Bernhard Schlink - The Gordian Knot

Bulnakov released Georg’s hand and closed the door. Here in his office there was also the smell of fresh paint, and a new desk, a new chair, a new seating area, and along the wall two built-in niches piled high with folders. Above them technical drawings were pinned to the wall with thumbtacks. Bulnakov stood in front of his desk looking at Georg with benevolence and concern, and asked again, “Is anything wrong? Is it what we pay that’s making you hesitate? Ah, I know it’s a touchy subject, believe you me, but I can’t afford to pay more than thirty-five centimes a word. Not the kind of money that will make anyone rich-no Croesus, but no Diogenes either. Not that I’m saying you’re a Diogenes, it’s just a manner of speaking.”

Thirty-five centimes a word-Maurin was paying him that, but only now that he’d been working for him half a year. Not to mention that he would no longer have to drive all the way to Marseille, nor would he have to do the typing himself.

“I’m very grateful for your kind words, Monsieur, and that you are interested in my working for you,” Georg said. “I would gladly fit any jobs you care to give me into my schedule, and in fact keep my schedule open, but I charge fifty centimes. You might wish to consider this and give me a call, but as of now it seems that your expectations and mine do not coincide.”

What a stilted answer, but Georg was pleased with it and proud he wasn’t selling himself cheap. And to hell with it if it didn’t work out.

Bulnakov laughed. “I see you’re a man who knows his worth, a man who demands his price! I like that, my young friend, I like it very much. May I propose forty-five centimes? Let’s shake on it! Shall we do business?”

Georg was handed an envelope with the galley pages of a handbook. “The first half is due next Monday, and the rest on Wednesday. Also, there’s an IBM conference in Lyon next Thursday and Friday. If you could go there with Mademoiselle Kramsky as our representative, and keep your ears to the ground and your pen at the ready, jotting down whatever people say, we would pay a thousand francs a day plus expenses. As far as those fees go, they’re nonnegotiable-no ifs, ands, or buts. Agreed? You must excuse me now.”

Georg spoke with Mademoiselle Kramsky about the trip. He hadn’t noticed before that she was pretty-or now his good mood made her seem so. A white blouse with white embroidery, white edging above her breasts, and short sleeves, one rolled up, the other unbuttoned. She wasn’t wearing a bra, had small, firm breasts, and golden hairs shimmered on her tanned arms. Her collar was round, pretty, and the top buttons coquettishly undone, and when she laughed her eyes laughed too. By her right eyebrow, beside her nose, she had a small trembling dimple while she was thinking: Should we go by train or car, and when should we start, Wednesday evening perhaps, after we’re finished with the typing and proofreading of the handbook. Georg made a joke; a thick ray of sunlight fell between the two church towers outside the window, and in its light Mademoiselle Kramsky shook her head laughing, sparks dancing in her hair.

GEORG HAD NEVER WORKED AS HARD AS he did on the following days-not for his state examination, and not as a lawyer. This wasn’t just because the handbook was thick and he found translating English computer language into French rather difficult, nor was it in anticipation of the next job they would give him, or the ones after that with all the money they would bring. He was bursting with energy and wanted to show what he was capable of: to himself, to Bulnakov, and to the world. Saturday evening he ate at Gérard’s, and after his coffee went back home without first having his usual glass of Calvados. Sunday morning he took a short walk, but only because he preferred thinking about the HELP-function while walking rather than at his desk; otherwise, he sat in his room or on the terrace and even forgot to smoke. By Monday morning he had translated and dictated two-thirds of the handbook. He drove to Cadenet whistling, singing, and beating the rhythm on the steering wheel. He met neither Monsieur Bulnakov nor Mademoiselle Kramsky, but gave the cassette to a young man who barely opened his mouth to utter “ merci, ” and went back home to finish the translation. By Tuesday evening it was done. Wednesday morning he breakfasted on the balcony-bacon and eggs, freshly baked bread, orange juice, and coffee, while he let the sun’s rays warm his back. He listened to the cicadas and the birds, smelled the lavender, and looked over the green countryside to Ansouis, whose castle towered out of the mist. He packed his suit for the conference, and was in Cadenet by ten.

Monsieur Bulnakov’s plump red face was beaming. “The translation is very good, my young friend, very good indeed. I’ve already looked through it-you needn’t bother going over it again. How about joining me for a cup of coffee? Mademoiselle Kramsky will be here any minute, and then the two of you can head out.”

“What about the last part of the handbook?”

“Mademoiselle Kramsky’s colleague will type it and I’ll edit it. As long as you get to Lyon as quickly as possible. You mustn’t miss the mayor’s reception.”

Monsieur Bulnakov asked him where he was from, what he had studied, where he had worked, and why he had moved from Karlsruhe to Cucuron. “Ah, to be young! But I can understand-I didn’t want to run my office in Paris anymore either, and moved here.”

“Are you Russian?”

“I was born there, but grew up in Paris. We only spoke Russian at home, though. If the Russian market ever opens up to computers and software-I hope I’ll live to see the day! By the way, here are two envelopes. One’s for your work, the other for your expenses. It’s an advance. Ah, here’s Mademoiselle Kramsky.”

She was wearing a summery dress with pale blue and red stripes and large blue flowers, a light blue belt, and a dark blue scarf. Her luxuriant, neatly combed hair hung to her shoulders, and again there was that friendliness in her eyes. She was amused at Monsieur Bulnakov fussing over them like a father seeing his two children off on a long trip, and hid her smile behind her hand. Georg noticed that her legs were short, and felt in a pleasant way that this brought her somewhat more down to earth. He was in love, but not yet aware of it.

They took the green Deux Chevaux. The car had been standing in the sun and was hot until they drove through the countryside with the top and windows open. There was a strong draft, and Georg stopped near Lourmarin, took a scarf out of his bag, and put it on. The radio was playing a mad potpourri of music: themes from Vivaldi to Wagner in a swinging pop sound, with an oily kitsch of lesser masterpieces in between. They made bets on what the next theme would be, and by the end she owed him three petits blancs , while he owed her five. They reached the hills before Bonnieux. The town on the hilltop shimmered in the midday sun, and they drove through its winding streets and past vineyards on their way down to the Route Nationale. They talked about music, movies, and where they lived, and over a picnic Georg told her about Heidelberg, Karlsruhe, and his life as a lawyer and with Hanne. He was surprised at how open he was. He felt strangely trusting and happy. As they drove on they dropped the formal vous , and she shook with laughter at how sharp and hard her name sounded in German.

“No, Françoise, it depends on how you pronounce it. The ending of your name can sound like an explosion or like a breath of air”-he demonstrated-“and… and… I would never call you Franziska in German.”

“What would you call me?”

“Brown Eyes. You have the brownest eyes I’ve ever seen. You can’t turn that into a name in French, but you can in German, and that’s what I would call you.”