Five Seasons (46 page)

All at once she uttered something out loud that drew curious stares in her direction. Molkho kept heading for the exit, where he stopped and waited for her to join him. But she did not. Instead, approaching a middle-aged couple, she began speaking to them like old friends, reaching into her handbag for her papers while they stared at her with puzzled sympathy, as if searching within themselves for the code to her distress signal. Yes, she can take care of herself, Molkho observed with sudden admiration, struck by how her poorly cut clothes seemed perfectly in place here, as if everyone else had employed the same tailor. Still, he was worried that her rapid-fire Russian might get him into trouble. Before I know it, they'll repatriate me too, he thought, backing off to the safety of a dark niche in a wall.

H
AD HE REALIZED
those were to be their last moments together, he might not have acted so furtively but rather said a fond good-bye, perhaps even kissing her on both cheeks like a Frenchman. As it was, though, fearful of being incriminated in something he couldn't explain, he waited half in hiding for the tourists to disperse and clear a space around her.

But the crowd simply grew thicker until nothing remained of her but a few flashes of red fabric. Of course, they're curious, he thought. Everyone else wants out of here and she wants in—why, she's making history! Although several men in uniform were approaching and he knew that now was the time to slip out to the boulevard and back to the West, her shrill voice made him cling to his corner. After all, he reasoned, I can always say I'm a decadent tourist who's afraid of the rain.

Suddenly he heard her sob. At last, he thought with relief, listening in the ensuing hush to the traffic in the boulevard. It's about time she let it all out. She sobbed again and then broke once more into speech, her melodic voice rising and falling as though a tightly wound spring were slowly unwinding inside her. Good for her, he thought, noticing an inscription on the stone wall: “Karl Friedrich Schinkel, 1816–1818.” Was she crying, too, for her humiliating night with him? But it was all for the best.

And indeed, the crowd around her now asked a pale little officer with a broad-brimmed cap and red lapels, who made Molkho think of a Turkish railroad conductor, to see what he could do. Accompanied by a policeman, he cleared a path to the little Russian and brought her to a sentry booth, in front of which two fresh soldiers with rifles stood ready for the changing of the guard. Assured she was in good hands, Molkho darted from his dark corner, opened his umbrella, and stepped back into the street. The gloomy edifice covered in plastic—which, his map told him, was the old Berlin Opera House—seemed a good vantage point from which to watch for her.

T
RUE, THAT MORNING
he had larded her handbag and coat pockets with a few more of the hotel's visiting cards to ensure her safe return, but his responsibilities, he believed, included keeping up morale in case of failure, and so he remained loyally by the opera house, trying not to lose sight of the memorial, which was continually being blocked by more tourist buses. When after a while she failed to appear, he recrossed the boulevard and joined a group of noisy Spaniards who swept him back past the honor guard, which was beginning, so he thought, to be a bit unsteady on its feet. Though the sentry booth was open, neither his Russian nor the pale officer were in it. Had she gone looking for him? Surely she must have realized that she should wait for him where they had parted. Circling the building, he joined some more tourists of unknown nationality and filed past the blue flame again. “When does the guard change?” he asked a policeman in English, and was answered with a tap of the East German's watch that seemed to mean a quarter of an hour. He went back out to the boulevard, bought a bun to appease his hunger, and returned for the changing of the guard, which took place quite simply, the two replacements stepping smartly up, barking a command in unison, and receiving custody of the flame. Just then the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, and despite the light drizzle, he resolved to go for a walk on the boulevard, which struck him as being more authentically Berlinish than the fashionable streets of the Western zone.

Stopping to ask directions, he was told that the boulevard led to the Brandenburg Gate. Soon he was there, gazing up at the Berlin Wall and its watchtowers from the East. Now, too, an ugly scar reminding the forgetful of the retribution visited upon the Nazi horror, he found it a welcome sight. Walking back up the boulevard, which was called Unter den Linden, he innocently followed a group of Dutch tourists into the memorial, the flame, perhaps because of the sunshine, now looking rather faded. He stood through a lecture in Dutch, passed the sentry booth, where two guards were having lunch, and set out to look for the little Russian in the tourist shops of the Alexanderplatz. But she was not there either, and lured back by the magical flame, he returned to the memorial. Finding it empty, he entered and strolled past the honor guard, head down to avoid recognition, since by now he had been there a suspicious number of times.

