A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall (39 page)

They took a seat at the first table. Burr traced its hammered tin corners. Edison bulbs and oil lamps lit the room. A triangular copper bar, a teardrop island within the island block, dominated the ground floor. The café was very dark, which was good. Burr had the impression of a dining car, derailed in the 1920s, left in a field to patinate for a decade, then crammed into this wedge just in time to shelter people during the air raids.

—Very bohemian. Do artists come here?

—Some.

—Does Kurt Wagener come here?

—This part of Kreuzberg is mostly Turkish. Even before Basel, there were whispers around the neighborhood that Kurt had fabricated his assault and injury. You won't see Kurt here. He wouldn't last ten minutes.

—How long did he pretend to be in a wheelchair?

—Over a year. But now all these pictures are popping up online of Kurt running on beaches in the Antilles with Brigitte. So apparently there were a few months where he took a vacation from his disability.

—That's awful. And now he really is confined to a wheelchair? Horrible.

Stevie gestured to the waiter that they needed more time. She took Burr's hand.

—Is it? Yes. I guess. I mean it's awful.

—It's awful.

—If Owen came back here, he might face charges of aggravated assault. I know that Altberg is close to a prosecutor. And I imagine that the ordinary court wants to overlook the entire Basel show. There's a kidnapping charge awaiting both Altberg and Kurt if they push for aggravated assault, so I'm thinking the charges may be dropped.

—You've looked into this. Do you study law?

—No. I don't actually know what I'm talking about. I'm a semester away from a degree in philosophy.

—
Ooph
. Philosophy? Then you really don't know what you're talking about.

—I want to get a doctorate in phenomenology.

—Know that I'm unofficially retired as an academic, so I can admit that I never had the foggiest idea what that word meant. I mean, I know the names and the terms, but—

—Already qualifying your remark. You'll be back on a university campus before spring term.

—I made my choice in Athens.

—Still. It's a good life you're giving up.

—You didn't have to miss lectures to meet me, did you?

—No. I'm working gigs again.

They ordered lunch and started a bottle of white wine. Burr surprised them both by finishing his glass before Stevie took a sip from hers.

—I don't know the full story, but from what I've read, the machinations worked.

He felt like a fool as soon as he said it.

—What worked?

—Kurt's plan. The fake show to get Owen to confront him, the pictures of the actual conflict.

—He's in a wheelchair. I am positive he never took the show that seriously. Maybe he was trying to do a Chris Burden thing. But he definitely didn't plan on any injury being permanent.

—Of course.

—It certainly didn't work for Hal, the photographer. Kurt used one of the pictures from the confrontation, deleted the rest, sold it for a million dollars, and cut out Hal completely. The bigger insult was that Kurt called all of those Abu Ghraib pictures kitsch and said he never intended them to be art, just bait to get Owen to Basel.

—Hal planned to make money from them?

—Lots. Kurt had promised him that he would get fifty percent of the sales. Then Kurt gives away the high-res files on the internet and says it's not art.

—Was he trying to be honorable?

—I keep forgetting you've never met Kurt. He just wanted to drive up the price for his sculpture of fighting Owen—which some Hollywood prop makers designed based on the video and photos from Basel.

—I didn't read about it.

—It's called
The Settlement
. The word is, it sold to an American collector for $12 million. Think of a hastily thrown together Maurizio Cattelan.

—To be sure.

—A few weeks ago Hal was talking to the same host on
Zeitgeist
about how Kurt was always planning to sell the torture photos, which is probably true, in the event that Owen didn't turn up in Basel and confront him.

—So he was going to make millions from torturing Owen either way. That's great. Do you want my advice? Get as far away from Berlin as you can, and find a way to finish your degree.

—Okay. I'll just transfer to Oxford next semester. No problem.

—How's your academic standing?

She tilted her head and smiled. Her expressions were so curious. Whenever she said anything provocative, she lifted her eyebrows and jutted out her lower lip until her face resembled a wooden mask.

