After his shower Sean stood at the open window of the hotel room. The morning sun struggled to burn through the overcast and a ferry appeared out of the mist floating atop the surface of Lake Leman. The traffic was light along the quai and a few people walked dogs in the lakeside park. Nearby church bells pealed out the hour and the telephone rang. The desk clerk announced that a Herr Murah was downstairs.
"I'll be right down."
Sean stripped off the thick cotton bathrobe and put on a newly purchased white shirt and silver silk tie. Sean dressed slowly in the fine wool suit, then inspected himself in the full-length mirror. The black suit transformed him from a nightclub manager to a respectable businessman. He bought the illusion for several seconds, then wiped every surface in the room for fingerprints. All he was leaving behind in the 4-star suite was a slept-in bed, two used towels, and 10-Swiss francs tip for the maid. He opened the door with a hand towel and walked down the stairs rather than take the elevator. Upon entering the lobby dripping with 19th Century elegance Sean easily recognized his contact.
Kurt's accountant was proof that Neanderthals still roamed the Earth and the black-haired man in the red jogging suit sported a ear-to-ear scar across his neck. Someone had once failed to chop off the squat man's head. He greeted Sean with a grunt, "Herr Coll?"
"I guess you're Murah."
"That's right. You are on time."
"I woke up early. Just a minute. I have to drop off the room key."
Kurt had pre-paid the room, so Sean signed the bill. There were another fifteen minutes until the rendezvous with the banker and he said, "I want to walk to the bank."
"The meeting is at 9:30."
The Swiss and Germans shared a profound appreciation for punctuality and would forgive most any social transgression other than lateness.
"If I leave right now, I will be five minutes early."
"I will wait outside the bank in the car. It is better that way," the unlikely accountant said taking Sean's bag. When they exited from the hotel, Murah followed Sean at a distance, so no one would have thought they were together.
Halfway down the block, he got into a brand-new Volvo.
Sean crossed the street to the park. He stood at the edge of the quai for a minute. A church bell rang once, signaling fifteen minutes past the hour, and Sean headed toward the bank.
The man in the black suit was invisible to the people to work. The two bank guards watched him climb the stairs and held open the door. The bank appeared to be empty at first, as he crossed and the polished marble floor.
A bald man wearing glasses sat at a large mahogany desk, his skin pale from spending too much time inside. Kurt's description was right on the money
"Herr Egard?"
"Herr Coll." The banker greeted Sean and glanced over his shoulder, as if to assure he was not being scrutinized a higher-up. The grim smile slitted the banker's thin lips and he nervously motioned for Sean to sit.
"Your passport, please."
"Most certainly." Sean handed the banker his American passport.
Herr Egard examined the blue-jacketed document, then gave it back to Sean. "Your papers seem to be in order. I will go get the money."
The stoop-shouldered banker went over to the nearest teller and spoke in hushed tones. The teller handed over a small manila envelope and Herr Egard returned to the desk, placing the envelope and a single piece of paper before Sean.
"It is all there. One hundred thousand Swiss francs. You can sign for it and go."
Sean thought one hundred Swiss Francs would have made a bigger package.
"You don't mind if I count it first?"
"Not at all." Sean withdrew ten packets of one-thousand Franc notes from the envelope. It was all there and he signed the release form, saying, "Thank you very much."
"Have a good trip back to Hamburg." The banker shook the American's hand weakly, then sat back down at his desk to resumed his normal routine of balance sheets and numbers.
The pick-up had gone as smoothly as Kurt had predicted.
Sean exited from the bank.
The money barely dented the line of his new suit, but these ten stacks of Swiss Francs were the most money Sean had ever had on his person.
More than a year's wage at the Malchek, though not enough to warrant a runner, especially if you had Murah on your trail from the jump.
The Volvo Sedan pulled up and Sean got in the car. The Yugoslavian asked, "No problems?"
"Got the money right here." Sean patted the packet.