It's time to start back, he told himself, noticing the darkening sky. Indeed, the little Russian was most probably waiting in the hotel. He returned to the checkpoint, first stopping by a candy and souvenir stand that was meant to help relieve the visitor of his remaining East German marks, where, under the stern eyes of the kiosk operator, he did some complicated sums to decide how best to spend the money. It was something he was good at. More than once, while waiting for a flight back to Israel, he had exasperated his wife by running back and forth in the airport to buy souvenirs and chocolates, emptying his pockets of every last coin as if he meant never to travel again.

T
HE TRENCH HAD RETREATED
up the busy street, which was bathed in the first rays of twilight when Molkho returned to the hotel. At the desk the schoolgirl was doing her homework, and everything seemed so familiar that he almost expected to see the legal adviser too. Disappointingly, though, his and the little Russian's key was still in its cubbyhole. Loath to admit by asking about her that he couldn't keep track of his women, he took the key with a smile, said a few words in German, and went up to the room, in which no one had been but the chambermaid. He considered a nap but chose to shower instead, thus easing pressure on the bathroom later on when they might want to go to the opera. While he was under the water, the telephone rang. Dripping wet, he ran to get it, but it was only the proprietor, happily informing him that there had been a cancellation and that another room was available. “On which floor?” asked Molkho doubtfully. “On the first,” said the German. “On the first? Don't you have anything on the second?” No, replied the German slyly, he did not, though who knew better than his guest how few stairs there were between them. “All right,” mumbled Molkho into the phone, “I'll let you know soon.”

He went to dry himself, wondering why he felt so put out. Was it simply his hating to waste the money? After all, the two of them had reached an understanding that was certainly good for one more night. Nevertheless, he went downstairs to see the room, which turned out to be tiny, almost prisonlike in its dimensions, as though it were the original cell from which the rest of the hotel had grown. Molkho hesitated. “There's no air here,” he complained to the schoolgirl, who, meaning well, opened a small window. Unappeased, he went off to see the proprietor. Yet, though aware of the room's deficiencies, the German urged Molkho to take it, since his present room was only good for one more night and he didn't want to be left out in the cold.

Molkho agreed and was given a new registration form.

H
AD HE NOT FELT SO SURE
she would be back by midnight, he would never have rented the second room, but despite her talent for disappearing, he was certain that sooner or later she would have to return. He scribbled a note that said, “I'm here”; tore it up because she would be unable to read it; printed another note, which said “I've gone for a walk”; tore that up because she would be unable to understand it; and finally settled on a third note, which said, “I will be back.” Then he went out to have a look around and to shop for more presents.

Though it was dark outside and the construction, which was apparently going to be a new shopping mall, gave the quaint streets a harsh look, he still felt perfectly at home: every corner, shop, and restaurant reminded him of his previous stay, which he now saw in a magical light. Could I really have been happier then, he wondered, or was it just the combination of snow, sleep, and music? He felt a sudden urge to revisit the beer cellar where he and the legal adviser had spent their last night, found it easily, and descended to the large hall, which was even more hideous when empty, its cold walls smelling of stale tobacco. Paying no attention to the dozen or so waiters eating at a long table in a corner, he strode silently among the tables set with fresh red cloths. “You killed her,” she had said to him with a squirrelly look, sitting over there. “Yes,” he had answered suavely, keeping his wits about him, “but in that case, so did you.” “Perhaps, but not in the same way,” she had retorted. He should have had a comeback for that too. She never gave me a chance, he thought. It was much too soon after my wife's death. Today I'd think of something that would put her in her place. “No, thank you,” he said to an approaching waiter who was about to show him to a table, “I'm only looking for a friend.”

He returned to the hotel, hoping to find his little Russian. But the key was still in its cubbyhole, his note a white feather sticking out of the dove-shaped holder. He tore it up, took the keys to both rooms, debated which to make his own, and climbed to the second floor, passing his first opera-bound Indian of the evening. From the room he tried placing a long-distance call to his mother-in-law, who was out again, after which he called his Haifa apartment. The high school boy answered, his voice indistinct. “It's Dad,” shouted Molkho. “It's Dad. How is everything?” The boy ran to turn off the television and returned. “Where are you?” he asked. “I'm in Berlin, Gabi, in West Berlin,” Molkho said. “I'm trying to cross her over from here. Why isn't there any answer at Grandma's? I've been trying to get her for days.”

