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Authors: Bernhard Schlink
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managed to do everything with great ease.
Neither of them touched on the subject of the night before or the afternoon in Bulnakov’s office. They trod carefully, hesitantly, and he was taken aback at feeling the excitement of their first meeting. Later, in bed, after they had made love, he turned the light back on, sat up, and looked at her. “What is to become of us?” he asked.
She looked at him calmly. Georg couldn’t tell if the dimple over her right eyebrow indicated that she was thinking, or that she simply didn’t know what to say. Then she picked up the little crocheted bear by the radio alarm on Georg’s side, sat the bear on her chest, and brought its paws together in a begging motion.
“I want you to be happy,” she said. “Really happy.”
Nothing he would say could reach her. All he could do was throw her out, but he didn’t have the strength.
The next morning he drove to Marseille, gave the messenger from Mermoz the translated plans, and was given new ones. He wondered whether he should do the translation at home or at the office. He decided to make photocopies, even though the security regulations forbade it. He locked the originals away and took the copies home.
Around ten in the evening he heard her Citroën. He folded the copies, waited until she entered the house, and then went out onto the balcony by his study, where he hid the papers in a drainpipe. When she came in, she found him at his desk writing a letter. The same thing happened the following evening, and the one after that. Then she asked him at breakfast quite casually, while busying herself with her coffee, croissant, and eggs, “Hasn’t Mermoz been giving you any work these days?”
“I can’t complain.”
She stirred her coffee, though she hadn’t put either milk or sugar in it. “Don’t do anything silly, Georg.” Her voice sounded soft.
He was relieved when he had finished transcribing his translation from the copy onto the original plan and handed it in. Then he sat a long time studying the copies and the new plans, understanding more and more what he was dealing with. It had something to do with suspensions, which had been clear enough during the translation work. But what was supposed to be suspended, and where? Again he locked away the originals and put a copy in his briefcase.
As he drove home he sang at the top of his voice, feeling that he had won, that he had escaped the net in which Bulnakov had trapped him, that life went on. He drove fast, with a dreamy sureness. Near Ansouis he saw Gérard’s car coming toward him. They stopped on the road and talked through their open windows. “I’m going to pick up some fresh salmon in Pertuis,” Gérard told him. “Why don’t you come over this evening?”
14
GEORG DROVE ONTO THE DIRT TRACK , keeping an eye out for the sheep that had been grazing on the steep banks that morning. They had moved on.
He put the car into second and sped up. He had long weaned himself of the habit of going easy on the shock absorbers and exhaust. The sun, the mistral, the sharp smoke of his Gauloise, the pain in his temples from the fourth glass of pastis, the rattling on the washboard gravel path—it all fit perfectly.
He saw the dust whipped up by the other car beyond the bend in the dirt track before he saw or heard it. He wondered how so much dust could rise before it even appeared around the bend. The heavy black Citroën limousine came skidding in the bend and headed straight for Georg. In its wake the dust rose into a wall between the steep banks.
He swerved to the right, but the Citroën didn’t move. He honked his horn, heard nothing, waved, and shouted. The other car didn’t respond; its windows were tinted, so Georg couldn’t see the driver. He slammed on the brakes, swerved even farther toward the side, felt his wheels rattle over the edge. The wipers scraped and stuttered across the dry windshield: he had set them off when heslammed his hand on the horn, and now
Neither of them touched on the subject of the night before or the afternoon in Bulnakov’s office. They trod carefully, hesitantly, and he was taken aback at feeling the excitement of their first meeting. Later, in bed, after they had made love, he turned the light back on, sat up, and looked at her. “What is to become of us?” he asked.
She looked at him calmly. Georg couldn’t tell if the dimple over her right eyebrow indicated that she was thinking, or that she simply didn’t know what to say. Then she picked up the little crocheted bear by the radio alarm on Georg’s side, sat the bear on her chest, and brought its paws together in a begging motion.
“I want you to be happy,” she said. “Really happy.”
Nothing he would say could reach her. All he could do was throw her out, but he didn’t have the strength.
The next morning he drove to Marseille, gave the messenger from Mermoz the translated plans, and was given new ones. He wondered whether he should do the translation at home or at the office. He decided to make photocopies, even though the security regulations forbade it. He locked the originals away and took the copies home.
Around ten in the evening he heard her Citroën. He folded the copies, waited until she entered the house, and then went out onto the balcony by his study, where he hid the papers in a drainpipe. When she came in, she found him at his desk writing a letter. The same thing happened the following evening, and the one after that. Then she asked him at breakfast quite casually, while busying herself with her coffee, croissant, and eggs, “Hasn’t Mermoz been giving you any work these days?”
“I can’t complain.”
She stirred her coffee, though she hadn’t put either milk or sugar in it. “Don’t do anything silly, Georg.” Her voice sounded soft.
He was relieved when he had finished transcribing his translation from the copy onto the original plan and handed it in. Then he sat a long time studying the copies and the new plans, understanding more and more what he was dealing with. It had something to do with suspensions, which had been clear enough during the translation work. But what was supposed to be suspended, and where? Again he locked away the originals and put a copy in his briefcase.
As he drove home he sang at the top of his voice, feeling that he had won, that he had escaped the net in which Bulnakov had trapped him, that life went on. He drove fast, with a dreamy sureness. Near Ansouis he saw Gérard’s car coming toward him. They stopped on the road and talked through their open windows. “I’m going to pick up some fresh salmon in Pertuis,” Gérard told him. “Why don’t you come over this evening?”
14
GEORG DROVE ONTO THE DIRT TRACK , keeping an eye out for the sheep that had been grazing on the steep banks that morning. They had moved on.
He put the car into second and sped up. He had long weaned himself of the habit of going easy on the shock absorbers and exhaust. The sun, the mistral, the sharp smoke of his Gauloise, the pain in his temples from the fourth glass of pastis, the rattling on the washboard gravel path—it all fit perfectly.
He saw the dust whipped up by the other car beyond the bend in the dirt track before he saw or heard it. He wondered how so much dust could rise before it even appeared around the bend. The heavy black Citroën limousine came skidding in the bend and headed straight for Georg. In its wake the dust rose into a wall between the steep banks.
He swerved to the right, but the Citroën didn’t move. He honked his horn, heard nothing, waved, and shouted. The other car didn’t respond; its windows were tinted, so Georg couldn’t see the driver. He slammed on the brakes, swerved even farther toward the side, felt his wheels rattle over the edge. The wipers scraped and stuttered across the dry windshield: he had set them off when heslammed his hand on the horn, and now
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