by Joseph Kanon
A reflection in the glass, someone standing in the doorway. Obstbaum.
“Doctor,” he said, turning, his voice changing. “I’ve just been telling Anna—” How long had he been listening?
“Don’t let me interrupt.” Obstbaum held out his clipboard, a visual excuse.
“No, no, please,” Leon said, then glanced down at his watch. “Anyway, look at the time. I’m seeing Georg,” he said to Anna. “I couldn’t put him off again.” Do all the normal things. “An old friend,” he said to Obstbaum. “She was very fond of him. Weren’t you? I’ll give him your love.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then looked back up at Obstbaum. What had he heard?
“I hope it’s all right, talking like that,” he said at the door.
“It’s good, your coming. The activity. And two days now. Last night too, I hear.”
From whom? Why?
“How is she?” Leon said, ignoring it.
“No worse.” He caught Leon’s expression. “It’s something, you know, no worse. At least there’s no deterioration. It’s good, the talking.”
“Sometimes I think it’s for me. Just sitting here. It makes me feel calmer.”
Obstbaum nodded. “An oasis. It can have that effect. You know the shooting last night? Up the road? It was in the papers. All the patients so upset, you know what it’s like—just getting them to calm down. But for Anna it never happened.”
Leon looked away. But now it had, his voice registering somewhere in her brain.
“So that’s one good thing,” Obstbaum said.
Georg Ritter had come to Istanbul the week Hitler became chancellor. A job at the university barely paid for his room in an old wooden house in Fener, but he was free, and he’d brought the Lessing manuscript with him, his future. Years later, when Leon and Anna got there, he was still working on the book and by then had become an institution in the foreign community, the man who knew where to get residence permits, secondhand appliances, Turkish lessons. He and Anna shared a passion for the city, out-of-the-way fish restaurants, the best carpet seller in the Bazaar, and he became an ersatz father to her, as cranky as her own, full of convictions that everyone else had abandoned.
When the house in Fener was seized for the wealth tax—the owner, a Greek, sent to a work camp—he was rescued by a former student, a rich Turk who set him up in a building he owned in Nişantaşi. “The only Marxist in the neighborhood,” Georg claimed. But the move suited him. He could now shock the bourgeoisie just by being among them, something he couldn’t afford before, and Yildiz Park was nearby for his dog.
“You don’t mind we take a walk? She’s been in all day.”
“I thought you wanted to play chess.”
Georg waved his hand. “With you? No surprises. Move the knights out first. Keep the pawns back.” He was snapping on the leash, locking the door. “Are you all right? You don’t look—”
“Just tired.”
“At your age. Wait till you see how it feels later.” He sighed, the air seeming to wheeze out of his plump cheeks.
“How’s the book?”
“Mendel wants to use the new chapter on Nathan der Weise. He thinks they’ll be interested here, the comments on Saladin. As if the Turks will read it. A German journal in Istanbul. Well, where else? Germany? At least you keep something alive.”
“Nathan?” Leon said, trying to remember the chronology. “Then how much more to go?”
Georg shrugged. “The last years. At Wolfenbüttel. Not so happy for him, but very productive. Several chapters at least. A pauper’s grave, you know, in the end. Me too, by the time I’m finished. What about your friend?” he said, tacking. “Where are they going to bury him?”
“Who? Tommy? You heard about that?”
“Everybody’s heard about it. Like a Western. Karl May. Shoot-outs in Istanbul,” he said, shaking his head.
“I don’t know. That’s up to his wife. I knew him, I wouldn’t say he was a friend.”
“No? Just drinks at the Park.” He caught Leon’s reaction. “You hear things.”
Leon looked at him, waiting, but Georg moved away from it. “You’ve seen Anna?”
“Yes, the same.”
They were passing through the gates into the park, the wooded hills dotted with pavilions, the sultan’s old compound.
“I wonder what she sees.” Georg gestured to the trees. “A shame to miss these. But of course the mind—Abdul Hamid thought people listened in the trees. Everywhere. So it was very quiet here. Whispers. And that made him worse. Why are they whispering? The mind. You know he thought every week he would be killed. Every Friday, in the great selamlik down to Hamidiye Mosque. Hundreds, all lined up, the only time they could see him. So one of them must be an assassin. The whole time, all during prayers, waiting to be shot. You know there were five hundred slaves in Yildiz then? Not forty years ago, not even history yet. Slaves here. And people listening in trees.” The kind of detail Anna loved.
“How did you hear about the drink at the Park?”
“Someone mentioned it. I don’t even remember who. It’s a great place for rumors here.”
“A farewell drink,” Leon said, answering what hadn’t been asked. “He was going back to the States. They say it was a robbery.”
“And no money taken. So now everyone has an idea.”
“Like what?”
“You know, maybe a coincidence, but there’s a man missing. So one theory, he was meeting your friend Tommy but shot him instead and ran away.”
“Why?”
Georg shrugged. “A hundred reasons, who knows? An unreliable type, apparently.”
“Unreliable,” Leon said, marking time. “Who’s missing him?”
