The American Ambassador (43 page)

He watched Gert move to the gate, and pause; she paid at the window, and swept through, eyes straight ahead. She had told him she was frightened always of the zoo, for there was no place to hide; she liked glass and concrete, city streets and electric lights and the noise of automobiles and amplified music. The zoo was so still. She moved to the bench, sat, and took out her pad and pencil.

Look at the buffalo, he whispered.

And she did.

He whispered, You are a bourgeois housewife.

She primly arranged her skirt, and crossed her legs.

He smiled happily; they were telepathic, had always been telepathic. He watched her lean forward, concentrating, beginning to sketch the motionless Cape buffalo, her pencil skimming over the page in swift, decisive strokes. Or so it seemed from thirty feet away. Huge beasts, they were frightening. They were not limber. They never moved, and were explicitly unforgiving. He watched her turn on the bench, uncomfortable, ill at ease in her clothes, wearing a smart suit of French manufacture, her hair long and gathered at the neck. A black pullover completed her ensemble. She had concentrated on her role. She was supposed to walk casually but look sharply, as always. Notice everything. She reached down to touch her ankle, grimacing a little; her feet hurt. The shoes were expensive, low-heeled shoes of the
haute bourgeoisie.
Also, the pantyhose were unfamiliar. He had looked at her in her pantyhose and American bra and said, “Sexy.” He had told her who she had to be, a bored housewife sketching in the zoo; so bored she thought nothing of sketching in the cold; so bored she moved about, now sketching on this bench, now on that. A bored housewife, uncomfortable in her own skin. Watching her, he believed in her, in the role he had created for her. An observer could be forgiven for thinking she was waiting for her lover; but such a thought would be false.

He told her what to think about, so her face would have the correct look. She would want to go deep into her imagination, her sense of things in the bourgeois life. It would be a look that would discourage familiarity even as it disarmed. Think about what you're going to have for dinner, Gert dear. Thinking about what a son of a bitch your husband is, how thick, how insensitive, how cruel, how mediocre. How ungrateful your children are. How routine and unfulfilled your life. Look at the other women in the park, and decide whether they are alluring, and attractive. And if they are attractive, why they are attractive; and then decide whether what they are wearing would look good on you. And how much it would cost, out of pocket. He gave her money to put into her purse so that she would feel like a prosperous housewife. And when you sketch, look beneath the skin of things, the animals and the vegetation, to the essence. Not the top, he said, the
spin.

He handed her a little red tam and said, When you see them, make no sign of recognition. Pass by. Do not look at them. You do not know them, so there is no reason to recognize them. (He cocked the red tam on the side of her head, jaunty, just so.) Look at the animals, then circle back. When you encounter them the third or fourth time, smile briefly, as you would acknowledge any stranger in a public place.

How will you know them? Remember. Remember the time in Hamburg.

No, she said.

Gert!
Remember the woman who cried, and the sarcasm of the man? Remember how tall he is, how he stoops, and how the woman always holds her chin just so? Remember them later, when they had drunk too much? You will recognize them because of me.

What?

The family resemblance. He kissed and fondled her, whispering something into her teeth. She laughed and hugged him. He said, They may say something to you.

She looked at him.

You smile, and you do not reply. Pass by, and walk quickly out of the zoo. When you see that you have excited their interest, turn and walk quickly out of the zoo. You know the route. Keep walking, no matter what. Do not run, but hurry. And return here, and wait.

Will they know me?

No, he said. Because you have already decided to be someone else. We have talked about your new identity. You will be someone you have been before, when you were modeling in Paris. Remember? You will have Paris expressions and your physical characteristics will be French. You are a young matron, the wife of a businessman.
Comme ça?
So they will not recognize you. No one will.

Except you, she said, and he nodded and kissed her again.

I will be close by, he agreed.

