with disaster.
“Our friend from Paris had an accident,” she said in German. Bintz said nothing. “A terrible accident,” she went on.
“Accident,” repeated Bintz.
“Yes,” said the woman’s voice sadly. “An emergency came up, but instead of taking care of it, she tried to get someone else to do it, and met with an accident. I thought you would like to know. I’m sure you would know what to do in an emergency. I suppose there are even times when you could step in for another actor.”
Bintz said nothing but looked at the door through which the policeman had left. The phone call was dangerous, insane. The room might well be bugged, probably was if he had read the Russian policeman correctly. This call was madness, and what the woman was asking of him was madness.
Twice, before the terrorism had begun in earnest, Wolfgang Bintz had hosted fund-raising parties for World Liberation, had pledged that his films would be devoted to showing the basic rot of the nations on both sides of the East-West struggle. He had given money and, in a fit of good fellowship, had pledged his help. Good Lord, he’d never expected them to ask him for any help other than money, yet now he was being told to commit an act of terrorism. Had they really killed Monique? He would find out for sure soon enough, but he also knew that the woman on the other end did not lie. He had never met her, had only heard her voice once in the dark. In fact, he didn’t think she was a member of World Liberation, only an outside expert. Robert and Seven had insisted that he meet her and talk to her. They had made him part of their backup plan because he was going to be in Moscow during the film festival.
At that point, he had considered telling Robert to cart himself off, that World Liberation had become an embarrassment. The train bombing in Iraq, the shooting of the Japanese cabinet minister. But it was too late now. These people were mad. He should have seen that.
“You understand?” came the voice. “You know what to do?”
Bintz said yes and hung up the phone. He wandered across the room, tried to bend to pick up the arm of the chair from the floor, found, as he expected, that he could not. As he straightened, he discovered that he was in front of a mirror. His robe had come open again, and he examined his massive chest and belly.
It was a joke, a better joke than any of those his films were known for. A three-hundred-pound German who could speak no Russian was now supposed to join the terrorists and destroy one of the most famous landmarks in Moscow.
He imagined himself running away from the explosion. The image was impossible. He cast Klaus Kinski as himself running away, and he could imagine the scene, but a look in the mirror reminded him that this was no movie and that he would not be directing the scene. She was directing it. And afterward, was there any chance he would get away? Would that washtub policeman with the wise eyes come after him? Would he have to hide out in dirty rooms? Wolfgang Bintz? The last time he had hidden was during World War II when he was a boy in Berlin. Then he had been thin and fast.
He tried to pull his stomach in, but it did nothing more than shift a bit. And then he began to chuckle. And the chuckle turned to a laugh, and the laugh went out of control till there were tears in his eyes. When Ludmilla came through the door she found the massive director choking and laughing, bright red in the face, his right hand on his chest.
“Sit,” she cried, rushing to him. “Herr Bintz, sit, please. I’ll get a doctor.”
He shook his head and kept choking and laughing. She put her arm around him and got his right arm over her shoulder, trying to hold him up as she struggled toward the bed. She had never felt weight like this before and couldn’t erase the horrible image of this huge man on top of her in an act of sex or violence.
Why, she thought, did I get him? Does Stasya really dislike me so much that he gave me this one? Am I going to keep getting these problems until I give in to him? And what then? Is it worth it?
“I’m all right,” Bintz said, easing himself onto the bed.
“Are you sure?” Ludmilla said, leaning toward him with a look of real concern. If he died while she was responsible for him, it would not look good on her record.
“Yes,” he said sitting back, the bed sagging beneath him. “I need only a little rest. You can leave me. But make a reservation at a good restaurant for seven, and be back in time to get me there, please.”
She gave him a final look of concern and turned to leave.
So, thought Bintz as the door closed, blowing up a swimming pool might not be the strangest thing I’ve ever done.
The dark-eyed woman called the Englishman, James Willery, before the police visited him.
James Willery had friends and acquaintances all over the world, for he was internationally known in certain circles. Those circles, granted, were not densely populated, but they were far-reaching. Their membership consisted of the most avant of the avant-garde filmmakers of the world, who referred to themselves variously as the underground, the new structuralists, and the experimentalists. James Willery’s films were definitely not for the masses. In fact, it had been difficult to determine which category his film should be entered in for the festival. Although it was ninety minutes long, it had no real story line and so did not fit into the feature film category as defined by the committee. In fact, Willery’s film didn’t have any people in it. This led the committee to consider putting
When the film was described to the committee, one member suggested that it be entered either as a documentary or as a popular science film. The only thing they could all agree on was that it was not a young people’s film.
Oleg Makhach suggested they refuse to accept the film, but that was not possible. It had already been accepted on the basis of Willery’s international reputation as a radical socialist filmmaker. Besides, the film was subtitled,
It was finally decided that the film would be shown as a special feature. When informed of this, the very tall, very gaunt Willery, with his Edwardian jacket and faded jeans, adjusted his dark glasses, gave a pleased smile and said, “Super.”
James Willery had friends. He also had inherited a bit of money. His father had been an earl, but better than that, he had owned a great deal of land in Essex. James Willery had sold it soon after his father’s death and used the money to make films and support a variety of causes that appealed to his sense of the absurdity of the world. World Liberation had been one such cause.
When the call came, he was lying on the floor in the room of Alexander Platnov, a student at the Moscow Film School who had agreed to put Willery up and had long since regretted it. Platnov had no phone in his small room; the call came in to the floor office of the Party member who served as dormitory supervisor.
The Party member, a man of dark looks who made it clear that he did not like to be disturbed, stood and listened to Willery’s end of the conversation.
“Hello,” said Willery cheerfully, casting an even-toothed smile at the dormitory superintendent, who didn’t respond.
“Mr. Willery,” came the woman’s voice, “there has been an accident.”
“An accident,” said Willery. “Sorry to hear it.”
“To a Frenchwoman at the Rossyia Hotel. Her name was Monique Freneau.”
“Was?” said Willery, the smile disappearing.
“She had an accident,” said the woman, “which means she cannot make the movie tomorrow night. You will have to go in her place.”
“Me?” said Willery.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“Yes, but-”
“Miss Freneau had an accident because she felt she was unable to make the screening. An unfortunate series of events. It could never happen again. But then again, who would have thought it would happen to Miss
