Bernhard Schlink - The Gordian Knot

“How did you find out?…”

“You mean to tell me you didn’t know I was in town? You of all people?” He shook his head. “The child is crying.”

Steadying herself against the wall, she made her way to the living room. “I’m sorry… I was just…” She went over to the baby, who was lying on a blanket on the floor waving its arms and legs, and picked it up. Her blouse fell open and he saw her breasts. She sat down on the sofa and put the dripping breast into the crying mouth. The child closed its eyes and sucked. Françoise looked up. No longer upset, no longer afraid. She pushed her lower lip out a little. He knew that gesture. She knew she looked coquettish and sulky like that. In her eyes was the plea for him not to be angry at her, the certainty that he couldn’t be angry.

His anger burst out again. “I’m going to stay here for a while, and if you tell Bulnakov or Benton or the CIA or the police… if you mention anything to anybody, I’ll kill the child. Whose is it? Are you married?” He hadn’t even considered this possibility. He glanced around the living room and through the open door at the bedroom, looking for signs that a man was living here.

“I was.”

“In Warsaw?” he asked, with a scornful laugh.

“No,” she answered seriously, “here in New York. We’ve just divorced.”

“Bulnakov?”

“Nonsense. Benton’s my boss, not my husband.”

“And whose child is it?”

“No… yes… well, whose do you think?”

“For heaven’s sake, Françoise, can’t you say anything besides no and yes?”

“And can you stop cross-examining me in this terrible, revolting way? You come bursting through the door, break my lock, upset Jill, and me as well. I don’t want to hear any more!” She said that in her little girl’s voice, whimpering and tearful.

“I’ll beat it out of you, Françoise, word for word if I have to! Or I’ll hang the child up by her feet until you tell me everything I want to know. Who is the father?”

“You are-you won’t harm her, right?”

“I don’t want to hear any of your nonsense! Who is the father?”

“My ex. Are you satisfied?”

He felt his old helplessness return. He knew he could not hurt her or the baby, but he doubted that she would tell him the truth even then. He would only hear what she thought he wanted to hear in order to get the painful situation over with. She was a child who lived in hope of immediate reward and in fear of immediate punishment. She had no sense of the importance of the truth.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said.

“How am I looking at you?”

“Critically… no, judgmentally.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I didn’t know… didn’t want things to happen the way they did,” she said. “It lasted much longer than I thought it would, and it was so wonderful to be with you. Do you remember what we were listening to when we were driving to Lyon? A potpourri of music.”

“I do,” he said. How he remembered the trip, and the night, and the other nights, and waking up beside Françoise, and coming home every evening to Cucuron. The memories were about to seize him and bear him away like a wave. Sentimentality was the last thing he needed.

“Let’s talk about that some other time,” he said. “I slept last night on a bench in the park, this morning I was chased by Benton’s people, and I’m dog-tired. Since Jill is asleep, put her in the crib in the bedroom and I’ll sleep there in your bed. I’m going to lock the door from the inside. I know Benton’s men can break the door down, but don’t forget that I’ll be right next to your child, and can get at her before anyone comes bursting in.”

“But what if she starts crying?”

“Then I’ll wake up and let you in.”

“But I don’t understand…”

She looked at him helplessly, and he noticed again the little dimple above her right eyebrow.

“You don’t need to understand,” he said. “Just behave as if nothing happened, forget you saw me today, forget that I’m here, and see to it that no one finds out!”

She remained seated. He took the baby from her arms, laid it in the crib, and pushed the crib into the bedroom. He locked the door, undressed, and lay down to sleep. He smelled Françoise. From the adjoining room he heard her weeping softly.

HE WOKE UP AROUND TWO. There was a gentle knocking. He got up and looked at Jill-she was sleeping with her thumb in her mouth.

“What is it?” he whispered at the door.

“Will you open up?”

He thought for a moment. Was it a trap? If it was, and the child in his power didn’t offer him any protection, then he had no chance anyway. He pulled on his jeans and opened the door.

She was wearing the dress she had worn on the trip to Lyon, the pale blue- and red-striped dress with the big blue flowers. She had washed her hair, put on makeup, and was holding a baby bottle in her hand.

“I think Jill will wake up in about an hour,” she whispered. “Will you give her her bottle? When you’re finished, hold her upright on your shoulder and gently tap her on the back until she burps. And if she’s wet, you’ll have to go get a fresh diaper. They’re in the bathroom.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have to deliver some translations.”

“You’re no longer working for Bulnakov?”

“Yes, I am, but I’m still on maternity leave. I’m translating as a sideline-New York is expensive, you know.”

“Were you at the Yankees-Indians game last week?”

“It wasn’t much of a game. Did you see it? Now I have to go. Thanks for babysitting.” From the apartment door she waved to him, that coquettish fluttering of her hand.

He lay down again. He couldn’t sleep anymore, and listened to Jill’s satisfied cooing and gurgling. Then he took a shower and shaved with the pink ladies’ razor he found on the edge of the bathtub. Under the sink he found some detergent, soaked his underwear, shirt, and socks, and put on his jeans and the biggest sweater he could find in Françoise’s closet. When he went over to Jill’s crib, she was lying with her eyes open. She looked up at him, screwed up her mouth, and began screaming until she turned red. He lifted her up, forgot where Françoise had put the bottle, and ran through the apartment looking for it. Jill wouldn’t stop screaming.

He had never wanted to have children. He had also never wanted not to. The subject had just never interested him. When he and Steffi had gotten married, it was understood that one day they would have children. And with Hanne, who had had herself sterilized, having children was not an option. He had a godson, the oldest son of his school friend Jürgen, who had become a judge in Mosbach, married at twenty-three, and had had five children. Georg had taken his godson to the Frankfurt Zoo and the Mannheim Observatory, had read him bedtime stories whenever he visited, and for his tenth birthday had given him a big Swiss army knife with all its blades, screwdrivers, bottle openers, corkscrews, scissors, file, saw, magnifier, tweezers, toothpick, and a tool to scale fish. Georg would have liked to have had a knife like that himself. It was too heavy for the practical boy, who wasn’t the least bit interested in fishing.

Georg found the bottle. Jill emptied it in a flash and went on screaming. What does the brat want now? he wondered. He remembered the instruction to hold her upright and tap her lightly on the back; he did so, she burped, and continued screaming.

“What more do you want? Why are you screaming at me at the top of your lungs? Men don’t like women who scream, and they don’t like ugly women, and if you go on like this your face will get crooked and you’ll be ugly.”