Los Alamos (30 page)

“Won’t people be killed outright? Like an ordinary bomb?”

“Most, yes. But there will be others. We just don’t know.”

“But why you?”

Eisler was quiet for a minute. “I can’t say, Mr. Connolly. Some things even I can’t answer.” He paused. Then, more lightly, “Maybe you will tell me. You must use your Oppenheimer Principle—your leap in the dark. On the map. How is your other problem coming along?”

Connolly felt he was being diverted. His ear searched for nuance in an idle phrase. But clearly Eisler wished to be left alone with his demons. “Not very well,” he said, playing along.

“Ah,” Eisler said. “But you will get there, I’m sure. The elegant solution. Yes, I think so. But now—you don’t mind?—a little sleep.”

Connolly said nothing, and after a while the breathing deepened and he fell in with it, so that he wondered whether they’d talked at all or whether he’d been having a conversation with the dark.

*  *  *

The next morning brought a flood of visitors. Weber was there early, fluttering, then a graver Fermi, then Bethe and what seemed to be all of Bathtub Row. They nodded politely to Connolly or ignored him, drawn to Eisler with an embarrassed mix of concern and prurient curiosity, like people at a highway accident. No one stayed long, and no one talked about the radiation. Once in the room, good instincts and duty satisfied, they were at a loss, talking around the incident until they could excuse themselves to work. Only Teller asked for details, precise and brisk, a consulting resident brought in for a second opinion. By the time Emma arrived, Connolly was dressed, waiting to be released. She looked at him in surprise, expecting to find him in bed, and her eyes filled with relief. She smiled at him, a broad, involuntary grin, then caught herself and turned to Eisler, the ostensible point of the visit.

“You too, Mrs. Pawlowski,” Eisler said. “Has everyone heard?”

“News travels fast,” she said.

“Bad news.”

“Well, I don’t think Johanna Weber makes the distinction.”

Eisler laughed out loud. Connolly realized it was the first time he’d ever heard Eisler laugh, and for a second he was filled with an odd embarrassed pride that it was Emma who could make the joke. It flustered her, however, and she said apologetically, “How are you feeling?”

“No, don’t be somber,” Eisler said gently. “Everyone here plays the nurse. Tell me the gossip. What else does Frau Weber say?”

“She’s baking you a cake.”

“Excellent,” Eisler said, smiling, and Connolly thought again how little he knew anyone. Last night he had spoken to a dead man, and now he saw the eyes were alive and playful, taking delight in a young woman. Had he been like this at Göttingen with Oppenheimer, a world ago?

They talked, making an awkward joke about angel food, but it was Connolly she had come to see and her eyes kept moving away, sliding over to where he sat on his bed, the night screen now gone. Eisler, courtly in his smock, seemed not to notice, but Mills caught it immediately. He stood in the doorway, looking at them like three points of a triangle, and Connolly could see him putting it together, a theorem proof. He raised an eyebrow at Connolly as he walked in.

“Lieutenant Mills,” Eisler said. “At last, a visitor for Mr. Connolly. Or have you come to arrest me?”

“Arrest?” Mills said.

Eisler leaned forward conspiratorially to Emma. “My parking tickets. We have to give them to him and then he scolds us. What do you do with them?” he said to Mills. “Do you make the apologies?” Then, again to Emma, “But I can’t help it. If the space is straight, I can do it, but to back up for those little slots? It’s too difficult. My driving—” He waved his hand.

Mills smiled, a little surprised by the party atmosphere. “Parking’s the least of it,” he said to Emma, joining in. “He’s a menace behind the wheel.”

“Not only there, it seems,” Eisler said smoothly, indicating his presence in the bed.

No one knew what to say. Connolly felt the air go out of the room. In the awkward silence, Mills turned to him. “You look all right,” he said.

“I’m just waiting for my walking papers.”

Eisler, aware that the atmosphere had changed, now looked moodily down at the bed.

“I’d better be going,” Emma said, getting up. She went over to Eisler and put her hand on his arm. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

He patted her hand. “No, nothing. Mr. Connolly here will get my few things,” he said, a question to Connolly, who nodded. “It’s absurd. I’m still all right, but now I’m a prisoner here. My jail,” he said, with a nod to the room.