"Good." Murah drove to the airport without saying a word, which was fine by Sean, for he could do without hearing what was going on behind those beady black eyes. At the airport, Sean passed through the security checks without a hitch, then asked Murah what time the return flight was. He was shocked to hear the return flight was for 6:20pm.
"What are we going to do for ten hours."
"Wait."
"Can we wait in Geneva?"
Kurt wanted us to wait here."
Sean understood why, since the 6:20pm departure was the only direct flight to Hamburg.
Kurt might trust him, but not enough to change planes with $70,000.
Sean killed the hours, drinking beer.
He read every English newspaper in the airport and then Walter Abish's HOW GERMAN IT IS, Sean studied the faces of the arrivals and departees. He couldn't help, but notice how glum everyone getting off flights from Germany was.
Why was answered, when he read the Herald Tribune and discovered that Germany had lost to Italy in the World Cup. Being a Red Sox fan, he had dealt with defeat all his life, although losing a World Cup to Italy was not the same as an October defeat by the Yankees.
Nothing was.
Thankfully the plane took off time and, as promised Kurt waited on the other side of the arrival gate. He passed the money packet to the German and Kurt said, "Amazing what a suit will do. You are a new man. No surprises in Geneva, right?"
"None at all." The sensation of being watched crawled up Sean's spine. He inspected the terminal. The security cameras were pointed away from the, and the uniformed police were involved in harassing a Turkish 'Gastarbeiter', for his work permit did not guarantee him the freedom to travel as a native.
Sean searched for another set of eyes, but lit on no one he would suspect of being undercover.
Kurt also picked up on his agitation and asked, "What is it?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"I feel someone watching us."
"Really?"
Kurt knew better than to turn his head and Sean said, "I saw no one. Maybe it was simple paranoia."
"Always better to be careful."
The two men exited from the terminal into the midsummer night.
The air was perfumed from the oxygen generated from the city's millions of trees, then a Lufthansa 727 roared down the runway and kerosene overwhelmed his sense of smell. Kurt shouted, "Do you want a ride?"
"No, I have my car." Sean answered once the 727 had taken off.
Kurt's T-Bird pulled up to the curb, driven by Vanessa Von Hausen. Her shirt was unbuttoned, so her small breasts were visible down to the brownish arc of her aureoles.
"You had a long day. Go to sleep, Sean. I will see you at the club tomorrow." Kurt glanced over to the driver. They were more than friends and Sean reflected on how dangerous taking another man's wife might be, especially since he himself was involved with the man's mistress. It wasn't a pleasant thought.
The car door thunked shut and the T-bird hauled off with tires screeching around the curve, leaving the tang of exhaust fumes burnt by a big V-8 to mingle with the scorched aviation fuel.
His car was where he'd left it in the parking lot. He put in a cassette of Van Halen's ATOMIC PUNK and surveyed the map. The blue expanse to the west of the Elbe beckoned him to the North Sea. He wanted to see the ocean in the worse way, though not alone.
Driving to Petra's house seemed to take forever.
Sean had been thinking about her most of the night and day. He had called from Geneva without anyone picking up the phone. He had imagined her letting the phone ring, while Lukas painted her naked body and he half-expected to see this image brought to life with his arrival to Kaiserringstrasse.
The door through the high wall was open. He stepped into the yard. Her car was parked next to the house. He called out her name.
No one answered.
Entering the house he told himself, "This is crazy."
And the sense of being an intruder grew with each step, until he reached the studio.
A storm of rage had devastated the room. The paint cans had been kicked over or thrown against the wall, creating a mad man's avant-garde painting. The TV and VCR had been hammered to oblivion by the champagne bottles, which in turn had been smashed to pieces. The room stank of turpentine and oil-based mixtures and green glass crunched under foot.
The most savage attack had been reserved for the painting on the easel. The canvas had been slashed to limp ribbons by a knife or razor. Suddenly Sean was frightened for what might have happened to Petra and searched for signs of blood without detecting any in the pools of sticky paint.