“Russian friends,” Georg said, looking at him. “He took something valuable, so they want to find him.” He paused. “It would be worth a lot to them.”
“Money, you mean?”
“Money, yes, certainly. Favors. Whatever is required.”
“How much?” Leon said, going along.
“That would depend. A tip, some information, they would be grateful. But if someone knew where he was, could find him, that would be worth—I don’t know a price. A good sum. And of course it would mean finding the man who shot your friend. So it’s good that way too.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“So suspicious you are. Not just you. They want people to know how valuable this help would be.”
“Like a reward. More Karl May. Why don’t they just put up posters?”
“A joke. You don’t think it’s serious.”
“I don’t know, is it? They’re your friends.” He paused. “I didn’t know you were still in touch with the comrades. Anna said you’d left the Party.”
“Old ties, only. It’s a serious matter. They have to use every channel.”
“And not the police.”
Georg looked away, watching the dog.
“What, Georg?” Leon said, then pointed to the trees. “Nobody’s listening. Or is that why we came here? So we could talk. They asked you to approach me? Why?”
“You were a—business associate.”
“Of Tommy’s? We weren’t in business together.”
“An acquaintance then. Maybe you have an idea why he was shot. Maybe he told you something. A man who’s drinking with him the night before. You understand, they have to ask.”
“And get you to do it. Sorry. He never said a thing. Why do the comrades think he was shot?”
“That’s something they’d like to ask their friend.”
“And they’re willing to cough up a reward to do it? Maybe they should just write him off.”
“That’s not possible.”
“What did he take? Stalin’s phone number?” He moved his head toward the main pavilion. “Another one. Like old Abdul. Assassins everywhere. So get rid of them. How many now? Millions? That’s who you want to do business with?”
“It’s a world of excesses.”
&
nbsp; “Isn’t it just.”
“He killed your friend. He’s of no use to you. What do you care what happens to him? It’s an old quarrel between them. Not with you.”
“So why not make a little money while they work it out. Georg.” He turned to go. “What makes them think he shot Tommy anyway?”
“We know they were meeting. One’s dead. Now the other one is gone. Why would he be unless—”
“How do you know they were meeting? Another rumor?”
“He’s capable of this,” Georg said, not answering. “A violent man. Unreliable.”
“I’m surprised they want him back.”
“They don’t want him for long.”
Leon looked at him, but Georg simply stared back.
“I’ll keep my ears open,” Leon said, about to leave. “As a favor to you.” He stopped. “I didn’t realize. All these years. Still with the comrades.”
“A messenger only.”
Leon nodded. “Delivered.” He started to go, then turned to face Georg again. “Do you really think I would do this? If I did know? Shop a man?”
“This man? It would be the right thing to do.”
Leon looked at him. “Then you wouldn’t have to pay me.”
He used the agreed-upon three knocks.
“I brought you some food,” he said, handing over a bag, grease from the kebabs already beginning to stain through. “Everything okay?”
He looked around the flat, as neat as the night before, no clothes draped over chairs, uninhabited. Alexei was sitting before the miniature board of a travel chess set, the only thing that seemed to have been removed from his duffel.
“The plane? We have a time?”
“Not yet. We’re going to need to switch airfields. After last night.” The all-purpose excuse, nothing safe now.
Alexei grunted and got up. “You want some tea? It’s all I do, drink tea.” He coughed. “And smoke.” Puttering with spoons, lighting the kettle.
“I see you’re a chess player.”
“It passes the time.”
“You play against yourself?”
“You make a move, then you turn the board. And you know what’s interesting? When you’re on the other side, it’s completely different. You think you anticipate the move, but you turn and you see something different.”
“I’ll have to try it sometimes. Playing both sides.”
Alexei looked up at him.
“You’d better eat. It gets messy.”
“Did they find the body?” Alexei said, taking the food to the table.
“Yes.”
“So he was alone. Maybe I’m not so important. And now someone’s raising hell. Melnikov. Whose idea to send one? You’ll pay for this. It never changes.”
“You knew him?”
“Political officer,” he said, eating. “You know what that means? At Stalingrad? The Nazis in front of you, Melnikov behind. No cowards there. No Stalin jokes. He shot them on the spot. Easier than sending them back to the gulags. Less paperwork.” He crumpled up the bag. “But you have all that in Bucharest. His staff list. That was my deposit. You want to do that again? And then again with the tape recorder? Over and over until a slip, a name you forgot, or maybe didn’t forget. Well, everyone does it.”
“Save it, then. For the tape recorder. I’m not here to interrogate you.”
“No? What, then?”
“Just get you on a plane.”
“Ah, to be my friend. Easier to get them to talk. A little trust. So, you have a name? You never said.” Familiar, somebody at a bar. He got up to pour the tea.
Leon looked over, trying to imagine it, the abattoir, putting bodies on hooks. An ordinary man, making tea. “Leon,” he said.
“Leon?” Asking for the rest.
“Bauer.”
Alexei handed him a glass, smiling a little. “A German name. Farmer,” he said, translating. “Also pawn.” He opened his hand to the little board. “In the game. So that’s you, the pawn?”
“That’s everybody.”
