The Gordian Knot - Bernhard Schlink [21]
“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 Fran