At night he had weird dreams. Many days he didn’t talk to a soul.
His money was running out. He only had a thousand dollars left, which wouldn’t last long in New York. The Epps gave him to understand, pleasantly but firmly, that it was time he moved on. He had gotten nowhere. Should he give up?
He sat in the Hungarian Pastry Shop, a café across from the cathedral. One could sit there as long as one liked. They served homemade cookies, and there were free coffee refills. The air was heavy with smoke. The paintings in the café were ugly, its mirrors dull; the paint was flaking off the walls and the column in the center of the room, beside which was a chest of drawers with a jug of coffee on top. The shop was a refuge for those who hadn’t yet made it or who no longer had any prospects of making it. Georg came here to relax and do some thinking. He exchanged a few words with people sitting at nearby tables, borrowed a newspaper, was asked for a light, or offered a cigarette.
Two men at the next table were talking about apartments and rents. One of them, Larry, was looking for a roommate. Georg told him he was looking for a place, and Larry said he had a room he could have for four hundred dollars. Larry taught German at Columbia, and liked the idea of having a German roommate. Within minutes everything was settled, and later that day Georg moved in.
He had the corner room of a twelfth-floor apartment, whose two windows looked out on different parts of the city. One faced a church tower, backyards, fire escapes, and rooftops, and had an uptown view of Broadway until the haze of the day swallowed the cars and houses, and the darkness of night swallowed their lights. His sleep was pierced by the howl of sirens, feverish spirals of sound that began and ended with a high-pitched gasp. From the other window he looked out onto a parking lot, low buildings, the trees of Riverside Park, and the Hudson River, lying wide and idle with its metallic sheen in the sun, and in bad weather melting into the opposite bank. From time to time a barge plowed its waters. The sun set between the wooden water towers on the roofs. The window facing west was larger, and the view from it wider. At times Georg felt as if he could spread out his arms and fling himself out over the parking lot, gliding over houses and trees and over the Hudson, and land like a large bird on the water. Why should he, who only had to spread out his arms in order to fly, give up his search?
Georg still hadn’t seen one of the former coordinators of the theater workshop or the former head of the Ladies Guild who was now running the kindergarten. He called and made appointments. Calvin Cope, the former director of the cathedral’s theater workshop, was now a real director, and initially said he was too busy to meet. It was a matter of life and death? he asked. Georg had crossed the Atlantic, come all the way from Europe? Well, in that case he’d meet him for lunch at a place on Fifty-second Street.
23
THE RESTAURANT SOUNDED EXPENSIVE, and Georg borrowed a jacket and tie from Larry, his roommate. The coat check and bar were at street level, and the maître d’ escorted Georg upstairs, where a table by the window had been reserved for Mr. Cope.
Georg ordered a glass of white wine and gazed out at the street. The traffic flowed by in a slow stream; there were many yellow cabs, and the occasional black limousine with tinted windows and a TV antenna on its trunk. It began to rain. A street hawker appeared on the opposite sidewalk, selling umbrellas. A young man with shining red hair, holding his coat collar up, stood huddling by the entrance of a shoe store with a large display window that exhibited only one or two pairs of shoes on tiled stands.
The waiter brought an elderly gentleman and a young woman to the table and pulled out chairs for them.
“Mr. Cope?” Georg said, standing up.
“This is the European romantic I was telling you about, Lucy, the one who followed his sweetheart across the ocean!”
They sat down. Georg couldn’t take his eyes off Lucy. She was a beauty, an American beauty. Her face was sculptured, with high cheekbones, a strong chin, deep-set eyes, and a childlike mouth with full lips. She was slender, but with wide shoulders and big breasts. He had first noticed such women in commercials, and then had seen them on the street too. He had often wondered what gave them that special something that made them stand apart from European women. He looked at her and still couldn’t figure it out.
Cope eyed him with amusement. “She’s very beautiful and young, and destined to be a marvelous actress.”
