The Gordian Knot - Bernhard Schlink [52]
“I’d like to speak to him. I doubt you have his schedule handy, so have him call me to set up an appointment. Tell him it’s important. I don’t want to be melodramatic, but tell him too that it wouldn’t be a good idea to have me killed. I’ve written down everything I know, and mailed it out. If my friends don’t hear from me, they’ll mail the information on to Mermoz, the police, and the newspapers.”
“Can I take your order?” the waiter asked.
“Could I have a Coke?”
“Diet?”
“No, regular.”
“Have you ever thought of dyeing your hair?” Georg asked, feeling like all three musketeers in one. The redhead ran his fingers through his hair. No, he didn’t look pleasant after all. His eyes were too small and his nose too wide. Georg didn’t wait for his Coke. He got up.
Outside, he was suddenly gripped by fear. Have I gone crazy? How can I get out of this now? Leave the country? Does he know I didn’t mail anything to my friends? Georg looked around, saw an empty cab, and flagged it. He had to get home. The trip took half an hour, and thoughts swirled through his mind. He broke into a sweat. He stared intensely at the streets, the traffic, and the people: the horse-drawn carriage that turned in to Central Park; Columbus on his tall column; the Metropolitan Opera; the movie theaters; the restaurants that had been too pricey for him and of which he made a mental note for better times; the benches on the median strip of Broadway, where he wanted some day to while away an afternoon; the little park on 106th Street, whose grass, trees, and benches had turned gray from the pollution; the ladders hanging from the fire escapes.
He waited for the elevator, his knees shaking. The other day Helen hadn’t felt too well, and told him “My legs are like noodles,” and he had asked her, “Al dente?” at which she had laughed. The silly scene seemed to him the height of happy normalcy. In his room, he lay down on his bed. He fell asleep and dreamed of Françoise, Bulnakov, and the redhead—he was being shadowed, he ran for all he was worth; then he was sitting on a rock in Central Park, the clouds black and hanging low, but the sun had found a hole and made colors shine. There was utter silence. Georg tugged at a blade of grass, and when it came out of the ground together with a long root, he heard a whimpering that grew louder and louder, until it boomed through the park like a thundering howl. He woke up drenched in sweat. Down in the street a police car had driven by. He heard the siren fade in the distance. He got up and took a shower. His fear was gone. He was ready for action.
32
THE CALL FROM TOWNSEND ENTERPRISES came the following morning at ten.
“Georg! Telephone!” Larry shouted from the kitchen where he was eating breakfast.
“It’s a woman, not Helen, though,” he whispered to Georg. He and Larry had had dinner with Helen the previous evening. Georg had talked a lot, joked, flirted, and Larry and Helen had looked at him in surprise. What had gotten into this quiet roommate and difficult bedfellow? When Georg took Helen home, they walked past a panhandler, and Helen dropped a coin into his cup. She told Georg how in her first few weeks in New York she had been appalled at all the poverty and had put money in all the cups, until a man called out after her, “Hey, you just threw a quarter in my coffee!” Georg shook with laughter. He got the impression that Helen might have liked to take him upstairs but that she found his sudden cheeriness a little frightening. She still hadn’t found anything out about Françoise.
“Mr. Polger? I’m calling from Townsend Enterprises. Mr. Benton would like to know whether you could come by this afternoon. Do you have our address?”
“Please tell Mr. Benton that I’ll be there at four.”
Georg hung up. He could tell that Larry was curious, but didn’t say anything to him. Georg took a cup of coffee to his room, and got a pen and some paper.
Dear Jürgen,
I’m sure you’ll be surprised at getting a letter from me from New York. You’ll be even more surprised that I am asking you