Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

Glancing quickly at the place, he said, “It will suit me fine.”

“You don’t wish to see more? The closets, run the water, examine the view?”

Paul had noted that the place was on the ground floor, the windows were not barred and he could make a quick exit from the bedroom window, the living room window or the hallway door, which would lead to other apartments and other means of escape. He said to her, “Provided the water doesn’t come out of that canal I passed, I’m sure it will be fine. As for the view I’ll be working too hard to enjoy it.”

The radio tubes warmed up and a man’s voice filled the room. Brother! The health lecture was still going on, more talk of draining swamps and spraying to kill mosquitoes. At least FDR’s fireside chats were short and sweet. He walked over to the set and turned the dial, looking for music. There was none. He shut it off.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“It’s your room. Do as you wish.” She glanced at the silent radio uncertainly then said, “Mr. Morgan said you’re an American. But your German is very good.”

“Thanks to my parents and grandparents.” He took the suitcase from her, walked into the bedroom and set it on the bed. The bag sank deep into the mattress, and he wondered if it was filled with down. His grandmother had told him that she’d had a down bed in Nuremberg before they immigrated to New York, and as a boy Paul had been fascinated at the thought of sleeping on bird feathers.

When he returned to the living room Käthe said, “I serve a light breakfast, across the hall, from seven to eight A.M. Please let me know the night before when you’d like to be served. And there is coffee in the afternoon, of course. You’ll find a basin in the bedroom. The bathroom is up the hall, to be shared, but for now you are our only guest. Closer to the Olympics it will be much more crowded. Today you are the king of number twenty-six Magdeburger Alley. The castle is yours.” She walked to the door. “I will get afternoon coffee now.”

“You don’t have to. I actually-”

“Yes, yes, I will. It’s part of the price.”

When she stepped into the hall Paul went into the bedroom, where a dozen black beetles roamed the floor. He opened his briefcase and placed the copy of Hitler’s Mein Kampf, containing the fake passport and rubles, on the bookcase. Removing his sweater, he rolled up the sleeves of his tennis shirt, washed his hands then dried them on a threadbare towel.

Käthe returned a moment later with a tray containing a dented silver coffeepot, a cup and a small plate covered with a lace doily. She set this on the table in front of a well-worn couch.

“Please, you will sit.”

He did, rebuttoning his sleeves. He asked, “Do you know Reggie Morgan well?”

“No, he just answered an advertisement for the room and paid in advance.”

This was the answer Paul had been hoping for. He was relieved to learn that she had not contacted Morgan, which would have made her suspect. From the corner of his eye he felt her glance at his cheek. “You are hurt?”

“I’m tall. I’m always banging my head.” Paul touched his face lightly, as if he were hitting himself, to illustrate his words. The pantomime made him feel foolish and he lowered his hand.

She rose. “Please, wait.” A few minutes later she’d returned with a sticking plaster, which she offered him.

“Thanks.”

“I have no iodine, I’m afraid. I looked.”

He went into the bedroom, where he stood in front of the mirror behind the washstand and pressed the plaster to his face.

She called, “We have no low ceilings here. You will be safe.”

“Is this your building?” he asked, returning.

“No. It is owned by a man who is presently in Holland,” Käthe replied. “I manage the house in exchange for room and board.”

“Is he connected to the Olympics?”

“Olympics? No, why?”

“Most of the flags on the street are the Nazi – National Socialist, I mean. But you have an Olympic flag here.”

“Yes, yes.” She smiled. “We are in the spirit of the Games, aren’t we?”

Her German grammar was flawless and she was articulate; she’d had a different, and much better, career in the past, he could tell, but the ragged hands and cracked nails and such tired, tired eyes told a story of recent difficulties. But he could also sense an energy within her, a determination to see life through to better times. This, he decided, was part of the attraction he felt.

She poured him coffee. “There is no sugar at the moment. The stores have run out.”

“I don’t take sugar.”

“But I have strudel. I made it before the supplies ran short.” She took the doily off the plate, on which sat four small pieces of pastry. “Do you know what strudel is?”

“My mother made it. Every Saturday. My brother and sister would help her. They’d pull the dough so thin that you could read through it.”

“Yes, yes,” she said enthusiastically, “that is how I make it too. You did not help them stretch the dough?”

“No, I never did. I’m not so talented in the kitchen.” He took a bite and said, “But I ate plenty of it… This is very good.” He nodded toward the pot. “Would you like coffee? I’ll pour you some.”

“Me?” She blinked. “Oh, no.”

He sipped the brew, which was weak. It had been made from used grounds.

“We will speak your language,” Käthe announced. And launched into: “I have never been over to your country but I want very much to go.”

He could detect only a slight v ’ing of her w ’s, which is the hardest English sound for Germans to form.

“Your English is good,” Paul said.

“You mean ‘well,’” she blurted, smiling to have caught him in a mistake.

Paul said, “No. Your English is good. You speak English well. ‘Good’ is an adjective. ‘Well’ is an adverb – most of the time.”

She frowned. “Let me think… Yes, yes, you are right. I am blushing now. Mr. Morgan said you are a writer. And you’ve been to university, of course.”

Two years at a small college in Brooklyn before he dropped out to enlist and go fight in France. He’d never gotten around to finishing his studies. When he’d returned, that was when life got complicated, and college fell by the wayside. In fact, though, he’d learned more about words and books working for his grandfather and father in the printing plant than he figured he’d ever learn in college. But he told her none of this.

“I am a teacher. That is to say, I was a teacher. I taught literature to youngsters. As well as the difference between ‘will’ and ‘shall’ and ‘may’ and ‘can.’ Oh, and ‘good’ and ‘well.’ Which I am now embarrassed about.”

“English literature?”

“No, German. Though I love many English books.”

There was silence for a moment. Paul reached into his pocket, took out his passport, handed it to her.

She frowned, turning it over in his hand.

“I’m really who I say I am.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The language… You asked me about speaking English to see if I’m really an American. Not a National Socialist informer. Am I right?”

“I…” Her brown eyes quickly examined the floor. She was embarrassed.

“It’s all right.” He nodded. “Look at it. The picture.”

She started to return it. But then she paused, opened it up and compared the picture to his face. He took the booklet back.

“Yes, you are right. I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Schumann.”

“Paul.”

Then a smile. “You must be quite a successful journalist to be so… ‘perceptive’ is the word?”