She picked up right away on the significance of the question, and looked at me over her shoulder. Her eyes were no longer weary. The pan remained still above the flame, and she smiled, the same way she had when the innkeeper in Prague had first handed us our keys.
“The omelet’s burning.” I nodded toward the pan.
“Yes. Everything is.”
I crossed the room and wrapped her up from behind. She slid the pan to the cool side of the stove and arched her back against me as I pulled back her hair to kiss her neck. I moved my lips to the skin beneath her ear, the nape of her neck. When she spoke her voice was husky.
“Tell him you’ll be home for breakfast. I’m too lazy to cook for you twice.”
She turned into my arms. Then she unbuttoned my shirt and pressed her lips to my chest.
“Those eggs will be cold by the time we eat,” I said.
“Cold and burned. My new favorite way to eat an omelet.”
We made our way to the bedroom, discarding items of clothing along the way, as if leaving a trail to find our way back. We finished undressing each other slowly, comfortably, eager but not in a hurry.
When you are single at a later age and are sometimes sexually inactive for long stretches of time, each reentry to the arena isn’t always smooth, particularly when the women are several years younger. In my recent past there have been occasions when I’ve felt fumbling and unsure, like when I’m assembling one of those bookcases from IKEA, with their strange little parts that roll across the floor and the baffling instructions telling me to press male dowel A into female opening B, then twist until snug.
With Litzi, there was immediate comfort and familiarity, even though our bodies obviously weren’t the same as they’d been at seventeen. We navigated our new topographies with confidence, with passion, and with the joy of our former selves. I remembered the taste of her skin.
Afterward she lit a candle and fetched the wine, along with the cold omelet, which was glorious, even the burned part. I was enchanted, content.
“So, which one of your book spies was the best lover?” she asked.
“Not counting James Bond?”
“He wasn’t a lover, he was a cad.”
“You sound like Dad. Oh, I don’t know. Bernie Samson, maybe, from Deighton’s books? He was pretty virile, or at least his wife thought so.”
“His wife? So he was monogamous, too? Sounds too good to be true. Maybe Bernie could be your code name.”
“Maybe not. His wife was working for the Russians. Although not really. It was very complicated.”
She frowned, not caring for that, so I tried another one.
“There’s Paul Christopher, from McCarry’s books. Also monogamous. A poet, even. Top notch lover.”
“And what happened to his wife?”
“Run over in the streets of Paris by the KGB.”
“Let’s talk about something else.”
“All right.”
“How’s your father?”
“Good question. I’ve upset him with all this snooping around. I have no idea how I’ll explain what happened today, or if I’ll even try. He’s worried enough already, and he’s pissed I’ve dragged you into it. I think he went to the embassy this morning to do some checking around of his own.”
“I see him out on the town now and then. Always in very nice places. He’s a man of genuine style. I’ve thought about going over to say hello, but I didn’t want to embarrass him.”
“You should definitely say hi. He’s always liked you. And I wouldn’t worry about embarrassing him. He’s probably just out with one of his mystery women, the ones he never dared bring back to the house when I was growing up. I guess he thought I’d think he was being disloyal to Mom.”
She shrugged.
“I wouldn’t know. It never seems to be any one person.”
“He’s shy about all that, even now. It’s probably why I always have to give him a few days’ notice before a visit, although I doubt he’d admit it.”
Litzi nodded, but didn’t reply.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked like you were about to say something.”
She smiled uncomfortably.
“I know better than to get into the middle of something between a father and his son.”
I let it go. We had more enjoyable things to do than discuss Dad.
We must’ve stayed up for another hour or so, and I woke up later nestled against Litzi’s back. The room was dark and still. I was immediately alert, but this time jet lag wasn’t to blame. I’d been startled by a noise from outside, a loud tapping from the street below. Now all was quiet.
Then there was a voice. A shout, or more of a hoot, followed by a peal of laughter. Young voices, not Lothar’s or the Hammerhead’s, so I relaxed. Just kids. Although, at my age, “kids” now seems to cover almost anyone up through their early twenties. Because how could any contemporary of my son’s be anything but a kid?
There was another hoot, more laughter. They’d obviously been drinking, but they sounded harmless, and were soon well down the block. Yet something about them had unsettled me. What?
I realized they’d reminded me of the kids outside Burger King, the ones on skateboards who’d supposedly put the envelope into Litzi’s purse as they bumped past us. I saw them again, a mental snapshot that now had the clarity that is only possible at such an isolated hour. And in my mind’s eye I now saw clearly that they hadn’t passed within five feet of us.
Then why had Litzi said they’d bumped into her? Was my memory faulty, or had she made it up? And if the latter was true, why? Unless she had been knowingly hired by my handler and had been in on this from the beginning. If that were true, she could’ve had the note with her all along, another item on her checklist of duties for the day.
I tossed in bed, angry at my doubt. It was that time of night when your thoughts can stray into all sorts of troublesome corners, and I wanted nothing further to do with it. But at least an hour passed before I could get back to sleep. In the morning I wondered whether to say something about it, but Litzi beat me to the punch.
“I’ve been thinking about those boys,” she said. “The ones outside the Burger King.”
“What about them?”
“Maybe that’s not how the envelope got there. I’m not even sure they bumped into me. It might have happened sooner, or maybe later. I don’t know what to think.”
I was hugely relieved, although of course I couldn’t say so.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Obviously someone found a way.”
“Do you want coffee?”
“I’d better get to my father’s before he leaves the house. And I want to check the laptop on the way.”
“Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Back on the offensive!”
I laughed along with her. In the full light of morning the idea of catching the Hammerhead on video now seemed preposterous.
“What will you tell your father?”
“I don’t know. As little as possible. The sooner I leave for Prague, the better.”
“Should I start packing?”
“You’re sure?”
“Only if you want me to. We said we’d sleep on it, and I slept on it very well. What about you?”
She caressed my cheek. I was happy she was coming, but the doubts of the night before hadn’t completely dissipated.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. You really sure you want to do this?”
“Only if you are.”
“Of course.”
