The Gordian Knot - Bernhard Schlink [43]
“Did you visit Marx’s birthplace in Trier?” he asked.
Helen shook her head. “Have you?”
“No.”
“Why bring up Marx?” she asked, relieved that he had said something after his long interlude of nodding and smiling. She reached for her glass and took a sip.
“I’ve been thinking about something he wrote that has to do with changing and interpreting the world,” Georg said, and tried to explain why it was important not to take others’ behavior as they mean it, but to determine the meaning oneself.
“Isn’t that … isn’t that what the insane do?” Helen said. “Not caring about what people mean, but seeing in other people’s actions what they want to see?”
“What they want to see, or what they are compelled to? If they can choose, then they live with freedom of action instead of having to react. And freedom of action doesn’t automatically bring success and happiness. Moreover, when dealing with those whose behavior is so powerful that one can only react, insanity is perhaps better than submission.”
She didn’t understand him. He didn’t understand himself either.
“Is that what you’re writing about?” she asked.
He looked at her. “Are you joking?” he said. “We’ve been sitting here for two hours, and I can’t even talk properly about students, books, and politics, and you expect me to write about philosophy or whatever?”
“The problem here seems to be linguistic.”
“Fair enough. I’m sorry I asked you out. I’ve ruined your evening. I didn’t realize that I’ve”—he couldn’t find the right expression—“that I’ve lost so much of my social skills.”
The check had been lying on the table for some time. He took some money out of his pocket. She watched him silently, her eyes once again careful. They got up, and he walked with her along Broadway and then up Riverside Drive to where she lived.
“Do you want to come up for a drink?”
They hadn’t said a word all the way to her place. In the elevator she asked him what his sign was, and he asked her what hers was. They were both Capricorns. In her apartment, she asked him about Françoise.
“Do you love her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why are you avoiding my question?”
“Why are you asking? I mean, why are you asking whether I love her?”
“I’d like to know more about you, so I have to start somewhere.”
“I don’t know a lot about you either.”
“That’s true.”
He looked at her. Her eyes were cautious again. Perhaps her cautiousness has nothing to do with me, he thought, perhaps it’s always there. What striking features she has. She’s attractive in a sharp sort of way. And still, even with her hair drawn back into a stern ponytail, she looks friendly.
She smiled. “Would you like to see me again?”
“Yes, I would.” He was sitting next to her on the couch, and caressed her hand, his fingers running along her veins. “I don’t have much money left. Would a walk through Central Park with a Coke and french fries on a park bench be okay?”
She nodded.
“Then I’ll be on my way.”
“Stay.”
He stayed. He woke up often and looked at her as she slept lying on her back in her buttoned-up nightdress, her arms stretched out beside her. The cat was sleeping at his feet. The warmth of the shared bed and the memory of her embraces were pleasant. It was like a homecoming. But always, when he came home, he doubted whether he still belonged there.
27
TWICE THE FOLLOWING DAY GEORG was under the impression that he had seen the same balding man in a gray shirt, light brown pants, and black shoes following him. But he wasn’t sure. The day after, Georg was waiting for the bus on Sixth Avenue. It was four o’clock and the street was busy, but it was before rush hour. When the light turned red, there was silence for a few seconds before the traffic came pouring in from the side streets.
He was tired, and only looked up from time to time to see if his bus was coming. He wouldn’t have looked across the street if a truck hadn’t rammed a cab. And he wouldn’t have noticed the redhead, who had been standing behind the truck and