A Deceptive Clarity (2 page)

And now, Tony explained to me, the Defense Department had funded a deputy-director position to take some of the work load off Peter's shoulders, and I was just the man for it. From Tony's perspective—not that he said so—it meant he would be saving my salary for a couple of months, which would help in the new budget, and he would be getting my temporarily gloomy and unproductive self out from underfoot.

From mine it meant a deeply needed respite. I was suddenly tired to death of budget reallocations, tired of San Francisco, tired of my lonely Victorian off Divisadero, tired of the endless, petty squabbling with Bev. This last was done almost entirely through Rita. Bev and I had spoken only twice since she'd left, and both times I'd wound up shouting at her, practically foaming at the mouth. That had shaken me, if not her. I couldn't recall ever having been truly, quiveringly furious with anyone else in my life, and certainly I'd never been reduced to incoherent raving. The divorce was teaching me a few unwelcome things about myself too.

All in all, a few months in Europe sounded like just what I needed. Moreover, as Tony was quick to point out, Peter had already done the hard work.

"Everything's going smoothly, as far as I know," he told me. "Oh, they've got a few minor problems, of course, but nothing special."

"What will I be doing, exactly?"

"You'll be the deputy director."

"I know, but what am I supposed to
do
?"

"Well, you know, assist Peter, provide technical advice to Robey, that kind of thing."

"Thanks. That's very instructive."

Tony shrugged a little further into his coat and began to button it "Look, to be perfectly candid, I don't really know what you'll be doing. As far as I can see, there's barely enough to keep one man busy, let alone two. I think you're going to wind up with an all-expenses-paid vacation, but what the hell."

"What the hell," I agreed. "So what do I do first?"

"Just show up in Berlin Wednesday. That's where it opens next."

"You mean
next
Wednesday?"

"Sure, why not? What else have you got going?"

"Are you kidding? All kinds of things."

"For example."

"Those budget scenarios, for one thing."

"Forget them. I'll take care of them. You know I'm not going to cut your department. And you know Sawacki can run Renaissance and Baroque for you for a couple of months. What else do you have to do?"

"What else? Well ..." But what else was there, aside from getting someone to take care of Murphy and having the mail held? My life at the time was not exactly overfull. "Maybe I can make it. Where in Berlin do I go?"

'Tempelhof. You know where it is?"

"No, but isn't that where—"

"The planes came in for the Berlin airlift, right. It's an American air base now, and the show's going to be in the officers-club building—Columbia House, I think it's called." Tony looked importantly at his watch, as if a hundred more urgent things pressed him. No doubt they did. He put a few papers into his attache case and zipped it up. "Well."

"Wait a minute, Tony, I still don't know anything. What about those problems you mentioned? What kind of problems?"

"Not to worry. Minor problems. The usual thing," Tony explained helpfully. "You'll do fine."

Louis, my trusty psychotherapist friend, once told me that I had a low tolerance for ambiguity. At that moment I was inclined to think he was right, because I was uncomfortable with Tony's vagueness. Vacation or not, whatever I was responsible for, I wanted to do a good job of it. (Louis has also pointed out to me that I have an obsessive-compulsive attitude toward work, probably the result of an anal fixation. Louis furnishes me with much useful information of this kind, all gratis.)

Having been a civil servant at a county museum for five years, I was also a little wary of that "performing other duties as required," but not enough to think twice about going.

Berlin wasn't one of my favorite cities, being too frantically, resolutely decadent for my taste, but there was a lot I liked about it: Nefertiti at Charlottenburg, the Dürers and Rembrandts at Dahlem, the wonderful zoo, the Tiergarten. ... Best of all, it was over six thousand miles away, where people in San Francisco (lawyers, for example) would not be able to reach me by telephone whenever they liked, bearing counteroffers and other unpleasantnesses.

Messages would arrive days or weeks late, sapped of their urgency, to be dealt with in my own good time; not sandwiched between budget reallocations and deaccessioning meetings, but at my ease, perhaps over a Scotch, when things could be pondered. Maybe, under conditions like that, I could look at what had happened between Bev and me in a reasonable light, try to understand, maybe even ...

