Christopher's Ghosts (32 page)

Christopher said, “If I were you, Barney, I’d probably leap to conclusions.”

“Yeah, probably. But you’re not me. You’re a whole lot smarter than me to begin with and you’re in full possession of the facts. How come you’re so, uh, unforthcoming?”

Wolkowicz spoke the long word in a parody of a Saint Grottlesex drawl. Although he was surrounded by potential eavesdroppers, he was talking of these clandestine matters in a normal tone of voice, as if he and Christopher were alone in the lobby. Better here in a crowd, according to Wolkowicz’s modus operandi, than head-to-head in a room that might be bugged. An operative who acted like himself instead of impersonating an honest man was less likely to attract attention, and that the louder one talked in a public place the less likely others were to pay attention to what you said. Acting like a boor caused people to look away. It made them stop their ears. It was furtive gestures and whispers that raised suspicions.

Wolkowicz said, “So?”

“So what don’t you know?”

“I don’t
know
anything. I’m just rubbing snot on the windowpane, watching you rich folks enjoy your dinner.”

Christopher yawned. He was having trouble staying awake. Except for Wolkowicz, the people in the lobby were sitting so still that they might have been posing for a photograph. Christopher had not slept on the train from Paris, he had not slept on the plane from New York, he had not slept last night.

“Wake up,” Wolkowicz said. “Are you going to go back across?”

“Probably.”

“When?”

“After you let me get some sleep.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Old times’ sake, like you said.”

“Right. But what’s the operational reason?”

“The life-and-death struggle between good and evil for the soul of mankind.”

“I’m going to give it to you straight, pal. I’m very uneasy about this.”

“You, Barney, uneasy? That’s a twist.”

“It’s not funny,” Wolkowicz said. “Broken Foot—that’s the Indian name of the guy you tromped on—said that you used Stasi credentials to get through the checkpoint last night. Is that true?”

“Really?”

“Did you flash any such document at the Vopos? Please tell me.”

“How would your man know what paper I showed unless the Vopos told him? Think about that.”

Christopher yawned again, deeply and uncontrollably. Wolkowicz glared.

“I’m not yawning on purpose or because I’m not enjoying the conversation,” Christopher said. “I can barely stay awake.”

“You
did
use Stasi ID, didn’t you?” Wolkowicz said. “Golly gee, what a nifty idea that was. Who thought it up, your one-eyed buddy? I know you’re not that stupid.”

Christopher yawned again.

Wolkowicz said, “I read somewhere that yawning is the body’s way
of inhaling more oxygen. It helped our caveman ancestors stay awake when they were being stalked by predators.”

“No kidding.”

“You should watch out for predators. I’ve got something for you.”

Wolkowicz handed Christopher an envelope sealed across the point of its flap with a short piece of Scotch tape. He could feel what was inside and knew what it must be, but he opened it anyway, so as not to spoil Wolkowicz’s pleasure. It was a well-worn East German identity card bearing Christopher’s photograph, also well-worn, and a false name. He was described as a translator.

“Use this ID from now on,” Wolkowicz said. “It’s genuine-false in the true name of the holder, who’s a secret heroin addict we’ve been helping.”

Christopher nodded his thanks. He put the card in his pocket and handed the envelope back.

“So tell me, Gabby,” Wolkowicz said. “Are you going to be commuting to the GDR or what?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because if you’re going to stay over there for a while you’re really going to be sleep-deprived. It’s not a country where you can travel anywhere you want. There are very few discreet hotel keepers in the GDR. Cops outnumber civilians. Whatever they call the country now, it’s still the Russian zone and Russians are all over the place. You might need a friend.”

Christopher said, “A friend. All right. What name, what place, what words?”

“The person in question will be introduced when you pick up your weapon at that place I told you about. The words are, ‘Does the Museum of Natural Science have dinosaurs?’ What you say is, ‘Yeah, but they’re nothing but skin and bones.’” Wolkowicz lurched to his feet. “Watch your fanny,” he said. “It’s a jungle over there.”

