Los Alamos (37 page)

“Who says? Who made that up?”

She took his head in her hands as he bent to kiss her. “Tell me you love me. Tell me it’s all right.”

“It’s all right,” he said. And then, entering her, he felt her clutch him inside, as if her whole body were holding on to him.

Afterward they showered separately, suddenly shy with each other. She toweled her hair by the fan, rubbing it with a tropical laziness.

“Do you really want to go out?” she said. “Can’t we just have room service?”

“I don’t think they have room service here. Maybe a bellboy with an ice bucket. Do you want a drink?”

“I’d fall over.”

“You’ll feel better after some food.”

“Should I call him now?” she said unexpectedly.

“No. In the morning. Don’t give him any time to think,” he said, a hunter’s voice. “I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” she said dully, and got up to dress.

They ate in a restaurant near Times Square, oysters wedged in a plate of crushed ice and tall glasses of beer whose coating of frost evaporated in the heat. Outside, the streets were crowded and steamy. Emma picked at her food, barely making conversation, and after a second beer Connolly began to wilt too, so that even the rattling noise of the restaurant became fuzzy.

“Want to go hear some music?” he said.

She smiled at him. “You always said we’d do that. And now that we’re here, I’m too tired to go. Maybe tomorrow. When it’s over.”

“All right,” he said, not wanting to talk about it. “We could go to the top of the RCA Building. There’s always a breeze there.”

“You don’t have to entertain me. I’d be happy with bed.”

But it was too hot to go back to the hotel, so they went to an air-cooled movie instead, where the crisp refrigerated air reminded him of the Hill. The newsreel was still filled with clips of German atrocities and now the long lines of DPs shuffling sadly past the bomb sites. The feature, something called
Pillow to Post
, with Ida Lupino, was bright and shiny, oblivious to what had come before, and halfway through Connolly forgot what it was supposed to be about. Emma took his hand in the movie, holding it lightly, as if they were on a date.

The streets were as crowded as before, people pouring out of the theaters and flirting and eating ice cream cones. The lights were dazzling. Knickerbocker beer. A giant Pepsi in perpetual effervescence. Here, anyway, the war was over, but everything familiar seemed to him suspended. They had all come out to pass the time while they waited for the next thing, the feature after the newsreel. What could it be except brighter, worth the wait?

He steered away from the theaters and they walked back on quieter streets, still holding hands, easy with each other, listening to the sound of her heels on the pavement. He’d thought of a drink in the Astor Bar, or now the Biltmore, but all that seemed curiously part of the past too, nothing to do with them. Now they were a couple, eager to get home. When she smeared her face with cold cream back in the room, it seemed to him more intimate than lovemaking, a new familiarity.

He sat at the window while she drifted off to sleep, restless, and it occurred to him then, looking at her, that the trip wasn’t about tomorrow anymore. Tomorrow would take care of itself. But while he waited, his life had changed. This was what it meant to be married. Her help, so casually asked for, now bound him in some deep obligation. If they stopped now they could be as they were, idly suspended like the crowd, hidden away in this cocoon of humid air. Instead, he would compromise her, as determined and heedless as Oppenheimer to see his project through. But they weren’t going to stop—it was sleep talking, the nighttime jitters. This
was
the next thing. She had understood before he did, accepted it. She turned over in bed, no longer fitful, breathing deeply. He had always loved her fearlessness. Now she was offering it to him, a secret marriage. They could have something more than peace. He thought of her leaping up the trail at Chaco, eager, lending him a hand.

16

W
HEN HE WOKE
the next morning she was already up, sitting by the window in her slip, putting on red nail polish. A coffeepot and cups sat on the table.

“At last,” she said. “Come and have your coffee. They
do
have room service, you see. You just have to ask.”

He put on a robe. “What are you doing?”

“You want me to look the part, don’t you?” She spread her nails in front of her. “A girl has to look her best for this sort of thing.”

“It’s pretty red,” he said, pouring the coffee.

