'Well.'
'Wait a minute, Tony, I still don't know anything. What about those problems you mentioned? What kind of problems?'
'Not to worry. Minor problems. The usual thing,' Tony explained helpfully. 'You'll do fine.'
Louis, my trusty psychotherapist friend, once told me that I had a low tolerance for ambiguity. At that moment I was inclined to think he was right, because I was uncomfortable with Tony's vagueness. Vacation or not, whatever I was responsible for, I wanted to do a good job of it. (Louis has also pointed out to me that I have an obsessive-compulsive attitude toward work, probably the result of an anal fixation. Louis furnishes me with much useful information of this kind, all gratis.)
Having been a civil servant at a county museum for five years, I was also a little wary of that 'performing other duties as required,' but not enough to think twice about going.
Berlin wasn't one of my favorite cities, being too frantically, resolutely decadent for my taste, but there was a lot I liked about it: Nefertiti at Charlottenburg, the Durers and Rembrandts at Dahlem, the wonderful zoo, the Tiergarten… Best of all, it was over six thousand miles away, where people in San Francisco (lawyers, for example) would not be able to reach me by telephone whenever they liked, bearing counteroffers and other unpleasantnesses.
Messages would arrive days or weeks late, sapped of their urgency, to be dealt with in my own good time; not sandwiched between budget reallocations and deaccessioning meetings, but at my ease, perhaps over a Scotch, when things could be pondered. Maybe, under conditions like that, I could look at what had happened between Bev and me in a reasonable light, try to understand, maybe even…
A hundred bristling, angry obstacles sprang up at the thought. I wasn't ready to be reasonable yet; maybe I never would be. No, the heck with Bev and her nine-and-three-quarters percent and her integrated independence. And her stockbroker. I needed to get on with my own life, to find my stride again, and a couple of months in Europe would be a terrific way to do it.
Had I but known, as Miss Sibley taught us never to say in Creative Writing 201.
Chapter 2
'What's this thing supposed to be?'
The guard at the entrance to Columbia House looked at the card in my wallet, and then up at my face, with equal skepticism.
'My ID.'
'Take it out of the wallet.'
I handed the flimsy, plastic-encased card to him with sinking confidence. It had been issued the day before, at Rhein-Main Air Base, near Frankfurt, where I'd been instructed to stop on my way to Berlin. The sergeant who gave it to me had assured me that it would get me into any American military installation in Europe, but I had been doubtful even then. It wasn't very official-looking-my name, photograph, and a few details on one side, and on the other a small-print list of twenty-nine varied 'privileges,' some of which I was shown as entitled to, others not, according to some esoteric and unfathomable guidelines. (Mortuary services, officer-NCO club, and credit union were okay; laundry, dry cleaning, and postal service weren't.) It was about as impressive as my library card.
That's what the guard thought too. 'This ain't no ID.'
'It was issued yesterday at Rhein-Main-'
He shook his short-cropped, beret-clad head and signaled me to take the card back. 'This ain't no ID. I can't let you in. Sorry.'
I set my jaw. 'Look, it says GSE-fourteen, right? That's equivalent to a light colonel.' I wasn't sure what a light colonel was, but that's what the sergeant had told me, and the sergeant had sounded impressed.
The guard didn't. 'Yeah, well,' he said, patient but unyielding, 'don't expect nobody to salute.'
'Well, well, Chris, having a little trouble? Nothing we can't work out, I'm sure.'
I turned, and there was Peter van Cortlandt, genteel, smiling, his patrician face as smooth and ruddy as ever, his thrust-out hand as well manicured, his suit as flawlessly and conservatively tailored.
'Now: What seems to be the difficulty?' Peter addressed himself pleasantly to the guard, and I watched admiringly as he straightened things out within seconds.
Peter van Cortlandt was one of those people with command presence, but of a quiet, unaggressive sort, and he usually got his way. Although he was nominally my boss at the museum ('nominally' because there was only one functioning boss, and that was Tony), I knew little about him. Peter had that aristocrat's knack of being unfailingly cordial and courteous, yet maintaining a cool, objective distance, physical and psychological, between himself and others. What I did know of him, I liked. Although he accepted deference as his due, he managed to do it in an unassuming and considerate way. Moreover, he was an art historian of great erudition, and he had always shared his knowledge freely-not something you ran into every day in the art world.
By the time Peter had finished with the guard, the young man was smiling and apologetic, and even saluted me through the doorway.
'Do you want to go up to your room, Chris?' Peter asked. 'Wash up, perhaps?'
'No, I'm fine.' I looked around at a lobby much like that of a hotel, with reception desk, worn but good carpeting, and comfortable-looking armchairs arranged in informal groupings. 'Nice place.'
'You sound surprised. Were you expecting something more along the lines of a Quonset hut?'
I laughed. 'I guess I was.'
Peter motioned to a couple of upholstered chairs in a window alcove. I draped my suit bag over the arm of one and sank into it, facing the window and the blustery green plaza outside.
'The Platz der Luftbrucke,' Peter said. 'The Germans called it the air bridge, not the air lift, which makes more sense, don't you think?' He sat facing me and rubbed his hands briskly together. Not many people could do it without looking like Uriah Heep, but Peter could.
'Well, Chris, I'm glad you're here. We can make good use of that sensitive touch of yours that so impresses us all.'
From someone else it would have been banter, but Peter never-absolutely never-poked fun at anyone. Nor, for that matter, was he effusive with his compliments.
Flattered and caught off guard, I was embarrassed. 'Something need a sensitive touch?'
'It well may. As you know, Bolzano continues to threaten to pull out. I've calmed him down twice this week on the telephone, but I'm not sure I can successfully keep it up. You might be able to do better if push comes to shove.'
But I hadn't known there was any trouble with Bolzano. And if Peter's formidable persuasive powers couldn't resolve it, what was I supposed to be able to pull out of my hat, sensitive touch notwithstanding?
'But what's the problem, Peter? Does Bolzano really want out?'
Peter looked startled; that is to say, his right eyebrow rose all of an eighth of an inch for an eighth of a second. 'Do you mean to say Tony didn't tell you about it?'
'Not that I remember. Must have slipped his mind.'
'Hm. Well. Bolzano's quite concerned about security, for one thing. He seems to think we're not taking adequate precautions. And he's worried that we may not be giving proper care to packing and transportation, and he's afraid… well, just worried. He genuinely loves those old paintings, you know.'
'And is there really anything for him to worry about?'
'I don't think so. The army has quite a professional operation mounted here, as competent as you'd be likely to find in the United States. And if the Defense Department isn't expert in security, well, who is?'
I nodded. 'What makes you think I'd carry any weight with him? I've never met him.'
'I know that, but he thinks very highly of you. He's read that monograph of yours on the Spanish mannerists in the new edition of Arnoldi, and he was telling me all about a highly complimentary review of your new book in the Bollettino d'arte. He's impressed with your scholarship- told me so very frankly. And of course I agreed with him- very frankly.'
Two compliments from Peter van Cortlandt in one day. Surely a record.