“Just walk out,” Emma said, sympathetic. “They can’t make you stay.”

“But where will I go? No, this suits me.”

“C’mon, Mike,” Mills said, fidgeting, “let’s go fix you up with the doc.”

“Mr. Connolly,” Eisler said as Emma and Mills headed for the door. “You don’t mind? A few things?”

“No, of course not.”

“Some clothes. I don’t want to be in bed. I’m not an invalid. Not so soon.”

“Do you have the key?”

“The key?” Eisler smiled. “It’s not locked. We never lock things at the project. There’s nothing to steal.”

“Anything else? Books?”

“You pick. Do you know German? No. Well, pick anything. And—” He looked up to see if the others had gone.

“Yes?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, a Bible, please.” He smiled. “No, not for the angels. I’m a scientist, you know. But I like the stories. So simple. An eye for an eye. Wonderful stories.”

“I’ll get one.”

“Of course, the angels,” Eisler said wryly. “Nothing is proven, you know. Not yet.”

*  *  *

Outside, the three of them walked together for a while. Then Mills, with a pointed glance at Connolly, spun off to head for the office.

“I’m just going to get cleaned up,” Connolly said. “I’ll be over in a bit.”

“Take your time. I’ll cover,” he said, almost winking. “I’m good at that.” He tipped his head, a little bow, to Emma.

“He knows,” Connolly said, watching him walk off.

“I don’t care. I had to come.”

Connolly smiled. “The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

“It’s not funny. I was out of my mind with worry. What if—”

“It didn’t. I’m all right.” He put his hand on her arm, facing her.

“No, not here.”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“But not like this, not in the open. Oh, I don’t know what I want anymore. More time, I guess. Until I know what to do,” she said, almost to herself. “But you’re all right, that’s the main thing. Now I feel silly. What must Eisler have thought? Charging over there. I hardly know him well enough for that.”

“I don’t think he noticed. He has other things on his mind.”

“Poor man,” she said. “He’s the nicest of the lot, too. It’s not fair. All your life and then one slip—”

“It wasn’t an accident.”

“What?” she said, stopping.

“It wasn’t an accident.”

She stared at him for a minute. “You mean he tried to kill himself?”

“He did kill himself. He’s just waiting it out.”

She shivered. “That’s an awful thing to say. How do you know?”

“I was there.”

“But why?”

He shrugged and continued walking. “I don’t know. I don’t know if he knows. It’s all mixed up in his mind. Something about the gadget. He feels guilty about that. I think he sees this as a kind of penance. I don’t know—is there ever a good reason? Can there be?”

“That’s insane.”

“Maybe. Anyway, it’s his life. I doubt we’ll ever know.”

“Funny your saying that. You always want to know everything,” she said, not looking at him.

“Not this time.”

They had reached the turnoff for Connolly’s building. Emma stared down at the drying mud in the road. “I wish you hadn’t told me. It’s so—unhappy. All alone like that. Oh, Michael,” she said, looking up, “don’t let’s—Why shouldn’t we be happy? When I heard this morning—”

“Are you happy now?” he said, taking her arm again.

She nodded.

“All right.”

“And miserable. Happy. Miserable. Scared. Everything.”

“All that?”

“Don’t tease. Anyway, it’s your fault.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. Just come tonight, that’s all,” she said, looking at him.

“That’ll make it better?”

“No. But come anyway.” Then, in broad daylight, she took his hand and put it against her face for a second before she walked off.

He showered and changed and headed for Eisler’s apartment. The office, Mills’s smug discretion, could wait. Eisler lived in one of the Sundt units, a modest one-bedroom that was nevertheless several steps up from Connolly’s spartan room. There was a fireplace, with a Morris chair and a floor lamp to one side and Indian carpets scattered over the hardwood floor. It was clean without being really tidy—old coffee cups still in the sink, a tie flung over the edge of the couch. There were books everywhere, a pipe near the chair, another on the nightstand, and rows of shelves lining the wall, full of German books, some bound in leather, others with the yellowing paper of European books whose edges you sliced as you read. Connolly ran his finger along the shelves, recognizing a few names. Which would you take to a desert island? Goethe? Mann? He took out a title, then stopped, sliding it back. It was too long. There would never be enough time to finish it.