Alexei looked up at him, pleased. “A philosopher. Something new. It’s different with the Russians. No sandwiches, either. Just fists.”
“When they interrogated you?”
“My friend, if they had done that you would see it,” he said, putting a hand to his face. “The bones. You see the prisoners after, their faces are different. They take pictures for the files. If they’re alive.”
“So you were lucky.”
He shrugged. “I ran. I knew what they were. That was my job, to know about them.” He took a sip of tea. “But you know that. And you’re not here to interrogate me.”
Leon looked over. A conveyor belt. People bleating. Now calmly lighting a cigarette. But Tommy had talked about old times while he planned to kill him.
“You have a wife?” Alexei said, running a hand across the top of his head, hair cropped so short it seemed to have stopped growing.
“Yes.”
“In America?”
“No, here. And you?” The obligatory response.
“Magda. Like Lupescu. But not so lucky. She was killed.”
“In the war?”
Alexei nodded. “Partisans. In Bukovina. Three years now. It’s a convenience, sometimes. To have nothing to lose.” He drew on the cigarette. “That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it? Can they use somebody? Keep me on a leash.” He shook his head. “There’s nobody. Just me. You didn’t know this before?”
“Why would I?”
“That’s right. Not the interrogator. What, then? A wife here. So there’s a cover.”
“Businessman.”
“At Western Electric?”
Leon raised his eyes. How many of Tommy’s people did they know? All? Even the freelancers?
“No.”
“Where then?”
“Dried fruit. Apricots. Figs.”
“Apricots,” Alexei said. “It’s a good business?”
“Now you’re interrogating me.”
Alexei smiled. “Just talking. Like you. We do it differently. Maybe better.” He leaned his head to the side, still amused. “Yes, I think so.”
“That’s because you don’t know what I’m after.”
Alexei looked straight at him, no smile now at all. “No. So it’s an advantage you have. What do you want to know?”
Leon hesitated, trying to frame it. “How it was, at Străuleşti.”
A stillness, Alexei’s eyes locked on Leon’s, not blinking. After a minute he looked down at his hand, the cigarette burning to his finger. He rubbed it out, still quiet, a test of wills, his eyes neutral, sorting things out.
“We do that too,” he said finally. “Tell them you know the worst thing. So they think you know everything.”
Leon waited.
“Nobody asked me this before. Your people. So why now?”
“You were there.”
Another silence, calculating. “Your Romanian friend. He told you.”
Now it was Leon who was quiet.
“When did a Romanian not betray a Romanian? A national gift.” He reached for another cigarette. “Well, I’m one to talk.” He waited another second, then shook his head. “I had no part in that.”
“Just the rest of the Guard.”
He nodded. “That’s when I decided—”
“What?”
“That they were crazy.”
“They weren’t crazy before? Blood oaths?”
“But this. It was bound to call attention. Make them turn against us.”
“So you did.”
“That’s what you want to know? Why I turned against the Guard? That’s easy. Because I could see what was coming. The future was Antonescu.”
“For a while.”
“Yes.”
“And now he’s going on trial. But not you.”
“Trial for what?”
“You were there. That would be enough.”
Alexei nodded. “They’re not so interested now, w
hat happened. They just want to shoot us. Then all these things can go away.”
“So you made a deal.”
“That’s right,” Alexei said, eyes on Leon. “With you.” He got up, clearing his cup. “You know what it’s like, a mob? Like water. You can’t stop it. They were going to ruin everything and who could stop them?”
“Not you.” Leon paused. “You knew what they were going to do.”
“No,” Alexei said, raising his voice. “Shoot them maybe. This was already happening. Dudeşti, all over the city. But this—” He stopped, his shoulders suddenly slumping. “Of course, you know in the end they were dead anyway.”
He shuffled over to the window and stood there for a minute, lifting his hand to part the shade, then letting it rest there, staring.
“When you have blood on your hands, does it matter how it got there?” he said.
Carcasses dripping.
He turned. “Is that what you’re asking? What’s on my hands?” He held one out. “Not so clean. Are yours? In this business?” He lowered his hand. “Do you know how easy it can be? Something you never thought you could do. Easy. Later, it’s harder. People forget, but you live with it, whatever you did.” He turned. “We penetrated their military intelligence. That’s all that should matter to you now. You want to put me on trial with Antonescu? For what? The Guard? The camps? All of it my fault. Maybe even the war. My fault too.” He stopped. “Nobody cares about that anymore. Not them, not you. It’s in the past.” He looked up. “Except your Romanian friend maybe. So eager to tell you things. Maybe he’d like to tell someone else. A Romanian will sell anything. Maybe me.”
Leon looked at him, intrigued. A life revealed in a phrase.
“He can’t. He doesn’t know where you are.”
“Only you. If you weren’t followed,” he said, dismissive. “And what do we talk about? All these arrangements—the truck from Bucharest, the boat, this place—and now it’s what happened to the Jews? They died.” His voice final as a window being slammed shut.
He went to get more tea, refilling Leon’s glass, Leon watching him, not saying anything. Alexei raised his eyebrows, waiting.