“I’m springtime and Calvin is autumn,” Lucy said laughing, and by the time Georg thought of the compliment that he would consider himself lucky to be such an autumn, the moment had passed. The compliment would have been quite sincere, not only because of Lucy, but also because Cope obviously took great pleasure in his maturity and lifestyle. He had a full head of gray hair, and peered at the menu over his spectacles with a senatorial air.
“Leave the ordering to me,” Cope said. “I’ve been coming here for years. In the meantime, aren’t you going to say something?”
Georg hadn’t said a word yet. “I’m very grateful you have taken the time to see me, Mr. Cope. I don’t even know her real name: she wanted me to call her Françoise, as it’s a French name and she loves France. But I do know,” he lied smoothly, “that she was involved with the cathedral’s theater workshop and that she had a great teacher. She often spoke of it. This rather bad picture is the only thing I have.” Georg took out the photo and gave it to Cope, who passed it on to Lucy and looked at Georg pensively.
“Isn’t there a German poem about a woman searching for someone?” Cope asked. “All she knows is his name, and she follows him across the sea? Or is it the other way around, he follows her? My mother’s Swiss. She used to recite that poem when I was a boy.”
“Do you speak German?”
“I used to. But that poem—your touching story reminded me of it when we were talking on the phone. Do you know the one I mean?”
“Am Gestade Palästinas, auf und nieder, Tag um Tag …” Georg began.
“That’s it! I remember it now. Do you know the whole poem?”
“No, but I remember a Saracen maiden who follows a man to London, and then, lost in the crowds of the city, calls out ‘Gilbert’ and finds him. The man had been captured in one of the Crusades, and she had freed him. She only knew two English words: ‘Gilbert’ and ‘London.’ The poem says that love will cross the seas even with only two words. We learned it at school.”
“Well, let’s drink to that,” Cope said, raising his glass. “Now, let me see the picture.”
Lucy gave him the photo.
“What’s that poem about?” she asked Georg. “I didn’t quite understand.” She spoke in a soft American English, as if chewing on a potato. Georg told her about the poem and about Conrad Ferdinand Meyer and about his grandparents, who had lived by the lake in Zurich.
“I recognize the face,” Cope said suddenly. “That girl used to be in my workshop, but I just can’t remember her name.” He continued studying the photograph. “I’m not sure who might know. I never kept records. I have a good eye for faces and have never had trouble remembering who was paid up and who still owed me—not to mention that I always gave the students in my class new names.”
“Yes, they’re names that suit them,” Lucy said. “Calvin still does that, and most of the actors like it, and then keep it as a stage name.”
“But I know that you don’t like the name I gave you,” Cope said to her, “and autumn wouldn’t pick a fight with beautiful spring over a name, would he, which is why you are Lucy, nothing but Lucy, forever Lucy.” He laughed, but Georg wasn’t sure if there might be a touch of poison in his joviality.
The Châteaubriand arrived, was carved up, and served.
“Do you perhaps remember any of the other members of the workshop from back then?”
“No, I’m sorry, I can’t recall anyone. It’s been five or six years. You’re lucky I have such a good memory for faces, since this picture here is quite bad—was it you who took it? It’s no use. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to follow th
e example of the Saracen maiden. You crossed the ocean and came to New York convinced you’d find her, and now you’ll have to walk the streets of New York with the same conviction.”
Georg thought that sounded snide. Was Cope’s joviality indeed poisoned? Was he somehow irritated? Georg glanced out of the window. It wasn’t raining anymore, but the red-haired man was still standing in the doorway across the street. They ate in silence.
“Are you working on a new piece?” Georg asked in order to start a conversation.
“Why do you want to know? What do you know about the theater? What is all this? Goddamn it, nothing but idiots everywhere! First Goldberg, then Sheldon, and now this crazy lovebird from Europe!” Cope’s voice had gotten louder.
The waiter was more amused than put out, and seemed to be used to Cope’s scenes. Lucy put down her knife and fork, took a hairpin out of her bag, gathered her long, thick brown hair with both hands into a bun, and stuck it fast.
“Let’s go, I’ve had enough of this!” Cope shouted. “Waiter! Put the meal on my tab!” He jumped up and hurried down the stairs.
