The Gordian Knot

  “And you’re ready to have me thrown in jail in order to get your brother out?”

  “But everything’s going so well. You’re happy, and so am I. What do we care about these helicopters? Soon my people will have what they want, my brother will get his pardon, and they’ll leave us alone, and then … You asked me if I will live with you. I want to so much, I can’t live without you anymore, I want to be with you always, it’s only that … Don’t you see why I couldn’t just say yes back then? Please, please …”

  Again the voice and look of a little girl, frightened because she’d done something bad, hopeful because she’d made up for it all, and sulking, because he hadn’t rewarded her for it yet.

  “Why would they leave you alone once they have the documents they want?”

  “They promised. They said they’d release my father, and they kept their promise.”

  “You’d never have worked for them if they hadn’t let him go. They’ll commute your brother’s death sentence to life in prison, at which point you’ll go on working for them so they will reduce his sentence to fifteen years, and they can keep on haggling further reductions. You won’t have a choice.”

  She didn’t say anything, but continued to look at him, sulking. “It goes without saying that they have to offer you something so you will keep up the work,” he continued. “Let’s say three years off his sentence for every year that you work for them. That means they have you where they want you for at least another five years. You’re good at what you do, you’re fluent in French, know the country and the people. Believe me, they’ll keep you where they want you. How long were you already in France when they recruited or forced you into this?”

  “It sounds like you’re cross-examining me! I don’t like talking with you like this.”

  He had moved to the edge of the bed, his back straight, his hands cradling his stomach. He was staring intently. “It’s not only you they have—they’ve got me too. And when they’re done with the attack helicopter, they’ll set their sights on the stealth reconnaissance plane, or the new control system or bomb, or God knows what! Once I’ve worked for them for a long time, they’ve got me where they want me, even without you. Is this what you wanted? Is this how you want us to live?”

  “Our life isn’t all that bad. We’ve got each other, a nice house, enough money. And nobody need know that you’re aware of what’s going on. Why can’t things just go on the way they are? Weren’t you happy all this time?”

  He said nothing. He looked out the window into the night and felt heavy with fatigue. What she was saying was true, but then again, it also wasn’t. What did he care about helicopters, fighter jets, reconnaissance planes, bombers, and all the maneuverings surrounding the arms race, armament, and disarmament? Since he didn’t have the time or money to write a novel, he didn’t care what he was translating or for whom: IBM, Mermoz—why not for the Poles and Russians too? It wouldn’t involve any more work; he laughed bitterly. But his freedom was done for. He felt this with painful clarity. He was no longer sitting on the podium maneuvering all the trains, but was a train himself that others could set in motion, bring to a halt, start up again, accelerate, and stop.

  “Georg?”

  He shrugged his shoulders despondently. Had his early freedom been just an illusion? He remembered her sudden departures on Sundays.

  “Why did you always have to deliver the negatives of the plans on Sunday?” he asked her.

  “What?”

  He didn’t repeat the question. Something didn’t fit. Just didn’t fit. Something kept buzzing in his mind, not a clear thought, but perhaps just the disbelief that all this should have happened to him, and that the way he was living would go on, but look very different from this point.

  She sighed and laid her head in his lap. Her left hand caressed his back, and her right hand slid beneath his bathrobe, reaching gently between his legs. Surprised, and as if from a distance, he felt his arousal.

  “Are you … were you Bulnakov’s lover?”

  She let go and sat up. “What kind of a question is that? How mean and spiteful! I haven’t been with anyone else since I met you, and as for what happened in the past, it doesn’t concern either of us. Not to mention that if Bulnakov had wanted to sleep with me, I would hardly have had a choice.”

  “What about now?”

  “I have no choice now either, if you want to know!” she shouted. “I let him do his thing, then he gets up, buttons his pants, and tucks in his shirt. Shall I show you? Go on, lie down, you be me and I’ll be him, go on!” She tried to pull Georg onto the bed, tugged at him, her hands striking out. Then she began to sob, and she curled up like a fetus.

