Joseph Kanon - Stardust

“I didn’t say a word,” Ben said, beginning to turn.

“No, don’t. He’ll pick up on it. Let’s eat. You like seafood? They have a great Crab Louis.”

They got up and walked across the patio to the sales counter. He spotted him immediately-the man in the gray suit reading a paper, almost hidden behind a tree but scanning the patio just as he had the crowd at the funeral, the reception afterward. Ben gave a don’t-worry shake of his head to Kelly, and ordered the crab. A huge plate, enough for two.

“I know him,” he said when they sat down again. “He works for Polly.”

“No, he doesn’t. He may feed her, but he doesn’t work for her. I know all her runners. So what’s he feed her. He’s a cop. Maybe even Bureau. He’s got that look. He could be Bureau.”

“Calm down. You’re-”

“Cop shows twice, something’s up. You learn these things. So what the fuck does he want?”

“He came with Polly. To the funeral. That’s all I can tell you. Your name never came up at the studio. You’re sure he’s a cop?”

“Some kind of cop. Has to be.”

“I’m going to the head. See if he watches.”

He walked to the men’s room past piles of oranges, but the man in the gray suit seemed not to notice, his gaze still fixed toward the other end of the dining patio, an easier sight line than the side angle to Kelly. People in shirts having lunch, big California salads. A few suits. Liesl’s father. Ben stopped. Ostermann saw him at the same time and nodded. Impossible now not to go over. Ben signaled to Kelly that he’d only be a minute, using the turn to check on the man in the gray suit, absorbed again in his paper. Meanwhile, Kaltenbach was waving him to their table.

“So, you know this place?” he said standing, playing host. “A coffee? You’ll join us?”

Ben shook his head. “I’m with somebody. Just a hello.”

“A little bit of Europe,” Ostermann said, gesturing to the patio. “Not a real Biergarten, but still, trees. You can pretend.”

Ben looked down at their plates-sausages and deli potato salad, what they might in fact have ordered at Hechinger’s.

“That’s what everyone does here,” Kaltenbach said, waving his hands to take in the city. “Pretend.” He looked over at Ben, excited. “Do you know that I am going to Berlin?”

“Berlin,” Ben said, thinking of smashed bricks, jagged walls.

“Yes, I know, it’s bad now, you hear it from everyone, but still, Berlin. Something survives. I thought I would never see it again. I thought I would die here.” He gestured to the sunny patio, the healthy salad eaters, seeing something else. “And now-”

“How did you arrange it?” Ben said. “I thought nobody could get in, except the Army. A few reporters. You need a permit.”

“Yes, yes, another exit visa. But Hans here will write a letter. Thomas Mann, too. Who would say no to them? Why would they keep me here? On relief. Eighteen dollars and fifty cents a week. A charity case. You don’t think they’ll be happy to see me go? One last visa and it’s over. If Erika were still alive, think how happy.”

“Maybe you should wait,” Ben said, “until things are better. It’s difficult now, just to live.”

“No, they’re giving me a flat.”

“Who?”

“The university. I’m invited to accept a chair at the university.”

“But it’s in the Soviet sector.”

“Yes, of course, that’s who invites me.”

Ben glanced at Ostermann, who met his eye but then looked deliberately away, toying with his fork.

“They are going to print my books again.”

“The Soviets?”

“My friend, one conqueror or another, what’s the difference? Germany lost the war. Do you think the Russians will leave now? How else can I do this? I can be a writer again. I can be in Berlin,” he said in a kind of rush, emotional now, almost touching it. “Excuse me,” he said, putting a fingertip to his eye. “So foolish. Old age. And now the bladder. I’ll be right back.”

Ben watched him head for the men’s room.

“He’s not a political man,” Ostermann said quietly.

“He will be. The minute he gets off the plane. German writer returns. To the East. Which makes them look legitimate. They don’t care about his books. They just want him for show.”

“I know. They’ve asked some of the others. Even Brecht is reluctant and he-”

“They ask you?”

“No.” He glanced up, a slightly impish smile. “Maybe they don’t like my work. Too bourgeois.”

“You can’t let him do this. Do you know what it’s like there?”

“What do I say to him? He lives in one room. On money we give him. His friends. Each handout a humiliation. His wife committed suicide. For her, it was too much. And now they come to him. A professor. With a flat. His books. What do we offer instead?”

“Not a prison. At least here-”

“Reuben,” he said, using his full name as a kind of weight, “he doesn’t even know he’s here. He’s somewhere else, waiting. So let him go.”

“This isn’t going to make him popular with the State Department. Or you. Writing letters.”

“An act of friendship, not politics. Or isn’t that possible anymore? I thought that time was over. Well, it doesn’t matter for me. I don’t want to go back. The conscience of Germany? I don’t think they want that now. And maybe I don’t want them, either.”

Ben looked toward the other end of the patio. The man in the gray suit, paper down, was now sipping coffee. Just having lunch.

“A thousand apologies,” Kaltenbach said, joining them at the table. “And after so many kindnesses. I’m not myself these days.”

“Herr Kaltenbach,” Ben said, a sudden thought, “how did the offer come, from the university. A letter? It’s official?”

“Yes, yes. Hand delivered by the Soviet consul, all the way from San Francisco. So I would know it was genuine. You know, you don’t trust the mails for such an offer.”

“Ah, the consul,” Ben said. Someone who would certainly be watched everywhere, each contact another string to follow. “Well, I hope everything works out. Berlin-”

Kaltenbach nodded. “You don’t have to say. I’ve seen the pictures. A wreck. But look at me. So maybe we’ll suit each other.”

There was another minute of bowing farewells, a European leave-taking, before Ben could go back across the patio. Kelly was waiting, smoking over the debris of his Crab Louis, but instead of turning to their table Ben kept going, an impulse, toward the gray suit.

“Excuse me. You were at my brother’s funeral, but we weren’t introduced,” he said, extending his hand. “Ben Collier.”

For a second, the man simply stared, as if the approach had violated some rule, then lifted his hand to shake Ben’s.

“I didn’t know who you were. They told me later. You had different names?” he said, keeping his eyes on Ben, reading him.

“My mother changed it. How did you know Danny?”

“We did some work together.”

“You’re in pictures?” Ben said, surprised.

“Technical advisor. To get the details right.”

“On the series? Police details? My friend over there thought you might be. Maybe FBI.” The man said nothing. “He thought you might be tailing him.”

“Yeah? What’d he do?” he said, playing with it, then looked at Ben and shook his head. “I’m retired.”

“From what?”

The man hesitated, thinking through a chess move, then nodded. “The Bureau.”

“You don’t look old enough to-”

“I took a bullet. That buys you a few years.”

“So what do you do now?”

“Have lunch,” he said, stretching his hand toward his finished plate, implying long afternoons.