She rose to go to the ladies'. Burr asked for her phone so that he could confirm that his flight was on schedule.

Burr did the math: it was 5:00 p.m. in Berlin, 8:00 a.m. in California. There was a decent chance Gaskin was up. But there was little chance he was in the office, and that was the only number Burr knew by heart. He would have to hope Clarissa was there. She picked up on the second ring.

—Clarissa! Thank heavens! I don't expect Gerry is in, but I need to speak with him at once. This is Joe. Burr. Joe Burr. I expect Gerry is very cross with me.

—He called in twice yesterday asking for an update, Professor Burr, for the first time in I can't remember when. He's out golfing this morning, but he said to patch you through whenever you called. Let me transfer you.

He'd never felt so important to be on hold. Gerry picked up at once.

—Of course you call the moment our group is about to tee off.

—I'm so sorry.

Burr was sweating.

—Spyglass is tough enough without this horseshit. First hole: six-hundred-yard par five. Straight into the teeth of the wind.

Gaskin let Burr stammer for a second, and then continued.

—Boy, am I glad I can hang back in the cart shed while those assholes lose three balls a man. Are you okay, Joe? What happened? All I'm getting is the news feed from CNN. You've been gone less than a week, and you start an international incident? Are you okay?

—I'll be fine. But I need a favor.

—This sounds like a nineteenth-hole conversation. It's eight a.m. here. Where are you?

—Berlin.

—I'm afraid I'm a little out of my depth here. Garreth, Olivia, and Taylor are calling for your head. I had to get out of the office to buy us both some time. What the hell happened?

—Things got out of hand. The whole speech was a setup. But listen, Owen is in trouble. I need to put one of his friends up in our house.

—Joe, I want to help, but you can't put the university in the position of harboring fugitives. My lawyer says I shouldn't even be talking to you. He says my phone is probably tapped.

—She's not a fugitive. She's a student. And she helped extricate Owen from a great deal of trouble. Is the house free?

—The house isn't the issue. You need to worry about your safety, not your assets. Do you have a good lawyer? A criminal lawyer? My guy may know someone.

—The house is the issue. Can you help me or not?

—I'll do what I can. I think it's free at the moment. There was a couple from Amherst who was going to stay there for Thanksgiving. I can probably bump them. Who is this person?

—Her name is Stephanie . . .

Burr realized that if the phone was tapped, he shouldn't say.

—She's a phenomenology student. Once she's there, you need to get her a meeting with Jim or Chuck or someone in Philosophy or Semiotics.

—One step at a time. When is she coming?

—I'm not sure. You're going to need to get her a ticket and make sure this happens.

He heard the static of coastal wind, or Gaskin exhaling heavily.

—Gerry, are you still there?

—I am. Can you connect me to this Stephanie over e-mail?

—I'm afraid I can't use e-mail anymore. But I'll pass on your address. She should be in California soon. If I had my druthers, she'd be on a flight tonight.

—Say “Caroline” if you are in trouble.

—I'm not going to say her name. But this woman . . . well, I hope she'll be good to Owen. I want to get this right before I go. And Gerry, thank you for this. She'll know where to find me.

—This sounds final. I'm going to do my best to retire you, but I've got to be honest, right now it looks like you're going to be fired.

—Do what you can. And leave anything in Owen's name. Whatever happens, thank you. I'm in your debt.

—We'll call it even, Joe. Be safe. Wait, where are you going from Berlin?

—I'm going to find my son.

Burr clapped the flip phone together with a finality that confirmed this chapter of his life was over. He didn't feel relief. He felt off balance.

Burr paid for lunch with the cash he had withdrawn at the Athens airport. He had left his checking account a cenotaph, an empty tomb whose remains he was now transferring to the winds. Before this, he had never carried more than a few hundred dollars at any one time. This wad of euros could stop a bullet and made him feel more than a touch criminal. To complete the picture all he needed was a thick rubber band, the ones they used at Trader Joe's to bundle the broccoli.

