage, and automobile carcasses; farther off, green, yellow, red, and blue shipping containers, broad-legged container cranes, searchlights, and cables. In front of Georg was the bay, which stank of tar and dead fish, and in the distant haze the other shore.

  Georg walked along the shore, fought his way through the underbrush, and in its shelter followed the fence that initially led along the shore and then back to Illinois Street. He had thought he’d find Twenty-fifth Street here, but instead came upon railroad tracks leading across a broad expanse to a derelict pier. A dog was wandering about. The wind stirred up dust.

  The place was ideal. After the meeting, Georg could observe the Russian going back to Third Street, while he himself could return unobserved through the underbrush to Illinois Street where, covered by the parked cars, he could get back to the entrance of his building. But what if accomplices didn’t turn up before the Russian or with him, but surrounded the place during the meeting? Georg decided to have the Russian take a taxi to the corner of Third and Twenty-fourth streets, walk to the end of Twenty-fourth Street, and wait for a motorboat behind the earthen berm. He would recommend rubber boots. Then the accomplices would go back and forth on the bay with motorboats and binoculars.

  Georg had originally thought to show the Russian the negatives in two meetings. He thought it better not to have all fourteen film cans with him at once. But now he had another idea. The place was good for one meeting but not for two, and he didn’t have a place for a second meeting. He had to take care that the Russian didn’t overpower him and take the negatives. He had noticed where Jonathan kept his pistol in the desk.

  So, thought Georg, tomorrow: call around ten, arrange to meet at eleven. Give just enough time for the embassy in Washington to alert their man in San Francisco. But what if the people in Washington hadn’t made any preparations, hadn’t sent anyone to San Francisco, hadn’t taken the letter seriously? If, if, if. Me and my ifs! A man was murdered on account of these negatives. They are valuable. Why shouldn’t the Russians take the offer seriously?

  43

  GEORG DROVE TO PALO ALTO, where Gorgefield Aircraft had its offices and research laboratories. He hadn’t made an appointment with Buchanan, since he didn’t want a phone conversation that would give him only an incomplete picture of what he wanted to tell him, but enough for him to reach for the phone and call Benton.

  Georg took U.S. Route 101 south. All eight lanes were filled with cars. Where are all these people going? And why don’t I ever wonder that when I’m on a highway in France or Germany? Is it because the traffic flows differently here? People don’t drive the same here; they’re not only slower because of the speed limit, but also calmer. Hardly anyone passes anyone else. The cars glide smoothly next to one another, sometimes pulling ahead, sometimes falling back, like driftwood on a wide placid stream: as if it wasn’t a matter of getting fro
m one place to another as quickly as possible, as if life was about driving, not staying put.

  At Palo Alto he exited the highway. Gorgefield Aircraft was on Alpine Road; after houses with green gardens, streets with green trees, and shops with blossoming flowers and shrubs by their entrances and around their display windows, the street led up into hills covered with grass of a burned golden brown. As the road coiled farther and farther up the hill there were no more houses, no trees, and hardly any cars. A large granite rock inlaid with a bronze company logo stood at the intersection where he turned off to Gorgefield. After another bend he looked down on a wide green valley. The road ended in a loop, on three sides of which stood five-story buildings made of granite or that had granite facades. On the fourth side a parking lot stretched out left and right by the entry-way. Sprinklers were spinning on the green lawns; through the open car window he could hear them hissing, and saw rainbow-colored sunbeams in the spray.

  He parked and went to the main entrance, where laurel trees stood in containers. The hall wasn’t cool, it was freezing. He shivered. The doorman looked like a policeman: a badge on his shirtsleeve, a name tag on his breast pocket, a gun on his belt. He asked Georg for identification, but since Georg couldn’t confirm that he had an appointment with Buchanan and wouldn’t tell him the reason he wanted to see him, the guard didn’t let him through. Finally the guard called Buchanan and handed Georg the receiver.

  “Mr. Buchanan?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “My name is Georg Polger. You don’t know me, but what I have to tell you is quite important. I’d like a brief word with you, but not on the phone. Could you have me sent up? Or come down yourself if you prefer. As far as I’m concerned, the guard can frisk me for weapons, and feel free to bring some weapons yourself—I don’t want to kill you, I just want to talk with you.”

  “Could you pass me over to the guard?”

  Georg heard the guard say “Yes, sir” a number of times, after which another guard escorted him to Buchanan’s office on the third floor. Buchanan’s secretary served him a cup of coffee, had him wait for a while, and then took him in to Buchanan. He was a small, stocky, middle-aged man wearing a short-sleeved shirt with a tie. He had a strong handshake and numerous spider veins on his cheeks. He offered Georg the chair in front of his desk, and looked at him inquiringly.

  “My story will sound incredible, but it’s not important right now whether you believe it or not. The main thing is that you remember it so you can recall it when the time comes. Because when the time comes it will be too late to be telling it for the first time. Do you follow?”

  It was only when Georg asked the question that he noticed that Buchanan was slightly cross-eyed. One of his eyes simply couldn’t listen to Georg with interest.

  “Go on,” Buchanan said.

