by James Church
"Well, if it isn't the Mexican Jumping Bean. Did you buy yourself a watch yet, or are you late for your next appointment?"
"No, I'm right on time. Right place, right time. And you, Inspector? Everything squared away?" He put the collar up on his coat. "You should check the weather forecast before you go out on these walks of yours. You're not dressed for this."
"I tell you what." I made a show of going through my pockets as the water streamed down my face. "How about I give you a detailed itinerary of my plans for the next several days? That way you won't have to hang around out in bad weather, shadowing me. You can just pick a spot and I'll be there, right on time. Twice a day should do it, don't you think? Shall we set that as the goal?"
"Goal? Inspector, my goal isn't to see you twice a day. It's not to see you at all, ever."
"And you think that's doable?"
"Oh, it's doable, alright. Just a question of time." He pushed himself away from the railing and brushed against me. "Well, take it easy, comrade. Buy a hat or something. Green felt is on sale this time of year. See you around."
He walked back in the direction I had come, toward the mission. I waited until he was out of sight. I was already so wet, it didn't make any sense to hurry. There was a cafe open just at the end of the bridge. It looked quiet enough. The coffee had just been set in front of me when M. Beret sat down at the next table. He had a large umbrella, which he hung on the back of his chair. "A good afternoon to you, Inspector. You look a little damp. Go ahead and drink something hot. Do you take sugar in your coffee? Of course you do, one spoonful, then you stir it slowly, counterclockwise. Usually five times, six if you are feeling pensive. You don't drink espresso. Well, once you did, but after a single sip you made a face, a very funny face, and left the rest of the cup. Brioche?" He took a croissant from his pocket and tore it in half.
"That's not a brioche. I know the difference."
M. Beret laughed. "Good for you, Inspector. Those talks, the ones that make your eyes glaze over, are almost wrapped up, I hear. Whatever you came to do, you'll have to hurry because it seems that so far, you've gotten nothing done." He pointed a finger at me. "If the talks end, then what? What is your final report going to look like? All those miles, all that travel money, all for nothing? Perhaps I could help. Should we conspire? Eh?"
I stirred my coffee, three times. "Is your service so short of things to do that the chief has time to follow me around personally? Nothing more important?"
"Three times, unusual, must be when you are agitated. Or wet." He took out a notebook and wrote something down. "It's not that I'm meticulous in all things, Inspector. But I want to take you apart like a Swiss watch, lay out all the pieces and examine them. Tick tock tick tock. What makes your machinery work? Things are grim at home these days, I take it. Tick tock tick tock. Pretty soon these talks you're in will end, and you'll be ordered back to your fatherland. Tick tock tick tock. What then?"
I took off my watch and dropped it in the coffee. "I'm sure I'll think of something," I said and walked out. The gesture made me feel good for a couple of minutes, but then I wished I had drunk the coffee. It had started to snow.
4
I spent the rest of the day in my room, trying to warm up. When I called the mission to find out whether we were on schedule for the afternoon session, they told me the "instructions" hadn't arrived yet and everything was postponed until tomorrow. I could almost hear M. Beret's listeners scratching notes on a pad: "Instructions late." The delayed arrival of nonexistent diplomatic traffic suited me. About three o'clock the maid knocked at the door, but I told her to go away. I kept the curtains shut, though it didn't much matter, there wasn't any sun anyway. Shortly before dusk the snow stopped. It drizzled for a few minutes, but then the clouds decided to call it a day and drifted off toward France. When night fell, I put on my shoes and went down the stairs to the tiny lobby. The girl behind the desk looked up. "Are you sick?"
"No. I need another bar of soap. The little one you gave me has dissolved."
"You were in your room all afternoon. Maybe you feel sick."
"No, I feel fine."
"Because if you are sick, we might have to get a doctor. I hope you don't have one of those Asian flu bugs."
"Thank you for your concern."
"Because if you do have one of those Asian bugs, we'll have to clean everything in your room, and for that we'll have to pay the maid extra. She's Romanian, and she knows the law. It could be quite a bother." I left before she could spin out the rest of the complaint.
