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Authors: Michael Chabon
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lunatic strategy. The idea that his previous plan of escape, by the conventional means of passports and visas and bribes, could somehow be revived and put into play started a seductive whispering in his heart.
“You may of course do so,” Kornblum said, resting on his cane witha fatigue that seemed less feigned than it had that morning. “I haven’t the liberty. Even if I do not send
you
, my prior obligation remains.”
“I was just thinking that perhaps I gave up on my other plan too soon.”
Kornblum nodded but said nothing, and the silence so counterbalanced the nod as to cancel it out.
“That isn’t the choice, is it?” Josef said after a moment. “Between your way and the other way. If I’m really going to go, I have to go your way, don’t I? Don’t I?”
Kornblum shrugged, but his eyes were not involved in the gesture. They were drawn at the corners, glittering with concern. “In my professional opinion,” he said.
Few things in the world carried more weight for Josef than that.
“Then there
is
no choice,” he said. “They spent everything they had.” He accepted the cigarette the old man offered. “What am I saying—‘if I’m going’?” He spat a flake of tobacco at the ground. “I have to go.”
“What you have to do, my boy,” Kornblum said, “is to try to remember that you are already gone.”
They went to the Eldorado Café and sat, nursing butter and egg sandwiches, two glasses of Herbert water, and the better part of a pack of Letkas. Every fifteen minutes, Kornblum consulted his wristwatch, the intervals so regular and precise as to render the gesture superfluous. After two hours they paid their check, made a stop in the men’s room to empty their bladders and adjust their getups, then returned to Nicholasgasse 26. Very quickly they accounted for two of the three mystery flats, 40 and 41, discovering that the first, a tiny two-room, belonged to an elderly lady who had been taking a nap the last time the ersatz census takers came to call; and that the second, according to the same old woman, was rented to a family named Zweig or Zwang who had gone to a funeral in Zuerau or Zilina. The woman’s alphabetic confusion seemed to be part of a more global uncertainty—she came to the door in her nightgown and one sock, and addressed Kornblum for no obvious reason as Herr Kapitan—encompassing, among many other points of doubt, Apartment 42, the third unaccounted-for flat, about whose occupant or occupants she was unable to provide any information at all. Repeated knocking on the door to 42 over the next hour brought no one.The mystery deepened when they returned to the neighbors in 43, the last of the floor’s four flats. Earlier that afternoon, Kornblum and Josef had spoken to the head of this household: two families, the wives and fourteen children of brothers, brought together in four rooms. They were religious Jews. As before, the elder brother came to the door. He was a heavyset man in skullcap and fringes, with a great beard, black and bushy, that looked much more false to Josef than his own. The brother would consent to speak to them only through a four-inch gap, athwart a length of brass chain, as if admitting them might contaminate his home or expose the women and children to untoward influences. But his bulk could not prevent the escape of children’s shrieks and laughter, women’s voices, the smell of stewing carrots and of onions half-melting in a pan of fat.
“What do you want with that—?” the man said after Kornblum inquired about Apartment 42. He seemed to have second thoughts about the noun he was going to employ, and broke off. “I have nothing to do with that.”
“That?” Josef said, unable to contain himself, though Kornblum had enjoined him to play the role of silent partner. “That
what
?”
“I have nothing to say.” The man’s long face—he was a jewel cutter, with sad, exophthalmic blue eyes—seemed to ripple with disgust. “As far as
“You may of course do so,” Kornblum said, resting on his cane witha fatigue that seemed less feigned than it had that morning. “I haven’t the liberty. Even if I do not send
you
, my prior obligation remains.”
“I was just thinking that perhaps I gave up on my other plan too soon.”
Kornblum nodded but said nothing, and the silence so counterbalanced the nod as to cancel it out.
“That isn’t the choice, is it?” Josef said after a moment. “Between your way and the other way. If I’m really going to go, I have to go your way, don’t I? Don’t I?”
Kornblum shrugged, but his eyes were not involved in the gesture. They were drawn at the corners, glittering with concern. “In my professional opinion,” he said.
Few things in the world carried more weight for Josef than that.
“Then there
is
no choice,” he said. “They spent everything they had.” He accepted the cigarette the old man offered. “What am I saying—‘if I’m going’?” He spat a flake of tobacco at the ground. “I have to go.”
“What you have to do, my boy,” Kornblum said, “is to try to remember that you are already gone.”
They went to the Eldorado Café and sat, nursing butter and egg sandwiches, two glasses of Herbert water, and the better part of a pack of Letkas. Every fifteen minutes, Kornblum consulted his wristwatch, the intervals so regular and precise as to render the gesture superfluous. After two hours they paid their check, made a stop in the men’s room to empty their bladders and adjust their getups, then returned to Nicholasgasse 26. Very quickly they accounted for two of the three mystery flats, 40 and 41, discovering that the first, a tiny two-room, belonged to an elderly lady who had been taking a nap the last time the ersatz census takers came to call; and that the second, according to the same old woman, was rented to a family named Zweig or Zwang who had gone to a funeral in Zuerau or Zilina. The woman’s alphabetic confusion seemed to be part of a more global uncertainty—she came to the door in her nightgown and one sock, and addressed Kornblum for no obvious reason as Herr Kapitan—encompassing, among many other points of doubt, Apartment 42, the third unaccounted-for flat, about whose occupant or occupants she was unable to provide any information at all. Repeated knocking on the door to 42 over the next hour brought no one.The mystery deepened when they returned to the neighbors in 43, the last of the floor’s four flats. Earlier that afternoon, Kornblum and Josef had spoken to the head of this household: two families, the wives and fourteen children of brothers, brought together in four rooms. They were religious Jews. As before, the elder brother came to the door. He was a heavyset man in skullcap and fringes, with a great beard, black and bushy, that looked much more false to Josef than his own. The brother would consent to speak to them only through a four-inch gap, athwart a length of brass chain, as if admitting them might contaminate his home or expose the women and children to untoward influences. But his bulk could not prevent the escape of children’s shrieks and laughter, women’s voices, the smell of stewing carrots and of onions half-melting in a pan of fat.
“What do you want with that—?” the man said after Kornblum inquired about Apartment 42. He seemed to have second thoughts about the noun he was going to employ, and broke off. “I have nothing to do with that.”
“That?” Josef said, unable to contain himself, though Kornblum had enjoined him to play the role of silent partner. “That
what
?”
“I have nothing to say.” The man’s long face—he was a jewel cutter, with sad, exophthalmic blue eyes—seemed to ripple with disgust. “As far as
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