The Gordian Knot - Bernhard Schlink [66]
With a kick he broke the chain and pushed the door open. She recoiled, pressed herself against the wall, covering her breast with her hands. He was struck by the stains on her blouse and her oily hair; he had never seen her other than well-groomed and stylish.
“You?”
“Yes, me!” He stepped into the small vestibule and shut the door.
“But how … what … what are you doing here?” She looked at him horrified.
“What am I doing here in your apartment?”
“In my apartment, in the city … where have you been? How did you know?”
“That you lived here?” he asked.
“How did you find out? …”
“You mean to tell me you didn’t know I was in town? You of all people?” He shook his head. “The child is crying.”
Steadying herself against the wall, she made her way to the living room. “I’m sorry.… I was just …” She went over to the baby, who was lying on a blanket on the floor waving its arms and legs, and picked it up. Her blouse fell open and he saw her breasts. She sat down on the sofa and put the dripping breast into the crying mouth. The child closed its eyes and sucked. Françoise looked up. No longer upset, no longer afraid. She pushed her lower lip out a little. He knew that gesture. She knew she looked coquettish and sulky like that. In her eyes was the plea for him not to be angry at her, the certainty that he couldn’t be angry.
His anger burst out again. “I’m going to stay here for a while, and if you tell Bulnakov or Benton or the CIA or the police … if you mention anything to anybody, I’ll kill the child. Whose is it? Are you married?” He hadn’t even considered this possibility. He glanced around the living room and through the open door at the bedroom, looking for signs that a man was living here.
“I was.”
“In Warsaw?” he asked, with a scornful laugh.
“No,” she answered seriously, “here in New York. We’ve just divorced.”
“Bulnakov?”
“Nonsense. Benton’s my boss, not my husband.”
“And whose child is it?”
“No … yes … well, whose do you think?”
“For heaven’s sake, Françoise, can’t you say anything besides no and yes?”
“And can you stop cross-examining me in this terrible, revolting way? You come bursting through the door, break my lock, upset Jill, and me as well. I don’t want to hear any more!” She said that in her little girl’s voice, whimpering and tearful.
“I’ll beat it out of you, Françoise, word for word if I have to! Or I’ll hang the child up by her feet until you tell me everything I want to know. Who is the father?”
“You are—you won’t harm her, right?”
“I don’t want to hear any of your nonsense! Who is the father?”
“My ex. Are you satisfied?”
He felt his old helplessness return. He knew he could not hurt her or the baby, but he doubted that she would tell him the truth even then. He would only hear what she thought he wanted to hear in order to get the painful situation over with. She was a child who lived in hope of immediate reward and in fear of immediate punishment. She had no sense of the importance of the truth.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said.
“How am I looking at you?”
“Critically … no, judgmentally.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I didn’t know … didn’t want things to happen the way they did,” she said. “It lasted much longer than I thought it would, and it was so wonderful to be with you. Do you remember what we were listening to when we were driving to Lyon? A potpourri of music.”
“I do,” he said. How he remembered the trip, and the night, and the other nights, and waking up beside Françoise, and coming home every evening to Cucuron. The memories were about to seize him and bear him away like a wave. Sentimentality was the last thing he needed.
“Let’s talk about that some other time,” he said. “I slept last night on a bench in the park, this morning I was chased by Benton’s people, and I’m dog-tired. Since Jill is asleep, put her in the crib in the bedroom and I’ll sleep there in your bed. I’m going to lock the door from