This time my brother was waiting for me in the darkness. "There's a bench down the way, where the street bends. We can sit and talk, probably for about five minutes before the Swiss show up. That will be long enough if you don't interrupt me."
"Good, let's get it over with. Maybe we won't have to see each other again."
It was a quiet street, but then again, they were all quiet. The bench sat by itself in a small park, about thirty meters from the nearest house. The paving stones were uneven in places, but mostly the place was tidy and well kept; but then, so was almost everything in Geneva.
The night mist was just settling through the trees when I heard a car stop; the engine wheezed before it died. My brother appeared and sat down, frowning. "We don't have five minutes after all. We have two minutes. Check your watch."
"I'm listening."
"You have been sent here by people who no longer enjoy the confidence of the Center. Your mission is terminated."
"I'm still listening."
"Don't think you can ignore me on this. The talks will be broken off by the end of this week. You should return home before that. Am I clear?"
"As always."
A car door creaked. It was hard to tell how far away it was.
"My advice is that you leave immediately. Take a train tomorrow to Berlin. The embassy there will have further instructions for your return. If the Swiss ask any questions, tell them one of your relatives died."
"Of what?"
He paused and then stood up. "Don't forget what I said. You're not bamboo. You'll bleed."
"If I don't starve first, you mean."
"No, first you'll bleed. Someone is out here in this city to make sure of that. I don't know who, exactly. I can only guess why." As footsteps came up the hill, my brother crossed the street and disappeared.
5
M. Beret looked disappointed when he came close enough for me to see his face. "A pity, I wanted a picture of the two of you together." He pointed a small flashlight down the street and clicked it on and off once. "Family portraits are always precious when we get older, don't you think, Inspector?"
"I'm sorry, but I don't feel like chatting. I'm soaked to the skin from this damp air. It's the second time today I've been soaked, and there isn't a lot of heat in my hotel room. Not much soap, either. Do you know they gave me one little bar and want it to last the entire week? I thought the West was supposed to be overflowing with creature comforts."
M. Beret's laughter bounced across the paving stones. A light went on in the closest house; someone opened the window and shouted. M. Beret stood up and shouted back.
"That sounded rude," I said.
"The old man told me to be quiet or he would call the police."
"What did you say?"
"I told him I was the police." M. Beret reached in his pocket and pulled out a roll. "Hungry?"
"Yes, actually. I haven't eaten all day. But then why tell you that? You already know."
"Annoying, isn't it, Inspector? I should think you'd be used to it, where you come from."
"Hunger?"
"No, being watched."
"Believe me, we'd never approach anything like what you're doing. Much too much trouble. Eats up manpower. Not really necessary, anyway. No one could actually get lost for very long where I come from, at least, that's how it used to be."
"Now?"
"Changing circumstances, you might say. New winds blowing."
&nbs
p; "True enough, following someone is a lot of work. Easier just to bring them in, I suppose." He was thoughtful. Then he remembered the roll in his hand; he tore it in half. "Don't ever let it be said we Swiss are not hospitable, soap notwithstanding. I don't want you to have a bad impression of my country, Inspector. I just don't want you ever to come back." He took a small bite. "I could order you out, but that would cause a diplomatic incident. Besides, then I'd be forced to order the whole pack out. We'd have to rent a bus or something." He reached into another pocket and pulled out my watch. He thumped the face once, held it up to his ear, and then handed it to me. "You forgot this. It's waterproof, but it isn't Swiss. It's counterfeit."
"Surprise," I said.
"Why don't you go across the border into France? Or Italy? Then we could deny you reentry."
"I don't think I want to do that."
"No, I didn't suppose you would. Incidentally, your mission is looking for you." He watched me put the half of the roll in my pocket. "Saving that for later?"
"Since when does the mission use you to pass phone messages?"
"If they don't start paying their phone bill, they'll have to use semaphores." He unzipped a small bag he was carrying over his shoulder and took out a book. "I bought something for you. It's in English, I hope you don't mind."