The boy didn't know why there wasn't any answer, because his brother and sister were with their sick grandmother right now. “Sick?” Why couldn't he be less vague! “Yes,” said Gabi. “She broke her arm and caught a bad cold.” “She broke her arm? Which? When? How?” asked Molkho excitedly. But the boy only knew that his grandmother was in a cast and had been in bed for several days—how many he couldn't say. Afraid to run up the bill, Molkho hung up and paced worriedly about the room; then, hastily putting some things in his suitcase, he went down with it to the little room on the first floor and proceeded from there to the lobby. The gaily lit bar was deserted. Exhaustedly he leaned against the counter, sorry he hadn't gone to the opera instead of waiting on tenterhooks here.

Through the open door of the kitchen he watched the German family eat dinner, ladling some sort of dumpling soup out of a large bowl. In a corner flickered the spectral blue light of a television, on which an announcer was reading a weather forecast from a map crisscrossed with arrows. Would he like to join them for a bowl of
Schwemmele?
asked the proprietor, noticing him and pointing to the doughy gray dumplings. Tempted, Molkho declined. “Thank you,” he replied warmly. Everything looked delicious, but he did not wish to spoil his appetite, for his lady friend would soon arrive and go out with him to eat. He had simply been trying to make out the forecast. “It could be worse,” said the German. “Lots of rain.” “But no snow?” smiled Molkho. “No snow,” the German laughed, remembering Molkho's last visit. He translated for his family, which broke out laughing too. Oh no! No snow! Not yet! They must think I'm some sort of eccentric, Molkho thought as he stepped out into the street. First I bring them a sleeper and then a vanisher, although the truth is that the sleeper brought me.

A thin rain was falling again, and he walked down the block through the yellow fog, hoping his Russian might appear. Could she be lost in it somewhere, wandering between East and West? He recalled his last glimpse of her, sobbing childishly while a crowd formed around her as the pale East German officer arrived. Or was she perhaps crying for joy? Not everyone keeps his emotions under wraps like me, he thought, stepping into his working-class restaurant. Though he considered ordering
Schwemmele,
he dutifully asked for wurst and fries, as if determined to make up for all the sausage meat denied him as a child by his mother, who claimed it was made from offal. He returned to the hotel, wrote a new note that said, “I am in Room 1,” and entered his dwarflike cell. Leaving his suitcase unopened, he took off his shoes and lay down to wait in his clothes with the light on.

H
E MUST HAVE
switched off the light in his sleep, because it was dark when he awoke hours later. At first, he couldn't remember where he was. When he did, his first thought was of his mother-in-law. So now she's broken her arm, he thought. That's a bad business. At her age the bones don't knit, which means I'll have a cripple on my hands. Thank God it's just an arm. Or is it? His son had sounded as if he were hiding something. His wife had been right to insist the old woman move to the home. Not that there couldn't be problems there too. Why, just look how she had gone and fallen the minute his back was turned!

He could feel his anger at her growing. She had bitten off more than she could chew this time, and he was the one who would pay for it. He rose and descended to the lobby, where the only light came from the little bulbs lighting the cabinets of swords and maps. The clock showed after two. Behind the desk the student was asleep on his mattress. A lone dove nested in its cubbyhole. Beside it was his note, which he took and read. “I am in Room 1.” Then they must have taken her after all! Could it really have gone so smoothly? Or had they simply locked her up for disorderly conduct? And I didn't even say good-bye, he mused sadly, missing his little rabbit. Why hadn't he touched or kissed her plump breasts, which now seemed such an overture to pleasure? Returning to his room, he switched on the night-light and sat guiltily on the edge of the bed. It was irresponsible, even cowardly, to have left her, he thought, studying his passport, which the East Germans hadn't bothered to stamp. Why couldn't he have waited to see what happened to her, the two old women would ask, not fathoming his fear of being trapped in the East himself. The tiny room made him feel claustrophobic. He returned to the lobby, took the last key, went back to Room 1, packed a few things, and ascended with them to Room 9. If I'm paying for two rooms, I may as well sleep in both, he thought.