The Informer (14 page)

Mani began to stand up.

“No,” said the man from Moscow. “Don’t bother. I’ll let myself out.”

The man turned toward the door and moved with that same precision, as though counting the number of feet between the door and the table, and when he was about to disappear into the street he smiled. Everything was as it should be, right? Then he put on his hat, the brim over his eyes, and went into the street, pulling the door shut behind him.

Mani stuck his foot out and touched the heavy suitcase. Could there be that much money in it? As he pushed it this way and that with his foot, the weight of it left him more confined than before: if it was as much as he thought it might be, he was that much more obligated. It had the weight of a ball and chain.

He glanced across the room. Karl sat there, nursing his brandy, his ugly, collapsed face curious and still cautious, too, as though while he wanted to walk across the room and ask a question, he wanted to make sure that Herr Schmidt had disappeared. Kathleen came from the back, and Mani said, “Could I have a brandy?”

“I didn’t like the look of him,” said Kathleen.

“That’s not our job,” said Mani. “To make such judgments.”

She raised a brow, and then brought back a glass that was filled almost to the rim. At least she could show in this way that she understood: he was scared, and that he hadn’t liked the look of the man from Moscow either.

Mani hoped that the brandy would do some good, but it made him more jittery than warm, as though the alcohol brought out latent uneasiness, or enhanced what was already there rather than smoothing it over. The pendulum of the clock on the wall swung back and forth. Not even twelve-thirty. How was he ever going to get through until dawn?

Karl walked across the room and pulled out a chair so he could sit down.

“What’s wrong?” said Karl. “You look dizzy. I knew a guy who looked like that and when they cut him open they found a tumor as big as a cobblestone, but sort of yellow.” Karl tapped his temple. “Right here.”

Mani shook his head. It was harder to swallow than ever.

“They put it in a jar so his wife could see it. She charged money to take a look.”

Mani sipped the brandy, but slowly so as not to get sick.

“Of all the people,” said Mani.

Karl waited. An emotional flat tire is the way Karl thought of him.

“Breiter was the wrong guy to play with,” said Mani.

“Just keep quiet,” said Karl.

“The people in Moscow want me to find out who did it,” said Mani.

“Well, that should be easy,” said Karl.

“Very funny,” said Mani. “And I’ll tell them you were there, too. How about that?” Mani swallowed.

“So,” said Karl. “Do you want to wait for the roof to fall in?”

“No,” said Mani. “Let’s not wait.”

“It looks like we’ve got something to work with, too,” said Karl. He kicked the suitcase. “How much do you think is there.”

“A lot,” said Mani.

“All right,” said Karl. “Only three people know about Breiter.”

Mani had a sip of his brandy and felt the burning sensation of it on his tongue.

“Yes,” said Mani. “Three of us.”

“There’s you and me,” said Karl. “We don’t have to worry about us, do we?”

“No,” said Mani.

“So, that leaves Gaelle,” said Karl. “She was hanging around with the other side, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she seeing some Brownshirt?”

Mani nodded. Yes. She was.

“Well, that puts her in the middle. They get rid of people all the time.”

“I guess,” said Mani.

“There’s no guessing,” said Karl.

“And you’d be willing …,” said Mani.

“What choices have we got?” said Karl. “Have you got any ideas?”

Mani shook his head. “No,” said Mani.

“Buck up then,” said Karl. “Christ. What a mess. You want to do one thing and then you get windy.”

“I’m not windy,” said Mani.

“Hold out your fingers,” said Karl.

They trembled.

“See?” said Karl. “You’ve got to get a grip on yourself.”

“You’ll take care of this?” said Mani.

“Well, who else is going to do it?” said Karl. “You?”

“If I had to,” said Mani.

Karl stared at him for a while, then stood up and rolled his shoulder. The overhead light appeared like it was ready for an interrogation. “Sure,” said Karl. “You’re as windy as they get.”

“So, will you do it?”

“Calm down,” said Karl.

“Did you see Herr Schmidt?”

“Okay,” said Karl. “All right. All right. As soon as I can.”

“How soon will that be?” said Mani.

“Didn’t I tell you to calm down?” said Karl.

Mani swallowed.

“It’s got to be soon,” he said.

T
he setting sun covered Gaelle with a reddish and gold cast, and the figures who approached from the west looked like phantoms, shapes that vanished when they stood directly in front of the reddish globe at the end of the avenue. She’d managed to make everyone angry, that is, if they knew what she had done, and how long would it take for everyone to find out? It was all the fault of the scar, which she touched now, as though it was a toad. She had heard that informers had been killed in a particular way: often they had their lights shot out, that is, someone shot them in the eyes. Gaelle tried to stand absolutely still, as though if she were absolutely quiet, frozen in one place, she would be more safe. Or at least more invisible.

“Well, well,” said Felix. “Look who’s here.”

Armina’s hair was also bathed in the roseate light. Gaelle looked down at the cobbles, shifting her weight.

“Oh,” said Gaelle. “It’s you.”

“I was around,” said Armina. “I thought I’d see how you are doing.” The cars made a sound like distant thunder where the tires went over the cobblestones.

