The Gordian Knot (3 page)

Bulnakov released Georg’s hand and closed the door. Here in his office there was also the smell of fresh paint, and a new desk, a new chair, a new seating area, and along the wall two built-in niches piled high with folders. Above them technical drawings were pinned to the wall with thumbtacks. Bulnakov stood in front of his desk looking at Georg with benevolence and concern, and asked again, “Is anything wrong? Is it what we pay that’s making you hesitate? Ah, I know it’s a touchy subject, believe you me, but I can’t afford to pay more than thirty-five centimes a word. Not the kind of money that will make anyone rich—no Croesus, but no Diogenes either. Not that I’m saying you’re a Diogenes, it’s just a manner of speaking.”

Thirty-five centimes a word—Maurin was paying him that, but only now that he’d been working for him half a year. Not to mention that he would no longer have to drive all the way to Marseille, nor would he have to do the typing himself.

“I’m very grateful for your kind words, Monsieur, and that you are interested in my working for you,” Georg said. “I would gladly fit any jobs you care to give me into my schedule, and in fact keep my schedule open, but I charge fifty centimes. You might wish to consider this and give me a call, but as of now it seems that your expectations and mine do not coincide.”

What a stilted answer, but Georg was pleased with it and proud he wasn’t selling himself cheap. And to hell with it if it didn’t work out.

Bulnakov laughed. “I see you’re a man who knows his worth, a man who demands his price! I like that, my young friend, I like it very much. May I propose forty-five centimes? Let’s shake on it! Shall we do business?”

Georg was handed an envelope with the galley pages of a handbook. “The first half is due next Monday, and the rest on Wednesday. Also, there’s an IBM conference in Lyon next Thursday and
Friday. If you could go there with Mademoiselle Kramsky as our representative, and keep your ears to the ground and your pen at the ready, jotting down whatever people say, we would pay a thousand francs a day plus expenses. As far as those fees go, they’re nonnegotiable—no ifs, ands, or buts. Agreed? You must excuse me now.”

Georg spoke with Mademoiselle Kramsky about the trip. He hadn’t noticed before that she was pretty—or now his good mood made her seem so. A white blouse with white embroidery, white edging above her breasts, and short sleeves, one rolled up, the other unbuttoned. She wasn’t wearing a bra, had small, firm breasts, and golden hairs shimmered on her tanned arms. Her collar was round, pretty, and the top buttons coquettishly undone, and when she laughed her eyes laughed too. By her right eyebrow, beside her nose, she had a small trembling dimple while she was thinking: Should we go by train or car, and when should we start, Wednesday evening perhaps, after we’re finished with the typing and proofreading of the handbook. Georg made a joke; a thick ray of sunlight fell between the two church towers outside the window, and in its light Mademoiselle Kramsky shook her head laughing, sparks dancing in her hair.

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. The town on the hilltop shimmered in the midday sun, and they drove through its winding streets and past vineyards on their way down to the Route Nationale. They talked about music, movies, and where they lived, and over a picnic Georg told her about Heidelberg, Karlsruhe, and his life as a lawyer and with Hanne. He was surprised at how open he was. He felt strangely trusting and happy. As they drove on they dropped the formal
vous
, and she shook with laughter at how sharp and hard her name sounded in German.

“No, Françoise, it depends on how you pronounce it. The ending of your name can sound like an explosion or like a breath of air”—he demonstrated—“and … and … I would never call you Franziska in German.”

“What would you call me?”

“Brown Eyes. You have the brownest eyes I’ve ever seen. You can’t turn that into a name in French, but you can in German, and that’s what I would call you.”

She kept her eyes on the road. “Is that a term of endearment?”

“It’s a term for someone one likes.”

She looked at him earnestly. A lock of hair fell across her face. “I like driving with you through the countryside.”

He turned onto the highway, stopped at a tollbooth, took a ticket, and threaded into the stream of cars.

“Will you tell me a story?” she asked.

He told her the tale of the little goose maid, speaking the rhymes first in German, then in French. He knew them by heart. When the false bride pronounced her verdict—“Naked as the day you were born you will be put in a barrel of sharp nails that two wild horses will drag till you die!”—Françoise caught her breath. She suspected what the old king would say: “False bride, you have just pronounced your own sentence! This will now be your own fate!”

As they drove toward Montélimar, she told him a Polish story in which a farmer outwits the devil. Then they sat listening in silence to Mozart’s flute quartets on the radio. When Georg noticed that Françoise had fallen asleep he turned the music down, delighting in the motion of the car, the wind in his face, Françoise at his side, her breathing and contented sighs when her head tilted to one side and she sat up again, then rested her head on his shoulder.