All the elements had come together at last. Things fit. A late afternoon in late autumn, the Berlin Zoo, no surprises. And still the uncertainty, no one could know how the cards would fall. It was enough that he had put them in play, Gert and the ambassador and his wife. It was a game of chance on a green baize table, an abrupt zone of insecurity, as arbitrary as the headlines of tomorrow's newspaper. And so much depended on Gert, Germany's child. He watched her now, as the ambassador and his wife came through the turnstile and hesitated, alert as animals in the wild, but without energy. The energy was Gert's.

 

She did not expect her feet to hurt so. She was not used to walking, or taking exercise. She had a servant to clean, and on the weekends she and her husband went to the racecourse or watched television. He was an older man—a businessman! At night he liked to watch vulgar films on television. Often she went to the zoo to sit and sketch amateurishly, and consider her days as a businessman's bored and frivolous wife.

When she saw them, she did not immediately register the fact. She was sketching a Cape buffalo, ugly creature, wide, thick horns, brutally curved. She was working on the horns, more interesting than the beast's face or body. She saw them stroll by, the man looking around, seeing her, pausing, his hand on the woman's arm—the woman who held her chin just so, she would be his wife—and walking on. She said something to his wife, but she did not turn. Gert concentrated on the buffalo, and when she next looked up they were gone. She completed the sketch and moved off down the path. She walked with determination, as if she were following the lines of a script. She thought of this part of the afternoon as a ballet. The wind was sharp but she was not uncomfortable. The wind fluttered her skirt, and she felt a few drops of rain. She put her sketch pad under the pullover. Then she saw them again, standing in front of the elephant house.

She veered off onto another path that would take her around in a loop. She had looked carefully at the man, at his broad back; he did not look well. He stooped, and walked slowly; his head was bent. She wondered if he were ill, the weather was so raw.

When she came around again, they were facing her. The woman was looking into her eyes. The woman smiled warmly, and Gert returned the smile, a fleeting smile, the casual, distracted smile that strangers exchange to be polite. But he was right, there was a family resemblance.

The woman said in German, “Are you Bill's friend?”

Not Bill,
Wolf.

The woman said, “You look so familiar.”

Gert said, “I am just a bourgeois housewife.”

The man smiled, and put his arm around his wife's waist. Gert knew it was a signal of some kind. She looked into the man's face, and was startled by his expression, so sympathetic yet intense. His gray eyes were cold, and he looked frightened. It was an expression she often saw on the faces of people that she met for the first time. It signaled confusion. She smiled at him openly, without guile, wanting to appear friendly. She expected him to speak, but he said nothing.

The woman stepped forward, saying again, “I believe we have met somewhere, perhaps in the past.” She grinned. “I, too, am a bourgeois housewife, with a desire to sketch. But I have never gone to the zoo to sketch. It's so cold and raw today. Don't you think?”

Gert did not reply.

“We, my husband and I, are here to meet our son.”

The man said quietly, “El, it's not her.”

“We were to meet him here in the park, some time today, or perhaps tomorrow.”

Gert smiled, and moved to pass by them.

The woman said, “You are a very pretty young girl. May I see what you've sketched? What is your name?”

Gert said, “
Bitte
,” and walked off. She hoped that this was the right thing to say. It hardly ever failed, a simple “
bitte
.” But the woman seemed to recognize her, though of course that was impossible. She had never met the woman before. However, her face was familiar; the eyes, and the set of the mouth. She forced herself to remember that this was only the second encounter and she had been told, quite specifically, at the
third
or
fourth
encounter she was to leave the zoo, and go straight home.

Gert heard the woman call after her. She heard their footsteps coming up behind her.

Gert had one encounter to go. But she did not mind being in the zoo, she knew it so well. The rain had stopped and the sun was trying to break through the belt of clouds, low and layered on the horizon. It was late now, almost four. All they would see would be a sunset, the last rays of light before dusk. November in northern Europe was very gloomy, always.

She moved quickly left, then right through the shrubbery to the narrow path that led back to the entrance. It was likely she would encounter them again there, for the third time; and then she could leave the zoo grounds. Her new shoes squeaked, clicking on the path. She heard something behind her and turned again, this time right. She knew exactly where she was, though there were no landmarks. She was deep in the park, where Berlin's rooftops were not visible, and the street noise muffled. It seemed to her unnaturally quiet. She slowed, listening carefully; she heard no footsteps behind her, but she knew also that she was not alone.