“It was nice meeting you,” Lucy said with a smile. “Can you write your name down? I can send you a ticket for opening night. I wouldn’t take any of this too seriously.”
Georg sat alone at the table in front of all the full plates. The waiter took the bottle out of the ice bucket and poured more wine. Georg ate the entire Châteaubriand and all the side orders and finished the bottle. The waiter brought him an espresso without asking if he wanted one and Georg ordered a brandy. He was celebrating. Françoise really had been in New York.
24
GEORG HAD NEVER BEEN SHADOWED BEFORE. Was it a coincidence that the red-haired man he’d seen from the restaurant window was now also strolling around the skating rink at Rockefeller Center? Georg stopped in front of boutiques, seeking the reflection of the street in the display windows, sometimes quickly glancing back. He knew this from the movies. He went into a bookstore and stood in the aisles, blindly leafing through books. It didn’t work: he could only keep the street in sight by standing next to the cashier. He went outside. It had started to rain again. There was a light gray haze around the tops of the skyscrapers, projectors throwing streams of light into the low-hanging clouds. Raindrops fell on his glasses. He looked up and felt as if he were soaring into a deep and starry sky, like the crane shot at the opening of some movies. The traffic was heavy, with a swarm of yellow cabs and crowds of people walking fast. Somebody bumped into him and he almost fell. He turned around, and though he didn’t see who had run into him, he caught sight of the red-haired man, who was now only a few yards behind him—he too without an umbrella, his wet hair plastered to his head.
Late in the afternoon of the following day Georg saw the young man again. He had been looking through old telephone directories for a bona fide Kramsky, perhaps a friend, a relative, or even a former coworker whose name Françoise might have borrowed. He hadn’t found anything. At five o’clock he had left the New York Public Library on Forty-second Street and walked uptown. Where should he look next? The theater workshops at the cathedral changed every year, but perhaps some of the participants signed up several years in a row. He could ask the members of the current workshop if anyone had been a member of a previous one and might know someone who had been a member of an even earlier one, who, in turn, might know someone who had … On Madison Avenue Georg eyed the expensive trifles that filled the display windows of the boutiques: flowers, paintings, jewelry, toys, antiques, expensive carpets. The women with their elegant clothes and comportment looked at him coldly, as if they were gingerly picking up some bauble, glancing at it, and casting it aside.
A bus stop sign listed a bus that went past Georg’s place. He turned to look if he could see a bus coming, and saw the redhead again. He was on the other side of the street, and turned to look at a store window. The bus arrived, but the redhead made no sign of getting on too. For as long as Georg could see him from the bus, the man was still looking into the shop windows.
People were getting on and off, people were shopping, a fire hydrant was being given a fresh coat of paint, store shutters were being repaired, a car was being unloaded, two people were embracing next to a waiting cab. Georg saw all this but didn’t take it in. It was all about winners and losers. He and those like him stood on one side: amateurs, fools, and losers; on the other side were the professionals who were part of the world of big business, international politics, organized crime, and the secret service: the world of success. Still, like anyone who reads the newspapers, he had seen enough politicians and businessmen trip and fall over their lies and blunders. But what intimidated him about the redhead’s shadowing him was how amateurishly he seemed to go about it.
The bus went up Madison Avenue and turned left. He had a hard time finding his bearings. At the next bus stop he saw on his left the bleak northern end of Central Park, and on his right a row of bricked-up, dilapidated mansions that had once been beautiful. Black children were playing in the rays of an early streetlight. A girl of about ten seemed to be putting on some kind of show: she struck poses like a star, limped like an old woman, scolded a little boy as if she were his mother, and strutted about like a macho guy putting the moves on a beautiful woman. She dropped the act, but the bus moved on and Georg couldn’t see what she did next.
25
WHEN GEORG OPENED THE DOOR to his apartment, he heard music, voices, and laughter. Two children were playing in the hall, and there were some people sitting in the living room, though most of the guests had crowded into the kitchen. Larry had given a lecture on Kafka in America that had been very well received, and was now throwing a party for his friends and his colleagues from the German Department.