  “I’m German, West German. As I’m sure you know, the partition of Germany has divided many families. Half my family lives in East Germany, among them my cousin. He works for the Stasi, what you might call the East German CIA. In fact, you could say he’s not working for the Stasi right now, but for the Soviets. You know that the Soviets have the East Germans under their thumb, just as they do the Poles, the Czechs, the Hungarians, and the Bulgarians. That’s also the case when it comes to these countries’ secret services. Now to my point: my cousin has been given a mission that has taken him from France to the United States. The Russians are interested in the design of an attack helicopter that either the Europeans will build under the leadership of Mermoz, or you here in the United States. I don’t know what measures the Russians have undertaken to get hold of the design plans, but my cousin informed me that an American has surfaced offering to sell the plans for thirty million dollars.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll get to that in a moment. First, I’d like to show you what my cousin has given me. Does this mean anything to you?” Georg took a can of film out of his bag and put it on Buchanan’s desk. “Feel free to open it and have a look.”

  Buchanan put on his glasses, opened the can, took out the negatives, held them up in front of the window, and slowly unfurled them. “Yes, this does mean something to me.”

  “I am to ask if you are prepared to pay for the pertinent background information. My cousin intends to defect to the West—next year, or the year after—and could do with a nest egg. He would inform you when he finds out who the American seller is and has proof. Perhaps he can even arrange a meeting and call you on short notice.”

  “All I can say is that this is a very strange story,” Buchanan said, puckering his lips and rubbing his chin.

  “I’m aware of that, as is my cousin. But there’s no risk for you. At worst, it would be a waste of your time, at best you could—for a price we still have to discuss—locate and secure a hole in your system. By the way, here’s something my cousin told me to give you.” Georg took two photocopies out of his bag and placed them in front of Buchanan. They were identical, except for the lower right side where on one copy was Mermoz’s double-decker logo, barely visible, and on the other, the Gorgefield airplane circling the world.

  “And why, if I might ask, would I want two copies of the same thing?”

  “I have no idea,” Georg said, leaning back in his chair. “So what do you say?”

  “You mean about the money?”

  “Yes.”

  Buchanan shrugged his shoulders. “What sum does your cousin have in mind?”

  “He says that the whole set is on sale for thirty million,” Georg replied, taking the negatives from the desk, rolling them up, and putting them back in the can. “He doesn’t want that much from you, since he says you’ve already paid. He’s thinking one million.”

  “Just a lousy million, because we’re supposed to have already paid a lousy thirty?” Buchanan again rubbed his chin. “That doesn’t add up. Why would your cousin tell us what we need to know with nothing but a promise from me to you that he’ll be paid? What court in the world could he turn to to get his million?”

  “He’ll turn to the press. If you don’t pay, he’ll sell his story to the papers. He thinks that isn’t an option you’d be particularly pleased with.”

  “So that’s what he thinks? Well, tell your cousin we’ll pay the million.” He looked at Georg warily. “Or should we first of all focus on you?”

  “What more do you want to know?”

  “I know you’ve told us everything that this cousin of yours has commissioned you to tell us, and that you don’t know more. But perhaps you’re not your cousin’s cousin after all, but your cousin in person: the only cousin in this game. Or if your cousin does exist, perhaps you can give us a bit more background. I imagine you and he must be in contact. Might your cousin in fact be your uncle?” Buchanan looked at Georg sharply.

  Georg laughed. “If I don’t have a cousin, how could I be a cousin myself? But jokes aside, why would I want to play charades? As for my being in contact with him, the way it works is that he calls me.”

  Buchanan raised his hands and slapped them against the desk. “Damn! Do you know what happened to me this morning? I gave away the wrong puppy. My golden retriever had a litter, and six pups are more than I can handle. I wanted to keep one, but, believe it or not, by mistake I gave away the one I wanted to keep.”

  “So why don’t you ask for it back?”

  “Ask for it back? Ask for it back? I gave it to my boss. Am I supposed to tell him the puppy’s too good for him? That he can have one of the others?”

  Georg got up. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. Good luck with the puppy.”

  “You don’t seem to give a damn about what happens to the puppy,” Buchanan said, walking Georg to the door. “Good-bye.”

  Georg sped down the winding mountain road with his radio turned up all the way. His shirt fluttered in the wind. “It worked!” he yelled triumphantly. “This is the beginning of the end for you, Joe Benton! It doesn’t matter what Buchanan thinks of my story, but, believe me, he’
ll be less and less pleased with your side of things!” Georg imagined Buchanan giving Benton the sack: “You’re such an idiot, Benton! You were underhanded in your dealings—it doesn’t matter in how many ways, but you were underhanded. I have no time for people like you!” Georg thought, the one thing that upsets me is that you’ll probably never find out that I was the one who dug your grave! Buchanan won’t tell you about me, just as you didn’t tell him about me either. But who cares! Georg chuckled. And now for the Russians. And why not bring in the Chinese too, the Libyans, the Israelis, the South Africans? It’s like a cocktail where you throw in all kinds of spicy things: one sip and you hit the roof. If the world wants to dance to a crazy tune, it might as well be mine!

  Jill brought Georg back down to earth. She was lying on the bed with her eyes wide open. She had vomited and was whimpering. Fern’s diagnosis was an upset stomach. Georg could only see that the poor baby was suffering, and he had a bad conscience. Fern suggested he give her some Coca-Cola.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “If you have an upset stomach, you drink Coca-Cola. Everyone does it. My mother even had a little bottle of Coca-Cola syrup always handy.”

  “You’re not seriously suggesting I give Jill Coca-Cola! How old were you when your mother used that household remedy on you?” Household remedy! Georg had to force himself even to use the words. Household remedies were wormwood, chamomile and linden blossom tea, compresses, and alcohol rubs. Coca-Cola as a household remedy! America really was a new world.

  Fern was exasperated. “You can’t expect me to remember if I was given Coca-Cola when I was two months old, but I was given it ever since I can remember.”