He went into the bedroom to get the clothes. The bed was made but lumpy. Next to it was the photograph of a young woman, her hair bobbed—presumably his wife. A girl. What had he said about how she died? You just turned down the wrong street, that’s all it took.

He was in the bathroom, filling the old leather shaving kit, when he heard the door open. He looked up into the mirror, waiting for someone to appear, but the steps went to the kitchen. He heard water running. He stepped out of the bedroom and peered around the corner, surprising Johanna Weber. She was busy at the sink, washing the cups, and she jumped when she saw him. “Oh,” she said, grabbing the saucers with two hands before they could rattle. “Mr. Connolly.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. I was just getting a few things.”

“You? Oh, yes, you were with him, weren’t you? Terrible.” But she was busy again, putting the cups on the drying rack, wiping her hands. “Such mess. A bachelor. Always the same. You found the satchel?”

He held up his palms, a helpless gesture.

“Under the bed,” she said, smiling. “Here, I’ll show you. You sit, and let me pack. A man can’t do it. Look at this.” She picked up the tie. “Clothes everywhere.”

In the bedroom, she scurried around, opening drawers, rolling socks, talking to herself as she worked, drawing the air into her circle of activity like a whirl of dust. She picked up the photograph by the bed and held it for a minute before she put it in the satchel.

“His wife?” Connolly said.

She nodded. “He never forgot her. All these years. Such a long time.” She shook her head and Connolly saw her at one of her parties, a frustrated matchmaker. Or had she been in love with him herself, checked by a memory? Nobody knew anything.

He retreated to the living room and ran his eye again along the shelves. You could tell a man by his books, but the language made these meaningless. There was no visible order. All Connolly could tell was that he’d never left Germany. He thought of Karl’s modest shelf, all new, the dictionary, the Westerns. But these had the depth of a culture remembered. He bent down, searching the lower shelf for a Bible. Heine.
Das Leben von Beethoven. Principia Mathematica. Historic Santa Fe
. His eye paused, intrigued by the English. He took out the book, with a glossy photograph of the cathedral on the cover, and flipped through the pages. One of the corners had been turned down and the book opened to it, a black-and-white picture of San Isidro. His heart stopped. No. The picture seemed to blur, as if Connolly had moved it out of focus, and when he stood up it swam back again. A paragraph of history, the reredos dates marked in boldface, the church with its belltower, the smooth adobe walls, the alley parking lot to the side. No. The corner turned down, bent. To remind him? No, he would never violate a book that way. Someone else had marked the page, a message. Why hadn’t he turned it back? But who would look?

Connolly stared at the book, his face growing warm. This wasn’t what he’d wanted to find. Just a Bible. Why hadn’t Eisler thrown it away? But he never threw books away. Look at the room. The parking lot was easy, no problem there, everything straight. Had he gone into the church at all? What had they said to each other? Connolly drew in a breath, still staring at the picture. He heard the voices in his head, crossword clues falling into place, until they came to a blue flash. An eye for an eye. But not for the gadget. Something else.

“Mr. Connolly?” He looked up. “Is something wrong? I’ve been calling you.”

“No, nothing.” He stood there, startled, holding the book in front of him.

“Are you sure? You look—”

“I’m sorry. I was thinking.”

She clicked her tongue. “Just like Hans. Once he puts his head in a book—”

She glanced toward it, and for a second Connolly wanted to snap it shut, before anyone else could know. He looked down. It was absurd. A tourist guide. There could be any number of explanations. But he knew there wouldn’t be. Eisler. But how? The head had been smashed in.

“You were reading?” Frau Weber said, drawing him back.

“No, just looking for something to take him. I’m afraid I don’t know German.”

She smiled. “I’ll find something for him. I know what he likes. Go to work now—I’ll take the valise. You’ve been very kind.”

“Isn’t it heavy?”

“This? A feather. Wet laundry is heavy. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.”

He started to turn away, the book still in his hand, and she looked at him strangely, as if he were stealing.

“I thought I might borrow this,” he said, closing it. “I don’t think Professor Eisler would mind. It’s just what I’ve been looking for.”

“Sightseeing?” Mills said when he saw the book in Connolly’s hand.

“You still have those bank files?”

“Boy, you never stop, do you? Who’s the suspect this time?”