The Gordian Knot - Bernhard Schlink [5]
“You’re such a lying asshole!” Herbert said, got in his car, and drove off.
The old couple wouldn’t let Georg unload the wood himself. He couldn’t keep the old woman from dragging it to the edge of the truck bed, or the man from stacking it up in the studio. Georg kept hurrying with armfuls of wood from her to him.
At lunchtime he drove to Cucuron. The town is spread out over two adjacent hills, one crowned with a church, the other with the ruins of a castle. The old wall still winds around half the town, houses leaning against it. The positive feeling Georg had had many years ago when he first visited Cucuron returned whenever he went rattling through its lanes in his car, and even more whenever he set out on a half-hour walk through the fields and the town came into view—ocher-colored in the shining sun, or gray as it hid under low-hanging clouds—always stolid, cozy, reliable.
The étang lies in front of the town gate, a large, walled pond, rectangular and surrounded by old plane trees. On the narrow side facing the town lies the market and the Bar de l’Étang, with tables set up on the sidewalk from spring to fall. In the summer it’s cool, and in the fall the plane trees drop their leaves early enough so one can sit outside in the last warm rays of the sun. This place was cozy too. In the bar they served sandwiches and draft beer, and everyone Georg knew would get together here.
This time Georg found that even with his third beer contentment didn’t set in. He was still angry about Gérard and Herbert. Angry about the whole miserable situation. He drove home and took a nap. Will I end up like Herbert, or am I already there?
At four o’clock the phone woke him up. “I’m calling from Bulnakov Translation Service. Is this Monsieur Polger?”
“Yes.”
“A few weeks ago we opened a translation agency in Cadenet, and business has picked up faster than we expected. We’re looking for translators, and you came to our attention. Are you available?”
Georg was now wide awake. Only his voice was still unsteady. “You would like me to … I mean, if I’m available, to work …? Yes, I believe I am.”
“Great. We’re at rue d’Amazone, right across the square where the statue of the drummer boy is—you’ll see the sign on the building. Why don’t you stop by?”
4
GEORG WAS READY TO GO THERE RIGHT AWAY. But he stopped himself. He also stopped himself on Wednesday and Thursday. He decided to go to the Bulnakov Translation Service on Friday morning at ten. Jeans, blue shirt, and leather jacket, a folder under his arm with samples of the work he had done for Monsieur Maurin: he carefully choreographed the scene—he would show that he was interested in working for them, but wouldn’t indicate how much depended on it.
Everything went smoothly. Georg called on Friday morning and made an appointment for ten. He parked on the square near the statue of the drummer boy, walked up the rue d’Amazone, and at five past ten rang the bell beneath the plaque that said BULNAKOV TRANSLATION SERVICE.
The door on the third floor was open. There was the smell of paint, and a young woman was sitting at her typewriter in the freshly painted reception area. Brown hair hanging to her shoulders, brown eyes, and, as she looked up, a friendly glance and the hint of a smile.
“Monsieur Polger? Please take a seat. Monsieur Bulnakov will see you right away.”
She said Polgé and Boulnakóv, but with an accent Georg couldn’t quite place.
He had barely sat down on one of the brand-new chairs when a door flew open and Bulnakov, all effervescence and affability, came bursting into the room, ruddy-cheeked and sporting a tight vest and loud tie.
“How wonderful that fate has brought you to our doorstep, my young friend. May I call you ‘my young friend’? We’ve gotten so many jobs we can barely keep up with them, and I see you’re carrying a big folder of work that you are toiling over—but no, a young man like you wouldn’t be toiling—I’m sure you can do these translation jobs with a flick of the