Georg poured himself a drink and mingled with the guests. In the kitchen he heard scraps of English and German conversations, academic chitchat. A beautiful, vain woman with black hair and green stockings was leaning against the door. “How are you?” Georg asked, but she turned away and began talking to a young man in a turquoise shirt.
An amicable elderly gentleman in a purple jacket and a violet scarf asked Georg whether they had met before. They hadn’t.
A black man in a white suit asked Georg what he was doing in New York, and Georg told him he was working on a book. The black man introduced himself as a reporter for the New York Times, and said he was still waiting for his big break. One day he’d make a real splash with a big feature.
In the living room a man was telling a story to a captive audience. “Finally our lawyers came to an agreement,” he was saying. “She gets custody, and I get visiting rights every Sunday.” Everyone laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Georg whispered to a woman next to him.
“Every time I come back,” the man continued, “I’m a shadow of my former self.” Again everyone laughed, except for the man telling the story; he was spindly and of an uncertain age, with sparse curls and nervous fingers.
“That’s Max,” the woman next to Georg whispered, as if in answer to his previous question.
“And?”
She took Georg aside. “The dog … Max and his girlfriend broke up and have been fighting over who gets to keep the dog. By the way, my name is Helen. Who are you?” She looked up at him expectantly. She was short and wearing a tight skirt and a thick woolen pullover out of which peeked the collar of her blouse. She struck him as having wary eyes. He wasn’t certain whether they were defensive or unsure. She had longish, dark blond hair, and one eyebrow arched slightly higher than the other. Her mouth was set and her chin energetic.
“I’m Georg, Larry’s new roommate. Are you in the German Department too?”
She was teaching German and was working on a dissertation about German fairy tales, and had lived in Germany for quite a while as a student. She spoke fluent German, and only hesitated sometimes searching for a word, because it had to be just right.
“So you’re interested in the cathedral?” she asked. ?
??Larry calls you the …” She tried to find the right expression, “the cathedral researcher.”
“Cathedral researcher? Not much of a topic. No, I’m here to … Where’s your glass? I’m going to get myself some more wine—would you like some too?”
She was waiting for him when he got back with the bottle and the glasses. She talked about her work on her thesis, and about her cat, Effi. She asked him if the German word Alraune had the same mysterious connotation as mandrake had in English. She told him the tale of a man who pulls a mandrake root from the soil, hears a plaintive, earthshaking cry, and suddenly finds a magician standing in front of him. Georg conjectured about the connection between the words Alraunen, runes, and the German word raunen, “to whisper.” He told her about France and his take on the French, what he liked about New York, and what he found intimidating about it. He could share with Helen his fairy-tale fears. Her conversation was clever and witty, and she listened to him attentively.
Georg was touched. He hadn’t had a normal conversation in ages, especially not with a woman. He had enjoyed talking with Françoise, though they had never talked extensively. But after he had caught her with a camera in his study that night, he had mistrusted her words and had calculated his, and their communication had become artificial. Slowly his trust in the normality of communication with others had been frayed, first with Bulnakov and Françoise, and then with his translators in Marseille and his friends in Cucuron. He remembered the evening he had dropped by Les Vieux Temps to have some salmon fettuccine. Gérard had greeted him warmly—too warmly. Had Gérard been lying in wait for him? Georg had abruptly turned back at the door and left, after which he had avoided Gérard.
Georg longed to have faith—not in some higher power, but in day-to-day things one could rely on. But could he trust Helen? Had he drawn her into a conversation or had she drawn him? He had met her at Larry’s and he had met Larry at the Hungarian Pastry Shop. Were these coincidences, or some strategy? Was Bulnakov behind Larry and Helen, behind the red-haired man? Georg was no longer listening to what Helen was saying, and had a hard time coming across as if he were listening at all. What could he tell her about himself without actually saying anything? He made small talk, nodded as she spoke, laughed, shook his head, asked her this and that, and was happy when he had the opportunity to look down at the floor for a few moments to gather his thoughts. All this took a lot out of him.