Stevie had seen him end the call and knew he wasn't listening to an automated flight schedule.

—What was that, then?

—It's not Oxford, but it's home.

He wrote out Gaskin's e-mail and his home address.

—The house should be in good shape. But you'll need to get a garage door.

N
either of Berlin's two airports is the best place in the world to be if you're worried about being accosted by a nebulous international police force. The security guards could have been wearing feathered Alpine hats and Burr would still shrink from their bulk and tone. Going on
Zeitgeist
wasn't just ballsy, it was crazy. The only clever thing he had done was buy a ticket to Chile along with his ticket to Iceland, in hopes that both destinations would be presumed false or, at worst, that he would divide the chase.

Or at least he'd thought it was clever. Though he was relieved to be thumbing the magnetic strip of a boarding pass, and further relieved that there were no strange security markings, like asterisks or “SSSS” in a corner, he realized there was a real difference between a plane ticket and a boarding pass. Chile meant nothing. His name would make the manifest for Iceland.

He handed the boarding pass to security.

—You are going back to America from Iceland, yes?

—Yes. I just have an uncertain return date.

—How long have you been in Germany?

—Just passing through.

—It says on your ticket you checked no luggage. Where are your things?

Burr was still wearing the black polo shirt from Athens. The collar, once pressed tightly to his neck, now belled out and curled up at the edges. The hem of his pants was marked with Acropolis rubble. The brambles clinging to his shoelaces made him thankful that European security had yet to adopt the indignity of making passengers remove their shoes.

Security asked him to remove his shoes.

He pricked his index finger and thumb removing the nettles. The guards patted him down repeatedly. Two different guards traced his body with wands. He had a stuffed wallet and a wad of cash in the security bin, a leather portfolio with hospital records, waivers, and contemporary art magazines, and the distressed wardrobe of someone on the tail end of a peyote trip. But he was good enough to fly.

He tried not to celebrate the return of his passport. He immediately pinched the smile into a sober countenance that he hoped matched his photograph in the passport without also matching his photograph in the news.

As the gate agent of Iceland Air called his boarding group, he told himself that this was the last private hurdle he would have to overcome. This was the last time he would be a vulnerable individual rather than a part of a collective. Once he was on the plane, they would have to stop the entire plane, as a group, if they wanted to single him out as a person.

He buckled his safety belt as soon as he found his seat. He tightened the strap and nodded to the passengers on either side. Both were moon-faced and remote. He assumed they were Icelanders. On the taxi ride from Kreuzberg to the airport he had resolved that if anyone asked, he spoke no English, had no idea what they were talking about. He decided he would play it Polish.

The plane lifted from the tarmac, lifted from the trapping lines of land and into clean air. Never had he listened to the pilot's channel on the plane radio before tonight. He overheard chatter in Icelandic about numbers, and most importantly, he didn't hear the name Joseph Burr. This would be a drinking flight.

He took each of the three cans of beer the steward offered on the four-hour flight from Berlin to Reykjavik. The passengers on either side were asleep. He felt guilty at each crack of the beer tab, but thought his accounts were even because he didn't get up for the restroom and didn't recline his chair.

Burr had always wanted to see the auroras. He would be willing to rot in an Iceland prison as long as he had a window to see the aurora borealis a few times a year. He leaned forward and peeked around the passenger with the window seat. No auroras.

It was nearly 22:00, according to the clock on the flight chart, but the sun was defiantly high. Would the sun set by September? And then how long before the aurora borealis became visible? Wispy green magnet wind. It was magnets, right? How different the pantheon would be if those northern lights hit Mediterranean climes.

Burr focused on the map. Part of him knew that it wasn't how these onboard locators worked, but the other part expected to see the yellow dot of Owen's hair wandering through the mountains. That was a place to start. Owen knew enough to avoid the metropolitan areas. Burr counted six major urban areas, all with a bay and endless winding mountain ranges.