In Lyon the hotels were all fully booked, and they had to drive six miles into the mountains and even there had to take a double room. Françoise’s neck was sore, and Georg massaged it. They changed, drove into town, had a bite to eat, and then went to the mayor’s reception, where they chatted with various people, their eyes often seeking each other out in the town hall. There was thick fog as they drove back to the hotel and Georg drove very slowly, keeping to the center line. “I like your sitting next to me,” he said.

Then they lay next to each other in bed. Françoise told him about a lovesick friend of hers who had left for America only to fall unhappily in love there with a Lebanese man. As she reached over to the nightstand to turn out the light, Georg put his arm around
her waist. She nestled against him in the dark. He caressed her, they kissed, and they could not get enough.

After they had made love, she cried quietly.

“What is it, Brown Eyes?”

She shook her head, and he kissed away the tears from her face.

THEY DIDN’T RETURN TO CADENET UNTIL
Monday, though the conference was over on Friday. They went to St. Lattier, had dinner at the Lièvre Amoureux, and slept late on Saturday. They looked in their Michelin Guide for the restaurant Les Hospitaliers in Le Poët-Laval—it had a star—and they found a place to stay in the town. They spent their last night near Gordes, in the open. They didn’t want their picnic to end: there was a mild evening breeze; the sky was full of stars, and in the coolness before dawn they slept cuddling beneath the blankets that Françoise kept in her car. It was a two-hour drive to Cadenet. The sun was shining, the air was clear, and the road was free. In the little towns through which they drove, stores were raising their shutters, cafés and bakeries were already open, and people were carrying home loaves of bread. Georg was at the wheel, Françoise’s hand resting on his thigh. For a long time he was silent, and then he asked her, “Will you move in with me?”

He had been eagerly looking forward to his question and her response. He was certain she would say yes, that everything was perfect between the two of them. In fact—life was perfect.

The conference had been a success. He had come across as
relaxed and informed. Clever questions had been asked, and he had given witty answers. He had handed out not only Bulnakov’s card but his own too, and a lawyer from Montélimar who specialized in computer leasing and software liability wanted to work with him on future French-German cases. The Xerox representative had been surprised when Georg told him about the TEXECT translation he had just done. “But that’s been available in French for more than a year!” But what did Georg care, it wasn’t his problem. In his jacket pocket he could feel Bulnakov’s envelope with six thousand francs.

And Françoise was sitting beside him. The second night, Thursday, he had thrown all caution to the winds. He was going to enjoy it; he wasn’t going to fall in love, wouldn’t lose himself, but was still slightly afraid that this affair might last only one night, or a few days. He had woken up in the night and sat in the bathroom, his elbows propped on his knees, his head resting in his hands. He was moody and sad. Then Françoise came in, stood next to him, and he leaned his head against her bare hip while she ran her fingers through his hair. She said
Georg
, not
Georges
as she usually did. It sounded clumsy, but it made him feel good. He had told her that his parents and sister had called him Georg, his friends in high school and college too, but that when he went to France after his internship at the law firm it had become Georges or Shorsh. He had told her a lot about his childhood, his years at school and university, his marriage to Steffi, and the years with Hanne. She kept asking questions.

She didn’t reveal much about herself—the silent type, he thought. It wasn’t that she didn’t talk. She described in great detail how she had moved from Paris to Cadenet, how she had found an apartment and fixed it up, how she settled in, what she did evenings and on weekends, and how she started making friends. She also answered his questions about Bulnakov’s office in Paris,
told him about the heart attack Bulnakov had had a year earlier, and his decision to work less and away from Paris. Bulnakov had wanted her to come with him, and had made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. “You don’t leave Paris for Cadenet just like that,” she said. Her talk was mostly fast, lively, and amusing, and made Georg laugh a lot. “You’re making fun of me,” she’d say with a pout, and, hugging him, would give him a kiss.

They had arrived at Poët-Laval early, and after they carried their bags up to the room they couldn’t get into bed fast enough. With one sweep he pulled his sweater, shirt, and T-shirt up over his head, with another his pants, underwear, and socks. They made love, fell asleep, and then, kissing and touching, were aroused again. She knelt on him, moving rhythmically, and stopped whenever his excitement grew too strong. Outside it was dusk, and her face and body shimmered in the twilight. He couldn’t gaze at her enough, but had to close his eyes because he was brimming over with love and pleasure. She was next to him, and yet he still longed for her. “If you give me a child—you will be present when I give birth, won’t you?” She looked at him intently. He nodded. Tears were running down his cheeks, and he couldn’t speak.