Upon leaving the shattered studio, Sean spotted the paint-stained footprints on the floor. How a bare foot could have escaped the carnage in the next room without slashing the sole was an unfathomable miracle. He followed the trail upstairs, calling out Petra's name, till he pushed open the bedroom door.
With the shades and curtain drawn, Sean could barely see the figure on the bed.
He reached over and touched her. Her skin was cold and for a second he thought she was dead.
"Go away," Petra told him emphatically, though with a voice as feeble as a cloistered nun breaking her vow of silence.
"What is wrong?"
"Nothing, but no one asked you to come here." Her voice wavered on the border of cracking.
After having destroyed the downstairs, she had come to the bedroom, planning on spending the rest of her life in self-pity. Petra had remained in a near-catatonic state for hours, reflecting only how the world would be like without her there. She now wondered whether she had just been waiting for Sean to show up and was angered by this possibility. "Go away and I will be happy."
"I'm not leaving you. You didn't the other night."
"Well, consider us even." Petra buried her head under the pillow.
Deep down she realized, if she had really desired to be alone, she would have locked the front door, and she slid over to the other side, muttering "If you want a friend, then get a dog."
"I've been where you have." Sean sat on the bed, prepared to be told to shut up, but Petra remained silent and he continued, "Earlier this year I've wanted to kill myself. The reasons are unimportant. I was down the South of France, visiting friends. They had the house, kids, dog, car, and swimming pool. Their happiness reminded me of how meaningless my life was. There was a cliff behind the house. One day after lunch I take a walk. I kissed my friend's wife and kids good-bye. My friend asked, if I wanted company. He must have seen the desperation in my eyes. I told him I was okay and that I needed to be alone. I waved good-bye, then headed up the hill. I could see the entire valley spread from east to west. A beautiful sight, more so when I reached the top. The Alps were in the far distance and the Rhone River a silver ribbon in the sunlight some twenty miles away. I walked toward the cliff without any intention of stopping."
Petra sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Her wanting to hear what this American had to say was a small step back from the abyss.
"The hilltop was flat and covered with brush as high as my waist. I was committed and shut my eyes. I was only ten paces from my doom, when I heard a snort. First one, then another. I opened my eyes. Two wild pigs stood before the cliff, blocking my way. Their tusks were curved yellow crescents, their bodies long torpedoes of sinewy muscles. A few baby boars were behind them. The mother lowered her head and charged. I ran for my life. There were no trees, but I scrambled up a pile of rocks to safety."
"And so you are saying that you are my wild pig." Petra couldn't believe she laughed.
"Oink, oink." Sean mimicked a pig without being sure, if the Germans used the same animal noise.
"You have missed your calling in life."
"What? I should be a philosopher?"
"No, a comic. That is the most stupid story I have heard."
"But true, I swear it." Sean could tell she thought he was lying.
Sometimes he wondered whether it ever had happened, but he could remember the wind on his face, as he approached the cliff so clearly that it had to be true and he asked Petra, "You still want me to go?"
"No, I could use help cleaning up the downstairs." She pulled the sheet over her nakedness, then reached over to touch his face and asked, "And you? Are you okay?"
"Fine for now."
"Same for me."
The big question was where they went from here.
Petra had been on her own, ever since leaving her parents' house. Ten years without a lover or friend had brought her to the edge and the opposite might remedy her loneliness. It was worth a try. She lowered her head to say, "I said before that I did not want a friend. I think I might have changed my mind."
"I can be your friend."
"Thank you. Perhaps there is hope for you after all, Herr Coll." Petra left the bed and coyly covered herself with the sheet, sensing his disappointment. Each of them understood that stage of their relationship would have to wait for some later date. Neither of them had a real friend in this city and Petra was willing to institute a temporary truce in her war with men to accept Sean as one.
It wasn't much, but both of them would have to live with that little for now.
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