Bernhard Schlink - The Gordian Knot

Jill quieted down. But as soon as he stopped talking she began screaming again, so he talked and talked, rocked her back and forth, walked her up and down. He couldn’t bring himself to utter “oochy-coochy-coo” or “patti-patti-poo,” though he realized she’d be just as pleased with those as with any fairy tales, Wild West stories, or detective stories he could remember.

He put her down on the cabinet in the bathroom and removed her wet diaper. It wasn’t only full of pee, but full of poop too. He washed her bottom and rubbed lotion on it. He waved Jill’s legs in a cycling motion, moved her arms left and right, up and down, and let her hands reach for his thumbs and hold them tight. He pinched the fat on her thighs, arms, and hips. She squealed with delight. Actually, there’s almost no difference between little children and little kittens, he thought. Children are more work-one invests more in them, and that’s why people later have more to offer than cats have. But that’s as it should be. He studied her face, looking for some sign of comprehension. She had thin dark hair, a high forehead, a snub nose and snub chin, and no teeth. He couldn’t make out what was going on in her blue eyes; when he bent over her, he saw his reflection in them. She laughed. Was that a sign of comprehension? On the edge of her ears he discovered a thick dark down. She was still holding on to his thumbs.

“My little hostage. No more flirting when Mama comes home. She mustn’t find out what a paper tiger I am. Is that clear?”

Jill fell asleep. Georg laid her in her crib, called Jürgen in Germany, and asked him to disregard the letter he hadn’t yet gotten. He had decided to replace the old story with the new one, so Jürgen shouldn’t bother with the instructions he had enclosed. “But why? And what are you doing in New York?” His friend was concerned.

“I’ll call again,” Georg said. “Say hi to the kids.”

Georg knew there were problems that had to be dealt with and decisions to be made. What should his next step be? What were the others planning? What can I do? he wondered. What do I want to do? But the outside world was far away. He knew the feeling from being in a train: the only things that separated you from the passing landscape, cities, cars, and people were a thin wall and thin glass. But this separation and the speed were enough to encapsulate you. And also, you could no longer do anything where you started from, or at the place you were to arrive. When you got there you might deal with problems and decisions-but in your capsule you were condemned to passivity, and you were free. Also, when no one knows that you are sitting in the train, when no one is expecting you and you are traveling to a completely unknown city, being cut off takes on an existential quality. No car trip can compare with it; as a driver you are busy steering, or as a passenger you are involved in what the driver is doing. In Françoise’s apartment Georg was experiencing the same isolation from the world. Of course, all he had to do was walk out and involve himself with the life outside. He knew that that was what he faced, that he had to do it and would. He didn’t feel inwardly blocked. It was just that the train hadn’t yet arrived, and the schedule with the arrival time had been lost.

He sat in the rocking chair in the living room and looked out the window. An inner courtyard with a tree, fire escapes, clotheslines, and garbage cans. He couldn’t distinguish from which apartments the noises came: hammering, the clatter of pots and pans, a saxophone, children’s voices, and women chatting loudly across the courtyard. Françoise didn’t return. The shadows climbed up the walls. Around six Jill woke up, this time without screaming. When she fell asleep again he rinsed his clothes and hung them up to dry. Twilight was coming on. The sky over the neighboring houses and the World Trade Center turned red.

Françoise came home carrying a large brown shopping bag. “How’s Jill?”

“She’s asleep.”

“Still? She usually wakes up around six.”

“She did. I made some tea for her and gave it to her in her bottle.”

She looked at him skeptically. “I’m sorry I’m so late. I had to drop by Benton’s.”

“So you really… Where are they? How much time do I have to come out with my hands raised?” He stood up.

“No!” she called out. The shopping bag fell and burst open as she threw herself in front of the door to the bedroom. “Don’t do anything to her, don’t! I didn’t say anything about you! There’s an article about you in the Times , wait, I’ll show it to you.” She thrust out her left hand at him as if she were fending him off, bent down, pulled the newspaper from the ruins of the shopping bag, and began leafing through it. “I found it. Here.”

“I know the article.” So she really believed he was capable of doing something to Jill.

She straightened up. “Next week my vacation is over, and in any case I wanted to go to Townsend, and after reading the article…”

“Did you speak to Benton?”

“Yes, he’s pretty annoyed. He didn’t want that article in the paper. The painters in the stairwell called an ambulance and the police; then the reporters came, nosed around, and the man you pushed down the stairs gave them your name. After he came to, he didn’t know what he was doing. It’s turned into a circus, Joe said, a regular circus.”

“Joe is Benton?”

“Yes. Do you know that the other one, the one who fell into the elevator shaft, broke both his legs?”

“How should I know that? I didn’t have time to stop and look.”

“Why did you do it?” she asked anxiously. He had become strange to her. Someone who lashes out indiscriminately, and before whom she had better watch her step.

“What did he tell you? Bulnakov-Benton-Joe; soon I’ll be calling the bastard sweetie and honey.”

“He said you’re no longer satisfied with the money you got in Cucuron, that you want more and are trying to blackmail him.”

“And what would I blackmail him with?”

“You found out that we… that he… that you weren’t dealing with the Russians in Provence, and you threatened to tell the Russians, and they’d be angry.”

“He says I came to him with this idiotic blackmail? And what was I supposed to have got from him in Cucuron?” Georg was really angry. “How stupid do you think I am? You know yourself that it’s bullshit-what’s this song and dance about? God, I’m fed up with your lies, fed up, fed up!” And with every fed up he gave her a slap in the face. He clenched his fists. She shielded herself with her arm. They stood opposite each other. Eye to eye, her terrified look and his enraged one. He took a deep breath. “It’s over, I won’t do anything more to you. Does Benton come here sometimes? Are you still having an affair with him?”

“That’s over. Anyone who comes here calls me up ahead of time in case the child’s asleep. You needn’t worry. And I certainly haven’t breathed a word to anyone. I don’t want to lose my babysitter, either.” She looked and sounded different from one minute to the next. At first fearful, then conspiratorially serious, and with her last words cheerful, with a wink. “Oh look at this mess!” she said, picking up the burst bag. Milk was leaking onto the floor. “Will you help me with supper?”

Later, when they went to bed, he was unyielding. He took the bed next to Jill, while Françoise slept in the living room on the couch. He locked the door; he would hear Jill if she woke up, and if he didn’t, Françoise could knock and wake him up. He did hear Jill when she woke up in the night, even before Françoise did, and went into the other room and woke Françoise up. She gave Jill her breast, and he fell asleep. She took off her nightgown and slipped beside him under the blanket.