A hundred bristling, angry obstacles sprang up at the thought. I wasn't ready to be reasonable yet; maybe I never would be. No, the heck with Bev and her nine-and-three-quarters percent and her integrated independence. And her stockbroker. I needed to get on with my own life, to find my stride again, and a couple of months in Europe would be a terrific way to do it.

Had I but known, as Miss Sibley taught us never to say in Creative Writing 201.

Chapter 2

"What's this thing supposed to be?"

The guard at the entrance to Columbia House looked at the card in my wallet, and then up at my face, with equal skepticism.

"My ID."

"Take it out of the wallet."

I handed the flimsy, plastic-encased card to him with sinking confidence. It had been issued the day before, at Rhein-Main Air Base, near Frankfurt, where I'd been instructed to stop on my way to Berlin. The sergeant who gave it to me had assured me that it would get me into any American military installation in Europe, but I had been doubtful even then. It wasn't very official-looking—my name, photograph, and a few details on one side, and on the other a small-print list of twenty-nine varied "privileges," some of which I was shown as entitled to, others not, according to some esoteric and unfathomable guidelines. (Mortuary services, officer-NCO club, and credit union were okay; laundry, dry cleaning, and postal service weren't.) It was about as impressive as my library card.

That's what the guard thought too. "This ain't no ID."

"It was issued yesterday at Rhein-Main—"

He shook his short-cropped, beret-clad head and signaled me to take the card back. "This ain't no ID. I can't let you in. Sorry."

I set my jaw. "Look, it says GSE-fourteen, right? That's equivalent to a light colonel." I wasn't sure what a light colonel was, but that's what the sergeant had told me, and the sergeant had sounded impressed.

The guard didn't. "Yeah, well," he said, patient but unyielding, "don't expect nobody to salute."

"Well, well, Chris, having a little trouble? Nothing we can't work out, I'm sure."

I turned, and there was Peter van Cortlandt, genteel, smiling, his patrician face as smooth and ruddy as ever, his thrust-out hand as well manicured, his suit as flawlessly and conservatively tailored.

"Now: What seems to be the difficulty?" Peter addressed himself pleasantly to the guard, and I watched admiringly as he straightened things out within seconds.

Peter van Cortlandt was one of those people with command presence, but of a quiet, unaggressive sort, and he usually got his way. Although he was nominally my boss at the museum ("nominally" because there was only one functioning boss, and that was Tony), I knew little about him. Peter had that aristocrat's knack of being unfailingly cordial and courteous, yet maintaining a cool, objective distance, physical and psychological, between himself and others. What I did know of him, I liked. Although he accepted deference as his due, he managed to do it in an unassuming and considerate way. Moreover, he was an art historian of great erudition, and he had always shared his knowledge freely—not something you ran into every day in the art world.

By the time Peter had finished with the guard, the young man was smiling and apologetic, and even saluted me through the doorway.

"Do you want to go up to your room, Chris?" Peter asked. "Wash up, perhaps?"

"No, I'm fine." I looked around at a lobby much like that of a hotel, with reception desk, worn but good carpeting, and comfortable-looking armchairs arranged in informal groupings. "Nice place."

"You sound surprised. Were you expecting something more along the lines of a Quonset hut?"

I laughed. "I guess I was."

Peter motioned to a couple of upholstered chairs in a window alcove. I draped my suit bag over the arm of one and sank into it, facing the window and the blustery green plaza outside.

"The Platz der Luftbrücke," Peter said. "The Germans called it the air bridge, not the air lift, which makes more sense, don't you think?" He sat facing me and rubbed his hands briskly together. Not many people could do it without looking like Uriah Heep, but Peter could.

"Well, Chris, I'm glad you're here. We can make good use of that sensitive touch of yours that so impresses us all."

From someone else it would have been banter, but Peter never—absolutely never—poked fun at anyone. Nor, for that matter, was he effusive with his compliments.

Flattered and caught off guard, I was embarrassed. "Something need a sensitive touch?"

"It well may. As you know, Bolzano continues to threaten to pull out. I've calmed him down twice this week on the telephone, but I'm not sure I can successfully keep it up. You might be able to do better if push comes to shove."