“It’s slow,” said Felix. “Nothing’s happening.”

The trees at the edge of the park looked like lacy seaweed against the light: plants or living things from the depths of the ocean, which left Gaelle with a sense of the pressure at the bottom of the sea.

“Yeah,” said Gaelle. “It’s slow. What’s it to you?”

“I just thought I’d drop by,” said Armina. “Maybe we could talk.”

“No,” said Felix. “I don’t think so.”

Gaelle looked Armina up and down, from her dark shoes to her gray jacket. No jewelry, not much makeup. Can you trust someone like that?
Then Gaelle went back to trying to stand still, but the world seemed poised, as though ready to spring on her like a tiger.

“The stores are still open,” said Armina. “We can go shopping.”

“Shopping?” Gaelle said.

“There’s a sale,” said Armina.

“It’s your funeral,” said Felix.

“Stop saying that,” said Gaelle. “If you say that one more time … All this talk about funerals. No more. I mean it.”

“Sure, sure,” said Felix. “It’s just a way of talking. You know, a saying.”

“One more time and you can look for someone else to work with.”

“All right,” said Felix. “I get the message.”

“Let’s go shopping,” Gaelle said to Armina. “It’s hard to breathe around here.”

“I said I was sorry,” said Felix.

“I’m taking a break,” said Gaelle.

“You know,” said Felix. “I didn’t mean anything.”

“Then don’t say anything,” said Gaelle.

“OK, OK,” said Felix. “I’ll line something up. Get something nice.”

Gaelle and Armina walked up to the streetcar stop and Gaelle looked around, as though the solution to her trouble could be found in the passing cars, the lights of the city, the last of the blue-gold light. The most important thing was not to make any more mistakes.

On the streetcar they sat side by side, Gaelle in her slinky dress, her silver stockings and shoes, her silver handbag in her lap. What would happen if she turned to Armina and said, I’ve informed on everyone. They all are after me. Can you help? And I’ve killed someone, too? The instant Gaelle decided she couldn’t say a word the turmoil seemed to rise from the darkness of her sense of herself, a sort of black rush that left her blinking and trying not to cry. How could she become so sentimental when she needed to be so tough? Because I am trapped, and when you are trapped you can’t have the luxury of sentiment.

She wanted to ask if Armina had a boyfriend, and did he look at her as though she meant the world to him? Well, maybe she did, and that was one
of the things that separated them. No one looked at Gaelle that way, and yet, even though she liked to think she was tough, like the cobblestones, like the sidewalk they walked on, she still wanted someone to say, “I love you, darling. You are everything.” The impossibility of this happening to Gaelle seemed like a river between her and Armina, a cold one, dark, topped with dirty froth. Gaelle kicked her heels against the seat of the streetcar, the constant knocking only making her angrier. Yes, she thought, maybe I’ll ask this cop about that. Maybe she has some ideas about how to get across that river. Although I doubt it: I bet she doesn’t even know it’s there.

Armina sat there, too, in her gray skirt and jacket, her crème-colored blouse, sensible shoes. Her red hair was short, cut along the line of her chin. No scent, although she probably used a little powder.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” said Gaelle.

“No,” said Armina.

“Why not?” said Gaelle.

“I’ve got my work,” said Armina.

“Me, too,” said Gaelle. Her laugh was shallow, and then she went back to blinking and accusing herself of being sentimental. She was beyond all that.

“But you could have one?” said Gaelle. “Couldn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” said Armina.

“I want one,” said Gaelle. “Isn’t that the funniest thing you have ever heard? Why, I could die laughing.” She looked down at her hands. “I really want one,” she said. “I understand,” said Armina.

“You?” said Gaelle. “What can you know about it? Why, you come to the park with me some night, and then we’ll talk again.”

The department store was four floors, lit in the front with a red neon sign the color of strawberry sherbet. They got off the streetcar and faced the building. Animated mannequins, a woman in a wool dress and a man in a dark suit, beckoned and waved, as though to say, “Hello, friend. Come on in!” The animated man then checked his watch.

“I just don’t know what to do,” said Gaelle.

“About being here? Are you scared about going in here? Because of the scar?” said Armina.

“Yeah, I’m scared,” said Gaelle. “You can say that.”

“There’s someone here who might help,” said Armina. “That’s why I wanted to come. Don’t you want some help?”

Gaelle swallowed, but she didn’t trust herself to speak. She nodded, yes, yes, yes.

They went to the lingerie section and held up stockings, lacy garters, sheer underwear, and as they picked the things up and talked about how they would wear and if the elastic was any good, how the stockings would run and what was comfortable, everything seemed natural. Just friends talking. Looking over some clothes. Then Gaelle starting blinking, and as much as she wanted to resist it, she thought of an American song, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine….” Stop it, she thought. What’s wrong with you?

“Come on,” said Armina. “Let’s go downstairs.”

The woman at the cosmetics counter was in her fifties, and her face was perfectly made up, but the appearance was theatrical rather than beautiful, more a disguise than something enhanced. Her hair was dyed, but it was such a perfect job that the highlights in it suggested youth.

