The Second Son

images of a single grenade rolling through the French mud, skin and trench wood flying everywhere, and his trousers drenched in blood.

The medics had saved him. Of course they had saved him. Keeping death back had become such an easy thing, just as easy as teaching a man how to piss through a tube.

For now, Radek was done with death, or at least his own. Instead, he read his papers, watched his men eat, and dictated every instance of corruption in his city. And who wouldn’t call that a life?

Hoffner pulled over a chair and sat. He took a drink.

Radek said, “He won’t find it noble, you going after him, Nikolai. Georgi knows you too well.”

Hoffner set his glass on the table. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

“Am I?”

Hoffner pulled his cigarettes from his pocket. “So it’s the big ideas tonight-pity and nobility. And here I thought I’d come in just for a drink.” He bobbed a nod at the two large men who were working through their plates. “Gentlemen.”

The larger of the two, Rolf, said, “Sausage’s not so good tonight. You can have ours if you want.”

Hoffner waved over a passing waiter, ordered a plate of veal and noodles, and lit his cigarette. “You should come with me, Zenlo. Spain’s perfect for you these days. Black market and civil war. What could be better?” Across the room a woman started in at the piano.

“And deal with all that chaos?” said Radek, as he leafed through the stack. He pulled out the “BZ”. “That’s nice for a man with a truck and a cousin down at the docks. Those of us with a little more at stake have to think differently.” He found the Grand Prix results and folded back the paper. “The desperate never buy for the future, Nikolai. No market stability. Order and fear-with maybe a little strong-arming thrown in-that’s what gives you a future.” He pulled a pen from his jacket pocket. “Berlin suits me just fine right now.”

Hoffner looked over at the smaller man. “So he’s off the Freud and Jung, is he?” The man continued to sift through his plate, and Hoffner said, “Tell me, Franz, what’s he reading now?”

Franz brought a spoonful of potatoes up to his mouth. “Keynes,” he said, before shoveling it in.

This required a moment. “Really?” Hoffner said. “That’s-ambitious.” Franz chewed, and Hoffner said, “He’s getting it wrong.”

“Is he?” said Franz, swallowing. “We should all be getting it so wrong.”

Radek continued to read as he spoke. “It’s the new psychology, Nikolai. Primal urges. Consumer desires. Totted up in columns and graphs. And this time it’s all scientific. Here.” He showed Hoffner the page he was marking. “Rosemeyer and Nuvolari. Auto Union and Alfa-Romeo. Clearly the two best drivers in the world. Barcelona last month-Nuvolari one, Rosemeyer five. Nurburgring two weeks later-Rosemeyer one, Nuvolari two. A week after that in Budapest, and they’re one and two again, only this time reversed. Milan, it’s Nuvolari, and finally Rosemeyer takes the German Grand Prix last week. And on and on and on. We know there are ten other premium drivers out there every week-Chiron, Caracciola, Trossi-yet these are the two who come up with it every time.”

“I’ll make a note,” said Hoffner. “What does it have to do with economics?”

Radek ignored him. “Is it because they have the best cars? No. Half the drivers are with Alfa-Romeo. And I don’t have to tell you what it takes to handle that tank of an Auto Union thing. Sixteen cylinders. Have you seen it, Nikolai? You have to be a beast of a man just to keep the car on the road.”

“So Rosemeyer and Nuvolari are reading Keynes?”

“Shut up, Nikolai. The point is, you’d be an idiot not to put your money on one of these two. And yet, even with the odds, people don’t. Half the money every week finds its way onto Farina or Varzi or Stuck, and these are good drivers, don’t get me wrong. But the chances, if you look at the trends”-he shook his head in disbelief-“almost impossible. So you have to ask, Why do people do it?”

It took Hoffner a moment to realize that Radek was waiting for an answer. “Primal urges?” he offered.

“Exactly,” said Radek. “They buy something with no real possibility of a return because they want to believe it can have a return. And the oddsmakers tell them to believe it can have a return. ‘This week,’ they advertise, ‘Farina will do it. He has to do it. You have to want him to do it.’ And they trust this because they live in an ordered world where, if things go wrong, they can try again the next week and the next and the next. They buy a product they shouldn’t want to buy because they so desperately want it. And that, Nikolai, is economics.”

Hoffner sat with this for a few moments before reaching for his whiskey. He took a drink. “So it’s the oddsmakers who are reading Keynes?” Hoffner expected a smile but Radek said nothing.

Franz, now running his fork through the remains of his beef, said, “I wouldn’t push it on this one if I were you.”

Hoffner smiled and looked at Radek. “We’re taking this latest theory very seriously, are we?”

Radek said, “You enjoy being an idiot, don’t you?”

“Not really a question of enjoying,” said Hoffner. “I think I liked the sex theory better, though. I’ve never bet on car racing.”

“Last I checked,” said Radek, “you weren’t doing much on the sex front, either.”

Hoffner laughed to himself.

Radek set down the paper and took his glass. “You have any idea where he is?” He drank.

Hoffner lapped back the last of his whiskey. “Barcelona,” he said. “Somewhere in there.” He raised his empty glass to a waiter. “I think everything’s happening up on hilltops right about now.”

“And he’s alive?”

“He has to be, doesn’t he?”

“It’ll be hot.”

The waiter appeared and took the glass. “Yes,” said Hoffner. “It will.”

“Georgi’s good in spots like that. He always has been.”

“You’ve met him twice, Zenlo.” There was an unexpected edge to Hoffner’s voice. “You have no idea who or what he is.” It was an awkward few moments before the food miraculously arrived, and Rolf and Franz were forced to stack their plates onto the empties so as to make room. Finally Hoffner said, “He’s always liked you, though. Liked that you never tried to corrupt me.”

Radek was glad for the reprieve. “How much more corruption could you take?” When Hoffner started in on the noodles, Radek said, “You like Gershwin, Nikolai?” Hoffner focused on his plate and Radek said, “I do.”

Hoffner nodded as he chewed.

Rolf said lazily, “It’s not Gershwin.” He was working his way through a mouthful of potatoes.

“What?” said Radek.

“The piano,” said Rolf, swallowing. “It’s not Gershwin. You’re thinking of the wrong thing.” He shoveled in another forkful.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“No,” said Radek. “I’m not.” There was a quiet menace in his tone; Rolf, however, continued to chew. “This is”-Radek became more serious as he thought-“Crazy Girl,” he said triumphantly. “ ‘Embraceable You’ from Crazy Girl.”

“Girl Crazy,” Rolf corrected. “And, no, it’s not. This is ‘Night and Day’ from The Gay Divorce. Cole Porter.” Rolf took a drink of beer and swallowed.

Radek watched as Rolf dug back in. “I have the phonograph,” Radek said.

Rolf nodded. “Good. Then you have the phonograph of The Gay Divorce by Cole Porter.” He raised his hand to a waiter, made some indecipherable gesture with his fingers, and went back to his plate. “I’m getting the spatzle, Nikolai, if you want some.”

This, evidently, was the way an evening with Berlin’s most dangerous trio took shape: elementary economics and Tin Pan Alley.

With anyone other than Rolf or Franz, Radek would have found a reason to press things, even when he knew he was wrong. He had once told Hoffner it was good for a man to learn how to cower every now and then. This wasn’t cruelty. It was therapeutic, even better if the man recanted the truth just so as to save himself. Radek called it the psychology of order: men liked knowing where they stood; they liked even better being told where to stand. No wonder he was finding Berlin so comforting.