  Georg sat there, his hand on her shoulder. Finally he lay down next to her. They made love. Outside, the sun was rising and the first birds were beginning to sing.

  12

  SHE GOT UP AT DAYLIGHT. He stayed in bed, listening to her movements in the next room, the flushing toilet, the clattering dishes in the kitchen, the sound of the shower. She opened the living-room shutters, which banged loudly against the outside wall, and he waited for her car to start. But she must have sat down in the rocking chair with a cup of coffee. It was a while before the hinges of the outer gate creaked and the engine of her Deux Cheveaux started up with a stutter and the gravel rasped under the tires. Wrapped in the scent of their body and their love, exhausted by the nocturnal battle, he listened to the car drive away.

  He woke up again hours later. The sun was shining into the room. He didn’t have the strength to get up; he barely wanted to move into a more comfortable position. Then he did get up, without knowing why, or why exactly at that moment. He got up. He showered, dressed, made coffee, drank it, fed the cats. He did this all with a strange lightness. He looked for money in the drawer and found it, put on his jacket, took the keys, locked the door, got into his car, and drove off. His movements were controlled. He monitored the road before him closely, the potholes, the cars turning out from side roads, the cars coming toward him. He drove fast, carefully, detached. He felt as if he wasn’t driving, as if he could plow into a tractor or a tree without getting hurt, without so much as denting his car. He parked under the plane trees by the pond and went into the pharmacy. Here too he felt as if he were watching himself from a distance. As he walked, his movements were light. It was as if only the shell of his body were walking, as if he were empty inside and the shell was porous, letting in light and air.

  In the pharmacy he stood a few minutes in line, waiting his turn. When he entered he had said “bonjour” without putting on a friendly, happy face, and as he stood and waited, his face showed neither expectation nor impatience—nor any interest in Madame Revol’s small talk with the other customers. He felt that his face was like an empty page.

  “Could I please have a box of Dovestan?”

  “Monsieur would do better to have a beer or a glass of red wine before going to bed. Dovestan is a dangerous drug. I read that in Germany or Italy you can’t even get it without a prescription anymore.”

  He hadn’t intended to reply, but Madame Revol was showing no sign of going to the medicine shelf. She looked at him with a worried, motherly expression, waiting for him to say something. He put on a playful smile. “And that’s exactly why I live in France, Madame,” he said, laughing. “But jokes aside, I don’t seem to get any sleep when there’s a full moon. And I’d hate to think what would happen to my liver with all the red wine I’d have to gulp down.”

  The instant Madame Revol gave him the pills he knew he wouldn’t take them. Suicide? No, not him. Those Russians, Poles, Bulnakov, Françoise—they had another thing coming! Wasn’t he holding all the cards? Wasn’t it up to him to deliver or not to deliver, to go to the police or not, to string Bulnakov along, and make him pay?

  He drank a glass of white wine in the Bar de l’Étang and then another. Back at home he went into his study. The desk was standing upright again, the plans laid out, the camera gone. Françoise had cl
early finished taking pictures that morning. Georg put in a call to his office in Marseille. His secretary had been expecting him, but had managed things on her own, rescheduling appointments and appeasing clients. Then he dialed Bulnakov’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Polger speaking. We need to talk. I’d like to drop by at four.”

  “Drop by, my young friend, drop by! Though I must say you’re sounding a little secretive. What’s all this about?”

  So Françoise hadn’t told him anything. Was she going to tell him, or didn’t she intend to?

  “We can talk about that later. Till then, Monsieur.” Georg hung up. He had to go for it, use the element of surprise, confuse his opponent—he would make Bulnakov sweat.

