The Gordian Knot - Bernhard Schlink [7]
5
GEORG HAD NEVER WORKED AS HARD AS he did on the following days—not for his state examination, and not as a lawyer. This wasn’t just because the handbook was thick and he found translating English computer language into French rather difficult, nor was it in anticipation of the next job they would give him, or the ones after that with all the money they would bring. He was bursting with energy and wanted to show what he was capable of: to himself, to Bulnakov, and to the world. Saturday evening he ate at Gérard’s, and after his coffee went back home without first having his usual glass of Calvados. Sunday morning he took a short walk, but only because he preferred thinking about the HELP-function while walking rather than at his desk; otherwise, he sat in his room or on the terrace and even forgot to smoke. By Monday morning he had translated and dictated two-thirds of the handbook. He drove to Cadenet whistling, singing, and beating the rhythm on the steering wheel. He met neither Monsieur Bulnakov nor Mademoiselle Kramsky, but gave the cassette to a young man who barely opened his mouth to utter “merci,” and went back home to finish the translation. By Tuesday evening it was done. Wednesday morning he breakfasted on the balcony—bacon and eggs, freshly baked bread, orange juice, and coffee, while he let the sun’s rays warm his back. He listened to the cicadas and the birds, smelled the lavender, and looked over the green countryside to Ansouis, whose castle towered out of the mist. He packed his suit for the conference, and was in Cadenet by ten.
Monsieur Bulnakov’s plump red face was beaming. “The translation is very good, my young friend, very good indeed. I’ve already looked through it—you needn’t bother going over it again. How about joining me for a cup of coffee? Mademoiselle Kramsky will be here any minute, and then the two of you can head out.”
“What about the last part of the handbook?”
“Mademoiselle Kramsky’s colleague will type it and I’ll edit it. As long as you get to Lyon as quickly as possible. You mustn’t miss the mayor’s reception.”
Monsieur Bulnakov asked him where he was from, what he had studied, where he had worked, and why he had moved from Karlsruhe to Cucuron. “Ah, to be young! But I can understand—I didn’t want to run my office in Paris anymore either, and moved here.”
“Are you Russian?”
“I was born there, but grew up in Paris. We only spoke Russian at home, though. If the Russian market ever opens up to computers and software—I hope I’ll live to see the day! By the way, here are two envelopes. One’s for your work, the other for your expenses. It’s an advance. Ah, here’s Mademoiselle Kramsky.”
She was wearing a summery dress with pale blue and red stripes and large blue flowers, a light blue belt, and a dark blue scarf. Her luxuriant, neatly combed hair hung to her shoulders, and again there was that friendliness in her eyes. She was amused at Monsieur Bulnakov fussing over them like a father seeing his two children off on a long trip, and hid her smile behind her hand. Georg noticed that her legs were short, and felt in a pleasant way that this brought her somewhat more down to earth. He was in love, but not yet aware of it.
They took the green Deux Chevaux. The car had been standing in the sun and was hot until they drove through the countryside with the top and windows open. There was a strong draft, and Georg stopped near Lourmarin, took a scarf out of his bag, and put it on. The radio was playing a mad potpourri of music: themes from Vivaldi to Wagner in a swinging pop sound, with an oily kitsch of lesser masterpieces in between. They made bets on what the next theme would be, and by the end she owed him three petits blancs, while he owed her five. They reached the hills before Bonnieux.