NINE

 1 

Nobody in East Berlin seemed to be interested in Christopher. He took a long walk along Wilhelmstrasse, all the way to Parisier Platz, where the American embassy had stood in O. G.’s day as a diplomat. He saw no one behind him. This half of the city was gray and subdued and quiet, with much less automobile traffic than before the war. Little dogs like Schatzi and Blümchen that were once almost as numerous as human beings had vanished with the elegant shops and restaurants of another time. Pedestrians scuttled along the sidewalks as if in a hurry to get out of sight before their permits to be seen in public expired. He remembered a snatch of a Marlene Dietrich song,
Berlin will always be Berlin
.

It was mid-afternoon when Christopher reached the Red Orchestra Inn. It was a pension really, wedged between two larger buildings. Inside, the light was dim. As he entered, the young woman at the desk lifted her eyes from the book she was reading by the grimy daylight that fell through the glass above the door. She wore round steel spectacles. She waited, inert, until he spoke.

He said, “Sepp Bauer?”

The woman shook her head. “Not here.”

Christopher smiled. “Then I’ve missed him. But as I am already here, I wonder if, as a matter of very great kindness, I might be permitted to use the lavatory.”

Still smiling, feeling like a fool as he always did when engaged in such stage business, he unbuckled his wristwatch and dropped it into the left-hand pocket of his jacket.

“Second door on the left,” the woman said, and went back to her book. It was a novel in Russian,
Days and Nights
by Konstantin Simonov. Christopher had read it in an Armed Forces edition English translation when he was in the Marine Corps. It was an intensely patriotic work about the Battle of Stalingrad, written while the war was still going on, a sort of Eisenstein movie set in type, not quite propaganda, not quite art. He had thought that the text must be poetic in the Russian.

Everything in the w. c. was as Wolkowicz had described it. Christopher put his weight—all his strength was needed—against the spring-loaded windowsill and it slid back smoothly, clicked, and came loose in his hands, revealing a hidden compartment that exuded the odor of blued steel and gun oil. He found three fully loaded Makarov pistols wrapped in oiled paper. The Makarov was a powerful, dependable, accurate military weapon of simple design—Wolkowicz’s kind of gun. One of the pistols had been manufactured in East Germany, the others in Bulgaria. Christopher took the one made in East Germany, which felt better in his hand, along with three eight-round clips of ammunition and a large folding pocket knife, then closed up the windowsill. He tucked the Makarov into his waistband at the small of his back, put the knife in his jacket pocket, flushed the toilet, and walked out.

At the front desk the young woman’s nose was still in her book. She did not look up, so what he saw was the top of her head. Her hair, almost blond, was pulled tight into a chignon. The ruler-straight part in her hair, her ears, her hands holding the book and her nails were scrupulously clean. Her body, or what he could see of it, was narrow, the back straight. Christopher said thank you as he walked by.

As he reached the front door, the woman said, “One moment, please.”

Christopher stopped and looked back.

She said, “I am wondering something. Does the Museum of Natural Science have dinosaurs?”

Now she was looking straight at him. Her eyes were unsmiling but friendly. She looked even more immaculately clean now that he saw her entire face.

Christopher said, “Yes, but they’re nothing but skin and bones.”

The woman said, “You shouldn’t be outside in daylight with such things in your pockets. We have an empty room.”

“Who else is staying here?”

“At the moment, no one. But we get a simple clientele here. Mostly men who travel and, sometimes in the afternoon, couples who want privacy.”

Christopher waited for her to say something else. She understood what he wanted—her eyes showed her amusement—but she did not oblige.

He said, “What’s the rate?”

“Ten marks-fifty a night, breakfast included, supper available, alcohol extra. There is a bar, also for simple people.”

“How long can I stay?”

“Until you make a disturbance.” She took a key from the rack. “Come, I’ll show you the room.”

He followed her up the steep narrow stairs. She had pretty legs, a lithe body. At the top she gave him a look to let him know that she realized this.

The room lay under the sloping roof on a blind side of the building. There was no number on the door. It was small and spartan—a bed, a wardrobe, a straight chair, a washstand with a small round mirror. There was no window. A small bulb screwed into a ceiling fixture provided the only light. The woman pointed to the lavatory and bathroom down the hall. “There is no hot water,” she said. In that case how could she be so clean, Christopher wondered. Again her eyes were amused as she read his thought. She said, “Do you snore?”

“No one has ever complained,” Christopher replied.

“If you do snore or talk in your sleep, no one will hear you in this room. It’s out of the way. It’s a clean room, a quiet room. I take care of it myself.”

