Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

“Everybody takes sides.”

She looked at him for a second, then waved her hand toward the landscape. “They didn’t. They just let everybody go to hell. And they’re doing okay.”

“Up here in cloud-cuckoo-land. You wouldn’t last a day.”

“No? Maybe not. Anyway, it’s probably just the air. Not enough oxygen to decide anything one way or the other.”

“How much more of this?” he said, nodding toward the road.

“Miles. Austria’s pretty much the same. This part, anyway. You can hardly tell the difference.” She took a long pull on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a steady stream, suddenly moody. “Of course, they weren’t neutral there. They were Nazis.”

“So much for your theory,” he said. “About the air.”

“Maybe they got talked into it,” she said quietly, still looking ahead.

“That’s not the way I heard it.”

She glanced at him, surprised, as if he’d interrupted another thought, then shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe the air’s heavier over there.”

Oddly enough, it was. As they crossed the border the sky grew dark with clouds, so that the morning seemed more than ever like some bright Alpine mirage floating above the gray. The middle of Europe was overcast, too far from the sea for the winds to lift its gloomy cover. Even the buildings began to take on a leaden weight, dreary with concrete and slate. They had lunch on a terrace built for sun with a small cluster of middle-aged ladies wearing overcoats and hats.

“What’s it mean, anyway, briefs or boxers?” Nick said, to break her mood.

She smiled. “Well, boxers are a little country club, maybe.” She paused. “Can I ask you something? Why did you change your mind?”

He looked at her face, open and curious. “I didn’t change it,” he hedged. “You just took me by surprise. Of course I want to see him. Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know. If I felt the way you did-”

“How do I feel? I don’t know from one day to the next. I won’t know until I see him, I guess.”

“Okay,” she said, backing off.

He leaned over, putting his hand on hers. “Look, I think I owe him this much, that’s all.”

Her eyes widened. “Owe him?”

“Remember before when I said people always take sides? What if it’s the wrong one? That ever happen to you?” He felt her hand start under his, trapped, and he realized he’d been pressing down, so he released it. “It happened to me. I went to Vietnam. People change. Maybe he needs to tell somebody, get it out.”

She moved her hand away, drawing it down into her lap. “He’s been there a long time, Nick,” she said softly.

“Don’t expect too much-I know. So maybe he hasn’t changed. Maybe he just wants to tell me his war stories.”

“Are you nervous?”

He glanced up, feeling her eyes on him, then covered the moment by pulling out some notes to put on the bill. “Well. This isn’t getting us there.”

She watched him put the money on the plate. “Would you do something for me?” she said. “Let’s pretend we’re not going there. Until we do. Let’s just be tourists.”

“All the world wants to go to Prague,” he said.

She smiled. “But not today. Prague can wait a little.” They stayed the night in Salzburg and the next day left the main highway for the old road through the valley, storybook Europe with monasteries perched on bluffs over the river. The farther east they drove, the more remote the landscape felt. Nick saw the chemically sprayed vineyards and mechanized farms, but what he imagined were ox carts and peasant houses with superstitious chains of garlic at the window. Churches swirled in Baroque curves and flared out on top in bulbs. The German signs, funny and indecipherable at the same time, made the roads themselves seem unreal, as if they were traveling away from their own time.

They decided to stop at Durnstein, where the ruined castle, almost theatrically gloomy now at dusk, was likely to guarantee a few tourist hotels, and were amazed to find the town full. They went from one inn to another in a light drizzle, achy from the long day’s drive, until finally the desk clerk at the Golden Hind sent them to Frau Berenblum’s, a block away. She had been slicing bread when they rang the bell and, alarmingly, answered the door with the knife still in her hand, but she had rooms.

“ Zwei Zimmer,” she said to Molly.

Nick, who understood this much, said, “Tell her we only need one.”

“ Zwei Zimmer,” she repeated, glowering at him and pointing at Molly’s ringless finger.

“Two rooms,” Molly said. “She’s worried about my virtue. If she only knew. Cheer up, though, we get to share a bath, and you never know where that’s going to lead. Want to get the bags? She already thinks you’re a pig, so try to be polite.”

Frau Berenblum nodded through this, evidently because she thought Molly was asserting herself. Then, knife still in hand, she guided Molly up the stairs, leaving Nick to play porter.

The rooms were spotless and plain, down quilts rising high on the beds like powder puffs, but the bathroom was wonderful, with an old Edwardian box tub with rows of colored bath salts along its shelf, and after dinner Molly claimed it, soaking for what seemed hours. When she finally appeared at his door, her head wrapped in a towel turban, Nick was half asleep, nodding over the map. Then it was his turn to sit in the tub, listening to the sounds below — the slap of dough on the wooden table as Frau Berenblum kneaded tomorrow’s bread, the faint background of radio music. He wondered if she were listening too, cocking her ear for the telltale creak of springs. It was absurd. They weren’t tourists. They were wasting time.

He could smell the dope as he passed Molly’s door, and paused, not believing it. He tapped lightly, more aware than ever of the lights downstairs, and opened the door, still hoping it was his imagination.

She was sitting on the bed painting her toenails, small wads of cotton wedged between her toes, and she looked toward the door in surprise. The flannel had been replaced by silk, held at the back by two thin straps and cut low in front, and as she leaned over to apply the polish her breasts seemed on the verge of tipping out of the fabric. She had hiked the skirt up to mid-thigh to keep it out of the way, so that her entire leg was exposed in an arch of flesh.

He stopped for a moment, taking her in. It was the first time, in all the flirting and awkward sleeping arrangements, that he had really wanted her, wondered what it would be like to run his hand along her inner thigh, where she would be warm, quick to the touch. Then he saw the ashtray on the bed, the bulky home-rolled joint, a thin stream of sweet smoke still rising from the tip.

“Are you crazy?” he whispered.

She angled her head toward the open window. “It’s okay.”

“She’ll smell it. I smelled it.”

She grinned. “You think she’s with the DEA?”

“It’s not funny. Christ. You brought it? Over the border?”

She nodded, a little surprised at his anger. “Tampax. They never look. Never. It’s okay.” She swung around on the bed, dropping her leg so that she faced him in the low-cut nightgown, her skin white. He looked at her, an involuntary glance, then moved over to the ashtray.

“It’s not okay,” he said, putting out the joint. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to get rid of it, that’s why. When were you planning to dump it? Just before we hit the iron curtain?”

“Iron curtain,” she said. “It’s just a border.”

“I don’t believe this,” he said, his voice rising. “If you want to spend some time in a Communist jail, save it for your next trip. Did you ever think what might happen if you got caught? To both of us?”