She sat behind a counter in a cloud of perfume, and her samples of lipstick, powder, pancake, pencil, and mascara were arranged like implements in an artists’ supply store.

“Well, Armina,” said the woman. “What can I do for you?”

“Hello, Beatrice,” said Armina. “This is my friend. Gaelle.”

Friend, thought Gaelle. That word again. We’re on different sides of that river. And yet, as she stood there, she wanted to take Armina’s hand, to be embraced, to feel that it was all right, if only for this instant. What wouldn’t she give for that warmth, that touch, for the moment when she could relax.

Beatrice’s gray eyes moved across Gaelle’s face, and the examination of her glance was so intense that Gaelle felt it as a physical sensation, like a touch of a feather.

“Sit down,” said Beatrice.

She turned the magnifying mirror on Gaelle, and in the curved glass
the scar was enlarged, its sheen more metallic than ever. In the instant, Gaelle felt the mark as an alien presence, a parasite that did its work by causing trouble, that left her waiting for a man to come after her, whom she didn’t know but whom she would recognize when she saw him. She’d know him by a tingling rush, like a million ants, that ran over her skin. Maybe the hair on the back of her neck would actually stand up.

“You don’t want to look at it?” said Armina.

“I don’t know,” said Gaelle. “It’s difficult to face up to things.”

“Maybe they aren’t so bad,” said Armina.

“No,” said Gaelle. “No, they’re as bad as they can get. Or almost.”

“Beatrice,” said Armina. “Do you think that’s right?”

“No,” said Beatrice. “I’ve seen worse.”

“See?” said Armina.

“The trick is going to be to work on her eyes,” said Beatrice. “The eyes are the key.”

“The eyes,” said Gaelle. The lights. Make them more obvious, an easier target. Gaelle pulled away.

“Wait,” said Armina. She put her hand on Gaelle’s arm. “Wait. Give it a chance.”

“Yes,” said Beatrice. “That way people will look at them more than anything else.”

“I’m afraid,” said Gaelle to Armina.

“It won’t take a minute,” said Armina. “Let Beatrice try.”

“It’s the eyes that will do it,” said Beatrice. “That’s where we’ll end up.”

Beatrice took her mascara and started to apply it, darkening the lashes, tugging on them with the brush. It made Gaelle’s eyes, which were brown and flecked with gold, seem more prominent. Gaelle felt the small brush, as though she were playing a childhood game in which a friend tugged on her lashes.

“It’s the waiting that’s hard,” said Gaelle.

“Well, I know,” said Beatrice. “When you look better, it won’t be so bad.”

“Maybe I’ll get made up, too,” said Armina.

“You don’t need it,” said Gaelle.

“Oh,” said Armina. “I don’t know.”

“It will look better,” said Beatrice. “Just wait a minute.”

“I haven’t got long,” said Gaelle.

“You’ve got to get back to work?” said Beatrice.

“You could say that,” said Gaelle.

Beatrice put on a layer of pancake makeup and then powdered both cheeks and put on some rouge, a pinkish blush that made the cheeks seem more symmetrical. Gaelle held her head so that only her eyes showed in the mirror, and for a moment it was better, but then she thought, Where am I going to go? What now? What can I do? Get on a train and leave? But where?

“What do you think I should do?” said Gaelle.

“Stick with the pancake, the powder, the blush, and the eyeliner. That’s the best way, I think,” said Beatrice.

Gaelle opened her handbag and took out a bill, a wrinkled one that she had taken in earlier in the evening, but Armina already reached over with some new, fresh money. It looked like it had just been ironed. Gaelle stared at it and thought, Yes, that’s the difference right there. She never has ugly money, not like mine.

“My treat,” said Armina.

They went upstairs, away from the scent and clouds of power, and out to the street. The crowds went by in a long stream, men and women, young people looking in the windows or going into cafés, all so ordinary and romantic.

“Call me,” said Armina.

“Sure,” said Gaelle.

“I can help,” said Armina. “Give me a chance.”

“I haven’t got a chance to give,” said Gaelle. “I know you’re in a tight spot,” said Armina.

“Tight spot? Is that what you said?”

“I’d be afraid, too,” said Armina.

“Why, you think I’m worried about what is happening to the women in the park. Why, that’s not half, not a quarter….” Then she stopped. Her fingers trembled.

“What else is there?” said Armina.

“Look,” said Gaelle. “I didn’t want to quarrel. We’re just different. You’re on one side, and I’m on the other. Just look how clean your money is. Just look.”

“It’s all right,” said Armina. “Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?” said Gaelle. She swallowed. “I’ve got to get back. Felix is waiting.”

“Call me,” said Armina. “Please.” She took a card from her bag and held it out. “If you hear something about the women in the park.”

“Sure,” said Gaelle. “Thanks.”

“Will you call?” said Armina. “I need help.”

“Well, that’s two of us,” said Gaelle.

Gaelle turned and went up the avenue, her figure disappearing into the clutter of the street, the signs, the people out for a stroll, the lovers holding hands, the young people who went along in groups of ten or so, pushing and shoving, laughing, singing a popular song. There’s nothing left to do but wait, thought Armina. The scar didn’t look much better, either.