I took the book and read the title aloud. "The Great Depression."
"These are difficult times in your country, I know. I apologize for waving that fact in front of your face this afternoon in the cafe. But many countries have gone through tough times. The hope is that they come out better, maybe learn from their mistakes. Do you know what I mean?"
"This is kind of you. I'll make sure the younger ones in the office read it." I was thinking of the girl who liked Rachmaninoff; maybe she would enjoy a book on the America her hero had missed seeing. During the Depression, he had been in Switzerland, of all places.
"You won't get in trouble, bringing that back?"
"Why would I get in trouble?"
"No reason, I suppose." He zipped up the bag and put it back over his shoulder.
"What did the mission want to tell me?"
"Inspector, I never pass on confidential diplomatic traffic; I would be betraying a sacred trust. You'll have to call them up and find out. By the way, you wouldn't have any Latin friends, would you?"
"Latin?"
"I'd watch my back if I were you."
"If you were me." I put the book under my shirt so it wouldn't get wet from the mist, which had deepened. "I'll read this tonight while I eat dinner. Could you preorder for me? That way I won't have to wait when I get to the restaurant, the one near the hotel."
"It was closed by the public health inspectors this evening. Something about Asian flu." M. Beret dug around in his pocket. "Oh, and this is for you, too. One of my men picked it up." He handed me a small piece of wood. "Do you know what it is?"
It was too dark to see and too wet to have any distinguishing feel. But I could guess. "Sure, it's beech."
M. Beret grunted. "You really are good, aren't you? Well, sleep soundly, Inspector. Please lock your door."
"I always do."
"You do? Someone told me that they don't lock hotel doors in your country."
"Really, I am disappointed. You of all people, I would have thought, wouldn't believe everything you heard. I don't suppose you have anything else for me."
"Such as?"
"I don't know. This seems to be your evening to make a pitch. First my watch, then half a roll; then a book; and finally a piece of wood. The going rate these days must be pretty cheap for my category. Please remember, I'm not a whore, not at any price and certainly not for you."
"I repeat, Inspector, please lock your door." M. Beret bowed to me slightly. "Au revoir," he said and walked briskly in the direction of his wheezing car.
Chapter Three
The next morning as I left for the mission, it was hard not to notice the man waiting across the street. I could tell he was waiting for me, because after looking at him from my window for a few seconds, I knew he had genes from generations in the desert. What the hell was he doing here? Yet it didn't surprise me, somehow, to see him. Everyone was here-my brother, the Man with Three Fingers, M. Beret-and they were all waiting for me. Why shouldn't he join the crowd? Half of them wanted me to leave. The other half wanted me dead. I didn't know which half he belonged to yet. Maybe he'd tell me over a cup of coffee and a roll.
"Good morning, Inspector. How unexpected to find you here." Jeno put out his hand as I walked across the street.
"You don't really think I believe that, do you?" I put my hands in my coat pockets. "If you handed me that hundred-dollar bill right now, Jeno, I wouldn't give it back."
He shook his head. "Business has not been good, I'm sorry to say. I can't pass out money like I used to. Perhaps we can fix that. Do you have time for a cup of coffee before the talks start? You drink coffee?"
"You know about the talks? Which tab are they, A or B?"
"This is the enlightened West, Inspector. We don't keep secrets. The talks are reported in the papers, which I read every morning over coffee."
Around the corner was a cafe run by a Turk; I'd been there once or twice. It was close, that's all that recommended it. As we entered, Jeno nodded toward a table in the corner. Several old men were already drinking beer and arguing. The owner, in an undershirt and chewing on a cigar, looked up from his newspaper from time to time, but didn't seem concerned. It was warmer than my hotel, but that wasn't saying much.
"You find Geneva dull, no doubt." Jeno looked different sitting here in the West. He was more relaxed, perhaps. In Pyongyang, he had been guarded every moment, even though he pretended not to be. His attention had darted around. In the middle of a conversation, he had quickly glanced at someone coming through the door or moving across the lobby. Here, I had the sense that he didn't have to worry about peripheral movement, with shadows.