  And, in fact, when Georg turned up at four Bulnakov did have large sweaty patches under his arms. The doors were open, Françoise was not at her desk, and Bulnakov was sitting regally in his office, his jacket draped over the back of his chair, the top buttons of his shirt and pants undone. Then he gets up, buttons his pants, and tucks in his shirt, shot through Georg’s mind.

  “Come in, my young friend. I’m trying to get some fresh air in here, but I can’t get a draft going and lose heat.” He heaved himself up out of the chair, buttoned his pants, and tucked in his shirt. Georg was jealous, hurt, furious. He didn’t shake Bulnakov’s hand.

  “The game is over, Monsieur,” Georg said, sitting down on the edge of the table by the sofas. He towered over Bulnakov, who had sat down again at his desk.

  “What game are you talking about?”

  “Whatever it is, I’m no longer playing along. It’s up to you whether I go to the police or not. If I’m not to go, then Françoise’s brother must be pardoned and given authorization to leave Poland. You have three days.”

  Bulnakov gave Georg a friendly look. Laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes, his mouth widened, his plump cheeks shone. He squeezed the tip of his nose, lost in thought. “Is this the same boy who stood before me in this office only a few months ago? No, it isn’t. You have become a man, my young friend. I like you. From what I see, the thing you are calling my ‘game’ has done you quite a bit of good. But now you want out.” He shook his head, puffed up his cheeks, and blew the air out between his lips. “No, my young friend. Our train is on a roll, it’s rolling at great speed, and you can’t get off. If you try to jump, you’ll end up with broken bones. But a train moving fast also gets where it’s going quickly. Just be a little patient.”

  “Why should I?”

  “What is it you want to tell the police?”

  The conversation wasn’t going the way Georg had imagined. He felt he was losing the upper hand. “Leave that up to me,” he said. “You might think I don’t have proof. But perhaps I do. And then again I might only have my story and a few scraps of evidence. But once the police know where to look and what to look for, they’ll find the rest too. I’ve seen the efficiency of the Polish secret service—now you’ll see how efficient the French are.”

  “How prettily you craft your sentences. We might let the French police find this or that roll of film with your fingerprints on it. And you can be sure we will let them find the fender of your yellow Peugeot—the one that forced Maurin’s Mercedes off the road—not to mention that we’ll point the police in the direction of the garage in Grenoble that repaired the damage to your car.” Bulnakov’s tone was still friendly. “Why make yourself and Françoise unhappy? A few more weeks and it’ll all be over. We’ll part as good friends—or good enemies—either way, we’ll part amicably. Things will work out for her brother too—he’s quite obstinate, that one, not to mention thick-skulled. And if you and Françoise want to marry: why not? You’re the right age.”

  Georg sat there stunned. There was a sound of footsteps. He turned and saw Françoise standing in the doorway.

  “Is it true, Françoise, that my fingerprints are on the negatives?”

  She looked from Georg to Bulnakov and back.

  “I had to do it that way. You take so many pictures—I used your film cans.” She bit her lip.

  “We were in Lyon when Maurin … when he was murdered. I’m sure the people at the conference and the hotel receptionist will remember me.”

  “Tell him, Françoise.”

  She hung her head. “The night when Maurin … That night we weren’t in Lyon anymore. We weren’t in the hotel either. We were out in that meadow near Gordes.”

  “But you can back me up …” Georg didn’t finish the sentence. He was beginning to understand. Bulnakov was frowning, yet was looking at Georg not with irritation, but with pity. Françoise’s face was cold and unapproachable. “This can’t be, Brown Eyes. I can’t believe you did all this on purpose.” He was saying it more to himself than to her. Then he jumped up, seized her, and shook her. “Tell me it isn’t true! Tell me it isn’t! Tell me!” As if his shaking and shouting would break the armor that encased Françoise, Françoise whom he had held in his arms, who had opened up to him, to whom he had opened up, the real Françoise.