“Meaning too red. Darling, a lot you know. On Johanna Weber it’s too red. On me, it’ll be smart. There, see? Now we’ll just wait for it to dry. Let’s hope to God this fan doesn’t give out—it’s been going all night.”

He drank the coffee, shaking his head to wake up. “You always do that undressed?”

“Of course. Until it dries. If it streaks, it’s hell to get out. How many women have you actually been with?” she said, smiling. “Or don’t you usually spend the night?”

He lit a cigarette with the Zippo, then looked at her through the smoke. “Are you always this cheerful, or are you nervous?”

She gave a half-laugh. “Don’t be so knowing. A little of both, I guess. Maybe a lot. I’ll be all right.”

“Do you want to run through it again?”

“No. I know what to say. At least roughly. It’s not exactly a script, is it? I mean, a lot depends on what
he
says.”

“Okay. Let’s call him.”

“No. Finish your coffee and go take a shower. Then I’ll call. I really don’t think I can do this with an audience.”

He looked at her, surprised. She came over and took his cigarette in one of the nooks of her outstretched fingers, taking a drag, then holding it out for him to take back. “What’s the matter, don’t you think I can?”

“I’ll be at the restaurant.”

“I know. I can’t think why.”

“Just to be around. In case you need me.”

“Hovering, I suppose. All right. But not now, please. I mean it. Hurry up and clear out.”

Connolly looked at his watch. “You think he’s already at work?”

“You don’t know the comrades. Up with the sun, they are.”

“Better watch the jokes. He may not like it.”

She glanced up at him. “You know, I hate to point this out, but he
is
my husband. I already know what he likes.”

Connolly looked away and put out the cigarette. “Right. I keep forgetting.”

“I don’t mean what you think I mean. Oh, never mind. Come on, move. I’ve got a hair appointment.”

“Does he like that?”

“I like it. I don’t want to go looking like a ranch hand.”

He looked at her, interested. “You want to impress him, don’t you?”

She nodded. “A little. Is that so naughty of me? I suppose it is.”

“You want to see if he’s still attracted to you.”

“I just want to see if he notices.”

He stood under the shower, letting the water sting his face awake, feeling apprehensive. He hadn’t expected to be a bystander. But if he couldn’t trust her, what was the point? When the shower stopped, he heard her talking, low and indistinct, and he had to stop himself from flinging open the door. Instead he went over to the sink and started shaving, his ears straining to make out her voice. It had to be him. What was taking so long? He stood there, his face half covered with soap, listening, then turned on the tap to rinse the razor so that he wouldn’t hear any more.

When he came out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, she was still sitting with the phone cradled in her lap, looking out the window.

“Any problems?”

“Twelve, not twelve-thirty,” she said, still looking away. “That all right?”

“Sure,” he said. “Why?”

She looked at him, a wry smile at the corner of her mouth. “He has to be back for a meeting.”

“A meeting?”

“You overrate my charms. Still, he did manage to fit me in.”

Her voice seemed light and wounded at the same time, and he didn’t know how to respond. “How did he sound?”

“Surprised.”

She got up and began putting on her dress.

“Did he know the place?”

“He’ll find it. Third and forty-fourth, right? He did wonder why we couldn’t meet nearer the office, but I said since I’d come halfway across the country he might manage a trip uptown. My God, do you think it’s possible for someone not to change at all?”

“Did he ask why there?”

“Yes. I told him I’d always wanted to see the Thurber murals. You got that wrong, though—never heard of him. Stop worrying, it’s all right.”

“And you?”

“I’m all right too,” she said, going over to the mirror to put on lipstick. “A little funny right now, but I’ll be fine. I’m even beginning to look forward to it.” She blotted her lips. “You needn’t fret. This is going to be easier than I thought.”

“A piece of cake.”

“Well, a piece of something. Right,” she said, packing her handbag. “I’m off. What do you think?” She flounced her hair. “Something off the shoulders? But not too gorgeous.”