Gert wondered what the woman had meant, that they had met before “in the past.” She said it as if the past were a location, like a house or restaurant in Berlin or Leipzig, a specific place existing perhaps only in the memory. But they had never met, she was certain of that. Blood pounded in her temples, and she stopped a moment to allow the blood to subside.

Gert was at a crossroads.

She felt the presence of the woman before she saw her. She smelled expensive perfume, and felt the atmosphere change. Her head cleared and she waited, poised. The voice at her side said, “We do not mean you harm.”

Gert did not turn, but continued to stare straight ahead, every sense alert. They were familiar words, she had heard them many times; and they were always false.

“But we must know. Are you Bill's friend?”

The voice was soft and seductive, but others had been. People used words like weapons, the more seductive, the more lethal.

“Do you want to take us to him?”

Gert said, “I don't know you, I'm afraid.”

The woman said, “There is no need to be afraid.”

Gert smiled.

“I'm Bill's mother. I'm Elinor North.” The woman touched her on the elbow, but Gert did not return the gesture or react in any way, so the woman removed her hand. Gert turned her head, and the woman smiled encouragingly. Gert did not know what kind of woman she was, but believed that she was strong, like the statue in the square. Perhaps even heroic. She wondered where the man was. They have taken different paths.

“May I see your sketch pad?”

Gert shook her head, and made as if to go.

“Tell us what to do, and we will do it. My husband and I are exhausted. Do you understand?” The woman was no longer smiling. “We don't know what he wants of us. Where he wants to meet. We are willing to meet with him, wherever. But it must be now. So if you want to walk away, do so. Tell him that we are here. We will stay another hour. No longer. Do you understand me?” The woman stepped back, Gert watching her. The woman's German was grammatically perfect, but the accent was faulty. Gert knew that the woman was trying to prepare her for—something. She felt tremendous danger. “I know you are Bill's friend. It's hard for me to talk.”

Without knowing why, Gert wanted to delay a moment. On impulse she handed the woman her sketch pad.

“This is quite good,” the woman said. “The Cape buffalo, and Bill and me. I like the horns.” She handed the sketch pad back. “We will be here another hour. Tell him that. Tell him there is no one with us. We are alone.” Gert began to move away, but the woman followed. Gert turned, reaching into her handbag, and the woman stopped dead. They stood staring at each other, five feet apart.

Gert thought the woman did not know what she was saying. She did not know where she was. This was not the past, but the present. She said she was Bill's mother; perhaps that was true and perhaps it wasn't. Gert hated her soft words, and full sentences. She talked too much. Now and then her hand went to her left ear, to touch a gold earring; a nervous gesture. She was not moving now. Gert's hand gripped the little .25 in her purse. She was waiting for an impulse. It began to rain again, little drops, barely more than a heavy gray mist. She heard a voice behind her, “Gert,” so soft no one else could hear it, though the woman seemed to react. Gert withdrew her hand from her purse and let the purse swing from her shoulder. She moved back calmly, a step at a time. She stood with her sketchbook in her hand, feeling the thick cardboard and the soft sheets in between. The woman had said,
Quite good.
She liked the horns. Now her face seemed to soften, her mouth moving, her fingers touching her lips. The woman was looking over Gert's shoulder, rising on the balls of her feet, concentrating, staring as if Gert weren't there. She made a sudden movement and then Gert was running, and in a moment was out of sight, left and right and left again down the narrow paths. She knew she was free to go home, and wait for him there. Then they would be together again, all business concluded, free at last. A bitter day, Gert thought as she ran, the purse banging against her hip; the day left an acid taste on the tongue. These people had no business here. They were foreigners, intruders in Berlin. She accelerated, flying around a curve in the path, then slowed to a walk. She thought, What will I do if he leaves me, goes away back to America?