The Gordian Knot - Bernhard Schlink [37]
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,