“You’re beautiful,” he said seriously.

She stopped by the door and looked at him, her face soft. “Thanks,” she said. Then, determined to be light, she winked at him. “Next time try saying it with your clothes on. Shall I meet you back here? We’ve still got the morning to get through.”

“No, let’s go for a walk. I’ll meet you at the library. Over on Fifth. Out in front, by the lions. Patience and Fortitude.”

She looked at him blankly.

“That’s what they’re called—the lions.”

“The things you know,” she said.

When she was gone, the room was quiet, and he walked around nervously, at loose ends. Everything was different from the way he had imagined it back on the Hill. The air was close, smelling of her perfume. He went over to the suitcase and took out the envelope with Oppenheimer’s papers. He held it for a minute, staring at it as if the weight of what was inside would ground him, but now it seemed no more serious than a prop. It was a piece of the greatest secret of the war, and all he could think about was how she’d feel when she saw him, the first man she’d loved.

She took hours. He waited at the library, hiding from the sun under the wispy trees on the terrace, then pacing back toward the lions, afraid he would miss her. The day was hot, but not as humid as before, and occasional drafts of baked air would sweep down the avenue, blowing skirts. He stood for a long time watching the traffic, streams of buses and shiny cars and not a military vehicle in sight, shading his eyes against the glare. Everything seemed too bright and buoyant, as if the city had opened up to the sun and even furtive meetings would have to be drenched in light. He smoked, impatient, and then he saw her coming across the street and all the waiting disappeared. He knew as she stepped off the curb that it was one of those moments that becomes a photograph even as it’s happening, flashed into the memory to be taken out later, still sharp. She was wearing a white dress with padded shoulders, spectator pumps, a bag clutched under her arm. Her skirt moved with her as she walked, outlining her legs. Her hair, just grazing the back of her neck, swung as she looked back and forth, eager and expectant, her red lips already parted in a smile when she caught his eye. He felt he had never seen her before.

“How do I look?” she said, bright and pleased with herself.

“A woman only asks that when she already knows the answer.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Like a million dollars. How do you feel?”

“Not quite that rich. These shoes,” she said, grimacing.

They went behind the library to Bryant Park and watched people, pretending not to look at the time. She sat with her legs crossed, one shoe dangling off the end of her foot.

“Hadn’t you better give me the papers?” she said casually.

He reached into his breast pocket for the envelope and then unconsciously held it in front of him, reluctant to let it go.

“What’s the matter? Think I’m going to run off and give it to the Russians or something?”

He handed her the envelope and watched her slip it into her bag.

“None of this seems real, does it?” he said. “I’ve just committed a crime and we’re making jokes.”

“Sorry,” she said coolly. “It’s just nerves.”

“No, not you—everything.”

“What’s it supposed to be like?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Trenchcoats and fog, I guess. Anyway, not a nice, ordinary day in the park.”

“You sound disappointed,” she said, then looked up at the sky. “You might get your rain, though. Would that help?”

“It might.”

“Your trouble is, you’re stuck in some
Boy’s Own
story. Secret drawers and lemon-juice ink and all the rest of it. But maybe it’s always like this, really. Out here in the sun. Feed the birds, exchange a little information, and go about your business. Maybe they’re all up to something.” She nodded toward the people on the other benches.

“They don’t look it.”

“Well, neither do we. Neither did Professor Eisler. I still can’t quite believe it.”

“He didn’t feel he was doing anything wrong. He was just an altar boy.”

“You always feel something,” she said, looking out at the park. Her voice was darker, as if a cloud had passed over it, and he was quiet for a moment, not sure how to change the subject.

“What about the woman over there, in the straw hat?” he said, a parlor game. “What’s she up to?”

“Her?”

“She doesn’t look like an agent.”

“Perhaps she’s cheating on her husband.”

“Not the same thing.”

“It feels like it,” Emma said. “It’s exciting, all the pretending. And then always something awful underneath.”

He turned to face her. “I won’t cheat.”

