The Gordian Knot - Bernhard Schlink [47]
When the ushers came, Georg followed them without a word. Not a single person in the lower tier had looked up. The ushers were friendly, asked to see his ticket stub, and escorted him back to the upper seats. Helen was waiting for him.
“I’m sorry, but I have to get down there.”
“We’re in the final inning. Unless there’s a miracle, the Indians will lose within the next two minutes.”
He wasn’t listening. “I’m really sorry, but I really do have to get down there,” he said. He walked over to the aisle. She followed him. “Is this about her? Did you see her? Do you love her so much?”
“Do you know how I can get all the way down? Down to the front rows?” He was walking faster, heading down.
“The game’s over, it’s over! Did you hear me?”
He stopped. The fans were clapping rhythmically, shouting “Yanks! Yanks!” And within seconds people were pouring into the aisles, and over the ramps and stairs.
“But I have to …”
“There are forty thousand people here.”
“Forty thousand in a stadium is still better than all the millions in New York,” he said stubbornly, but could no longer stop to reason with her as the stream of crowds carried them down the stairs and out onto the street. On the way to the subway, and down on the platform, he craned his neck and looked around.
“What would you have done if—” Helen began, “I mean, what would you do if you found her?” They were standing in front of Helen’s house, and she was playing with the buttons of his shirt.
He didn’t know what to say. He had imagined all sorts of things: a furious eruption, coolly walking out on her, a stormy or a dignified reconciliation.
“Do you want to get back together with her?”
“I …” he began, but fell silent.
“There’s not much prospect of success when one has to fight so hard for someone. Being back together might at first be heaven on earth. But then, how can she ever repay what you have suffered on her account? Why should she even want to repay it? Did she ask you to suffer?”
Georg looked at her downcast.
“Call me one of these days,” she said, kissed his cheek, and left.
Georg bought a beer and sat down on a bench in Riverside Park. He had no idea what to do, what his next step should be. Tomorrow, he told himself, tomorrow I’ll make up my mind. Or else things will figure themselves out. Perhaps patience is a virtue also when it comes to decisions. Perhaps things fall into place on their own.
29
THE FOLLOWING DAY GEORG took particular care with his disguise: the brown tanning color, the black hairspray, mustache, sunglasses, jacket, and tie. The previous day the redhead had turned up at a quarter past eight. Georg waited by the sports store. He saw the redhead arriving, crossed the street, and reached the door just as he did. The redhead looked pleasant enough: his face was scarred by acne, but he had clear blue eyes, strong cheekbones, and a broad smile. With his gray suit and buffalo-leather briefcase, he would have blended in at any investment bank or law firm. He looked at Georg blankly, though perhaps with a touch of curiosity, and rang the fourth-floor bell. Georg pressed the eighth-floor bell.
“Another hot day,” Georg said.
“Mm.”
The door buzzed. The floor of the hallway and the stairs were covered with gray construction paper. The woodwork and banisters had been sanded down, and a first coat of paint had been applied to the walls. Two wood planks were nailed across the missing elevator door.
“They’re still working on the elevator,” the redhead said. “You’ve got quite a climb.”
“At least I have company halfway.”
The construction paper covering the stairs was slippery. Above the third floor there was a new dark gray carpet, the walls were light gray, and the woodwork had been painted Bordeaux red. There was still a smell of fresh paint. On the fourth floor the redhead wished him a nice day and opened a heavy metallic door that bore no inscription. Georg continued climbing the stairs. On the fifth floor was an opaque brown-tinted glass door that read TOWNSEND ENTERPRISES in gold letters, and on the sixth and seventh floors