As the woman spoke she stood in the open doorway, well away from the bed. She had excellent posture and a voice that carried without being loud. Christopher guessed that she was about thirty. She dressed to conceal her figure, in a baggy sweater and a long skirt, and her utilitarian eyeglasses and the way in which she did her hair and the drab
colors of her clothes deprived her face of softness. Her eyes were noticeable, which may have been why she had been so absorbed in her book. If she wasn’t striking, it was by choice.

“My name is Heidi,” she said. “Please stay inside the room. I’ll bring you something to eat around eight o’clock. We can go out at about ten. The streets are busier then.”

“We can go out?”

“Of course, we. A couple attracts less attention. This was not explained to you?”

Christopher looked around at the blank walls and understood that he was a prisoner of this woman if that was her desire. The large brass key to the room dangled from her hand. She could if she wished slam the door and lock it from the outside and leave him to starve to death. It was a heavy oak door. The lock with its massive deadbolt was from the time of the kaisers. Like most things made by the artisans of that era, it did what it was designed to do. Any lock could be picked, of course, but picking this one without specialized tools could be the work of hours. As these thoughts passed through Christopher’s mind the woman watched him solemnly, as if puzzling out a note in handwriting she had not seen before.

She handed him the key. “If you want to rest in peace”—another flash of smiling eyes—“I recommend you to lock the door and leave the key in the lock,” she said. “That way the door cannot be locked from the outside.”

“Is there a way out from this floor?”

“Down the stairs is easiest.” Now she was openly amused.

“In case of fire, then.”

“There’s a window at the back—that way.” She pointed. “A circus performer could go over the roof, then over the next roof and down the wall of that building balcony to balcony. Both the U-bahn and the S-bahn are nearby, in opposite directions.” She pointed to show him where the rail lines were.

Christopher said, “Thank you, Miss. You’re very kind.”

“Always on Saturdays. My name is Heidi.”

“Heidi, then.”

“Supper at seven o’clock. We eat simply here. Soup and bread. Then we’ll go out and pretend to be in love. Everyone in, Berlin has at least one lover. It’s for the privacy, a way to avoid the Stasi for an hour or two.”

Heidi’s voice was lighter than it had been, her manner more relaxed. She gestured. She kept her glasses on, though, and stood well away from the bed. In his mind he had begun to call her by name. He had given her no name for himself, but nevertheless she said, “Until later, then, Paul.” Wolkowicz had told her his true first name. Who else knew it? A joke, a wink, an elbow in the ribs.

After she left, Christopher locked the door and disassembled the Makarov. Everything was in working order. He put the weapon back together, failing on the first try because he did not know that the hammer had to be cocked in order to fit the slide back onto the frame. He chose a cartridge at random and pried it open with the knife. It, too, seemed to be everything it should be. With the weapons on his person he reconnoitered the rest of the top floor and found two unmarked doors, one of them a closet, the other locked. The single window at the back swung open easily. It looked down on a tiny enclosed courtyard four stories below. As Heidi had said, the only way out was over the steep mansard roof.

In the wardrobe he found a sports newspaper that was badly out of date and a stack of paperbound books, some in German, some in Russian. He chose a book of poetry in Russian, Simonov again. One of his admirers must have spent a few days here and left this library behind. Christopher lay down on the bed, rolled onto his side in order to take as much advantage as possible of the tenuous light, and began to read—to study, really. His Russian was workmanlike but shallow. Simonov’s verse read, to him, like Longfellow or Whittier—entertaining, sentimental, with technique and the ideal reader more in mind than the work. He wondered if there was more to it than he thought. After a while he closed the book, put the pistol under his pillow, and fell asleep.

He was awakened at eight o’clock exactly by a knock on the door—a single sharp rap that was in no way a signal. Obviously Heidi had no
time for the frills of tradecraft. He was glad of that, and glad of her punctuality because it confirmed that his new cheap watch kept accurate time. Holding the pistol behind him in his right hand, Christopher unlocked and opened the door with his left. The hallway was dark. There was no sign of life or movement. A tray covered with a white cloth had been left outside his door. Under the napkin he found a bowl of potato soup, a chunk of dark bread, a piece of cheese, and a bottle of beer lying on its side. He ate the bland soup, which was heavily salted, and the tasteless cheese and the dense dry bread, but left the beer unopened. When he was finished he covered the tray and put it outside the door where he had found it.