“No, don’t,” she said, smiling a little. “I’d know.” She looked down at her watch. “You’d better push off now. I think I’d like a few minutes alone. Get myself in the mood. You know. I can’t concentrate with you around, mooning and getting into a state. What’s it like anyway, the restaurant? Gloomy?”

“Noisy. It’s a news hangout.”

“So much for your atmosphere,” she said, laughing. “No, don’t—you’ll smudge.”

“Okay,” he said, getting up. “You remember where it is?”

“Yes, yes. Come on. Push off.”

“You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

She looked up at him. “I’ll be fine. I’ve had lots of practice.”

“You’re not going to get me in any trouble with that, are you?” Tony said, watching Connolly string the wire between the booths.

“Would I do that to you?” He sat in the corner of his booth, cupping the earpiece in his hand so that he appeared to be merely leaning his head against the wall. “Can you see anything?”

“Trouble. That’s all I see.”

“How about a beer?”

“Sure. You want something to eat? You got a whole booth.”

“What’s cold?”

“Fried clams.”

Connolly grinned. “Fried when? Just bring me a tuna sandwich.”

“Tuna sandwich,” Tony said, moving away. “For a whole booth.”

The bar in front was beginning to fill up, but Connolly still had the dining room to himself. He hid the earpiece behind a sugar canister and pretended to read the paper, everything in him alert. The Thurber murals, the pride of the house, were the color of adobe, oversized women and wary men chasing each other around the room in a plaster frieze while no one, except the dogs, paid the slightest attention. There was a burst of laughter in the bar. Connolly had forgotten the sheer energy of New York. He thought of the polite academic murmurs of meals on the Hill. Here everyone seemed to be slapping everyone else on the back.

He had begun the crossword puzzle when Emma appeared, pointed in by Tony, who gave him a look when he saw her go past to the next booth. Connolly lowered his head to the paper, so that all he saw was the streak of red nails at eye level. Her perfume stayed behind her in the thick air. He was tempted to turn around—a last reassuring look—but instead he imagined her sitting in the booth, composed, winning Tony with a smile as he brought her iced tea. She was right, there was excitement in pretending. Absurdly, he thought of her shoes being tight and the fact that no one else knew.

He glanced up as each new arrival entered the room, then walked past to the back tables. Tony brought the sandwich, but Connolly let it sit there; too anxious to eat. How could Lawson be late? But they had been early.

When he did appear, five minutes later, Connolly knew it at once. He was tall, his bony frame covered in rumpled clothes that seemed just thrown on—dark cotton shirt damp at the armpits, plain tie knotted tightly, yanked down from the unbuttoned collar, jacket held by two fingers over his shoulder, a Village look. His pale hair, receding but still full on top, glistened with sweat; his face, the boyish soft face of a perennial teenager, was red, as if he had been running in the heat. He looked around nervously, then broke into a broad smile when he saw her.

“Emma,” he said, coming over to the booth. “My God, you look a treat.” He continued to stand for a second, and Connolly imagined him awkward, staring at her. “What do I do? Do I kiss you?”

Connolly heard no response, but she must have nodded, because there was a rustle of clothing as he bent over, then took a seat in the booth. Connolly leaned into the wall, picking up the receiver and hiding it against his ear, his crossword pencil lifted to write.

“I can’t believe it,” Lawson said, his voice still English and hurried, enthusiastic. “All this time. You turning up like this.”

“The bad penny,” Emma said.

“No, it’s marvelous. But what are you doing here? How long have you been in the States? How did—where to begin? Tell me everything.” His words rushed out, happily infectious, with the guileless wonder of meeting an old school friend.

“It has been a while, hasn’t it?”

“My God, look at you,” he said again, and Connolly felt him lean back against the booth to take her in.

“You’re the same,” she said, an appraisal, but he took it for a compliment.

“Well, the hair,” he said, evidently brushing it back at the temple. “I expect it’ll all go one day. But you—I can’t get over it. How’s your family?”