  “Why did you have to ruin everything?” she said. “Why couldn’t you just leave things the way they were?” She didn’t try to defend herself, but kept complaining in her thin, shrill child’s voice and remained unapproachable. Only when he let her go, she shouted: “I won’t take this from you, Georg! I won’t! I never promised you anything! I never played games! I was me, and you were you! You were the one who wouldn’t listen and wouldn’t face reality! It was you who got your hopes up! And now you see that there was nothing there! Don’t think I don’t know what you’re playing at: you’ve ruined everything so you can get back at me! You were miserable because you couldn’t have me, and so you want to go to the police so I’ll be miserable too. Don’t think for a moment that I’m going to side with you or back you up. If you go to the police, you’ve lost me!” She was shaking.

  “What reality wouldn’t I face?” Georg asked. He was grimacing like a madman, but making a last-ditch effort.

  “So go to the police! Go ahead, ruin everything we had together! You’re such a weakling, such a coward! Instead of finishing what you started, instead of seeing it through, you have to destroy everything. Well, go to the police! But don’t you think …” Her voice hissed, her words were crystal clear, her sentences a farce of logical reasoning. He heard the spite in her voice, and lost control of the situation, like a man whose expensive watch falls into deep waters, and who, even as it is falling, before it plunges into the water and disappears, realizes its final loss. Perhaps it could still be caught, by a fast snatch or a leap, but he feels a lameness that turns into the numbness of the pain of loss.

  He shrugged his shoulders. Feeling empty, he walked past Françoise and out of the office.

  “Wait a moment, my young friend, wait.…” Bulnakov called out after him, but Georg didn’t turn around.

  13

  HE WALKED PAST THE STATUE OF THE DRUMMER BOY and went into the bar on the corner. LE TAMBOUR D’ARCOLE—it was the first time he’d read the statue’s inscription. He tried to remember what heroic role the drummer boy had played in the Battle of Arcole. Thinking of heroism made him wince, and he ordered coffee and wine. This time the window was clean, and the town square lay clearly before him under the blue sky of the afternoon.

  What was so bad? His attempt to threaten them with the police in order to save Françoise’s brother had misfired. But damn the whole Kramsky clan. All the translations he’d done had ended up with the Polish or Soviet secret service. But the games the big powers played with soldiers, cannons, tanks, planes, and helicopters would go on. Georg imagined generals standing in a sandbox, one going “b-r-r-r-r” with a toy helicopter in his hand, the other “s-h-h-h-h” with an airplane. Had they really killed Maurin in order to give him, Georg, access to the Mermoz plans? He and Françoise had indeed driven to the conference in Lyon in her Citroën. He’d left his Peugeot in Cadenet, and when they got back from Lyon he hadn’t found it where he thought he’d
parked it. He felt a surge of fear. He steadied his nerves: would they really risk everything by letting him go to the police?

  And what about Françoise? He felt it was all over between the two of them, but he didn’t love her any less, or feel any less close to her than—than yesterday. A day ago his world had still been intact.

  He felt as if he were sitting in a hospital bed after an amputation, looking for the first time at a leg that was no longer there and over which the sheet no longer bulged. The eye sees it, the mind registers it, and yet the patient expects that ultimately he will get up and walk away, with his toe itching.

  Georg looked out the window. Françoise was coming out of a side street onto the square. She walked toward her car, stopped, walked a few steps farther, and stopped again. She had seen his parked car. Slowly she turned and looked in the direction of the bar where he was sitting. Dazzled by the sun she craned her neck, trying to catch sight of him. Then she walked toward the bar. He saw her bouncy tread, and her fast steps echoed in his ear, though he couldn’t hear them. She was wearing a black outfit and had a bright sweater draped over her shoulders, its sleeves tied above her chest.

  His heart had always skipped a beat when he saw her coming from a distance, lost in thought, stopping by a storefront or a street musician and then strolling on and, upon catching sight of him, coming toward him with a quick step, a fluttering wave of her hand, and an expectant smile. Why did you betray me, he thought, why.…