"I haven't seen enough to make a judgment."
"Oh, come now, Inspector. You've seen plenty. Don't tell me you haven't been walking around, taking in the sights. What is it you said to me? 'When it rains, you go out for a walk. When it's freezing, you go out for a drive.'"
"What I've seen is a lot of familiar faces, not all of them welcome."
"Surely that doesn't include me. When I heard you were here, I dropped what I was doing and came right away. I actually owe you a great deal."
The owner came up to the table. "Gunaydun, Jeno, my friend. Bon jour." He looked at me. "Konnichiwa."
"The Inspector here is not Japanese, Ahmet. He is Korean."
"I was in Korea, in 1950. We murdered the bastards good."
"He is from North Korea, Ahmet."
Ahmet didn't seem fazed. He chewed on his cigar, which even unlit smelled bad. "What do you know about that?" he said and rolled the cigar in his mouth.
"Perhaps you could bring us some coffee," Jeno said. "Leave the mud out of it if you can, and leave that thing in your mouth with the rest of the dog, would you?"
"You know him?" I watched the owner disappear behind the bar. He was a big man, big chest, thick forearms, broad hands, and eyes that had an unnatural gleam. He still had a full head of hair. When he was younger, he must have been a tank. If he had been in Korea in 1950, he'd seen a lot, none of it pleasant.
"Ahmet runs errands for me sometimes. He is dependable." Jeno said something more, but I didn't hear him, because just then a young woman stepped into view from the back room, and my heart began thudding loud enough to crowd out all other sound.
"… daughter," Jeno hissed at me.
"What?"
"I said that's Ahmet's daughter."
"Not his granddaughter?" I took a breath, and that seemed to help my heartbeat fall back to normal.
"You look like a man who needs a drink, Inspector. Or a cardiologist."
I didn't want to see a cardiologist. Who needed doctors? There was nothing wrong with my circulation. The woman gl
anced my way as she moved slowly across the dining room to the kitchen. Before she disappeared, she turned to look at me, a long, caressing, lingering look. It seemed to go on and on. Somehow, I remembered to take another breath. Or maybe I didn't need one. Oxygen was irrelevant. Those eyes of hers were sustenance enough.
"You are here on assignment, I suppose." Jeno rapped the table with his knuckles. "Are you still here, Inspector?"
"Of course. You asked if I was on assignment. As opposed to what? Sightseeing? Taking a skiing holiday?" I tore my eyes away from the kitchen. Where had this princess been the other times I'd come in? I would have eaten five meals a day here if I'd realized she was in residence. I'd take up washing dishes, waiting tables, sweeping the floors. Sweeping. No, something else, perhaps.
"Would you like to go skiing?"
"I prefer your mountains at a distance." I glanced hopefully back toward the kitchen, but no one emerged.
"Dinner, then, if you can tear yourself away from that kitchen door."
"I don't think I can have dinner with you." Was there reason ever again to eat anywhere but Ahmet's? Was there reason to even go back to my hotel? I could live here, the dining room. Cigars were fine; I had absolutely no trouble with old men who smoked cigars.
"Why not?"
"If I have dinner with you, I'll have to write a report. Actually, I'll have to ask permission beforehand. It's impossible to get an answer back from my ministry for several days. Anyway, we may have a dinner as part of the talks this evening. I have to keep my schedule free."
Jeno shook his head. "I'll see you at 8:00 P.M. I assume your heart rate will have returned to normal by then. You can get permission after the fact. I do it all the time."
"Isn't 8:00 P.M. a little late for dinner?"
"Inspector, eight o'clock is still early around here to dine. Most people are only nibbling on appetizers at that hour. A car will come by to pick you up. Nothing fancy, either the car or the restaurant."
"Turkish food?"
"Forget it. Ahmet will kill you if you fool around with her. The girl's name is Dilara, if you can believe it."