But I hadn't known there was any trouble with Bolzano. And if Peter's formidable persuasive powers couldn't resolve it, what was I supposed to be able to pull out of my hat, sensitive touch notwithstanding?

"But what's the problem, Peter? Does Bolzano really want out?"

Peter looked startled; that is to say, his right eyebrow rose all of an eighth of an inch for an eighth of a second. "Do you mean to say Tony didn't tell you about it?"

"Not that I remember. Must have slipped his mind."

"Hm. Well. Bolzano's quite concerned about security, for one thing. He seems to think we're not taking adequate precautions. And he's worried that we may not be giving proper care to packing and transportation, and he's afraid ... well, just worried. He genuinely loves those old paintings, you know."

"And is there really anything for him to worry about?"

"I don't think so. The army has quite a professional operation mounted here, as competent as you'd be likely to find in the United States. And if the Defense Department isn't expert in security, well, who is?"

I nodded. "What makes you think I'd carry any weight with him? I've never met him."

"I know that, but he thinks very highly of you. He's read that monograph of yours on the Spanish mannerists in the new edition of Arnoldi, and he was telling me all about a highly complimentary review of your new book in the
Bollettino d'arte.
He's impressed with your scholarship— told me so very frankly. And of course I agreed with him— very frankly."

Two compliments from Peter van Cortlandt in one day. Surely a record.

"But let's not worry about signor Bolzano right now." He smiled at me somewhat mischievously, which was not a typical way for him to smile. "Tell me, what did you say when Tony told you about the, ah, forgery I seem to have uncovered in the midst of The Plundered Past?"

"The ... ?" I couldn't help laughing. Good old Tony. What was it he'd said? The usual little problems? "That must have slipped his mind, too. You know Tony; he tries not to get too involved in details."

After a moment Peter laughed, too. "Yes, I know Tony." He looked at his watch. "Well, that can wait, too. Chris, I have to catch a plane in a couple of hours. What do you say to lunch? Do you like Kranzler's?"

I left my bags at the reception desk, and twenty minutes later we stepped out of a taxi in downtown Berlin in front of the Cafe Kranzler. I hadn't been inside it for four years, not since the last time I'd come to Berlin. It had been at a table on the balcony that I'd tried unsuccessfully to talk Wildenberg into lowering his price on a carved, fifteenth-century Riemenschneider tryptich. I hadn't been sorry I'd failed to get it for the museum, and in fact I hadn't tried as hard as I might have. Riemenschneider was one of those great artists (one of those many great artists) whom I soberly appreciated, but whose work I just plain didn't like. That was true, I'm afraid, for the grim, grotesque German Gothic as a whole. It's not that I don't recognize great art when I see it, you understand; it's just that I know what I like.

A hell of an attitude for an art curator.

The Kranzler hadn't changed at all, not a bit. Gaudy in a decorous, old-maidish way, a bit too self-consciously grand and sedate, it was an institution, the only one of the great old cafes on the Kurfurstendamm to have survived the war, and to enter it was to walk into the Berlin of the Twenties.

It was quite crowded, largely with elderly women in green hats who commanded their tables with a distinct air of de jure possession. One of them, presiding over a
kannchen
of coffee and a
Deutsche Zeitung
provided by the cafe, nodded regally as we passed. I returned the gesture respectfully. Probably remembered me, I thought. No doubt she'd been at the same table four years ago in 1982. Given reasonable odds, I would have bet she'd been there in 1922.

"Upstairs?" Peter suggested.

"Fine."

We climbed the spiral marble staircase, winding past a central pillar of white and gold mosaic, and found a table at the window. I sat looking east along the Kurfurstendamm, toward Berlin's riveting memorial to the destruction of war: the black, gutted stump of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, cowering so incongruously among angular, modern buildings of glass, like a bewildered dinosaur that had wandered into the twentieth century and didn't know how to get out. Closer, the Ku'damm was lined with chic stores and garish theaters with four- and five-story marquees.
(INDIANA JONES UND DER TEMPEL DES TODES!
proclaimed twenty-foot-high green letters directly across the street.)