Stardust(49)
“No. You said—”
“You sure?”
Ben nodded. “Why?” he said, aware now of the look in Kelly’s eyes, his quick movements.
“Maybe my imagination. Except it never is, is it? Don’t turn around—no, don’t, I mean it. People always do that. Take a look when we get up for the food. There’s a guy over by the raw bar. I notice he’s casing the place, and he looks familiar and then it comes to me—he was hanging around Republic. When I’m there checking the talent. This is before I hear about Continental. Some coincidence, if you believe in that. So maybe he’s keeping an eye, you know? The guy’s a cop— everything about him—and I’m thinking, what the hell, the cops enforce for the studios, so maybe someone—”
“I didn’t say a word,” Ben said, beginning to turn.
“No, don’t. He’ll pick up on it. Let’s eat. You like seafood? They have a great Crab Louis.”
They got up and walked across the patio to the sales counter. He spotted him immediately—the man in the gray suit reading a paper, almost hidden behind a tree but scanning the patio just as he had the crowd at the funeral, the reception afterward. Ben gave a don’t-worry shake of his head to Kelly, and ordered the crab. A huge plate, enough for two.
“I know him,” he said when they sat down again. “He works for Polly.”
“No, he doesn’t. He may feed her, but he doesn’t work for her. I know all her runners. So what’s he feed her. He’s a cop. Maybe even Bureau. He’s got that look. He could be Bureau.”
“Calm down. You’re—”
“Cop shows twice, something’s up. You learn these things. So what the fuck does he want?”
“He came with Polly. To the funeral. That’s all I can tell you. Your name never came up at the studio. You’re sure he’s a cop?”
“Some kind of cop. Has to be.”
“I’m going to the head. See if he watches.”
He walked to the men’s room past piles of oranges, but the man in the gray suit seemed not to notice, his gaze still fixed toward the other end of the dining patio, an easier sight line than the side angle to Kelly. People in shirts having lunch, big California salads. A few suits. Liesl’s father. Ben stopped. Ostermann saw him at the same time and nodded. Impossible now not to go over. Ben signaled to Kelly that he’d only be a minute, using the turn to check on the man in the gray suit, absorbed again in his paper. Meanwhile, Kaltenbach was waving him to their table.
“So, you know this place?” he said standing, playing host. “A coffee? You’ll join us?”
Ben shook his head. “I’m with somebody. Just a hello.”
“A little bit of Europe,” Ostermann said, gesturing to the patio. “Not a real Biergarten, but still, trees. You can pretend.”
Ben looked down at their plates—sausages and deli potato salad, what they might in fact have ordered at Hechinger’s.
“That’s what everyone does here,” Kaltenbach said, waving his hands to take in the city. “Pretend.” He looked over at Ben, excited. “Do you know that I am going to Berlin?”
“Berlin,” Ben said, thinking of smashed bricks, jagged walls.
“Yes, I know, it’s bad now, you hear it from everyone, but still, Berlin. Something survives. I thought I would never see it again. I thought I would die here.” He gestured to the sunny patio, the healthy salad eaters, seeing something else. “And now—”
“How did you arrange it?” Ben said. “I thought nobody could get in, except the Army. A few reporters. You need a permit.”
“Yes, yes, another exit visa. But Hans here will write a letter. Thomas Mann, too. Who would say no to them? Why would they keep me here? On relief. Eighteen dollars and fifty cents a week. A charity case. You don’t think they’ll be happy to see me go? One last visa and it’s over. If Erika were still alive, think how happy.”
“Maybe you should wait,” Ben said, “until things are better. It’s difficult now, just to live.”
“No, they’re giving me a flat.”
“Who?”
“The university. I’m invited to accept a chair at the university.”
“But it’s in the Soviet sector.”
“Yes, of course, that’s who invites me.”
Ben glanced at Ostermann, who met his eye but then looked deliberately away, toying with his fork.
“They are going to print my books again.”
“The Soviets?”
“My friend, one conqueror or another, what’s the difference? Germany lost the war. Do you think the Russians will leave now? How else can I do this? I can be a writer again. I can be in Berlin,” he said in a kind of rush, emotional now, almost touching it. “Excuse me,” he said, putting a fingertip to his eye. “So foolish. Old age. And now the bladder. I’ll be right back.”