The two men seated themselves opposite Lasari, Herr Rauch taking the inside seat next to the wall. Vayetch gestured to the waiter to clear the table, then asked for a bottle of Scotch and iced Perrier. Rauch picked up a clean napkin, shook out the folds and tucked a corner into his vest.
Neither man spoke. Vayetch took his time about tapping a cigarette on the back of his thumbnail, then lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter. He was a large man with a round-shouldered plumpness that made him look small next to his rangy, angular companion. His face was smooth and hairless, lightly tanned, so unblemished as to seem poreless, like smooth doeskin across his face. He was perhaps thirty-five with dark eyes and carefully combed dark hair, touched with gray above the ears. His mouth was full, almost sensuous, but Lasari was aware of the tic at the corner of his lip, a quiver that had come alive when Greta was hesitant about leaving for the dance floor.
The men were obviously well known at the Atelier; with the liquor order the waiter brought Rauch an appetizer of chopped pickled herring with onion rings and a bottle of red wine. Rauch began to eat immediately, while Vayetch studied Lasari with his flickering smile, then poured himself a whiskey and Perrier, stirring the cubes with a manicured finger.
“Are you enjoying Heidelberg, Mr. Jackson?”
Lasari nodded. “What I’ve seen of it is very interesting.”
“You like the town clock?” the man asked. “Those droll little figures who come out with sledgehammers and pound the drums to tell the hour?”
“No,” Lasari said. “I don’t like droll little figures. I like a Timex.”
“Ah, you think German culture is too florid, too ornamental?”
“I haven’t thought of it one way or the other,” Lasari said. “That’s not the purpose of my trip.”
“I see. You are practical, that is good,” Vayetch said evenly. “Let me explain something practical then. In about three weeks you will be receiving certain merchandise, delivered to you near the Czech border. Now, in terms of ownership, that particular merchandise will be existing in a state of limbo. You are a Catholic, Mr. Jackson?”
“No, but I understand the term.”
“Very well. Limbo is like purgatory, neither heaven nor hell, an in-between, a waiting. The occupants of limbo belong neither to God nor to the devil.
“Until it leaves limbo, money for that merchandise will not be paid to us. In fact, it will not be paid until you have delivered the goods to heaven, the United States in this case...”
The waiter was hovering and Vayetch fell silent until the man whisked some imaginary crumbs from the tablecloth. Then he said, “Have you ever attended the celebration of Fasching here in Germany, Mr. Jackson?” Lasari shook his head.
“It’s like a pagan explosion. I am trying to pick experiences we can both relate to... beer foaming in the gutters, virgins throwing themselves at young men, it’s carnival, it’s fiesta, just before Lent, before the devil presents his bill for the year’s sins.
“But the riot of Fasching is nothing compared to the organized chaos in this country when the NATO games are here, troops from Greece and Turkey and France and others including your country swarming the towns and countryside of Germany during combined military maneuvers.”
Vayetch shook his head as if he could not quite believe the vision he was creating for Lasari. “It is like the Tower of Babel, but with military orders. Everyone is in command and nobody knows what the other is doing. It is the perfect climate for us to do business, new faces, new languages, movement and displacement, all official, but here today, gone tomorrow.
“But you must be very resolute while you hold our merchandise in limbo. We all have our jobs to do and Herr Rauch will make sure you have no trouble sticking to yours. If you are tempted to disregard instructions, you can depend on him for support to resist that notion, I assure you. You may not see him, but he will be nearby.”
The waiter came forward to remove Herr Rauch’s herring course and replaced it with a double steak on a wooden platter, surrounded by roast potato balls and minced parsnips.
“You have no comments, Mr. Jackson?”
Lasari shook his head and shrugged. “I’m a good listener,” he said.
Vayetch nodded with an approving smile. “I can see that. And you have direct and revealing eyes. You are allowing me to see your doubts, your caution, your distrust. But what I had hoped to see was greed.”
Herr Rauch looked up and laughed suddenly, and a bit of steak caught in his throat. He hunched his shoulders and coughed, took several swallows of wine in a fast, sucking motion, then returned to his food.
“Eyes, yes... you have made me think of something that has often puzzled me,” Vayetch said. “That custom of tying a scarf over a man’s eyes as he meets the firing squad. What is the purpose? How do you know you are punishing a man if you cannot read the fear in his eyes?”
“The blindfold, the last cigarette, that’s to give the condemned man a moment of dignity,” Lasari said.
“No, no, it shouldn’t be that way,” Vayetch said with sudden agitation. “The dignity is in the hand that holds the gun, make no mistake about that, my friend.”
Vayetch sipped his Scotch, allowing a calm to return to his face. “I know some interesting things about you, Jackson,” he said. “As a youth, you played baseball, you were wounded in Vietnam, but you were a good soldier. You deserted your army and decided to return. That was a mistake. You hesitated, you became a philosopher and now you are in big, big trouble. Fate casts you on our side.” He looked thoughtful. “So full a life for a young man.”
Greta and Strasser returned to the table then. The sergeant’s forehead was blistered with sweat but before he could sit down, Vayetch waved him off. “No, no, go back and enjoy yourself, sergeant. We are just getting to know each other here.”
When the couple left, Lasari said flatly, “Unless you ask the right questions, I can’t tell you what you want to know.”
“Answer me this then. We are sports fanatics here in Europe, you know. We watch Wimbledon, the soccer matches from Argentina, the Stanley Cup finals. We get your World Series by satellite. It took me a long time to understand the philosophy of the ‘base on balls,’ I’m still not sure I do. The defensive team can refuse to pitch to a strong batter. That would be unthinkable in cricket. Or in a contest of boxers, if one side would refuse to come out for a round because the opponent was stronger. Where is the fairness of that?”
“A walk puts a runner on base for free,” Lasari said, trying to interpret the opaque face of the man opposite him. Herr Rauch continued to eat steadily, slicing the steak into neat squares, chewing carefully and washing each mouthful down with a gulp of wine.
“A freebie, that’s the price the pitcher pays for giving a base on balls,” Lasari said. “After that, a runner can steal, advance on a passed ball or a hit, then a single could score him. The defensive team gives up the opportunity of striking out a hot batter, but they must also take the chance he’ll score anyway.”
“You deserted the army in the United States from a hospital,” Vayetch said, “not in the field, not in the face of the enemy. That would be something else altogether.” Lasari nodded. “And in baseball,” Vayetch went on, “were you a good hitter? Did you have — how do you say — great strength at the plate?”
“I had a good glove, I was better in the field,” Lasari said carefully.
Vayetch shook his head. “I do not understand. You were afraid of big league pitching? You were afraid of being struck by a ball? Is that why you were not strong at the plate?”